Rothan
Rothan waved away the healing potion and cast a healing spell, his wounded arm made it clumsy and he had to cast a second before the gash was reduced to a scab and his ribs were well enough to continue. He sighed and looked at the dead, all ashlanders and none worthy of proper burial.
"I think the old one requires healing though. Healing of the mind, not the body," the pilgrim said. His voice was raspy, from disuse Rothan guessed.
He went to the pair, "Are you alright?" he directed the question to both then looked up, "Is anyone injured, we might want to conserve potions and if it's mild my magic might be enough."
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Look behind you and see an ever decreasing number of ghosts. Currently about 15.
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