So anyways this is the latest thing I've been working on. I've got a bit more than this, but not a whole lot, and I need to go over it because I wrote it all in a big chunk and that usually doesn't give good results.
A room is illuminated in a fiery glow from a single candle on a rickety table. A boot casts a flickering shadow on the wall and from the boot springs a thick, tough leg with a bulging calf. The leg is stuck onto a scarred torso in a torn long coat, and on top or in front of the torso are two crossed arms. There is a thick patch of fur with a face attached stuck carelessly to the body, its neck barely visible.
The man adjusts himself. The candle’s flame spasms for a moment as the table rocks, as if about to give in to the weight of the man’s thick boots. Sensing this, the man picks his boots up and puts them on the floor and sitting up straight in his chair. He takes a quick look about the room but he can’t see anything.
He is visibly startled when a figure appears in the doorway. She moves forward into the dim light and the man lets go of his pistol. He opens his mouth to speak but all that comes out is a dry, breathy gasp. He reaches out and feels around the dark end of the table and pulls from the shade a flagon. It is nearly empty, but the few drops of water are still refreshing, and after his throat is cleared he successfully attempts to speak again.
“You’re late.” He says annoyance obviously present in his voice. He looks sternly at her and moves to stand but winces in pain when he shifts his weight to his feet.
“Don’t try and stand,” she says, moving towards him. She sets a tome on the teetering table and stumbles slightly over her cassock, but she keeps her balance. The thick brown cloth falls much further than her feet and is plainly a men’s size. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. There were many casualties.” She keeps her eyes on the floor as if ashamed.
“It doesn’t matter. Just see what you can do.” The man says, pulling up the left leg of his pants to reveal a deep wound, surrounded by crusty dried blood. Along the center a thick black tar-like substance swirled and bubbled. It obscured a malevolent but faint violet glow, deep beneath the surface. The woman gasped at the sight.
“I-…” she began and trailed off. Her eyes were wide with fear, as if the wound were demon incarnate. “This is beyond my knowledge, I-“
“Do something!” The man shouts. The flame flickers in response. “Just do anything! The pain is-… it’s unbearable!” his face turns white and his eyes seem to lose themselves in a separate plane and he falls into the chair again. The woman grabs the tome and quickly flips through it. She passes up the page she’s looking for and furiously flips backwards. She finds the correct page and reads along with the line.
She reaches out toward his wound and, her arm trembling with the magical energies coursing through it, slowly draws the gooey substance from the wound. The ichor grows bright then begins to dim as it grows further from the wound. It desperately clings to the hairs of his leg, and a faint scream can be heard from deep under its surface as it begins to harden. In a few moments more it has completely solidified, and it falls to the ground, harmless.
The man gasps and wheezes, his weak breaths scratching his dry throat. The woman is also breathing heavily, but is entranced by the deep purple globe in the dirt. She breaks her concentration as the man gags, and hands him a boar skin canteen from the table. He sucks the canteen dry in seconds and drops it to his side.
“Th-… thank you…” He manages to say as he passes out through the pain in his calf. The woman leaves to summon a surgeon.
