So many blades...

So many swords...

So much blood...

Was it his...

Was it them...

Was it his patients...

It was hard to tell from the floor.  Especially when the dark encircled him.  He felt his press wet and cold on the ground.  Cold.  Pure black flesh open and in the dirt.  It was cold.  So cold.  Where was it... where was his mask?  Over there.  Just out of reach.  Get it back on...  Its so cold...

He blinked, a long time... was it a blink or sleep?

He opened again, he had to get up, his patients needed-  something felt strange.  Something felt different.  His face was cold, but it was on stone now, and it was dark.  There wasn't pain, just soreness, like he was strung up for a long long time and finally was granted merciful freedom.  The dark was a haze, but there was a light.  The white beaked mask looking back at him.  It was trying to will him to reach, reach and take it.  Pox scampered to it like a starving man to bread.  He slipped it over his head, and felt the calming effect of his breath condensing on the interior.  

He was whole again.  Back in his mask.  It was time to work.  He had to find his patient-  where was he, a cell.  Some forgotten cell?  Did the enemy really imprison him?

He heard commotion and attempted to his feet, his frail gangling features barely giving him the strength to lift him to his legs.  He saw blurs of individuals pass his cell.  They spoke, getting their barings, moving on, their voices weak and concerned.  Were they escaping?  Pox reached for them, seconds after they passed his bars. [color=lightgreen]"W-W-wait..."[/color]  He pleased, leaning on his cell doors.  They opened with a creak, much to his surprise.  He used the bars, his legs limply providing just enough to keep him moving, adrenaline and desire for escape did the rest.  

He used the walls, the bars of cells and whatever else he could to keep up, seeing them come to a T junction and then move towards a structure.  The more Pox moved, the more he felt sure in his step, he was weazing in his mask, mouth so dry that his tongue felt like sand and from the outset he looked like an old man but still, he moved, coming from the back of the group, a man in red rags, and an oddly ornate bird mask.

He nearly doubled over, not caring for the blood around him as he was within a few feet of the group.  [color=lightgreen]"Let me come with you- please."[/color]