Soil surrounded his toes. The balls of feet sank in to the ground. Ramando was unprepared for such an assault. He daren't move or shift in the case he'd lose any of the footing he [i]did[/i] have. The slab of gate against his shoulder pressed hard against him. His arm locked in a position that disallowed any extra leverage. The pads of his fingers pressed hard against the wood and metal, threatening to break the nails at the ends. He used his head as an extra surface to force back the attackers. Blood began to slip past his brow, the pressure forcing skin to show flesh.
	Then, there was some kind of release, and he almost fell forward. He used this opportunity to slam against the gate in a better formation with the other men and attempt to walk forward. Slowly, the creatures relented and then humans and dwarfs were, ultimately, victorious. Ramando remained against the gate, both hands flat on its surface and holding him up at an angle from the door as he collected himself. The panic from the surprise attempted ambush made him falter, and this was unacceptable. There was still much he had to learn.
	
	Released to rest for a bit until they were called upon, Ramando decided to inform his Brothers of what he would be involved with. The gatherings of children and story-tellers were overlooked, his determination to his cloister more important to him. He prayed Master Leosin was safe. And for Brother Waladra's leg to be healed.
	His body raced past nurses and the injured as he ascended the main staircase of the Keep. The blood over his face and smudged over his hands was of little concern. When he reached the infirmary, he dunked his hands into a pail of clean water to clean off the blood from his knuckles and his face. He, then, took a roll of wrappings and pressed them against his head to stop any bleeding, if there was to be more.
	"Brother Dreel," Ramando bellowed as if commanding the boy's attention." How is Brother Waladra?"
	The boy turned, startled by the crashing bass of the man's voice echoing off the rounded walls of the room. He immediately stood, shocked to see Brother Brightwood seemingly injured instead of cleaned. "Brother..."
	"I'm going to go rest," Ramando interrupted, deciding there was no time for idle talk during a time of war into which he flung himself. "Get me if the Castellan comes," he demanded.
	His sizable figure raced across the infirmary floor, swerving past nurses and injured soldiers all the same with a swiftness and grace uncharacteristic for one such a size. He slammed his feet up the stairs, lacking any kind of stealth he attempted earlier that day. His focus was resting as best he could, meditate as deep he could.