𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 that wraps about his body sends a shiver that he refuses to allow existence. Coerthas may have been green once, beautiful and idyllic and full of life, but it’d been in the snows and ice he’d ranged as Azure Dragoon, carved and shaped as much by such bitterly cold winds as he’d been in battle. The mantle and the armor may have been set aside, but the skills and the memories are not so easily shorn. Garlemald is foreign to him, but the snows are familiar and he takes to the flurries once they’re free of the city and the chaos that has befallen it.
He'd not been fool enough to expect an easy escape, but he hadn’t expected to find Gaius bleeding at their rendezvous, hardly able to walk. His battle with that strange contraption had done him no favors either and thus were they twice hobbled, trudging through layers and layers of snow in hope of some sanctuary. An abandoned home, a cave of some sort. Anything. Only realizing with despair that none could be had but what he makes of his own.
He learned the way of carving shelter from snow as a temple knight and done as much on several occasions, an arduous task with naught but a lance and his own hands as his tools. A crude and shallow cave is what he manages and all but shoves the garlean into the hole, cursing a storm at the weight of the man and the need for gentle hands with the warmth of blood he feels against his gauntlets. One issue dealt with, now for the next. The impulse to slap him awake is overwhelming, he settles for pinching his arm, mayhap with more force than necessary.
❝ Shut your mouth, you old fool. ❞ The rising growl is more draconic than he’d like, but the wyrm’s influence still slithers strong through his veins after the battle. ❝ I didn’t drag you this far only to leave you to die. ❞ He inhales, the air coppery thick with blood yet still cool and crisp in his lungs. Would that they hadn’t abandoned their supplies in their escape with naught but the clothes on their back, he could do little to treat the man’s wounds. He looks to the myriad of bandages that wraps about the man’s arms and makes his decision. Whatever reason Gaius had for them they would have to suffice. He begins quick work of tearing strip after strip free, only stopping when he’s certain he has enough.
Now comes the difficult part. Treating wounds on the field was yet another skill any proud soldier of Ishgard worth their salt should possess, but that came only with the right tools. All he had now were the bandages and what little potions left to them after their battles. ❝ Take these, ❞ he shoved what was left to him into Gaius’ hands. ❝ And take off that damnable jacket of yours, I’ll fashion some manner of tourniquet to staunch the bleeding. ❞ / @aterlupus continued
