Eric surveyed the carnage that was the battlefield. Blood ran through what remained of the streets, whilst the bodies clogged the gutters, and on all sides the dead and the dying lay pilled upon each other in a great cacophony of suffering and anguish which surely must have reached to the heavens and beyond. That was not the worst of it however. You could be trained to bear the sights, the sounds and even the feel of battle and death around you, but what could never be prepared for, was the smell. The scent of flesh, both rotting and fresh, mixed with faecal matter and fear drifted on the wind, attracting the cries of the Carron birds overhead, as if calling the souls of the dead on to the next world, where ever it may be.
Eric moved amongst those who still lived, healing what he could and ending what he could not. It was an arduous and difficult task, everywhere he turned he could hear more cries for help, but this grisly deed needed to be done. He would occasionally catch sight of Vendaal passing amongst the injured, but this was no place to discuss anything. Eric soon ran out of magic and resorted to what little he knew of surgery. He fell into a kind of macabre rhythm. Check the wounds, fix what can be fixed, will they live? If not, end their pain and move on. By the time he was done, the sun had begun to set and there was more gore on his sword from the after-math of the battle than from the actual battle itself.
The weight of his armour was really beginning to weigh upon Eric and his priests robes were now caked with blood and gore; he needed a rest, a wash and some new clothes. He headed over the church for just that. There were quite a few people there, those who had taken refuge, the injured and those simple here for a bit of an old pray. Moving through them, Eric found the font and washed the blood for his hands and face in it. Probably blasphemy, but after what he had been through, he didn’t care much. Pausing for the briefest moment to mutter a prayer to Akotosh (or possibly an insult. He still wasn’t sure what to think of the God who took his sight and gave him magic) he headed up the steeple for some peace and quiet. It was quite the climb, what with the tower being so tall and all, but he made it up there without too much trouble. He sat down upon the wooden floor, placed his back against one of the arches and look out over the town, or at least, what little of the town he could see, which, given the height of the tower, was very little indeed. The chill in the air sent a shiver through his spine as he discarded his bloody robes and removed his stolen helmet, the one he had claimed from the general. It was a very ostentatious helmet, what with the big frill, but remove that, and you might have something workable.
He had also come across the body, still in armour earlier in the day and made a note of where it was. Arn or Skor’va could probably make better use of the armour than he could. The same could be said for the two swords he had taken in fact, fine as they were, he more relied upon spells and manipulating time in a hostile situation as opposed to actually stabbing someone. In all actuality, it made more sense to give them the swords and keep the armour for him, as he was often in the thick of combat, but was quite easy to hit. He would go and pick it up later along with a new set of robes. For the time being though, he sat and looked out of the bell tower and murmured an old battle tune he’d learned in the army.
“We drink to our youth, to days come and gone. For the age of aggression is just about done”