Wake up. Gailavira lay the damp cloth across the forehead of the Son, wiping away the sweat beads that continued to coalesce there. She had already administered to thousands of mortal patients in her second life, prior to meeting the Son. She had only lived one actual life, of course, but she called the time spent after the death of her child and husband her second life because of how drastically different it was from the time when they were still alive. She had become something new, something worthy based upon her own merit, and her value was now derived from her dedication to saving lives. Still, there were times when she could not save her patients. Those were the times that bore the greatest burden upon her.
Art was pulled back to consciousness abruptly by the overpowering aroma of something repulsive. Opening his eyes, he was met immediately by the source of the smell. Face to face with a corpse lying on its side next to him, Art tried and failed to rise from his position. He quickly realized that he was somewhere on the bottom of a pile of corpses, some fresh, some rather far along on the pathway to rot. A newly appreciated claustrophobia overtook Art him as he pressed violently against body parts trying to unbury himself from the pile. He pushed against one corpse that looked the least decomposed, but quickly found it to be rather rigid and immovable. It wasn't until he pressed his hand firmly against a cold, worm-infested body that he managed to make some progress in escaping the heap of corpses in which he was lumped.
Valoricus never carried a sword, though he, like all the Cabalarii men since the time before the Fall, had come of age with years of combat training under his belt. The greatest of his ancestors - the generals and consuls of the countless civil wars that led to the downfall of mankind - had effectively set the tone for the family that no man in that line of succession had dared challenge, even over two millennia later. He came from exceptional stock; his was one of the only families from that time in the City's history who could still trace back their heritage - and name - to the great heroes of the past. He didn't need to carry a sword; he was royalty as much as any man could be in a City with no king, and nobody would disrespect the honor of the City so much to threaten anyone in a family of such historical import.
The splitting headache that accompanied Alaric's return to consciousness was simply overwhelming. The weakness he felt in his joints and muscles was another low note in an already unpleasant awakening. The last time he felt anything near this amount of discomfort, he had spent the entire night cavorting to excess with the actors, singers and artists down in Pravus Alley. On that occasion, Alaric's father must have figured out where he had been all night because he woke Alaric up before the sun and forced an extra training session upon him. As horrible as that hangover was, the way he felt this morning was significantly worse.
The rush of adrenaline and otherworldly power, though waning, still coursed through Fridok's body as he moved as one with the group to their new camp for the night. It took Fridok and Bulgar every ounce of their willpower to be able to reach the stonewall encampment and their companions. They cut through countless demons and stacked their bodies one atop the other so that they could ascend the wall and come to the aid of their brothers-in-arms, but their efforts had proven successful in the most grandiose fashion. Because of this, Fridok at last seemed to be on the cusp of gaining the one thing his heart had always longed for: acceptance.