Amberdrake has a knack for finding the worst of the injured, at least within a certain range of himself. He's circling the arena, as closely as he dares despite the way it hammers at his mind and sanity, using his finely-trained Gifts to 'scan' for the most pain. Fear and panic hammers at him from all sides, but he filters it out as much as he can, pausing whenever his hands tremble too hard.
He's almost been spotted by militia a few times, and has ducked back around behind buildings and trees and things each time, his heart pounding so hard that it feels like it could burst. It's impossible not to remember his lone, terrified trek across Predain and Tantara in the middle of winter as a child, fevered and dying, dodging Ma'ar's army as he went. His arms are streaked in blood; his set of dark scrubs are blotched in it. None of it is his. Amberdrake doubts these men would leave him in peace with a claim that he's healing the wounded-- and in fact he wonders if that would make them even more likely to arrest him.
Best not to risk it. I can't Heal myself if they decide to shoot me, and then I can't do anyone any good.
A new wave of fear beating at his mind makes him dizzy enough that he has to lean for a moment against a building, sucking in breath through his teeth. Amberdrake doesn't dare raise his shields further; he won't be able to find anyone if he does. He's waiting for the newest source of terrible pain to make it as far away from the arena as he can get near, and has positioned himself in roughly its path. This has been a day full of compound fractures, bullet wounds, the injuries from the rending of claws and teeth, and even the odd bit of shrapnel.
I hope that's the worst it gets.
He doubts he can fuse anyone's limbs back on, today, should he meet any who need it. As it is, he's spreading his Gift as thin as he dares, using it to Heal the most catastrophic parts of injuries and burn out any signs of infection, and splinting and stitching what he can the mundane chirurgeon's way. Get them stable and get them moving, Drake. Worry about fixing people more than that after the dust settles.
There's a small thermos hanging from a belt he's tied around his waist, and a bag full of the medical supplies he'd begun gathering as soon as he'd has his bearings in the city. War-time habits. And just as well...
Amberdrake, misc locations, open: bring out yer dea-- er, wounded!
He's almost been spotted by militia a few times, and has ducked back around behind buildings and trees and things each time, his heart pounding so hard that it feels like it could burst. It's impossible not to remember his lone, terrified trek across Predain and Tantara in the middle of winter as a child, fevered and dying, dodging Ma'ar's army as he went. His arms are streaked in blood; his set of dark scrubs are blotched in it. None of it is his. Amberdrake doubts these men would leave him in peace with a claim that he's healing the wounded-- and in fact he wonders if that would make them even more likely to arrest him.
Best not to risk it. I can't Heal myself if they decide to shoot me, and then I can't do anyone any good.
A new wave of fear beating at his mind makes him dizzy enough that he has to lean for a moment against a building, sucking in breath through his teeth. Amberdrake doesn't dare raise his shields further; he won't be able to find anyone if he does. He's waiting for the newest source of terrible pain to make it as far away from the arena as he can get near, and has positioned himself in roughly its path. This has been a day full of compound fractures, bullet wounds, the injuries from the rending of claws and teeth, and even the odd bit of shrapnel.
I hope that's the worst it gets.
He doubts he can fuse anyone's limbs back on, today, should he meet any who need it. As it is, he's spreading his Gift as thin as he dares, using it to Heal the most catastrophic parts of injuries and burn out any signs of infection, and splinting and stitching what he can the mundane chirurgeon's way. Get them stable and get them moving, Drake. Worry about fixing people more than that after the dust settles.
There's a small thermos hanging from a belt he's tied around his waist, and a bag full of the medical supplies he'd begun gathering as soon as he'd has his bearings in the city. War-time habits. And just as well...