With his own little grimace for the advancing Imperial soldiers, Jamas followed Dolosus, pulling Yume along. As they rounded the dune, the familiar sounds of and smells approached his senses. Even though the battle had not yet truly begun, there were still arrow wounds such as the one Yume was suffering being tended to; the applicants grunting or screeching, depending on whether they were old enough to have been shot before. On the other hand, there were several who weren't quite so lucky. Fate had driven arrows into throats, stomachs, and arteries, and the wounded men screamed with all of their energy despite their experience. Jamas ducked his head faintly at such men; it was unlikely that they would have the chance to live through the battle that was about to begin. But as much as he felt for his companions in arms, he did not let their pain get to him too much. A soldier had to see a lot of men die, and those who did not harden themselves to it did not last long.
Turning his face forward, he marched resolutely toward the nearest medic.
((I had to take more then a few liberties with this one, which always makes be uncomfortable in a thread not my own. If I step out of line, don't be afraid to call me on it.))
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