Androste glared back at her reflection in the pool of water, wishing it wasn’t quite so… well, quite so damn glittery in the pale moonlight. It reminded her of those fairy tales her younger sister was so fond of. The kind that would eloquently depict a beautiful princess bathed in moonlight in a peaceful forest glade awaiting… what? A unicorn? A prince? She grimaced, having no desire for either option, unless said prince was as tall and hardy and boisterous as her rowdy older brothers. But her experience with foreign princes had been quite disappointing in that area. Besides, they had all seemed disappointed in her too. Or maybe intimidated was a better descriptive?
Not that any of that mattered anymore, since her reason for being here was to specifically avoid a polite political marriage, much to her step-father's chagrin. Still, she was a beautiful princess washing up in a moonlit forest glade, so it was difficult to push thoughts of foppish princes riding on unicorns from her mind. Of course, she washing a nasty hunting wound clean. It was rather less romantic than if she were washing, say, her hair. The fact that the slash ran along the underside of her breast could pose as sensual to some men she supposed, but she definitely did not wish to engage in romantic ventures with any man who would think so.
Letting her imagination run through what exactly she might do to such a man (and it certainly wasn’t sensual,) she moved her fingers meticulously, gritting her teeth as she sutured her wound. Blood was dripping into the water, creating irritating ripples in the reflection, making precision damn near impossible. She was really beginning to hate that bear.
Not that the bear had done anything particularly wrong, and at the time she had largely regretted the necessity of killing it. But now that she was growing frustrated and the pain reducing salve was wearing off, she found herself simply resenting its existence. Maybe she would feel badly about that later, but for the moment the only thing stopping her from openly cursing the beast was the dull, throbbing pain spreading from her under her left breast down across her rib cage.
She remembered enough of Leukig’s medicinal lessons to keep her teeth clenched. Crying out now would likely mean biting her tongue, and she honestly believed she had slept through that particular lesson, because she couldn’t for the life of her recall what to do for that. Or maybe it was the pain. It was becoming hard to hold onto any particular thought for much longer than one or two agonizing throbs. And judging by her pinkish reflection in the water, she was losing way too much blood. Medicine had never really been her greatest talent. Stupid, inconveniently placed bear. She really didn’t want to bleed out here, barely a day’s ride over the border. It would likely be the most embarrassing achievement of her life! Or, well, death, that is.
She was definitely losing too much blood.
She gave up on the sutures, her vision and hands both too shaky to do them properly. Instead, she began fumbling in her saddlebags for some sort of cloth that might function as a bandage, annoyed that she had not thought to bring any. Rather than social etiquette and dancing, she wished her mother had taught her sewing and packing. She was certainly lacking in both skills.
A rustle of leaves combined with the heavy foot falls of multiple pairs of boots set her nerves on end. On a rush of adrenaline, she spun around, swiping up her sword and pressing her hand to the worst of her wound at the same time.
Unfortunately, the world did not stop spinning when she did.
Breanainn was at a loss for words. A circumstance that apparently did not extend to his friend and companion, Elva, whose booming voice echoed across the scenic glade.
"Did a half-naked woman just growl at us and feint, or am I still drunk?"
Breanainn glared at the hulk of a man, knowing full well it would go unnoticed with Elva's attention directed towards the woman. Then he sighed dramatically, waving his hands for emphasis, before responding.
"Yes, a startled woman just growled at us, and yes you're still drunk. You're always drunk. Why even bother to ask?"
Elva looked at him, eyebrows pressed together in mock hurt, "I see you're touchy tonight, Your Highness. I think she's bleeding. Hard to see from here, but it definitely smells like blood."
Breanainn nodded. That would explain why she feinted from just trying to face them. He held up his left hand, in which rested a small polished moonstone, and whispered, "ma throgras tu." A steady, gentle blue light emanated from the stone, filling the glade with a much brighter light than the moon had provided, giving the two men a much better view of the scene they had just encroached upon.
"I'll calm her horse and tether it," Elva said with a nod to the skittish gelding, "poor thing looks ready to bolt from your magic trick." The man wiggled his fingers at Breanainn, then moved towards the beast, hands spread before him, his movements careful and slow.
"Right," Breanainn quipped back, "and I'm his rider dead or dying at his hooves has nothing to do with it."
Despite his terse tone of voice, he was mimicking Elva's slow and gentle approach, only he was heading towards the woman. He didn't to wake her up, as he had just now registered to heavy long-sword still lightly clutched in her hand. Considering her topless half consisted of well-toned muscles that carved her arms and stomach into clear planes and lines, he figured it wasn't just for show. Upon closer inspection, even her hands and wrists were toned, comprised of long and elegant lines. Her skin, darker than any he'd ever seen before, was the color of milk and coffee and he wondered what made a person that color. Everyone he'd ever met had either been pale and ruddy or the more golden tones common along the coast. Her palette was a far cry from either, and couldn't help but find it rather pretty.
He rolled her over, taking care to avoid the sword, and lay her flat on her back. This apparently was a cause for upset, as behind him he heard a loud wicker and muttered cursing as Elva fought to sooth the horse. Breanainn his flicked eyes in their direction, and sent a brief pray to Nella on behalf of the gelding's nerves, as he doubted they'd be able to get the woman over to their camp without the horse.
Her left rib cage had an ugly gash scrapped across it, that curved up and bit deeply into the under side of her breast. She had attempted to suture the wound shut, albeit badly, but the weight of her rather generously sized bosom was straining the sutures, causing the wound to bleed freely anyway, and probably causing more pain than the gash itself. He sent another prayer toward the heavens, this one an apology to Vesa, the goddess of women and chastity, and began cutting strips from his under robe to make a wrapping that wound support her chest without getting in the way of the wound.
"Seriously?" Elva asked, "the woman's bleeding to death and you're taking the time to cover her modesty?"
"If you have time to mock me you have time to cut strips for bandages. I'm not a healer. I can strengthen her sutures and slow the bleeding with a salve, but we need to get her back to the infirmary at camp. She's lost way to much blood, and this cut is pretty deep and jagged, perfect for infections. Any idea what did this?"
"Looks like a claw wound to me. Probably a bear or mountain lion, maybe wolves, but they usually leave bites marks." He set to work cutting bandages from Breanainn's under robe, as it was the cleanest material they had.
Elva had soothed the gelding to a certain degree, but it's muscles were still tense. It had edged over towards its rider, lipping her shoe in wide-eyed worry. Elva watched it with fascination. The horse was a giant, much more similar to a knight's warhorse than a lone adventurer's mount. Although it was slightly leaner than most warhorses he'd interacted with, but taller too, and in excellent care. It had be unsaddled, and scrubbed of sweat, with most of its mane and tail combed and tangle free. Clearly the horse was greatly valued, but Elva had a hard time seeing anyone grooming their mount first when a bloody great gash was oozing their insides all over their shirt. Plus, the campsite was mostly pristine, with a soft pile of furs set up next to a banked fire, a tiny ceramic mess kit lined up neatly beside it, waiting for her to make supper. Her saddle has been placed next to the fur pile, to be used as a pillow, and two throwing axes lay on the grass beneath it.
And yet, her saddle bags had been dragged haphazardly across the grass, spilling random contents along its path, a round shield and her breast plate, pauldrons, and gauntlets strewn down the dame path, as if she couldn't get them off quick enough. He shirt, bloody and torn to little more than a rag, was wadded up beside her. There was no blood besides in the pond, beneath her body, and where her clothing had touched. What ever had attacked her had done so out side the camp, away from her horse, but she had been partially expecting it, having been armed and armored. He had thought her to be hunting, but he doubted she would have used a long-sword and shield for that. Much less have worn something as noisy as chain under the leather plates of her grieves and breast plate.
He sighed, handing the strips over the Breanainn, then stood up to begin collecting her things, shoving them rather callously into the saddle bags. He wanted to distract himself before Breanainn began what ever it was he had to do to stop the bleeding. He'd learned early on in their friendship that using magic had bizarre side effects that the caster usually wasn't aware of. In Breanainn's case, those side effects were mostly harmless but just plain creepy to watch, so he avoided having to do so at every opportunity. As he went around the camp stowing the mess kit away and rolling up the furs, the glade filled with the sharp scent pine and juniper berries. It was warm and welcoming, like his mother's house, and yet made all his hair stand on end. He went to saddle the horse, who had backed away from Breanainn and the woman, whites showing all the way around its eyes. He patted its hind-quarters and whispered praises in its flattened ears until smells subsided, and was followed by a gentler scent of peat and moss that lingered at the very edge of his perception.
"Is the horse calm yet?" Breanainn's voice was soft and breathy, like he was lost somewhere far away.
"Not quite enough to mount her, but I think by the time I finish packing her stuff it should be fine. This here is a very well mannered horse." The last part came out as a coo, and Breanainn's mouth twitched into an awkward half-smile.
"Let me help you. I think she needs an actual healer as soon as we can get her there, skittish horse or no."
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