A deafening roar set out across the area, like a dragon of stone rearing it’s fearsome head and proclaiming it’s gruesome intent to the nearby onlookers. Gilith’s eyes widened drastically as he bolted up, this was foolish however. The dust cloud which came the terrible and destructive shrapnel was flying towards him, so fierce and monstrous it seemed that Gilith thought at first that a dragon truly was attacking them. But as the dust struck against his face blinding and gagging him, his mind began to search for more sensible reasons for this. As best as he could figure the entire blasted wall must have fallen down!
His face in tatters as the piercing minuet brands struck him, he was still able to take a blind run away from the assumed direction of the disaster. As he got up to do so a larger chunk of the rock, which he had spent so much time moving personally, took it upon itself to strike him in the back of the head. At first, a glancing blow, nothing but a wound to the temple, but then as he fell he placed his left hand out in front of him to cushion the fall. It struck the ground hard, and at an awkward angle, he heard a small crack, or rather, he felt it, and imagined there must have been a crack. But that ringing, that ear shattering ringing drove out to the sounds of all but the loudest most wretched screams.
Some more rubble fell, another larger rock hitting his shoulder, bruising that badly, and while that would be the majority of his serious injuries, the countless bloodied lines and scratches form the tiny projectiles that had found their way to him seemed uncountable, and almost, to decorate him in a rich plaid, outlined all the more so by the dusky complexion which the cloud of dust had left on him.
He got up, no time to concentrate on his pain, and started running again. Bobbing this way and that, he tried desperately to clear his eyes, to scream, to shout out for help. But the dust refused to go away, it burned his eyes, and it gagged his throat, blistering inside of him like the spark of a fire. He could do nothing but cough viscously, and attempt to see through haze before him.
Gilith managed through luck to find his way outside of the deadly hail raining down around the wall, for the most part. He had been a lucky distance away from the wall, but not nearly far enough to escape rather serious injuries. It did not help that he had been bare chested the entire time. Just that small layer of clothing would have saved his skin from many of the cuts adorning him.
When finally Gilith was sick, from what, he could not say, though he imagined it was probably out of the incredible fright that struck him throughout this all, and his desperation to clear his throat. He began to holler out, calling for someone, asking if anyone was there. He couldn’t think to do much more than that, until he noticed that in his right hand he had held on to his water skin with a grip of Iron. Without missing a beat he poured the water in to his eyes, and then down his burning throat. He made sure to keep at least a quarter of it for later, but with the addition of the water, oh the blessed water. Came a small sense of relief, something to dull the pain, to just take the edge off. It was enough. Enough for now at least. The adrenaline pumping through his veins would take care of the rest for a bit. He was not even aware of his broken finger at this point.
Calling around once more Gilith began to try and find the wounded, for he sure they would be many.