11-24-2015, 10:16 PM
What happened? Wakka wondered as his eyes cracked open.
How long had the blitzballer been unconscious, a few hours? A few days? Everything proceeding his last recollected moments were lost toys within a large sandbox of mystery. He remembered Dante catching his ball, and then throwing it back at him; he remembered trying to retaliate with an impossible trick shot, too. Even the roars of the crowd seemed like a distant memory now.
Wakka winced while attempting to sit up, expecting a jolt of pain to explode from one from his ribs. None occurred. Not even a tingling reminder. He unlatched one of the arms to his overalls and looked down at his chest, but saw nothing.
“White mage,” he murmured.
Had to be; though many things in the Omniverse conflicted with his knowledge of reality, anything encompassing healing fell into the magic wheelhouse—white magic.
By the appearance of his surroundings, he was in some sort of a makeshift infirmary. Wooden cots with white sheets—though they appeared orange, under the dime light of a single cast-iron chandelier suspending from the center of the ceiling—lined each wall, tracing the inside of the room. Most of them were filled, which slightly baffled Wakka; there were more bodies in cots than contestants that lost. Peculiar.
He glanced over to his right, then his left. Both cots supported the dead weight of men. Their faces were covered, fully—whoever did the deed even had the respect to tuck the sheets under the crowns of their heads. They must have been too far gone for a mage to restore.
Across the room, a couple of voices went back and forth. The dialogue came out as barely audible whispers, but Wakka’s ears caught notice.
“I guess I’m not the only one up, ya?” the blitzballer said with a light chuckle. “You take a loss in the tournament, or something else?”
How long had the blitzballer been unconscious, a few hours? A few days? Everything proceeding his last recollected moments were lost toys within a large sandbox of mystery. He remembered Dante catching his ball, and then throwing it back at him; he remembered trying to retaliate with an impossible trick shot, too. Even the roars of the crowd seemed like a distant memory now.
Wakka winced while attempting to sit up, expecting a jolt of pain to explode from one from his ribs. None occurred. Not even a tingling reminder. He unlatched one of the arms to his overalls and looked down at his chest, but saw nothing.
“White mage,” he murmured.
Had to be; though many things in the Omniverse conflicted with his knowledge of reality, anything encompassing healing fell into the magic wheelhouse—white magic.
By the appearance of his surroundings, he was in some sort of a makeshift infirmary. Wooden cots with white sheets—though they appeared orange, under the dime light of a single cast-iron chandelier suspending from the center of the ceiling—lined each wall, tracing the inside of the room. Most of them were filled, which slightly baffled Wakka; there were more bodies in cots than contestants that lost. Peculiar.
He glanced over to his right, then his left. Both cots supported the dead weight of men. Their faces were covered, fully—whoever did the deed even had the respect to tuck the sheets under the crowns of their heads. They must have been too far gone for a mage to restore.
Across the room, a couple of voices went back and forth. The dialogue came out as barely audible whispers, but Wakka’s ears caught notice.
“I guess I’m not the only one up, ya?” the blitzballer said with a light chuckle. “You take a loss in the tournament, or something else?”