It was difficult to differentiate the smells filling the tent. Odors… odors was the much more fitting descriptor. The obvious candidates were piss, shit and blood, though the less apparent stenches were what had Ivy lathering her upper lip with harralander extract. Not only was it useful because of its powerful, fresh scent, but the herb was often used as a smelling salt, which the master healer desperately needed. It had been sixteen hours by now… or was it twenty already? When had she lost count of the hours? Certainly well after she lost count of the bodies.

“This one may actually make it, Healer Sophista,” the hoarse voice of Mangen grunted. He hauled a pale, chattering man up onto the surgery table. Ivy’s hands had stopped shaking after the fourth amputation — which only happened to be in the opening minutes of the battle.

“What’s his ailment?” she asked, trying to put forward a firm voice.

“From what I can tell by just looking at the poor chap, severe neck trauma, narrowly missing the carotid and jugular vessels. Likely a collapsed lung, given the frothy nature of the blood coming from his gullet, though this could also come from a fractured trachea. Poor sod was already in shock when I reached him.”

“Very good assessment, Mangen,” Ivy Sophista said, her voice only slightly wavering. “How would you continue?” Had she had any more of her breakfast inside of her, Ivy would have lost it. Vomit, that was another culprit of the odious fragrance her harralander oil was fighting a losing battle against.

“I’d say this chap would already be dead if he had the ‘sucking’ injury so if his lung is down, it’s quite stable.”

“Astute. Another way one can tell this is not the case is look at the neck. Can we see any distention of his jugular vein? Correct, we cannot. If there was extensive pressure building up on one side due to a tension pneumothorax, what you colloquially referred to as the ‘sucking injury’. Good, what next?” Mangen’s broad chest puffed with pride at her adulation.

“We should do a quick exploration with any necessary debridement and sterilization of the neck wound. After making sure the major vessels are intact I would explore the integrity of the trachea before closing so that he wouldn’t be leaking air into the subcutaneous tissues.”

“Very good, be sure to continue using the correct vernacular when discussing treatments. It will make it an automatic way of thinking about these cases. I will observe your exploration. What will you use as your cleansing agent?”

“If I need to close the trachea or any other deep structures I would use a blamish oil-soaked catgut suture and for the skin closure I would use simple flax string. Depending on how much debridement I end up doing, I would cover the wound with gauze infused with irit, though if the wound is quite clean I would use a simple decoction of marrentill.”

“I agree with your plan. A good idea to use blamish oil, the marrentill hardens the line while the snail slime allows it to slip easily through the tissues. Go ahead and begin your exploration.”

Ivy tried to watch Mangen closely, but three more injured soldiers were wheeled in.

She had learned early on that her magic was no good for this work; after the first hour Ivy had almost fainted from how much she was drawing on the Anima. It had taken four more hours for her to stop being lightheaded. For the most severe cases, she would spare a small modicum of magic to ease pain or staunch the fatalest of bleeds.

A curse from Mangen almost caused Ivy to break an arrow shaft off halfway through its extraction. Whirling to her understudy, Ivy’s already heavy heart sank even lower as she saw his patient’s slack features and still chest. Mangen had already stormed away from the corpse, cursing a blue streak and kicking over buckets in frustration. Though Ivy did not approve of rage, she knew better than most that everyone releases tension in their own way. For herself, she placed a bloody hand on the already cold skin of the dead man and whispered a quick benediction to Guthix. It had become a sort of macabre mantra to her, the amount of times she had spoken it today. It did not even occur to her that the prayer fell on deaf ears, if the rumors were to be believed. But would any of this actually be happening if Guthix had not fallen?

Forgetting the face of the slain man with frightening speed, Ivy turned back to her own patient to continue her grisly work. She fell back into the rhythm that had somehow kept her upright and working for countless hours, only taking breaks to reapply harralander ointment in between bouts of dry heaving and weeping. How could her body continue to produce tears even after all of this?

Guthix knows how much later, Ivy heard a deafening sound she wasn’t sure she would ever hear again. It was odd to her that the screams and groans of the wounded and dying had become a grotesque white noise and how loud silence could be after so long.

“We have pushed back the Zamorakian forces for now,” a strong, Faladorian voice announced outside of the medical tent. Ivy wiped her gore-stained hands on her apron, hardly even removing the topmost layer from her palms. She walked to the open flap of her tent to peer out into the camp. Night had fallen hours ago and a small group of soldiers surrounded a tall man in glittering white armor. His was the only breastplate the flickering fire reflected off of and Ivy felt no small amount of anger at this. The men gazing up at him were covered in grime and blood while he towered over them in his immaculate armor. Ivy would eat her apron, gore and all, if the man had seen combat at all this day.

“It was well fought today, I congratulate you all. The day is not won yet, but we can rest tonight knowing that Saradomin has blessed our cause.”

A raucous cheer rose from the soldiers, causing Ivy Sophista to feel the most nauseous she had felt all day.

“Good work today, Mangen,” she sighed, plopping down on the soft earth next to their operating tables.

“I did what I could, Madam Sophista,” the stocky man grunted, dropping down next to her. “‘‘Twas a dark day for all.”

“And for what?” Ivy said, hanging her head in her hands. “Such a bloody waste of life.”

“Now you’re speaking my vernacular!” Mangen exclaimed with a rough chuckle. “Dinnae ‘spect a lady of your bearing to know such words.”

“I’ve been around my share of men in pain.” Ivy gave a smile that she did not feel, then returned her face to her hands.

“I don’t know how you usually unwind after a day as shite-filled as today was, but…” Mangen groaned as he leaned back to produce a battered wineskin from under his red-stained apron. Ivy doubted very much that it actually contained wine, however.

“I shouldn’t,” she said weakly.

“You certainly should, Madam.” Mangen handed her a dented copper cup he untied from the flask and filled it nearly to the brim. The liquid was clear and as harsh-smelling as their strongest disinfectant.

“The first one is the worst,” Mangen warned. “Then it becomes bearable. To our ‘ealth!” A dull clunk rang from their cups and Mangen took a healthy swig from his. Ivy cautiously pressed hers to her lips and could feel her tongue retreating to the back of her throat.

“Best not to think on it,” her companion gasped and before she could stop him, he tipped her cup up with a hairy hand. The swill filled her mouth and half of it immediately was sprayed onto the ground while Ivy spluttered and coughed.

“Good gods, what is this deadly concoction?” she hacked out, which took almost a full minute to enunciate between near-gags.

“This here grog is vodka made from the finest, heartiest ‘tatoes straight from Relleka. Now we’ve gotta finish the cup before the burn wears off. Otherwise the night is ruined!”

Before Ivy could protest or ask how not finishing the cup could possibly make this night any worse, Mangen once again tipped her cup with a meaty paw while he tossed his back. The man’s taste in drink may be questionable, but he was right about it only getting better. Ivy only spluttered for fifteen seconds this time and lost less than a sip.

“I knew I could trust you!” Mangen almost roared, his face already bright and red with drink. “You could drink most men under the table, Madam!”

“High praise,” Ivy laughed, feeling quite heady herself. “This is one bloody great way to unwind after such a bloody awful day!”

She almost fell over laughing at the look Mangen gave her; almost one of reverence for her debauch behavior. She lost count of how many times he refilled their cups, but much like the rest of the day, she did not mind losing track of it.