Worthy Warlord
The agony that pulsed through him was very nearly all that he could focus upon. There was no dull thrumming pain, but rather intense and acute suffering which heightened with every pump of his heart. He couldn't bear to look down at the thin strands of muscle and ligament which were seemingly all that held his leg attached to the rest of his body. Blood and ichor still leaked from the gruesome wound, the ragged laceration that he'd sawed into it allowing for an exceptional amount of such visceral bleeding. One of his kindred offered a helpful shoulder, allowing him to limp along away from the battlefield and back towards the gunships which had brought them to Ankypt's pyramid.
Only one other idea crossed his mind and it was the vicious mockery that had been expressed in the actions of the Sith who he'd faced on the battlefield. He'd thought himself outmatched from the beginning, and yet he'd known that the survival of their race revolved around keeping powerful combatants away from Emissary Galak and his strikeforce. Loyal Risen had joined him in the grudge match, only to be wiped out nearly to a Drael, their lifeblood stained the sands. He had no time to contemplate how his own inability to keep himself from the woman had led to their oblivion... not with the sting still present.
Even still, this pain was not even remotely comparable to the almost gentle cut with which she'd slashed him. The blow had been almost comedically light, something like the thin cut of parchment against the back of his leg. He'd suffered far worse wounds in the past, and so were it not for the accursed poison she'd placed upon the instrument he might've been able to ignore it entirely. Nevertheless, the poison had been present, and it had eaten its way through his system in a way so debilitating as to be unbearable. He'd cut through massive chunks of his own flesh with the edge of a Zealot's kukri in an attempt to relieve the suffering, willing to amputate his own flesh in order to escape the venomous prison.
Osam didn't realize that the bloodloss had begun to get to him until he was exiting the gunship, and felt the sudden wooziness in his skull. How long had he been in the gunship? Hadn't he only just stepped into it? The Risen at his side said something, but it was either incomprehensible or else entirely ignored. He gave a noncommittal grunt, something akin to an acknowledgment, but in truth, he didn't really know what was happening to him. Intoxicated by exsanguination, the Major stumbled forward, led about like a pet by his companion until they'd reached the superstructure, and the facilities therein.
He blacked out again his last thought questioning whether there'd be time in the medical facilities for him.
Sylok'Vanari
Only one other idea crossed his mind and it was the vicious mockery that had been expressed in the actions of the Sith who he'd faced on the battlefield. He'd thought himself outmatched from the beginning, and yet he'd known that the survival of their race revolved around keeping powerful combatants away from Emissary Galak and his strikeforce. Loyal Risen had joined him in the grudge match, only to be wiped out nearly to a Drael, their lifeblood stained the sands. He had no time to contemplate how his own inability to keep himself from the woman had led to their oblivion... not with the sting still present.
Even still, this pain was not even remotely comparable to the almost gentle cut with which she'd slashed him. The blow had been almost comedically light, something like the thin cut of parchment against the back of his leg. He'd suffered far worse wounds in the past, and so were it not for the accursed poison she'd placed upon the instrument he might've been able to ignore it entirely. Nevertheless, the poison had been present, and it had eaten its way through his system in a way so debilitating as to be unbearable. He'd cut through massive chunks of his own flesh with the edge of a Zealot's kukri in an attempt to relieve the suffering, willing to amputate his own flesh in order to escape the venomous prison.
Osam didn't realize that the bloodloss had begun to get to him until he was exiting the gunship, and felt the sudden wooziness in his skull. How long had he been in the gunship? Hadn't he only just stepped into it? The Risen at his side said something, but it was either incomprehensible or else entirely ignored. He gave a noncommittal grunt, something akin to an acknowledgment, but in truth, he didn't really know what was happening to him. Intoxicated by exsanguination, the Major stumbled forward, led about like a pet by his companion until they'd reached the superstructure, and the facilities therein.
He blacked out again his last thought questioning whether there'd be time in the medical facilities for him.
Sylok'Vanari