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Unchained and yet unable to move, Captain Vórgetsk sits on a stool in the middle of a village deep in the woods, a village that, by all rights, should not exist. The woods are full of dangerous spirits, cruel beings that would just as soon stick a man full of arrows as look at him... That was what the priests had said, the story he and his peers had heard for their entire lives. Even the nomads are afraid to camp near the hills for fear that the spirits of the earth will come and attack their camp, slaughtering the unsuspecting Pakotski in their sleep. And yet, here is a village of men, and women, and children. No defensive wall surrounds the village, no ditch and stakes prevent attack. Just huts under the trees, entirely out of place in the most dangerous place imaginable.

Vórgetsk stares faintly ahead, past the man who led the group that captured him, into nothing. Is he being tricked somehow? No, that's impossible. The pain in his legs from the walking is too real. What will the priests say? The spirits aren't an especially important part of the Steppe-Lord's worship, but he might end up being accused of heresy anyway, and be left on the steppe soil with a hole in his head. Assuming, of course, he can even get back to the army. He wonders how the army is doing now in the war before being interrupted by the sight of a man pointing in his direction. Before he can snap at the savage in his irritation at the interruption, the pointer speaks in a loud and clear voice. "Wadamir?" Vórgetsk shakes his head in disbelief. Did the savage just...? Before he can finish the thought, his questioner speaks again. "Wadamir, Povred?"

That's official. The savage just said "Ãdàmrìtsk," even with a heavy accent. The other word sounded more like the name of the bloodlord who captured him, Pōbret. That sounded like an either/or question, and goodness knows he's not fond of Pōbret. "Ãdàmrìtsk, no Pōbret. Uh, Wadamir." He nods firmly and watches his opposite's reaction. The man in question turns to his peers and discusses with them hurriedly, the names Wadamir and Povred coming up frequently. With no end to this in sight, Vórgetsk realizes he can stand and promptly does, leading all of the villagers to duck away from him. More than one man takes up a bronze-tipped spear, but none of them appears to be ready for a fight. The group discussing Vórgetsk's answer turns back to him, and the man who had pointed to him speaks again, this time in a very slow version of the language he had been speaking. To his surprise, Vórgetsk finds that he can, with effort, understand the occasional word. "You Wadamir? No Povred? Shine. See Wadamir village. Edge of land."

Okay, evidently this language isn't quite the same as his. By "Wadamir village," the savage probably meant the army camp, since there are no steppe-cities or nomad camps anywhere around here. Evidently the word which, in regular Pakatska, would be "land" is closer in meaning to "hills" in their own dialect, which makes sense. The barbarians have never been outside the hills. Shine? This one takes a little more thought, but as he looks around, Vórgetsk can see that only the tallest and strongest-looking villagers wear anything other than wood and leather, proudly carrying polished bronze bracelets rather than the usual wooden ones on their arms. Maybe "shine" is their equivalent of "good," or "impressive." How should he know? He's no scholar. Whatever. On the other hand... What had the savage meant by "Povred?" Vórgetsk had seen two of these villagers working with the heretics, and it's likely that they weren't the only ones.

Vórgetsk's thoughts are interrupted by a cry as a small band of men, wearing their skull helmets, come into the village from what is presumably a hunting expedition. No game is slung over their shoulders, no deer is being dragged behind them, ready to butcher and cook. Instead, the three hunters carry between them the body of one of their countrymen, pale and barely breathing in ragged bursts. The questioner gestures for Vórgetsk to follow him to join the hunters. "Go, Wadamir-man. Help." Vórgetsk obliges, taking in the situation as one of the medics had taught him and going through the process out loud. "First, check for bleeding." Investigating the man's body, he finds three areas of bleeding: one at each knee, caused by a gunshot, and one at the neck. He tears part of his rags and presses the piece of fabric against the neck wound, a large gash evidently made by a blade of some kind. "Use pressure to stop the bleeding. Keep open wounds above the heart." He guides an onlooker's hand onto the rag and exerts pressure, making sure the involuntary nurse understands before moving on to the legs. He grabs a nearby stool and places the victim's legs on it, so that the knees are much higher than the rest of the body, and tears off another two pieces of his prisoner garb to serve as bandages. Conscripting two more bystanders to keep pressure on the wounds, Vórgetsk checks to see if there are any more injuries. None visible. He stands and turns to the hunters, hoping that they'll be able to understand his speech.

"What happened?" He points to the wounded man, to each bleed site, and back to the man in general. "How was he hurt? What attacked him?" The hunters throw each other a few glances before their leader takes off his helmet and speaks in a slow, deliberate manner. "We no see. Hear crack, run fast, find friend. Spirit run faster." "Damn. Obviously not an animal, and can't be one of you, so-- wait, did you say spirit?" "Spirit run. Red cloth." Vórgetsk stands shocked. Firstly, these people also tell stories of spirits in the woods? But more importantly, that would be Pōbret, the bloodlord of the heretic rebellion, that they saw! "That is Pōbret, the heretic, no spirit! He is a bloodlord, an evil abomination that steals the blood of good men!" The villagers look confused and scratch their heads. Vórgetsk realizes he needs to slow down and use simpler words. "That was the man you call Povred. He drinks blood." He points to the deep red stains on the pieces of his rags and make a motion of drinking. His audience looks disgusted, and many of the men begin muttering to themselves and their friends.

Vórgetsk points back to the wounded man, now breathing smoother and a little bit stronger. "He needs rest, sleep. He will not be able to hunt or fight." He gestures sleep with his hands and head before, confident that his audience understands, speaking once more. "You have warriors? Fighters, strong men? We will need to kill Povred so that your village can be safe." After a couple repetitions, each slower and more methodical than the last, the hunters and villagers begin nodding and voicing something that sounds vaguely like assent. A tall villager takes Vórgetsk by the shoulder. "We hunt, kill blood beast. You help. Come." Vórgetsk and several men enter a hut, closing the entrance flap to the sound of a recovering man's weak speech.