Morning brought a different sort of silence. One of shuddering trauma and physical aches. Viran lay still, his left eye open to the scene of medics shifting stones off of bodies and carrying them away. A few men and women clutched Wounds as they were picked off the wreckage.
A half-orc knelt beside a wooden beam and lifted a young woman's body. He walked toward the yard as entrails dragged a dirty red trail behind them. The lifeless witches, warlocks, druids, and bards were sorted ravens from grounders, and the wounded shouted curses at the opposing sides, despite the fact that most targets were already dead.
The only thought that played through virans mind was how slow everything seemed to go right now. He counted the medics, he counted the wounded, he counted the workers but never the dead.
"Here!" Someone shouted. Loud, most irritating to him.
Weight shifted, easing the labored breath he struggled to catch, and somebody shifted their arms under him. His entire body seemed to scream with pain as he was lifted from the shattered pieces of his home. He was held tightly and jostled in this man's arms until the pain became too much and his mind shut off again, leading him back into the depths of unconsciousness.
The scent of chemicals and sterile wipes filled his nostrils as he shifted gingerly beneath the blankets. A wrap covered his right eye but allowed his left to open so he could watch the scene around him. Doctors and nurses worked efficiently through the lines of patients. Three rows of occupied bed's filled a long white room with no windows and only one exit. The air seemed to shimmer when he focused on the door.
"magical," he thought, "There must be powerful medicans here."