Boartusk Heights θάνατος

He is allowed time to himself, before his lonesome wail is answered. The wind toys with the curls at his cheeks, the springy grasses beneath his feet crinkle with summer heat. It’s a beautiful area, this place, as he drags his eyes across the distant spires, the long winded wilderness that surrounds him in the distant chirp of crickets and hum of cicadas.

A voice floats to him on the wind, common tongue, and for a moment he panics. He focuses his gaze on the woman walking his way, delicate limbs carrying her in a float. He dips his head in respect, keeping his eyes on her feet.

Some might say so. His voice is accented even to his own ears, and he winces and licks his nose.

Most would tell you I’m a combat medic with no combat.

I’m a medic, with no patients.

Most people needed stability. Asklepios needed purpose.