The speed with which the inked man moved knocked the air out of Herbert. When he hit the floor the breath he was struggling to get back was knocked out once more. He began spluttering and shivering simultaneously, and panic wracked his muscles, turning them against one another. He choked as the ice and snow pushed into his face.

A voice.

Two droplets of something that wasn’t snow snaked down the side of his neck, with a sensation somewhere between the spilling ethanol and crude oil on your skin. Herbert’s stomach turned and he ground his teeth to avoid retching. It felt wrong. 

Words were exchanged. Well, rather, the voice, which belonged to a woman, gave words; the man remained silent.

The world shifted as Herbert was hauled to his feet. He was going to demand an explanation, as the woman sounded like she knew how things would transpire. A leader. Someone, perhaps the only person, who he could at least hope to have answers.

However, that all changed when he saw her. She was all blood, pustules, raw flesh and eschar. Perhaps once she was pretty, but that of her hair not singed was either stuck to her oozing skin or slicked back with blood. Another form was slung over her shoulders. Whilst somewhat heroic looking, Herbert didn’t even need his medical training to know putting extra stress on with injuries as impressive as those was not a good idea.

“Excuse me ma’am,” Herbert said, walking slowly towards her, and further from Icarus, “But you don’t seem in any state to be carrying that person; those could be third,” his eyes lingered on the charred blackness, “or even fourth degree burns.” That she was not only standing, but carrying another, was quite impressive.

Herbert did not make the link between the dragon and the burns, nor did he acknowledge the brief conversation that the two had had about it. The mind was awfully good at being selective when it wanted to be.