I kneel in stifling darkness, cradling an unconscious dwarf wrapped in a failing exo-harness. His breath rasps unevenly, blood speckling the brass vents at his collar. Each labored exhale rattles through battered plating. One hammered gauntlet dangles from a broken hinge, dwarven runes barely flickering along battered metal.

  I shift my wolf-bones to free an arm, letting Aeternus rest across my back. No threat stirs here—only the quiet urgency of saving this stranger’s life. My muzzle lowers, inspecting the cracks in his armor. Dark fluid seeps where flesh meets mechanical plating. The air reeks of old metal and burning oil.

  He coughs again. Metal edges scrape bone, each motion pained.

  The question presses, purpose and mission.

  How do I keep alive only lead?

  Largest fragments recall soldier medics who bound wounds amid battlefield ruin. In that knowledge, I find some echo of technique, splints, bandages, cauterization.

  But here, half of the dwarf’s body is mechanical, a system of pumps and valves. I know not how he breaths.

  I lay him down on a patch of cleared stone, clearing rubble with a single sweep clawed foot. My coiled spine lowers me further until I can see the exo-harness’ battered chest piece.

  A battered dwarven glyph flickers near his sternum plate, in time with his shallow pulses.

  Some rune lined thing that lets life cling to him?

  A guess.

  My borrowed memories offer glimpses of dwarven engineering: a synergy of runes and steam-power to replace lost limbs

  I pause, studying the dwarf's mechanical harness.

  My earlier assumption was wrong, these are belong the memories i possess, having no dwarven bones among my fragments. But as I trace the metal with careful claws, I recognize patterns of damage.

  Broken mounting points where support rods once anchored. Missing rivets. Fractured script-lines that should form complete circuits.

  Steam wheezes through gaps that shouldn't exist.

  The dwarf's next groan comes with an urgent hiss from his helm's visor slit. Blood and oil mingle beneath cracked plating.

  No time for hesitation. No space for fear of breaking this strange fusion of flesh and machine. The damaged sections must come off before internal bleeding claims him.

  I shift my bone structure, reforming claws into finer points suitable for metalwork. The iron mask and Carida's remains rest safely in my rib cage as I lean closer to begin.

  Ribs of metal cross each other over his chest, hinged at the sides.

  Each hinge is jammed by dents. I test one with a sharpened claw, carefully prying. The hinge shifts, squealing, but refuses to open.

  Another attempt.

  I must not jerk or tear. To break the channels would be to kill. ,

  No choice. I wedge a claw into the hinge gap.

  Rusted metal cracks, flakes shedding onto stone.

  At last it yields with a pop. The exo-rib collapses outward like a snapped cage bar.

  A gush of warm, reeking air meets me. Under that plate, I see half-living flesh: a dwarven torso scored by burn scars, integrated with metal rods and tiny valves. Many bruises spread across his side, purple, dark, and black, likely broken ribs beneath.

  Wires shaped from copper vanish into living tissue.

  But a number of tubes are severed, dripping thick fluid that might be partial coolant or partial blood.

  I tilt my head, letting the faint lamp-glow from a battered sconce behind me cast enough light to see. Each snapped line must be sealed or replaced, or infection will take him. Faint memories search for a solution, battlefield triage with limited gear.

  He coughs.

  No time to find a dwarven workshop. I must do this here.

  I scan the chamber, skeletal senses alert for anything useful. Ancient crates line the walls, their wood soft with rot.

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  Discarded harnesses hang from hooks, leather crumbling at my touch. Scraps of cloth litter the ground between tools abandoned decades ago.

  My claws sift through debris.

  The dwarf's labored breathing echoes behind me as I search.

  A glint catches my eye, a spool of dwarven wire, its surface dulled but the metal itself whole. I test it between two bone fragments serving as fingers.

  The coils feel sturdy enough for rigging or repairing damaged harnesses. It might work.

  Beneath a fallen support beam, I find a welder's rod hammered from steel.

  Its tip shows wear from countless repairs, but the shaft remains straight.

  Not ideal, but serviceable.

  A water skin lies half-crushed against the wall. When I lift it, stale liquid sloshes inside. No healing potions or proper medical supplies anywhere among the wreckage.

  The wire should work to bind loose plating, perhaps even pinch closed the leaking tubes. The water, though old, can help clean debris from his wounds. Beyond that, I must rely on borrowed knowledge, fragments of battlefield medicine from fallen soldiers whose bones I carry.

  Their memories show field surgeons clamping torn vessels, sawing limbs, binding stumps.

  But none ever dealt with mechanical parts fused to living flesh.

  I return to the dwarf's side, setting down the spool with a soft metallic sound. Lowering my wolf-skull face near his chest.

  His body enters shock, time running short.

  I hurry, focusing first on the severed tubes leaking fluid into his chest cavity. One pulses at intervals, each spurt draining vital pressure from the harness. My bone digits pinch the hose.

  The fluid appears more brown than red, likely a dwarven mixture of blood and mechanical coolant.

  I unwind the wire spool, securing a length around the tube's end and twisting it tight.

  The dwarf shudders beneath my touch, but the leak slows to a trickle.

  A smaller line near the plating's edge oozes blackish fluid. My claws struggle to clamp it, the break sits too close to bone. I thread wire around this rupture as well, binding it closed.

  The final broken line lurks behind the cracked rib, almost impossible to reach. I wedge the welder's rod into the gap.

  Though its runic charge died long ago, the rod's shape and mild conductive properties might generate enough friction to fuse the edges together.

  Bracing with my free claws, I press the rod firmly against the break. The runic brand on his harness hisses. Sparks briefly, not much, but enough to melt and seal a portion of the tube's metal sheath.

  The dwarf moans, his body trembling.

  Smell rises from crude weld.

  I lay him back, re-checking the lines.

  Each improvised seal may hold for a time.

  Blood or fluid seeps around the edges but not as fiercely. This might keep him on the edge, away from dying.

  I shift my attention to his side, where metal edges dig into torn flesh.

  Blood wells around the plating with each shallow breath.

  The harness meant to support, now threatens to cut deeper with slight movement.

  My claws sift through nearby debris again.

  Past rusted tools and crumbling leather, I find a discarded harness strap.

  The material feels sturdy under bone, cleaner than the rotting scraps littering the floor.

  I grip one end between sharpened teeth, wolf-skull jaws tensing as I tear the strap into long strips.

  The fabric parts with a satisfying rip.

  Setting aside the pieces, I carefully slide my claws beneath the worst section of plating.

  The dwarf's flesh shows raw beneath - deep slashes from either shrapnel or some violent impact. I press the first strip against the wound, wrapping it around his torso.

  Each turn of bandage helps hold the broken plating away from vulnerable skin.

  Three more strips follow, each pulled just tight enough to compress without constricting.

  The crude binding should prevent metal edges from causing more damage, maybe even slow internal bleeding.

  His eyes flutter open behind visor. Cracked lips part, forming dwarven syllables that dissolve into pained gasps.

  I raise one bone hand in a gentle gesture, urging silence.

  The dwarf's eyes snap wide, panic flooding his gaze as awareness briefly eturns.

  His mechanical arm spasms, gears grinding as he tries to push himself up.

  Blood seeps faster around my crude bandaging.

  "No!!" His words break into wet coughs.

  A fragment surfaces from my borrowed bones, a battlefield medic kneeling beside a gutted soldier, stroking sweat-matted hair from his forehead.

  "Easy now," the medic had murmured, maintaining that gentle touch even as he packed the wound. "The fighting's done. Just rest."

  My monstrous forms offers no such consolation, all I can do is shift my wolf-skull lower, adjusting claws.

  The sharp points fold inward, leaving smooth bone to rest against the dwarf's armored shoulder. The touch carries no warmth, but perhaps the pressure alone might steady him.

  His breathing steadies. .

  I maintain that careful contact as his eyes dart around the chamber, focusing briefly on my skeletal form before rolling back. His mechanical arm drops limp, steam wheezing from damaged joints.

  The panic passes. His body goes slack as consciousness fades once more.

  Though I cannot speak soft reassurances, my other claws adjust the bandaging where his movement disturbed it.

  His skin burns against my bone claws, radiating unnatural heat through the crude bandaging. The harness's power core must be failing, threatening to cook him from within.

  My borrowed fragments recall his earlier position, hammering desperately on the floor. The clanging likely served dual purposes, releasing building pressure and signaling for aid.

  I scan the chamber, noting moisture gathering in one corner where tunnel drainage pools.

  The water appears clouded but useable.

  Carefully shifting my form, I gather broken metal pieces from the debris, fashioning crude scoops from the least corroded sections.

  Each trip between pool and patient requires precise movement. I cradle water in twisted metal, letting it trickle over the exposed flesh where mechanical components meet skin.

  The first splash draws a sharp gasp from him, consciousness briefly surfacing. Steam hisses from his chest plate's vents, runic patterns flickering erratically.

  I maintain the careful routine, watching for signs of improvement.

  His body trembles now, shivering replacing the dangerous heat. The balance becomes critical, enough to cool without fatal cold.

  The harness runes stabilize somewhat, their glow evening out. He mutters in dwarven tongue, words slurred by pain or delirium.

  Fragments emerge.

  "Maha Marr" and "the Foundry" followed by "He Burns."

  The phrases echo warnings carved on sealed doors I passed earlier. Perhaps they reference some dwarven lore.

  I push aside such speculation. My purpose now is keeping this sentinel alive.