Confusion and shock rippled through the cleric as he stumbled across the fallen Caravose. “If Caravose is dead, why haven’t I returned from where I was summoned”, Jim wondered. Quickly blessing the fallen fighter, Jim began to writhe in pain, the heat of the raging fires too much for him. Fear took the priest then, the mortal dread of the end. A flaming brace of timber that held the roof above him gave way, its searing wood burning into the flesh of the priest’s back, who collapsed from the sudden weight and fell into the darkness of death.
Jim was suddenly conscious and aware of new surroundings, no longer hot, but just as loud. Jim was standing behind a row of groaning wounded men laid out beneath a grove of trees that overlooked the battlefield of men and orcs below. The Priest was overcome with renewed awe in his faith, realizing that his summoning was not that of Caravose, but of the divine Pharasma. Staring at his unmarred skin, the remembered smell of smoke and soot the only remnants of the battle he had so recently experienced. Jim prayed, realizing the blessing he had received to experience death.
As Jim ended his prayer, a voice called from the grove to the suddenly appeared priest to heal the fallen. With another note of thanks to Pharasma, Jim moved to those injured laying beneath the shade of the trees.
