[i]Amarant tightens the bandage with his teeth as Freya is uncharacteristically (but understandably) panicked, cursing in his mind though keeping his exterior as cool and calm as possible. He is doing his best to keep the poison from spreading far beyond the tattered injury, though he can already smell the Grand Dragon’s poison rotting the flesh around the claw wound, watching it turns black as if burnt. He pulls the bandage hard, growling. The satchel of medicine has been crushed and lost sometime mid-battle under the foot of an angry wyrm. They are without antidotes.
Freya is delirious. He carries her out of the network of caves above Gizamaluke’s Grotto, spitting oaths as he feels her spasming in his arms while he makes the rocky descent. With every passing minute he is sure she will lose her arm. The smell becomes unbearable. An hour into his reckless hike, a terrified voice deep in his mind is sure that she will die, disintegrated from poison dealt by a monster she has killed a hundred fold in their journeys before hand. It sickens him. He runs faster.

It is with luck that he comes across a farmstead in the foothills. Greater luck, a crusty old grandmother of a white mage healer lives amongst the residents, an unbothered face amongst the shocked expressions that greet Amarant when he barges onto the property with Freya unconscious in his arms.

They manage to save Freya. With luck, they manage to save the arm. She is comatose for two days and wakes up with Amarant sitting at her bedside, where he had been for longer than he will ever admit. She teases him for his worried expression, and he storms away in embarrassment. He ignores the whispers in his brain, suggesting that he has gone soft, and he tells himself that he will not be made to feel foolish in this way again. He buys too many antidotes and hides one away, tied in his hair, just in case. [/i]