[center][b]Hospice of Baltia
Tautom Rich District[/b][/center]

Ardoiwn swore he was dead. There was no other answer for it, was there? He sat, weakened and numb, within a small boat riddled with holes. From each damaged tear in the wood a grey brackish water seeped in, slowly bringing the boat into the waters below. Ardoiwn could see nothing behind his craft, the fog of death lay heavy upon the black waters and his eyes could not see past.
When he turned his gaze down towards the water however he did see something, something of great horror and shame. In the water, just under the surface, floated corpses. The dead, still screaming out silently their final cries. First floated by his warband, his friends. Those he had known all his life drifted by. Each who bore their own desires, their own wishes, their own loves and goals. All now dead in foreign lands, killed as dogs by an enemy who knew not of honor. Ardoiwn wept for them, but their number was small, and soon replaced by new faces as the boat crept onward.
The warriors, the soldiers, whom Ardoiwn and his men had slain. Their arms and armor now rusted within the waters, their final cries for their commander, for order. At first rage wanted to boil out of Ardoiwn, but this land of fog and death allowed no such heat, granted Ardoiwn no such fire with which to warm his soul. In its place he felt only pity, for the men who too had dreams and hopes, who would never see them realized, who died to what they thought savages. Perhaps, Ardoiwn mused, they were right.
However both his men and those men he had slain were but a footnote. As his craft slowly sunk deeper into the void, as the water brushed against Ardoiwn’s legs and brought him the ever closer to the cold of death, he saw the first faces of Tautom. Those who he had come to protect, to save. The dock workers, who cried out for their now ruined vessels, the craftsmen who never found time to craft their masterpieces, the warriors who let fear into their hearts at the final moment, and now cried in pain under the water. The children who cried for their parents. Some in the water deserved as much, one might argue, but Ardoiwn saw far too many who didn’t. The water was to his knees. He knew, that once his boat sunk, that he was join them. Ardoiwn questioned why he hadn’t already. What was there to hold onto? What kept him from allowing the coldness into him, from sinking down and leaving the world behind him?
The bodies were close now, so much so that hands, white as death and red with blood, surged from the water to grip at the edges of the boat, each threatening to bring it down. But then, one last body floated by. One Ardoiwn had not seen for many years. One he could never forget. Her skin was sunken, pale, far too thin, all consequences of the time spent within this river. She had waited for a long time. Her hand, feeble as it was, reached up and gripped the boat. It stopped. The other hands retreated, and for a moment, everything was quiet. Peering into the void Ardoiwn saw her, “Mother?” He asked, as the world around him pulled away.

Ardoiwn coughed a long, hacking cough as his eyes shot open to the world around him. This was not the streets of the great city. The smell of blood was thick, but not as much so as it was before, Ardoiwn’s eyes blinked as he took in the scene before him.

He is lying bare-chested on a bed of the Tautom Hospice, a shelter for the miserable and the dying. At a time like this, you’d expect such a building is crowded with droves of unfortunate and battered warriors. Yet he found himself reserved in a small room in which there is only a single bed. A room..  saved for apparently special people. His lamellar cuirass had been taken off, its muddy and bloodstained iron lying on top a nearby crate.

‘’There you go champ, there’s a big boy.’’ An unwelcome, shrill voice fills the Gastald’s ears. Looking in the direction from whence it came, Ardoiwn observes a beefy barrel chested man sitting on a bench against the wall, his skin oozing with glistering oil.

‘’Old Aba told me to look after you. Honestly barbarian-boy... I took you for dead on that battleground. My dear marshal has a knack for picking out the most exalted of men, I’ll have you know!’’ He places a hand on his lips and lets out a giggle. 

Ardoiwn brought his hand to his head, between his wounds and the sound of this massive man’s voice he had to brace himself. Taking another deep breath he found his voice and asked, “My friends, my men. Did any of them survive?”

The man scratches his chin, looking up to the ceiling as he considers the Lampert’s inquiry for a bit. ‘’Not many of them did, sorry to say. From the ones we’ve carried off maybe two or three or so of your fellow barbarians were breathing… Their survival depends on whether they’ll recover from their injuries.’’ His face makes a swift turn to Ardoiwn, and the cheekiest of smiles takes form on it.
‘’Ho ho! Your friends got a good clobbering out there!’’ He says with a chuckle, either unable to read or flat-out indifferent to Ardoiwn’s feelings. 

‘Two or three?’ Ardoiwn mentally asks himself. He had arrived with nearly everyone he had known from his village, and now they were reduced to two or three, who ‘might’ live! “I can’t go home.” Ardoiwn says aloud, “They’re dead because of me and I can’t go home.”

‘’Embracing death is part and parcel of the warrior ethos, I thought you barbarians understood that better than anyone? I’m sure they’re having a nifty time in the after-life right about now. You can join the party later, but right now...’’ The man stands up, taking up the great heavy shield and spear he had placed next to the bench. ‘’We’ve got a date with those Chlotarboys.’’

He had barely finished talking before a messenger knocks on the door, who immediately opens it without waiting for permission of entry.
‘’Excuse me, you two...’’ a teenage boy peers into the room, looking between Ardoiwn and the bulky man. ‘’The Chlotars have breached the gate into the Viigoc Quarter! We’ve got instructions from Abadactus Rogan to evacuate to the Balti Palace, right this instance!’’

The man perks up, placing his spear over his broad shoulder. ‘’In the name of all that is carnal… So soon?’’ He looks to Ardoiwn, who has likely hardly recovered from the shock, and asks him: 
‘’Can you walk, barbarian-boy? Want me to carry you?’’   

Ardoiwn shook his head, clearing away the final fragments of unconsciousness and bringing himself to the moment. “I’ll walk.” Pulling himself out of the bed Ardoiwn quickly tumbles forward before bracing himself on the nearby wall. Raising and lowering his legs he quickly gets to grips with his body again before collecting his equipment and making his way out with the muscle bound soldier.