We had long run out of any meaningful medicine when we captured the injured Ancient. There was nothing that I could have done for it, even if I had wanted to.

Stitching up the walking, bloated corpses around me had used up every bandage. Suturing their ruptured organs shut — or in place — had cost us all thread. For me to dull the thrumming of my own head, well, I had emptied every Elixer flask I'd brought.

So as the Ancient lay dying, all I could do was watch. So watch I did, as it crumbled betwixt my fingers, turned gray, and fell to ash.

It was so peculiar.
When you lose patients — human ones — you close their eyes, bury their bodies, and visit their overgrown graves once or twice.
But when an Ancient dies, it fades from the world. After an eternity on Embervale, all they leave is dust. There is nothing to bury, really. Nothing to mourn.

My head's pounding again. Should've brought more Elixir...