#Arethian Realms

[redd956]

PTSD In Mondie

Content: Unreality, My Worldbuilding: SOA, PTSD, Fiction

CW: Wartime, PTSD, Alcohol, Homelessness, Drugs, Flashback Attack

Very few times around the Arethian Realms does PTSD look different. In the war veteran hotspot of Castellite, the grandiose and militaristic nation, Mondie, that's a different story.

It was in my face as soon as I exited the transport hub. A middle aged catfolk wobbled down the street before drunkenly colliding into a public trash can, his mostly empty bottle bursting into shards against the unkempt sidewalk. No body batted an eye.

Block after block it was the same, the unhoused gathered around clusters of tents, young men missing their legs walked with crutches, scarred face bakers, and women with reconstructed faces.

Contrast to the traumatized people were the bright red and purple banners draped aside skyscrapers. Species and Mondieans of all kinds marched around in uniform jackets and service caps, their fancy military grade weaponry slung across their backs. Don't get me started about the tanks.

On a rainy morning of seanika's season, I found myself in need of some proper sword repairs. Carrying my great sword through the Mondiean mud proved a challenge. Before entering the shop, I accidentally slashed by hand open, and entered some poor superhuman's shop dripping blood onto his floor.

He laughed that off, readjusting his hat over the common black hair I swear was everyone's in Mondie. Underneath his Castellian eyes were a thick face altering scar that had slashed and broken his face from eye socket to lip corner. The affected eyelid no longer opened, but his smile continued to shine brighter than most I recall seeing back home.

Even his Central Mondiean had an accent as he accepted my sword. Without thinking I clasped my palms together and let my red healing magic flow. A glowing red absorbed my hands. The stinging mud slathered cut lost all feeling, but I barely got a chance to breathe in the relief.

The swordsmith knocked over, throwing himself on the floor. He begun to frantically kick his legs, scooting backwards into wood panel walls. Cries erupted out of him as he raised his hands to protect himself, speaking far too fast for me to get a grasp of what was wrong. No matter what I did or said next the man didn't come to. He simply cowered there, on the floor behind his desk, his hands shivering, his eyes...

I don't even know how I to describe eyes like that. They weren't looking in that shop that day, and they definitely weren't fixated upon me.

His wife came stumbling out of the backroom. She skidded to a halt before him, speaking in calm short intervals. Her movements matched that speed, her hands especially, extending slowly before them.

I waited outside the shop. Sitting there and watching them two, it was watering my eyes. His wife came and greeted me. We both stood there for a few minutes watching the rain come down as if it was trying to kill Mondie.

"I'm sorry." She sighed.

"No- No it's- it's okay."

"He hasn't been back very long." Her voice had an achy shake, and I could feel the twinging pain lining against her throat as she spoke.

She handed back my sword, but I needed to know, "What happened?"

"Your magic- He mistook it as something else. He's been jumpy about chromatic magic lately."

There was nothing else to say as she disappeared back inside. I wish I could say this was my last similar experience in Mondie, but it wasn't. A fellow traveler told me the people drink, smoke, snort, and eat their woes away here. The bakeries are nice, and the downtowns are pristine and wealthy, but the people, the ordinary people, this is what they were left to.

They slaved away in Mondie's wars, then suffered within Mondie's borders. I asked a Mondiean about it once, to see what someone living here had to say.

"You should see the Ronscovians."

That was their enemy in most the recent wars. I shuddered, and never asked another soul. Once I arrive in Ronscovia, I'm not saying a word.