Time heals all wounds.
This was true of the spirit and of the body. This was true for Elliot Gahald, for all his wounds save one. Granted, it was not a wound that he knew about or admitted to have. Granted, it was not a wound that was otherwise hindering his recovery. No, he was young and strong and determined, and each day brought him new strength. At first, he could not sit up. Then, he could not stand. Then, he could not exercise, and now, as muscle tone was starting to return to his body, though in a more lithe way than before, some things snapping back to their natural form even if others never would, his time in the Remedium was finally coming to an end.
Letters were being penned. Preparations were not yet being made, but preparations for preparations were being conceived. That was, to say, that Elliot Gahald had some ideas and some mild understanding of the need. It may have gone against his nature somewhat, but he also had plenty of time to lay about and think. There were ghouls and spirits clinging to his memories and the best way to combat them was with action and drive. Busying one's self was the cure to so many ills.
Today he was seated in a ramshackle chair writing upon a rather poor grade of paper. He was prone to mistakes so each word had to be decided upon carefully. Supplies were sparse, after all. His clothes were plain, not the fare he wore a few months before, and that did make him feel a bit improper, but he was capable of great sacrifice when necessary. The important thing right now was to finish his recovery and to help Myrken upon its own.