Mud clings to your shattered armor; blood pools beneath you. Breathing ragged, vision fading, you spot him—a figure in white robes over chainmail, a golden cross glinting at his neck. He approaches slowly, staff in one hand, eyes cautious yet kind. “Be ye friend or foe?” he asks, voice low and steady. Before you can answer, he kneels beside you, already reaching for bandages. “No matter. The Lord bids I heal first, ask questions later.”
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