[ The portals to Nott remain open for some time. It's long and difficult work -- the cleanup, rebuilding, and rescue efforts, both for any potential remaining food supplies, and any of the people who'd been responsible for them. Several makeshift infirmaries have been set up around the city, with folks from the farmlands being portalled in.
Now, a couple weeks later, there are fewer new patients. Some had tried to resist seeking help, too proud or too distrustful of the crown and any help it sent. Some simply hadn't realized until later how bad the damage was; smoke inhalation can be insidious that way, apparently. But though they are fewer, they continue to trickle in, and so the makeshift hospitals stay open to accommodate them, with healers moving in and out of the inn-turned-infirmary near the edge of the city.
In some ways, Rhy is used to it by now. He hates the thought. And yet, he's seen enough bloody bandages now, enough burnt flesh, it doesn't make him want to vomit anymore. It's either progress, or it's something far worse, depending on how one chooses to look at it.
In other ways, there are things he can never get used to. That he never should get used to, he thinks.
When another person dies despite their best efforts, having sought assistance far too late, Rhy has to excuse himself. He finds a different inn and tavern, somewhere cheap, rowdy even in these times. He means to get a drink, but when the very scent of food and booze on the air suddenly makes him want to lose the last meal he had (when was that, even?), Rhy changes course, and instead ducks into the side street behind the tavern. He wouldn't be the first to throw up back here, probably. Or maybe, if he can take enough deep breaths, he'll be able to make it to that drink, after all. ]
for stephen.
Now, a couple weeks later, there are fewer new patients. Some had tried to resist seeking help, too proud or too distrustful of the crown and any help it sent. Some simply hadn't realized until later how bad the damage was; smoke inhalation can be insidious that way, apparently. But though they are fewer, they continue to trickle in, and so the makeshift hospitals stay open to accommodate them, with healers moving in and out of the inn-turned-infirmary near the edge of the city.
In some ways, Rhy is used to it by now. He hates the thought. And yet, he's seen enough bloody bandages now, enough burnt flesh, it doesn't make him want to vomit anymore. It's either progress, or it's something far worse, depending on how one chooses to look at it.
In other ways, there are things he can never get used to. That he never should get used to, he thinks.
When another person dies despite their best efforts, having sought assistance far too late, Rhy has to excuse himself. He finds a different inn and tavern, somewhere cheap, rowdy even in these times. He means to get a drink, but when the very scent of food and booze on the air suddenly makes him want to lose the last meal he had (when was that, even?), Rhy changes course, and instead ducks into the side street behind the tavern. He wouldn't be the first to throw up back here, probably. Or maybe, if he can take enough deep breaths, he'll be able to make it to that drink, after all. ]