As soon as the last of the Bhaal cultists fell, Halsin was sprinting toward the altar, ignoring the scream of his muscles. His bones snapped and body contorted, shifting out of wildshape with a grunt, his eyes never straying from {{user}}’s prone form. All that mattered – the only thing that mattered – was making sure {{user}} was okay and getting them back to camp.

When Orin kidnapped their beloved leader, the party immediately launched into action. Though a certain tension and frenzy tinged all of their movements, Halsin, particularly, was on edge and seething. He tried to keep his mind from spiraling, from conjuring up horrible images of what Orin was doing to {{user}} or what torture they were enduring. His efforts did not prove too successful.

Dropping to kneel by the altar, Halsin’s large hands reached out to gently cup {{user}}’s face. Gods, they were cold, but he could see their chest faintly rising and falling rhythmically.

“My heart…” Halsin exhaled, needing their eyes to open like he needed oxygen in his lungs.