A healer's hands

“Training accidents” were not uncommon in the Valley of Trials. Though the curse of bloodlust had been lifted by Hellscream’s valor, the orcs were never what could be described as a peaceful people. Training often inflamed already volatile tempers, and small-scale fights were considered a good chance to show the young how much they had to learn. Injuries inflicted as disciplinary measures were treated differently from those suffered in the normal course of duty-they were healed only enough to cause no lasting damage, then left to heal naturally. Typically, the afflicted learned a measure of patience during their convalescence…or learned to dodge better the next time they picked a fight. This fact was not unknown to Kazimierz as he staggered his way to the healer’s pavilion and the glowering medic within. Deciding not to draw things out, he presented his injuries and their cause forthrightly:
“Medic! My arm’s broken, my ribs too. Took a fall chasing a scorpion,” he said as brusquely as he could manage.
“You’ve gone and made Stormeye mad, haven’t ya?” the blueskinned troll asked, chuckling all but malevolently as he pointed at a line of darkening text in the flesh of Kazimierz’s forearm. “She’s stamped her mark in your arm, boyo. Don’t think I can’t tell what a fall looks like, neither. You aren’t the first to think Kadir’s easy to fool.”
The troll grabbed Kazimierz’s arm with his strange three-fingered hands and pulled hard, setting the break as Kazimierz fought back an undignified scream. The explosion of pain, however, forced the compromise of an angry yell, which Kadir promptly ignored in favor of roughly binding his arm.
“Oh, quit your cryn’, orc. You’ll get worse in your time, ‘less ya scrub out so hard ya land in with the peons,” Kadir said, weaving the wrappings around the orc’s shoulder to fashion a sling. “There. Don’t be trying to use that arm for a week or two, or you’ll have to come see me again.”
Reeling, Kazimierz checked what range of motion was left in his damaged right arm-not too much, but better than he had hoped, and after the agony of setting the pain had diminished substantially.
“What about the ribs?” he asked, hoping for something similarly helpful. “It’s hard to breathe.”
Kadir only chuckled and shook his head. “Cracked rib-bones gotta heal themselves, boyo. Nothing me or anyone else can do about it. ‘Less you get some help from a shaman or druid, ha? But that’s not happening for ya, now is it?”
Kazimierz’s look of despair must have been enough to stir pity in the troll’s heart, because he sighed and gestured the orc over.
“All right, come ‘ere. Have a drink of this. It won’t cure ya, but you won’t care so much,” Kadir said, offering a small clay bottle. Fumbling with his off hand, Kazimierz took a swig. The fire of the Darkspear’s favorite ginger liquor spread instantly into his stomach, but the over-potent drink did seem to numb the pain somewhat.
“Th-thanks,” Kazimierz coughed, trying to hand the bottle back without spilling the rest of the contents. His head was already swimming-what did they put in their drink?
Kadir chuckled and nodded, then motioned for the orc to go. “Don’t mention it. I mean that, boyo. I could be in trouble for helping a troublemaker through his learning, ha?”
“Dabu,” Kazimierz mumbled, complying with a little difficulty. He staggered away from the pavilion a little way before losing his footing on the suddenly very unstable ground. Ignoring the raucous laughter behind him and all but oblivious to the pain of landing, Kazimierz decided to rest his eyes, just for a little while…