(AN: This is a rather jumpy series, not 'continuous'; as in, the chapters do follow after one another in chronological order, but not necessarily right afterwards.

…I don't think I'm making sense so I'll shut the hell up now. :D)

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002: Misfortune

"You right-handed?" the mastersmith asked, looking up at Corosa.

Corosa didn't have it in him to summon up his voice. He nodded instead, and bit his lip bloody as the mastersmith lifted his right arm up.

"Ah, fuck. I can barely see." The other man had a level voice, but it sounded as if he was speaking through clenched teeth. Corosa couldn't be sure. Both of them had hidden themselves behind layers of clothing as protection against the desert. The only thing Corosa could see of the mastersmith were his eyes, and vice-versa.

Corosa clamped down on the inside of his cheek as the man accidentally jolted his arm. Neither of them knew anything about healing. Corosa doubted that he'd finish this day with two arms.

"Hold your arm up. Still can't see."

Corosa was trying to not look, but he did as the man asked, gripping his broken arm around the elbow and lifting it up to chin level. Now that it was right in front of his eyes, he could see that the bone had splintered and torn right through his skin.

"I thought gunslingers were faster than that," the other man said.

Corosa grimaced. "I…am the exception, I suppose."

"Huh. Guess so. This is far out from Einbroch, ain't it? And that was a fucking mutant." The mastersmith pulled back in an attempt to realign the fracture, but pain ripped up Corosa's arm and he jerked away.

"Stupid," the man said, growling curses under his breath. "I might as well chop this off for you right now. Don't move this time."

Corosa braced himself, almost reaching for the rock behind him before he remembered that it would probably burn his other hand off. The mastersmith drew back on his forearm, slower than before. Corosa clenched his teeth together and screwed his eyes shut.

Something cracked.

"Oh shit."

Corosa opened his eyes only to see that though the bones were back in position, the mastersmith had managed to snap off a section of the upper half. Before Corosa could swear at him, the mastersmith slid his fingers into the open wound and drew the broken piece out. Corosa shut his mouth and turned away as the man set it back in place.

"I don't know," the mastersmith said, after a long silence. "I think we might be better off just chopping your arm off. Sand's all over the place. It's going to get infected."

"I'll get out. Find a priest." Corosa didn't even know how deep they were in the desert now.

Corosa's companion voiced the same worry. "You think you can get out fast enough?" he asked as he uncorked a flask and trickled water over Corosa's arm, washing blood and sand away. The sand came right back.

"If I start moving now," Corosa answered. Maybe."

"Not so fast. You sure as hell aren't going to walk around with your arm hanging open like that. Here, we better find some place out of the sand–"

Corosa shook his head, momentarily silencing the other man.

The other recovered quickly. "Why the hell not?"

"No time," Corosa muttered. He tried to draw his arm away in order to bandage it himself, but the pain of moving stopped him immediately.

"Hell. It'll only take a few minutes."

"That's a lot of time in this place."

The mastersmith muttered a few choice words to himself, then said, "You have money? I'll bet you that by the end of today, you're not going to have that arm anymore."

Corosa gave a hollow laugh. He'd never been good at betting.

The mastersmith ripped Corosa's torn-up sleeve off and into several strips, brushing off as much of the sand as he could. As he began to wrap the makeshift bandages around Corosa's arm, he said, "You better hope we can hop on one of those wolves and get them to ride us out of here. I ain't kidding about that bet."

Corosa wondered if now was the time to start believing in gods. And make a humble request for them to teleport a high priest over as soon as possible.

It did not take long for the bandages to become blood-stained, but it was the best the mastersmith could manage at the moment.

"Shit. What the hell am I supposed to do now?" the man asked.

"Leave it. I'll manage." Corosa vaguely recalled arm slings, but he didn't want to waste anymore time. "You know how to get out?" He himself had lost all sense of direction after the wolf had been driven off and the mastersmith dragged him away.

"I…think," the mastersmith answered.

The pause was enough to make Corosa start doubting that he'd even survive, one-armed or not.