Each tick made a list of objects that could make such a noise. The echoes were a reminder that cement was all around. Voices faded into vibrations - unintelligible and vague. Thuds became foreign intrusions that shook up from the floor. The slightest air movement was swimming on the skin. The structure creaked and shifted from the stress within and the fluidity below.
	Brother Dreel.
	Skin buzzed from the energy of the magical and mundane. Hairs shifted and felt like flies crawling over the body.
	Brother Waladra.
	Air ricocheted in the ears. The cacophony of hubbub faded to static. It ebbed and screamed in his head.
	Bloody bandages.
	Bones against wood began to pinch.
	Shallow breathing.
	Toes lacked blood flow and were pierced with pins.
	Fire.
	An arching spine struggled to support the torso.
	Boom!
	Red light covered pupils temporarily blind.
	Debris.
	The voice scratched his brain with sharp nails.
	Fingers tearing.
	Muscles twitched awake and skin began to itch.
	Unconscious...blood.
	Ramando's fingers spasmed to life. It might have only been a few moments, but pure meditation was always exceedingly difficult for him. His consciousness never seemed to fully rest and his subconscious was too deep to reach. It didn't matter much the length of pure consciousness lasted, as long as it was achieved. Ramando blinked his lids slowly in order to reactivate his eyes. It took a few moments for his body to follow and support itself to stand.
	The garb looked stiff as it swung gently on the line. The cloth was coarse to the touch, indicating they must be dry enough to wear without developing a rash. Ramando took his time wrapping himself in the cloth to regain a modest appearance, that is, as modest as his particular style allowed. The monistery didn't have many options for one of his size. There were no tailors or seamstresses to design anything that could fit him properly. So he used bolts of fabric and capitalized on wrapping his body to feign some kind of monk-like decorum.
	There was an odd air in the Keep, now. Perhaps it had something to do with the visitors - heroes? Some of them had found their way to the infirmary. It seemed the man in metal was as large as he seemed from up here, when Ramando had first sighted the party. The green man was looking around, clearly confused. Ramando didn't have much in the way of hospitality considering his Brother's condition.
	Ramando made sure to keep his head as low as he could, in an effort to keep from gawks and stares. His chest was still above most individual's heads, but his hushed feet and agile steps made sure he wouldn't pass by anyone too slowly or clumsily to be an even greater distraction. He managed to sneak up behind Brother Dreel and surprise him.[hider][url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/rolls/873]Stealth - 9[/url][/hider]
	"Oh, Brother Brightwood!" the boy screeched quietly. "You're back - and looking much better," he added with a large smile.
	"You can go back to the others. I'll look over him." Ramando's tone was flat, almost sharp. It was still low enough to fill the entire space yet fade into the stone walls. But the boy knew when he was attempting to be considerate.
	"No," Brother Dreel said and shook his head. He stood up and raised his hand to slap it onto the giant's shoulder. "You go get some rest. You've been here for hours."
	The boy didn't allow for any argument on the matter and simply pointed to the stairs ascending further up the keep.