War

Jorge is at a complete and utter breaking point. This was too much too soon. He barely got a hang on his memories, and then this apocalypse happens. No man was meant to live like this, treating half alive people, watching the desperate drag in the dead, hoping for one last hope. Too much seems wrong, even as Phil he never saw this much carnage, was never forced to heal so carelessly. The patents are never ending, and yet they are slowly shrinking, as the numbers drop like stocks. Soon, Jorge grimly thought, there will be no more to treat. 

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted someone more worn than him, someone with such great belief, it made him question his faith. With a slouched body, she dragged a medium sized man. Step by painfull step. Her legs shook, but she held strong. Wishing to do just one more step. She steadily plants a foot into the ground, avoids a harsh stumble, and moves on. Each bend of her knees looked like peer agony, her face twitches, and her arms buckle, but she stands true. Holding breath by breath, the endocrine of a god. He could smell the magic leak off of her, like sweat. She moved so slow, yet with each step made it so far. This was beyond determination, she would be willing to die to achieve this task, this is fervor for a god, no that's the only way Jorge could see it. But he knew it was something more, something bigger than gods, what that could be eluded him. He wanted to step in, to relieve the weight, but it was motivational. Some part of him wanted to see how far she would get. If she would give up. She deapend her steps, her end within sight. Her body began to raver, as if the added force was just too much for it. Slowing down to a crawl, she persisted. Nothing gating her finna stop. Jorge found this pittafull now. There should be a time when to know to give up, when to call for help. But she didn't. Inch by agonizing inch, she moved. Determination with each and every wonky step. Sweet dripped from her like flesh morning rain. The battle in the background, a intense carriage of sweet reds, milky blues, as well as deep greens, and a tornado of moving colors. It was like a painting, so beautiful the best artists would struggle to catch it. She was a force to fight the world, the borden dragging her down, as she pushes herself forward. Those agonizing inches turned into agonizing centimeters. Her path is full of tears splashing against the ground. Now what was a crawl turned into a creep, slower than molasses. As her magic dried up. The man from Jorges view turned into a mountain, the steeps that must be climbed. She began to move in bursts, giving one big tug, and then taking a break. But even then she stumbled, and this time found it harder to stop herself, as her face planted the floor. Just to shake it off, and keep pulling. Jorge watched, he could care less for his patients behind him, Amish will guide them in the after life. The girl pushed forward, not even the heavens could change her mind. Someone screamed something, but Jorge didn't listen. Her legs began to wobble like dogs trying to shake the water off of them. This was too much; she would have to give up, or she would be the one dead. Someone taped Jorge on the shoulder trying to get his attention, but he merely shook it off. She started to literally crawl on her hands and knees, holding the man with one elbow. Her nails crawled at the dirt trying to find one more inch. She tugged and pulled forcing, with resolve to get there. But the fun ended when one of the captain ranks went over and helped drag the man. That's when Jorge was brought back to his senses.

"Jorge, the line is breaking!" A man in a silver uniform said.

"What do you mean, the line is breaking?"

"We lost a lot of the stronger martial artists. And now the only people who are really holding them back are the paladins."