Grimnir vaguely remembered the days of sleep and wakefulness. Of clearly deliniated periods of rest and activity. Now, however, he lived his life in a perpetual haze. Awake, asleep...the terms had lost their hard-and-fast rigidity. They had melded into one another.
He forced an eye open and gauged the sun's angle above the crude battlements of Stonebreaker. He'd slept almost two days...
By the spirits, he hurt bad. He'd taken an arrow through the shoulder at Thrallmar and lost half of two toes outside of Allerian, and his old body didn't recuperate the way it used to.
Most forebodingly, though, the ache inside was spreading. It had started in his left leg and had been wending its way both upwards and downwards as the weeks had progressed....now it was beginning to snake up into his torso. He'd given himself a year upon first diagnosis, but he knew he'd have to throw that out. Six months, perhaps. Two to three more months of combat viability.
Maybe.
Grimnir shifted his weight, then looked up, blinking, as a shadow descended over him.
"Grim, joo up?" Zurven, an old comrade, now properly adorned in Grin black.
"Aye."
"Ready for some killin'?" Zurven asked, stroking his tusks contemplatively. "Chief say we be headed for Auchindoun."
Grimnir grinned. Stood. Hid any signs of physical discomfort.
"Aye. Never felt more ready in my life."
Two to three months. He'd make the most of it.