Ever since he had successfully constructed that unique Blood Moon in his dream, Horace had gone a long time without "hearing" the Formless Mother's "muttering."
That rare peace and quiet had left Horace considerably clearer-headed as he dealt with heavy administrative duties and planned for the future.
Of course, he knew this quiet did not mean the Formless Mother had given up on him.
He was still one of the Formless Mother's "spokespeople"; the connection had simply become more indirect.
Sometimes, however, that indirectness brought a few mental challenges in another form.
Like now.
At the edge of Lakeside Town lay a "battlefield healer" camp made up of pristine white tents, which Horace privately nicknamed the "Nurse Corps" headquarters.
Once he drew closer, however, the information reaching his senses became more complicated.
The air was thick with the distinctive smells of medicinal herbs, alcohol, and fresh blood.
Muffled groans drifted from the tents from time to time, occasionally punctuated by brief screams.
Horace stood outside a medical tent, watching a Numen "nurse" emerge after completing a "treatment."
She had the typical features of a Numen: tall, blonde, and blue-eyed, with a face that should have looked dignified, even holy.
At the moment, however, the front and cuffs of her once-plain white robe were soaked with great patches of mingling dark red and bright red blood, some spots still dripping faintly.
A devout smile graced her face, as though she had just completed an incomparably sacred task.
If one ignored her hands, coated in thick blood all the way to her elbows, the apparent scraps of tissue still clinging to her fingertips, and the feeble yet heart-rending wails of the patient with a broken bone inside the tent, that was.
"Good day, Your Grace." Seeing Horace, the Numen nurse offered an