Divided Lands
The sword.
Jord looked at the sword in his hand, then back to the sword that stuck up out of his midsection, pinning him to the ground, then to the armored figure laying across his legs. The helmeted head separated from the body, lay on the ground a few feet away.
Jord tried not to move; pain arced out across his body from tiptoes to fingernails whenever he did. He knew at some point he would have to deal with the deadman’s sword that caused him grief, but for now, he thought, “I’ll just lay here.”
“Boy, wake up,” the voice of a man said.
Jord felt a hand on his shoulder. It startled him. As he tried to withdraw from the hand, memories of where he was and what had happened flooded his mindscape. Seconds later, the tendrils of pain touched the entirety of his body, and he moaned.
Eyes opened wide now, he looked up at a friendly face in clerics garb.
“Sorry about that, be still, and I will help you.” The man said.
Jord moaned his approval.
“Are you Ilteran or Obrathin?” The cleric asked.
“Ilteran,” Jord groaned.
“Goddess Celesta, hear me, bring healing, aid my hands, bless your humble follower with healing.”
