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Description
     He sat in the dimly lit room, at the foot of the bed in a state of melancholy, which was growing increasingly common. Although there were numerous wonders of the mortal realm, many pleasing surprises, the Spirit of Justice grew into a restless confusion. He had been a resident of the Fade for far too long to simply accept the odd transition into an unfamiliar world. The fade was raw emotion, and was rather simple for his mind to comprehend, but this physicality, this new body was a difficult change.

     And the smell! The rancid stench of the corpse he had unwillingly embodied made his stay no more pleasant. When he took a wound in battle, it would not heal over time, but rather gape, and decay. He grimaced at the memories of civilians, staring mortified, at the flat eyed pale man, and the mockery or silent thoughts of disgust that captured the heads of his fellow comrades. Most of them had the decency to not mutter a word, as for Oghren and Anders, however, they were a different story.

     Then there was the Arlessa, The Warden Commander, Isham. Justice did not know what to think of her. She was an odd woman, seemingly unbothered by his body. He never knew if it was sheer sympathy, endurance, or a deeper level of understanding, but she never winced once, not when she sat beside him around the campfire during meals, or when she fought beside him in battle. His dark, gnarled face never disturbed her, her eyes never faltered from his gaze when they found themselves discussing morality, or trying to plot out the memories of Kristoff, which floated vacantly in his mind.
     There was a gentle tap at the door, and as it slowly opened, the Warden Commander appeared before him.

"Justice, may I come in? I have something for you." The white haired elf's voice was soft and hesitant, and she held in her hands a basket with a cloth gently placed over the top.

"Yes, of course." Justice rose from the bed, in a stiff, respectful manner.

"I've brought something, for your wounds." Isham closed the door behind her, and knelt to the ground, placid, graceful hands removing the cloth and organizing the contents of the basket, threads, needles, vials, bottles, and herbs of all sorts. "Come." Isham looked up at her comrade, gesturing him to sit before her.

He did as told and watched as she rolled up his sleeve carefully, preparing in a small wooden bowl, an exotic salve.

"With all due respect, my friend, I do not think this will help." Justice softly urged with knowledge that salves helped the regeneration of flesh. Living flesh.
Isham smiled timidly, observing an unpleasant gauge on the side of his arm, "I'm not making a health poultice, but rather a mixture of thyme, rock salts, and other herbs to promote preservation."

She gently applied an amount of the aromatic mixture to his arm, "This will simply preserve your body, so you can remain stronger for longer, and also help with the smell… Oh, this may hurt for a moment." She gently pressed a needle through the cold flesh of the wound, and stitched it with care.
    Justice didn't flitch for a second, just watched as she fondly tended to his wounds.
He could just vaguely recall a memory of Aura, Kristoff's wife, tending to her husband so lovingly when he had returned to her for a brief period of time. Kristoff had suffered many wounds as a warden, and yet, Aura…. Aura healed them effortlessly.

"Isham… May I… May I ask you a question?" Justice nervously roused a question of curiosity.

The commander had moved on to fixing another injury on his opposing arm, she moved so quickly and carefully, there was no pain to be felt, just swirls of the pleasant smelling herbs that filled the warm room.

"Of course, friend, speak freely."

"I remember what you had told me… When we discussed what Kristoff and Aura had shared… Tell me… Have you… Have you ever felt… love?"

Description
     He sat in the dimly lit room, at the foot of the bed in a state of melancholy, which was growing increasingly common. Although there were numerous wonders of the mortal realm, many pleasing surprises, the Spirit of Justice grew into a restless confusion. He had been a resident of the Fade for far too long to simply accept the odd transition into an unfamiliar world. The fade was raw emotion, and was rather simple for his mind to comprehend, but this physicality, this new body was a difficult change.

     And the smell! The rancid stench of the corpse he had unwillingly embodied made his stay no more pleasant. When he took a wound in battle, it would not heal over time, but rather gape, and decay. He grimaced at the memories of civilians, staring mortified, at the flat eyed pale man, and the mockery or silent thoughts of disgust that captured the heads of his fellow comrades. Most of them had the decency to not mutter a word, as for Oghren and Anders, however, they were a different story.

     Then there was the Arlessa, The Warden Commander, Isham. Justice did not know what to think of her. She was an odd woman, seemingly unbothered by his body. He never knew if it was sheer sympathy, endurance, or a deeper level of understanding, but she never winced once, not when she sat beside him around the campfire during meals, or when she fought beside him in battle. His dark, gnarled face never disturbed her, her eyes never faltered from his gaze when they found themselves discussing morality, or trying to plot out the memories of Kristoff, which floated vacantly in his mind.
     There was a gentle tap at the door, and as it slowly opened, the Warden Commander appeared before him.

"Justice, may I come in? I have something for you." The white haired elf's voice was soft and hesitant, and she held in her hands a basket with a cloth gently placed over the top.

"Yes, of course." Justice rose from the bed, in a stiff, respectful manner.

"I've brought something, for your wounds." Isham closed the door behind her, and knelt to the ground, placid, graceful hands removing the cloth and organizing the contents of the basket, threads, needles, vials, bottles, and herbs of all sorts. "Come." Isham looked up at her comrade, gesturing him to sit before her.

He did as told and watched as she rolled up his sleeve carefully, preparing in a small wooden bowl, an exotic salve.

"With all due respect, my friend, I do not think this will help." Justice softly urged with knowledge that salves helped the regeneration of flesh. Living flesh.
Isham smiled timidly, observing an unpleasant gauge on the side of his arm, "I'm not making a health poultice, but rather a mixture of thyme, rock salts, and other herbs to promote preservation."

She gently applied an amount of the aromatic mixture to his arm, "This will simply preserve your body, so you can remain stronger for longer, and also help with the smell… Oh, this may hurt for a moment." She gently pressed a needle through the cold flesh of the wound, and stitched it with care.
    Justice didn't flitch for a second, just watched as she fondly tended to his wounds.
He could just vaguely recall a memory of Aura, Kristoff's wife, tending to her husband so lovingly when he had returned to her for a brief period of time. Kristoff had suffered many wounds as a warden, and yet, Aura…. Aura healed them effortlessly.

"Isham… May I… May I ask you a question?" Justice nervously roused a question of curiosity.

The commander had moved on to fixing another injury on his opposing arm, she moved so quickly and carefully, there was no pain to be felt, just swirls of the pleasant smelling herbs that filled the warm room.

"Of course, friend, speak freely."

"I remember what you had told me… When we discussed what Kristoff and Aura had shared… Tell me… Have you… Have you ever felt… love?"