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A small crowd gathered in the lobby of the clinic, huddling around someone in the center. The ring consisted primarily of dwarves, and they all wore grim visages as they assured their wounded comrade that all would be okay, or rather, that he would not return to Zerdargia as a cripple. Of course they had no way of knowing this for certain, but sometimes lies had ways of guaranteeing optimism, and considering the rampant, uncensored cursing coming from them middle of the circle, the dracon healer would be certain that whoever it was, he or she was in a lot of pain.
“Dammit man! Get offa me!” a large dwarf cried. Sprawled out on a stretcher, he was currently batting away a swarm of hands reaching for his leg, or more specifically, what was left of it. His right leg was twisted at the knee such that his foot jutted peculiarly to the left, and it was bent awkwardly in multiple places. The dwarf still wore his pants, and his eyes narrowed as one of Dravol’s employees attempted to scissor a section of the pants leg off with a scalpel. “Get that durned thing away from me! Dun let them do it boys, dun let em!!” He roared.
One of the dwarf’s friends, noticing Dravol’s hasty arrival, frowned as he looked the dracon up and down. “You the healer? Good yer here. Ol’ Durgum here almost didn’ make it. Some ceiling tiles fell down n’ nearly crushed us all, he barely got away. But his leg…” the dwarf sighed somberly and shook his head. “Can ya help him?”
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