[Harvestmere 23, afternoon. @Nathaniel Howe.]
In the grand scheme of things, losing part of your finger wasn't that horrible. That was particularly true with darkspawn; losing the tip of your finger was the least of possible outcomes. But no matter how many times Niamh told herself that she was lucky, she never truly felt it. Laying down in her infirmary bed, the elf mostly felt depressed. She thought about the moment over and over. How she broke rank to rush to her comrades aid. How she'd overextended her attack in her own haste. How the darkspawn responded in turn and quickly brought their gnarled teeth down to claim her free hand. Sure, she was a survivor. She'd walked away from the darkspawn and finally had her first real battle as a Grey Warden. But she didn't feel any more experienced or skill than when she was first learning her forms with Hahren Olcán.
Most of her day has been spent in between full out sleep and a sort of drugged haze. There was still a fair bit of pain, some of it real and some of it belonging to a phantom portion of her finger. It was bed to rest for now. No doubt that trying to return immediately to action would only lead to more disaster. Niamh sighed, a heavy and sorrowful display full of worry. It wasn't as bad as losing the whole finger but she wondered what it would mean for her ability to server her comrades. Would her arrows fly true? Would her dagger grip hold firm? What if, when all of this was taken care of, she was not as good as before? When she left her clan, her mind was full of glorious thoughts. Answering the Creators call, going on grand adventures, starring in tavern songs around the word. What she'd found was something much less glamorous. Her duties were harsh and the responsibilities crushing. But it had been her choice, naive as she was. And the idea of not being able to help her comrades or, worse, become a burden to them was sobering. It was all she could do to stop her mind from imagining the worst.
Niamh couldn't let go of her aspirations. She wanted to be brave as the heroes in the stories. She wanted to be a strong as Cauthrien. She wanted to be the Grey Warden everyone talked about. What if she couldn't be that now? What if even this was enough to end all that? She took a deep breath, trying to push away those thoughts. The heaviness of draughts and healing magic pressed on her and she slipped somewhere between the waking world and dreams. There would be more time to worry later.
Much, much more.
In the grand scheme of things, losing part of your finger wasn't that horrible. That was particularly true with darkspawn; losing the tip of your finger was the least of possible outcomes. But no matter how many times Niamh told herself that she was lucky, she never truly felt it. Laying down in her infirmary bed, the elf mostly felt depressed. She thought about the moment over and over. How she broke rank to rush to her comrades aid. How she'd overextended her attack in her own haste. How the darkspawn responded in turn and quickly brought their gnarled teeth down to claim her free hand. Sure, she was a survivor. She'd walked away from the darkspawn and finally had her first real battle as a Grey Warden. But she didn't feel any more experienced or skill than when she was first learning her forms with Hahren Olcán.
Most of her day has been spent in between full out sleep and a sort of drugged haze. There was still a fair bit of pain, some of it real and some of it belonging to a phantom portion of her finger. It was bed to rest for now. No doubt that trying to return immediately to action would only lead to more disaster. Niamh sighed, a heavy and sorrowful display full of worry. It wasn't as bad as losing the whole finger but she wondered what it would mean for her ability to server her comrades. Would her arrows fly true? Would her dagger grip hold firm? What if, when all of this was taken care of, she was not as good as before? When she left her clan, her mind was full of glorious thoughts. Answering the Creators call, going on grand adventures, starring in tavern songs around the word. What she'd found was something much less glamorous. Her duties were harsh and the responsibilities crushing. But it had been her choice, naive as she was. And the idea of not being able to help her comrades or, worse, become a burden to them was sobering. It was all she could do to stop her mind from imagining the worst.
Niamh couldn't let go of her aspirations. She wanted to be brave as the heroes in the stories. She wanted to be a strong as Cauthrien. She wanted to be the Grey Warden everyone talked about. What if she couldn't be that now? What if even this was enough to end all that? She took a deep breath, trying to push away those thoughts. The heaviness of draughts and healing magic pressed on her and she slipped somewhere between the waking world and dreams. There would be more time to worry later.
Much, much more.
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