The warden in the crooked cloak, at last, hesitates. Whether it's in the face of assured knowledge, or urgent pleas, or the sight of the dead warden--to whom he looks, first--some of the conviction bleeds from him.
"I don't know," he tells Nathaniel--and all of them. "My orders were to clear this wing. Not to-- to, tell tales. Not tales I don't know the answers to. We can get someone for the wounded, but we can't entrench ourselves in here. You must see that. If we stay here much longer-- Their number aren't--"
"Trabent!"
An elf in armor and the colors of the wardens comes running up. Her sword is strapped to her back, and she's carrying a large basket slung over her shoulder. The warden in the crooked cloak straightens up at the sight of her, but she pays him only a little heed as she surveys the scene.
"Reinforcements," she says, as she jerks her head over her shoulder, "right behind me. They'll help to clear the rest of this corridor and get your wounded out of here to the healers. We're running out of time. You lot--" Another quick survey, this time of all the non-wardens in the hallway-- "You're with me. New orders. We're all in need of your help, most desperately." There's a tight look on her face, plain and urgent concern, though she doesn't sound quite desperate.
"Roostmaster," Trabent begins, but she silences him with a withering look.
"Remove your wounded," she advises, sharply, "before something comes along and removes you with them. Come on--"
And as Trabent casts a chastised look toward the dead warden, the roostmaster's taut urgency returns. She steps backwards, keeping them all in her sight, a silent plea--then turns on her heel and strides off to shoulder open a door a little ways down the corridor, back the way she came, leaving them to follow. The tromp of boots and the echoes of shouting prove her words true--reinforcements are on their way.
no subject
"I don't know," he tells Nathaniel--and all of them. "My orders were to clear this wing. Not to-- to, tell tales. Not tales I don't know the answers to. We can get someone for the wounded, but we can't entrench ourselves in here. You must see that. If we stay here much longer-- Their number aren't--"
"Trabent!"
An elf in armor and the colors of the wardens comes running up. Her sword is strapped to her back, and she's carrying a large basket slung over her shoulder. The warden in the crooked cloak straightens up at the sight of her, but she pays him only a little heed as she surveys the scene.
"Reinforcements," she says, as she jerks her head over her shoulder, "right behind me. They'll help to clear the rest of this corridor and get your wounded out of here to the healers. We're running out of time. You lot--" Another quick survey, this time of all the non-wardens in the hallway-- "You're with me. New orders. We're all in need of your help, most desperately." There's a tight look on her face, plain and urgent concern, though she doesn't sound quite desperate.
"Roostmaster," Trabent begins, but she silences him with a withering look.
"Remove your wounded," she advises, sharply, "before something comes along and removes you with them. Come on--"
And as Trabent casts a chastised look toward the dead warden, the roostmaster's taut urgency returns. She steps backwards, keeping them all in her sight, a silent plea--then turns on her heel and strides off to shoulder open a door a little ways down the corridor, back the way she came, leaving them to follow. The tromp of boots and the echoes of shouting prove her words true--reinforcements are on their way.