Need's reaches Raistlin like a firm hand on his shoulder, cutting through the sick haze. He snarls, lashing out, and his tormentors tear apart like cobwebs. She is right, and he is acting like a child. He is not a child, not any longer. Not helpless. A mage grown and Tested, forged in the fire of magic.

:Yes. he thinks to her, through gritted teeth. :I can move.:

And he stands, despite the wailing terror that wants to turn his legs to jelly. The Staff of Magius bears his weight, as it always has. The smoke from the fire tickles his lungs, and he barely suppresses a cough.