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I was out hunting. Not for deer, ducks, or devils, nor was it for lions, tigers, or bears. No, what I was hunting for was wounded. In the middle of a war that's what I do as a combat priest.

And, before I get too ahead of myself, my profession as a whole actually has no real ties to any priesthood or church. The term priest is just left over from the period of history where any real miracle of healing came from the churches, although some healers still gather under religious pretense. Nowadays there are so many different kinds, flavors, and sects of religions that no child found to have the gift of healing can really be claimed by any of the myriad of churches. Hence the practice is very rarely seen unless it is in some particularly zealous church or religion.

Anyway, as I was saying, I am a combat priest, akin to a combat medic, though we differ by the combat priest's ability to produce literal miracles on the battlefield rather than figurative ones. Though I wont be so stuck up about my abilities so as to say I haven't had to improvise my way out of the death of a soldier one or two times, or say that it takes no skill.

Ok maybe more than just one or two times, but as the battles rage and the war is fought, my mind rattles and my foundations shake. I have found myself asking for help, more than once, more power, more vigor, more might. So as to help out those who I might've gotten to or could have helped if I were just a little faster or had just a smidgen of my healing power left.

That brings me to today when I was out hunting, I feel that an answer is soon. That it's almost here. That we've almost made enough noise to wake something up. That something has grown so tired of waiting that they are ready to pounce. I felt it when I was hunting. I fear everyone else has felt this as well. I fear it is not just in my head when I see a briskness to people's patrols and other medics' and other combat priests' hunts.

I fear tomorrow's fighting will be worse.