"Did you finally tire of having to bend in half to kiss the local women and go off to find one more your size?" Eadwulf's voice was dry as he watched the immense frame of Elva gently lower the limp body of an impossibly tall woman onto one of his infirmary cots.
The mountain of a man snorted in response. "Not a' purpose. Just got lucky, I guess." Elva shifted her so that she was lying on her back, and nudged her arm away from her side to expose the extent of her wound to Eadwulf, who had rinsed his hands in wine and was watching with piqued interest.
"What happened to her?"
"No idea. We were searching for a clean water source, and stumbled upon her cleaning the wound out by the waters edge. Caught both her and us by surprise. She growled at us, then fainted when she tried to stand up. Breanainn did somat to slow the bleeding - I don't know, what ever druidic herb slather he had on hand - and we took her, her stuff, and her horse back here." As Elva explained, he ducked in and out of the tent several times, bringing in the woman's things and laying them out on the floor at the foot of the bed.
Eadwulf had since settled onto a rough wooden stool by the woman's side, and was working on tightening her sutures, which were sloppily done - too loose to be worth while in some places, and too strained to heal properly in others.
The work kept him occupied for long enough that by the time he was prepared to clean and dress the wound, Elva had managed to remove the woman's boots, chain chausses, and dark leather faulds and greaves, so that she wore nothing but her moss green leggings and un-dyed stockings, both made of soft, fine-combed wool that spoke of money.
Eadwulf took a moment to observe the rest of her belongings as he carefully cut thick linen bandages to replace the make-shift ones Breanainn had employed. Her leather plate armor was fine quality, brown, with dark green embossed designs of eloquent knots, braids along the borders, and elaborate images of the stars, moon, sun, and flora decorating the broader surfaces. Cream colored fur - wolf, he assumed -lined the edges of the armor, both for warmth and decoration. The chain chausses and hauberk were silver polished steel, and every buckle, button, and even the strip of metal across the leather pixane, designed to prevent a blade to the throat, were gold gilt, the shiny brass showing through in age and battle worm scratches. The handles of her throwing axes were plain and hardy, but the heads were fine steal, with blue ripples dancing along the sharp edge, and intricate knot engravings wrapping around the metal. The longsword's sheath matched, made of plain black leather, and its locket and chape made of bright polished silver with knot engravings. The sword itself seemed more intricate, with a jade hilt cut to mimic a dragon's wings. The grip was stripped with dimpled black leather, for traction, a very practical design on a weapon that more closely resembled jewelry. Her shield, at least, was more similar to those that the men in the camp carried, being made of heavy ash wood reinforced with leather around the edges. The center of the shield depicted three golden whorls connecting in the middle - the symbol of balance and eternity. The leather around the edge had been dyed a dark moss green, with leaves imprinted every inch or so. The leather packs laid out beside her war-gear were all just as well made and well used, with shiny brass buckles and jade buttons.
"I do believe," Eadwulf drawled, "that this lady here comes from a fine family to the north. She doesn't look near old enough to have earned wealth as any sort of war heroine."
Elva grinned, settling on to the next cot over. "Breanainn thinks she's royalty. She was wearing a gold and jade circlet, real old judging by the condition and color, with the largest emerald I've ever seen right square in the center." He tapped his forehead with a meaty forefinger, to emphasize his point. "He's off heckling what noble sons we have with us, to see if any of them recognize it or can read the inscriptions carved into the back of it. He thinks its related to Donnec, but its so worn down its hard to tell. Still, precious belongings besides, she don't look much like a northern princess. Large enough though."
"Tall enough," Eadwulf corrected, taking in the woman's broad shoulders and hips, forming an overall curvy frame wired by lithe muscles, rather than the thick-waisted full-figured body of most northern women. "Mixed blood I'd say. The sharpness of her features and dark tones remind me of southern merchants from across the Rythaen ocean, but they tend to be even darker, like rather like you hair in skin color. Her coloring is closer to tree bark, and too red in tone. Especially her hair." He glanced at the woman's shoulder length fluffy mane of dark auburn curls, which could have come from nearly any population across the vast Empire. "She is quite the beauty. Will you allow her to stick around once she wakes up? These louts might lose their heads, with a pretty woman striding about." He flicked his fingers out in the general direction of the camp.
"Any soldier who slacks in duty at the presence of a comely woman probably didn't have a head to lose in the first place," Elva huffed, "I trained them better than that, and gods' hope their dams raised them better. Regardless, I'll wait to hear her out first. I don't want to be harboring exiles, however pretty they might be."
"You only get to say that because you spend so much time with Breanainn," Eadwuld complained, sniping the end of the bandage, "you're spoiled with beauty. A pretty face doesn't even phase you anymore."
Elva rolled his eyes, and clapped his friend on the back so hard he had to catch him from face planting onto the woman's stomach. "Well now," he boomed in good humor, "You should'a said so earlier old man. I'm willing to share. I'll send him right in to check on her. Then you'll have two pretty faces is sight - practically your yearly allotment!" He promptly stood up and made for the tent flap.
Eadwulf, his round face glowing red with embarrassment and irritation, called out after him, "Sure, harass your only educated doctor in camp! See what happens when its you lying on my cot!"
Elva flashed him a wide grin, all teeth, and nearly bent in half to duck out the infirmary flap and disappear into the open camp.
It took him a few rounds about the cramped war camp to spot the fair Breanainn talking at a small gathering of soldiers who were second or third sons of noble families. The long slender youth seemed too engrossed in whatever point he was making to notice that the men's attention had wandered, with nearly all of them fidgeting and starring at their feet or off into the distance. One man actually whittled, apparently unconcerned with being caught doing so. Elva wandered how long Breanainn had held them there. He knew his friend, having lived in almost perfect solitude until about a year ago, had difficulty reading other's emotions with out explicit verbal ques. He was also aware that the druid's fluid form of long willowy limbs dressed in flowing blue and grey robes, with long silver hair and lashes and snow white skin, were such a stark contrast from the metal clad warriors and bruisers under his command that it would take a near miracle for him to make other friends among them. Most of the men thought he was a faerie or an elf, and put great effort into distancing themselves from him.
Their efforts were more comical than successful, as Breanainn, unused to such indirect social ques, simply sought them out anyway and would belabor them with questions about their families and religions and hobbies and anything else he could think of, and would in turn preach to them about the meaning of nature and the pulse of magic threaded through all that lives, and the role of man and beasts in all that is. Needless to say, a druid's philosophy of balance and need to perceive and under the greater tapestry of life conflicted with most soldiers' cut and dry out take on life, which required them to focus on and carry out orders in order to survive, and thus he witnessed situations such as the one before him fairly often.
He trotted up to the gathering, winking at the lounging men, many of whom grinned their thankfulness. He actually supported Breanainn's speeches, knowing that a tolerance for other ways of life would be necessary for them when they left military service, and Breanain's broader view of the world around them would be plenty beneficial for those who wanted to become officers, but now was not the time for that endorsement, so instead he nodded at the men.
"I didn't mean to interrupt, but I'd like to borrow our pretty friend here. And in the meantime, any of you that was mindful of joining the hunting party, Chulain's calling rally now." He slung his arm over Breanainn's shoulders, and began steering him towards the infirmary tent.
Breanainn was fairly tall, by most standards, standing at a good six feet and two inches high. But even his willowy length was dwarfed under Elva's bear-like mass. His head fit neatly under the warrior's chin, and he found himself wondering if the man wasn't seven feet tall.
"So," Elva began, "what subject were you enlightening upon them today, your highness?"
Breanainn sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger as he did. "I wish you wouldn't call me that. It gives people the wrong idea."
"As opposed to the right one?"
Breanainn glared up at the larger man's jaw, knowing the effort would go unnoticed, but feeling better about it all the same. "I'm not royalty, nor am I your pet," he growled.
Elva just laughed. "Alright, alright. My apologies, Brea. Now, subject?"
"Do you have something against calling me by my actual name?" he demanded.
"Yes. It's long and complicated."
"Sorry about that."
"No you're not. I can tell by roll of your eyes. I'll have you know that's a treacherous offense against a high-born noble," he feigned offense, straightening his posture and slamming a meaty paw against his chest with a loud "hmph."
"High-born perhaps, but the moment anyone characterizes you as being 'noble' the queen of Dubre will die laughing," Breanainn retorted. "And in answer to your question, we were discussing the metamorphosis of languages through generations. No one recognized the circlet by the way, but Tameron claims the engravings are similar to Donne's royal coat of arms. His brother had studied it, hoping to for a marriage arrangement with one of their ladies."
Elva nodded. "No knowing for sure until we ask her then."
Breanainn's eyebrows shot up. "She's awake already? She'd barely slept five hours!"
Elva chuckled, "No, not yet, but her wounds are properly dressed, so I thought you'd like to hear about her condition from someone who actually knows what he's talking about."
They'd reached the infirmary tent, which was cushioned into a small alcove in the trees, a full fifteen feet away from other tents, which was a good ten feet more space of separation than any other tent got. They really hadn't had much room to work with when they were pitching camp.
Elva threw open the tent flap, and once more bent in two to fit through entrance. Breanainn followed with a similar movement, but his was considerably more graceful.
Eadwulf watched the lithe druid with envy. While he understood that living as a being of the forest for decades, socializing only with nymphs and fae would lead to the fluidity of movement would expect only in dancers or cats, he was still awed by the young man's graceful control of his long limbs.
"You're awake?" Breanainn's soft voice snapped Eadwulf's attention back to the matter at hand, and he looked back at his charge. She was pulling the sleeve of the shirt he'd dressed her in taunt, smiling wryly at the fact that it ended a couple inches before her wrist.
She turned to face the two men who had entered, her smile turning into a frown, her eyebrows drawn together. Combined with her messy bed hair, the expression made it look more like she was pouting than thinking.
"You both look so much better in proper lighting," she murmured in a deep, melodic voice. Her creased expression smoothed, and then vanished into a bright smile, which she covered with a hand in an attempt to sooth the inane giggle escaping her throat. She failed, and the giggle turned into a laugh.
"I-I thou- th-, oh curse it!" She fell into a fit of laughter, then abruptly stopped, her face tightening with pain as she ground her teeth together.
Eadwulf held a wooden cup up to her lips. "Drink, it will ease your pain."
She nodded, then took the cup and drank, sputtering as she downed the fowl tonic. "That might have been worse than the laughing," she gasped.
"Ah," Elva jumped in, "but at least it's a quick passing torture. Much better in the long run." He grinned at her, leaning against a solidly planted tent pole.
She watched him with wide emerald eyes, then flashed him a grin of her own, showing off pronounced cheek bones and crinkling her sharp angled eyes.
"What I was trying to say earlier," she started, until a hitch in her voice threatening to send her into another giggle fit. With great effort, she smoothed her expression and cleared her throat, "I mean, that in the dark like that, I had thought you wear a bear." She looked him over, from boot tips to close cropped brown-black hair, and said in a much more sober voice, "You're certainly big enough to have been one."
In response, the three men began to laugh, Eadwulf with a deep throaty cackling that turned into coughing, Elva with a loud gawf she was sure could be heard all the way in town, and Breanainn with a soft chuckle that turned him red all the way to his ears, his face buried in his hands. Watching them she felt her own cheeks and ears grow warm, and squirmed in discomfort.
Breanainn noticed. "No, no, we're not laughing at you. We're laughing because we've never heard a more accurate description of the oaf." He bowed simply his arms clasped neatly in front of him, with a slight dip.
"I am Breanainn, a druid traveling with the army to our shared destination, and in return for their protection from bandits and the like, I assist with appeasing the various forest gods and fae whose territory we may pass through."
Elva cleared his throat and straightened. "I am Lord Elva of Pelwys, commander of Eighth Company. You're being treated by our Sergeant Medic, Eadwulf." He nodded at the older man.
She watched him with eyes wide in shock, then looked at Breanainn, her lips quivering. Finally, in a voiced that cracked, she said, "I am Princess Androste of Donne, daughter of Queen Dierdre of Donne and the poet Farid of Q'uoril."
She then fell into manic laughter, tears streaming down her cheeks, hand clutched to her side, eyes squeezed shut in a complete loss of dignity. The men looked on in silence, each of their expressions twisted into a different form of bewilderment.
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