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In Wounds We Rejoice! REJOICE! (Open Healing Lesson for All Levels)

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The afternoon sun beat down upon the Black Tower, turning the smoky air into a fog that blurred the sight of all who were in the training yard. Dark coated men, bustled about the open grounds, some carrying out chores, others training and yet others supervising the newly recruited. All of them moved with deadly grace, and most were hardened by the One Power. Many of the men sweated profusely, rivulets streamed down their faces, but others were cold as ice. It was another day in the Black Tower.


"Storm Leader.” Skechid looked up at the man who spoke, a shiny sword on one collar the other empty. Dedicated.


“Speak.” Skechid covered the letter he was writing with a silken cloth and laid down his quill.


“Storm Leader Rorol has returned from the Borderlands, and has brought back the casualties. I was told to summon you to the Infirmary.” The Dedicated saluted fist to chest. His face was cold, but Skechid sensed fear in the man.


“Rorol summons me? Is Tai’Dashan not available?” Skechid pushed back his chair and stood with the grace of a cat.


“I apologise, but Baijan'm'hael Tai’Dashan has not been seen in the Tower for the past few days. It is not known where his whereabouts are.” The Dedicated looked up worriedly. “I was told to come to you instead.”


“Again? Tai’Dashan’s absence is starting to irk me.” Skechid took a deep breath and nodded to himself. “Go. Find me a few Dedicated and Soldiers who are available. Rorol’s casualties are never simple. I want Soldiers and Dedicated to attend.” Skechid waved a dismissal as the man saluted again and left.


Healing. Skechid wanted to laugh aloud. Since they had discovered his ability to Heal, he had had to attend to the Infirmary more and more often. He had initially resisted. No part of him wanted to touch another with Saidin, but these days, the Taint was clean, and there were just so many battles to be fought. The Infirmary sometimes overflowed. And while Tai’Dashan was a talented Healer, he tended to disappear weeks on ends, leaving his assistant, an Ashaman alone to tend. Barkita was an adequate Healer, but hardly talented. And so they came to Skechid instead.


Dali. If only you could see the state of the Tower now. Skechid sighed and opened a box on his table. It had been Warded to him, anyone else opening it would find a nasty surprise waiting for them. In it were various parchments and interesting artifacts, but today he picked out a carved knife hanging from a simple brown cord. It was age darkened and speckled with tiny crystals. A relatively strong an’greal.  And the only one Skechid had in his possession. Seizing Saidin, he wove a Ward over everything. And left the room.


The Infirmary was busy as expected. The wounded lined up in a row. Black Coated and serious faced they looked as hard as they were on the battlefield.


“Tsorovan'm'hael.” The Ashaman in-charge, Barkita, saluted fist to chest as Skechid approached.


“Barkita.” Skechid nodded in acknowledgement. “I have summoned a few Soldiers and Dedicated. I want you to line the wounded from the most serious to the least, and we will work from opposite ends, with you working on the least serious ones first and I, on the most severe. The Soldiers and Dedicated who arrive will learn and help once they are ready. Understood?”


The Ashaman nodded and got to work while Skechid took his place at the centre of the Infirmary and waited for his… students.


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