Editing Craftworld Aylis-Nasturcane (section)

==How the work of a Craftworld Healer looks like==
Nytha’s skin tingled and impossible-to-describe colours flashed before her eyes as she exited the webway. When last she had been down here, the sounds of combat and dying had filled the air. Now, only the wounded and buried remained. A bombed-out hab-block had been converted into a hospital for the humans, who couldn't be brought to the craftworld for security reasons. Everywhere she walked, she saw bleeding and shivering people lying in droves, eldar healers and human medicaes alike tending to them, working in pairs to bridge the knowledge gap between the two species.

Two Striking Scorpions and two of the human elites –Kasrkin?- stood guard outside the room housing the wounded general, as well as Autarch Haedanar.

Both of them had been wounded while fighting against the enemy commander, a hulking ork warboss called Skullsplitta’. The two Eldar nodded to her as she passed, and the guards eyed her nervously, perhaps expecting a trap.
Luckily for them Aylis-Nasturcane doesn’t turn on those in need.

The room itself was freezing, the cold helping to slow the symptoms of the Sporefever, a common effect of fighting orks. Usually it’s not dangerous, but there was no known cure, and the sneezing it causes could end up rupturing one of the seams keeping the two soldiers together right now. They didn’t seem to care though, and were telling war stories to each other, every boisterous guffaw causing the attending healers to visibly panic.

“Autarch, the fleets are ready to cauterize the northern wastes, which should stop the Orks from returning anytime soon.”
Haedanar jerked his head to look at her mid-sentence, nodding with a smug grin on his face.
“Good, and tell Dranathen here to lighten up a little,” he motioned to the healer, who rolled his eyes and sighed, “Or I’ll have to get one of those Mon’keigh docs to patch me up instead. At least they know how to have a laugh.”

“Human,” Nytha offered, “and you should lie down.” The Autarch laughed at her, only to wince in pain as one of his stitches audibly burst.

Nytha stayed while Dranathen patched him pack up, and would never forgive herself if he died. He may be a stubborn, careless fool, but he was an old friend. Besides, it was her fault all along, she had lied to him, she had seen that he would be gravely hurt, but that it was the only path that would have lead to their victory without even greater losses. The human general seemed to be much better, being mostly machine by this point. He was smoking some type of lho stick that filled the air with a thick, heavy smoke, having responded to every attempt to take it from him by literally snarling at the doctors.

Sometimes Nytha could see why most of her people looked down on the humans.

“You know what? You Eldar aren’t so bad as they say,” he exclaimed between drags, “Wonder why the pencil-pushers are so afraid of you? The church I understand, what with ‘filthy xenos’ and all.”

Nytha decided not to react to the casual slur, and turned to leave, deciding she'd put her faith in Dranathen’s skill, and get out of the heavy smoke.
“We are sworn by the path of Isha,” she casually remarked as she left, “but other Eldar are still quite dangerous.”