Voice of the Gods

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The man staggering through the hospice door was covered in blood. It streaked his face and clothing, and leaked from between fingers pressed to his brow. As the occupants of the greeting hall saw him they fell silent, then the noise and activity resumed. Someone would take care of him.

Looks like that someone will be me this time, Priestess Ellareen thought as she glanced at the other healers. All priests, priestesses and Dreamweavers were occupied, though Dreamweaver Fareeh’s bandaging of his patient’s arm had quickened.

When the newcomer saw her approaching he looked relieved.

“Welcome to the hospice,” she said. “What is your name?”

“Mal Toolmaker.”

“What happened to you?”

“Robbed.”

“Let me see that.” He reluctantly allowed her to lift his hand from his brow. A cut to the bone seeped more blood. She pressed his hand back over the wound. “It needs some stitches.”

His gaze slid to the nearest Dreamweaver. “You’ll do it?”

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