Role Playing Fan Fiction ❯ Purifying Hand of Flame ❯ Chapter 8

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

Disclaimer. This story was created in the setting of White-Wolf's Exalted. Characters created by White-Wolf and not myself will be credited in notes. Reference to White-Wolf canonical storyline and published work will probably not be bothered with; it's part of the setting, which I admit to stealing whole cloth. I, Magical Savior, do not own this series and am not affiliated with White-Wolf in any way. Moving on.

*** Chapter 8

I awoke with a start, feeling an icy chill. Fear clouded my thoughts as I kicked out and pushed off the ground, snapping to my feet.

Sunlight was almost blindingly bright from straight overhead. It was noon, the middle of the day. My bleary eyes made out of the trees and rocks around me in streaked colors and blurred shapes, but I tried to focus, to see the enemy I faced.

There was none.

A wave of nausea washed over me, and I fell, weak and broken. Couldn't even break my fall as I dropped like a stone.

The moment passed. I was still wet, and the front of my short robe was soaked. I had fallen asleep on my stomach, nearly face-first in the mud. I was caked in filth.

My wounds were better. Maybe. All the gashes of bladegrass, the marks from stone and wood and bruises from being pummeled by a zombie horde - all healed. But on my leg, a ragged bite still oozed blood. On my forearm, the same.

Wounds caused by the dead. There were others, a claw mark on my stomach, a bite there on my shoulder, ragged cuts on chest, neck, and face.

They burned. Like a slow fire.

While my body was in better shape than last night, these injuries needed to be dealt with. I took off my torn and ruined robe, and checked myself for particularly bad cuts.

It was then that I realized I had no pants, and I had spoken in front of an entire village thusly. That was a thought. But more important information was arriving in my brain at the moment.

My loincloth had fallen off some time between sunset and throwing myself in the river - this was not good. Not presentable, like this.

Could be worse. I seemed largely immune to common illness since the change. At least I wouldn't catch a cold from exposure.

But even though I hadn't been sick since I had changed into... whatver it was that I was, these bites and clawings seemed as though they were likely to get infected.

The bite on my arm looked particularly bad, and was weeping fluid... Not good. It was open, and had a decent-sized chunk taken out of it. Needed treatment.

Now was a good time.

Kneeling down at the edge of the river, I tried to wash my hands as best I could. The water was clean and cold. Drinkable, I should hope. I dunked my whole head under the surface and swallowed as much as I could.

Since I was fairly near a swamp, this may not be the best water to drink. But I supposed it was better than nothing. In the end, it didn't matter. It wouldn't sicken ME.

I washed my robe briskly and threw it on a rock to dry. Then, I tried to rinse out and wash my injuries as best I could. Any dirt stuck to them, and in the wound, I scrubbed out using my fingers, until they were as clean as I could get them.

The scrubbing was painful, but bracing. It was always odd. I would stare at a wound, and every time I blinked, notice it was slightly smaller. One step closer to being a scar. It was hard to notice just looking, but I had measured it by marking my skin, once. It was infinitely slow, and broken bones stayed quite broklen for some time.

Some injuries began to heal slowly, but others remained open.

An idea came to me, and I decided it was for the best. I tore a strip of cloth off my robe. Rolling it up, I stuck it in my mouth. I tried to think, to concentrate.

The divine power in me was almost gone. Though it had been hours since sunrise, my power rebuilt itself only slowly over time. But I had enough for this. I called forth the power I had used on the undead, that made fire from my hands.

I did not want the giant hand of fire, though. That would be bad. I had struck out at the undead with fists that were wreathed in flame. How had I done it?

I stood up. Holding my hand in front of me, I stared at it, willing it to burst in to flame.

Hopefully, flame that wouldn't burn my hand. That would also be bad.

Reflexively, I crossed my arms defensively. It seemed about what I had done, when I called the fire. Then, I snapped my arms out in an open-palm strike. With my will behind it, the power ignited on its' own.

My hand now blazed merrily. Wonderful. I held my right hand against the injury on my forearm - and it hurt. A lot. I made incoherent, cursing yells, muffled by cloth. I stared into the sky for a long moment, until I was sure the wound was made clean. Fire faded away, and my hand stayed where I put it.

I swore some more, feeling exhausted. I looked at my hand on my arm. Probably didn't want to see this, but there was no choice. I took my hand away, and checked my work.

Expecting to see a burn on my arm, surprisingly, I was not burned. The injury had a layer of fine gray ash on it, but it was clotting and healing. I left it alone.

It was clean. My hands were probably dirtier than the bite. This was odd to consider, as my hands had been covered in fire, too, yet not burned.

But then, neither had my arm, really.

Purified. That was what I had done. This flame was not a force of destruction only. I treated my leg and neck and chest the same way, then dealt with the bite that had been on my shoulder. All the injuries were shallow, but looked bad until after I used my flame.

None of them had clotted, and all of them still slowly seeped blood. They made my skin seem pale, sickly. Touched by death.

However painful it was, this treatment was better. Too bad it was helluva painful. There were many cuts that needed it. Each began to clot in turn.

The skin around these injuries went back to its normal, tanned color. I would heal, now. I spat out the cloth between my teeth.

Light shined from my forehead, but I had not tapped much of my power. It would fade in a few minutes. All of my will was drained. I was done. There was nothing in me.

Damnation. That was the cold feeling, the fear - the Dragonbloods. Was I beyond their reach? Would they come for me, and I face them with only mortal hands and mortal strength?

Were they already here?

I was hungry... To hell with the Dragonbloods. They could kill me on a full stomach.

My head was hung low with sleep and cauterizing my own wounds. Still, I looked around for something worth eating. Whatever I could stomach. There was food everywhere, if a person knew how to look for it.

Well, maybe not in the desert. I remembered a distinct lack of food there. But here, near water and trees and cat-tails...

Cat-tails. Definitely edible. To my left a little upstream, there was a whole stand of them. The water wasn't much more than knee deep. The plants themselves grew in a bend of the river, where it wasn't flowing as fast.

I pulled up several of them, throwing old plants in the water and young plants to the shore. I picked out a good deal of them, and figured on how I would eat them. Easiest way, then.

Peeling back the leaves at the base, I pinched off the first few inches of each plant that had been underwater. Then, I hungrily crammed the core of it in my mouth. I chewed as needed, then swallowed and took another bite.

Bland and tasteless, but it would do. For now. I ate until I felt the hunger ebb. Then, I walked back and got my robe from the rock where I had left it.

I needed real food, nourishing, or the healing force that kept me on my feet would stop. Starvation and healing were... not friends.

My boots were soaked. I took them off and put them on the rock with my robe, and decided to wait at least for a while until my boots were dry. When I was ready, I would head into town.

I tried to think, and come up with a plan.