He can only imagine how awful things are in Libertas. As it stands, Rhy's already overwhelmed with the destruction around Nott, the harvest wrecked, farms destroys, rural homes in ashes. And most of the city had been spared. The war's only just begun.
Even with most of the active fires now put out, there's still plenty to do. Makeshift infirmaries and shelters have been set up inside Nott to help those who suffered losses or injury during the attack, and Rhy has been a near-constant presence at some of these, wherever extra hands have been needed. It's really testing the limits of his studies at the infirmary in Thorne, where he's been training diligently in healing magic from simple first aid and now to more complex spells -- to ease pain, to help with smoke inhalation, to treat burns and breaks.
It had started almost on a whim, or perhaps more aptly, out of a vague but desperate desire to do something useful. Magic had so long been out of reach that now, with it finally answering his call here in Abraxas, Rhy had found himself overwhelmed. Alone and directionless all those months ago, he'd volunteered at the infirmary because it seemed like the sort of thing that would be fulfilling, when he'd been having so much trouble finding anything that filled that void inside his chest.
Suddenly, all those hours spent studying and working toward a nebulous goal have a solid, too-real purpose. It isn't theories and practice and practicing his bedside manner taking care of someone mildly ill laid up in the castle. It's blood and burnt flesh and screaming and his magic, his hands, literally putting people back together. And it is, perhaps, fulfilling but--
It's also exhausting, and horrible.
Some days, it is too much of both.
Kell will find him behind the inn-turned-hospital that they've both been helping at the last few days. Rhy sits on an empty crate in the alley, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. He doesn't look up when Kell approaches.
for kell.
Even with most of the active fires now put out, there's still plenty to do. Makeshift infirmaries and shelters have been set up inside Nott to help those who suffered losses or injury during the attack, and Rhy has been a near-constant presence at some of these, wherever extra hands have been needed. It's really testing the limits of his studies at the infirmary in Thorne, where he's been training diligently in healing magic from simple first aid and now to more complex spells -- to ease pain, to help with smoke inhalation, to treat burns and breaks.
It had started almost on a whim, or perhaps more aptly, out of a vague but desperate desire to do something useful. Magic had so long been out of reach that now, with it finally answering his call here in Abraxas, Rhy had found himself overwhelmed. Alone and directionless all those months ago, he'd volunteered at the infirmary because it seemed like the sort of thing that would be fulfilling, when he'd been having so much trouble finding anything that filled that void inside his chest.
Suddenly, all those hours spent studying and working toward a nebulous goal have a solid, too-real purpose. It isn't theories and practice and practicing his bedside manner taking care of someone mildly ill laid up in the castle. It's blood and burnt flesh and screaming and his magic, his hands, literally putting people back together. And it is, perhaps, fulfilling but--
It's also exhausting, and horrible.
Some days, it is too much of both.
Kell will find him behind the inn-turned-hospital that they've both been helping at the last few days. Rhy sits on an empty crate in the alley, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. He doesn't look up when Kell approaches.