Valafar sneered at the Paralyzed Pirate, with a gesture he dismissed the cloak of flies about himself. "Someone bind him, I'll help tend to the wounded." Valafar approached Crynirad and knelt down at his side. "Oh gods of war, show this one mercy. Staunch his wounds and mend his flesh if but a little. Hear my call, and save those like that are like yourselves. The lost cost of war."

Many imagined the gods of war were great clanging warriors, proud of their deeds burning with supposed 'honor.' But those who worshipped them learned quickly, the true gods of war are not massive larger than life soldiers. They are children dressed in rags, faces stained with dirt and ash, eyes too young and too old. For war is not an honorable endeavor, it is not some grand battle. It is dirty, it is bloody and it is tragic so too are the gods who embody it. The ones who have seen too much, those who see past the lies drunk men tell themselves in taverns.

Spoiler: ooc
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Casting Cure wounds. 1st level spell.

(1d8+2)[3]