After taking a moment to gather himself about himself again, Hawk seizes his drum and taps out the same familiar rhythm that he had played before Thwip awoke; chanting and calling forth the spirits to aid Jibrīl and restore him to consciousness.
The spirits heed his call, and the power flows forth to repair some of the damage that the Wazifi-man has sustained.
Feeling another rush of fatigue, Hawk looks around to see what still needs to be done. He is still bleeding from the scrapes himself, as are Jibrīl and Thwip, although all are looking much better than they had been when they entered the room.
Too tired to give it more than a bare afterthought, Hawk calls upon the spirits to stop his own bleeding, and then Jibrīl’s. They respond with alacrity to bind his own wounds closed, but when he tries to direct them to do the same for his companion, they rebel, and the shaman’s strength deserts him entirely.
Fool, he chastises himself, to abuse the gifts of the spirits, and ask them to do the menial work that bandages could do just as effectively. You are a shaman, and so they will readily do you such a favour, but you know better than to push their good will too far.
With great effort, Hawk pulls himself back into a seated position, sweating heavily. “Clean bandages. Bind Jibrīl , Thwip or they will bleed. I must rest now, if we wish the spirits to help us breathe while in the water.”
Hawk waits for a few moments to see if anyone needs anything before he enters his recovery trance.