The Ward

The soft, wool stuffed mattress was like a cloud, with three down pillows. The Cavalier who attended him wore a gold tabard, and seemed to radiate serenity. ‘Probably why he makes a good healer’, thought Argen. The small four bed ward’s walls were polished white stone, shot through with veins of differing earthtones. A tray of hot, spicy soup was atop the nightstand next to his bed. The clock ticking on the warm mantle was archaic, a monument to the craftsman’s skill. On his back, Argen stared at the multicolored mosaic ceiling. He wondered how long his recovery would take.