His vision slowly returns, blurry light congealing out of the darkness. His sense of pain is much quicker - a wound he doesn't remember piercing through his gut. Sound crashes over him: voices raised in celebration, drunken revelry, and an angry discussion.
"Hey, somebody! We got a wounded fighter! Can we get a healer over here?"
"My, my, would you look at this."
"Who the Hell is this? Why bring him here?
"Everyone is here! I don know who he is. Came up to the gates an fell down an started bleedin all over me."
"Couldn't he be carted off somewhere else? Like, for example, the infirmary? Or an accommodating ditch?"
"Step back, everyone! What happened here? What - who did this?"
"Demons, prelate! We found him barely alive outside the walls."
"Demons here? They don't usually stray so close. You - alert the guard. You - hold fast, don't die now. You - take his weapons, you know there's none allowed at the festival. Wounded or not, everyone must abide by the rules."
"Iomedae, I beseech you, grant your mercy, heal his wounds." A warm pulse of heat and light flows through him, but the pain doesn't let up.
"You - stop dithering and gawping and go and get Terendelev. This is some manner of cursed wound."