The Heartwood The Plainsend Inn at the foothills of the Highgaard Reaches Dusk Attaday, the Twenty-Third Day of the Month of Raven, 2623
Darian, Mikal, Celi, Conrad, Camelia, Comfrey Pauli Threeleg, Missus Pauli, Margie
For four days it had been raining. Not continuously, usually the clouds would build and by evening become heavy enough to let loose and drown the mountain passes. Thunderheads they were, announcing the upcoming storms, shattering the night with lighting. Each day the rain lasted a little longer and a little longer and a little longer.
The small inn was settled in at the base of the Black Mountains. The sign that hung over the entry from the upper floor was a simple drawing; a green band of grass ending in a simple, stylistic mountain, its top white to represent snow. There were no letters scribed on it, but it's meaning was fairly obvious. The Plainsend Inn was exactly that - a small day's travel rest at the break point between the lowside plains of the High Tarn and the Black Mountain foothills. Behind it the tall range climbed into the sky. On a clear day one could make out the first bottle necking pass, the strategic choke point where Cragside and the Rock overlooked the mainland.
The tavern itself was a simple structure; a long two story building of heavy framed timber infilled with wattle and daub; the walls tending to be fading, picking up a sepia tone. After winter, in the spring, it would be cleaned and repaired and whitewashed once again. The roof was thatch and thick, with a single thick chimney rising from the building's center. The Inn did not stand alone; at the foothills there was more rain than snow, so a makeshift stables provided a roof for caravans passing by, its walls open and mostly fencing. There was a small smithy next to the stables - little more than one room tucked up next to a forge. Most days it stood empty; the innkeeper keeping its fire stoked; the blacksmith spent most of his time working the nieghboring farms, returning to Plainsend on a semi regular basis. He knew when the big caravans came through, the less frequent traveler may have to wait a few days if their horse threw a shoe or a wagon had a broken wheel.
Twice a month it was very busy. That was when a merchant prince from the Guild up in Cragside came down on Marketday, buying and trading with the local farms.
There were local farms. But, being the High Tarn, they were scattered so far afield they could not be seen from the Highland Path.
In front of the tavern was a sturdy wooden bridge; it leapt a small kill slipping down from the mountains. Freshwater could be gotten from upstream, if one didn't mind a small hike with a bucket.
The first one to arrive had been there for three days. Tall and handsome the young man received the hospitality of the house. As Raven drew to a close so did the Inn's patrons. Most people had already gotten to their winter's rest, so even a single steady patron was appreciated. The barkeep, Pauli, was called Threeleg because of his dependence on a sturdy wooden staff to get from one place to another. The sword and shield above the bar betrayed New Jvrillian roots, his crippling limp telling of the cost of being a sellsword, now retired to a quieter profession. It wasn't all bad; he was able to find a wife to help take care of keeping the common hall clean and cooking up a sturdy pot of stew. And it worked out well enough that they had a daughter to help out too. Though at about five she was mostly good at collecting wooden bowls and carrying the water bucket - though it took both hands.
And, of course, to peek over the top of a rough hewn wooden table with wide eyes, as if she could not believe the young man in red and gold was real or just stepped out of song.
Three days.
And then it was a very good day for Pauli Threelegs.
It started as night approached, the setting sun casting long shadows from the plains top die against the mountain foothills. The weather had turned; a cold wind was sweeping down from the west, sliding down from the mountains, stiff enough to make walking difficult. It also cut like a dagger; which was made even worse by the small shower that rolled through as She met the far horizon.
The first to enter was a obviously a swordsman of some sort. He had good looking gear; professionally kept and enough coin for both his meal and a to have a bucketfull of oats sent out to the stables.
When the three wagons pulled up, Pauli knew things were going to be fine. A call to Missus Pauli and she started adding to the big pot of stew in the hearth and Margie was sent out to point the incoming merchants to the right places to tie their horses and fill the water trough. It was a small group, an elder trader and his two strapping sons. But they had three carts of beer, flour and grain bound for Brementown and Tor-an-dal. The Kories might be able to keep the grain out of Highgaard, but they said nothing about the small hamlets tucked away along the Road East.
They also were parting ways with a traveling companion; they were bound for the dangerous path between the Dirkwood and the Black Mountains, she was, obviously, not to travel that fel route but bound up the path into the Mountains. But it was a friendly parting, with a lot of well wishing on their part, as well as making sure she got a private room, lots of blankets, breakfast, and something better than just the stew for dinner.
She was garbed in tunics of soft white.
The next in, just as the setting sun was sending a glare through the tavern's windows, was an oddity. It was a woman, well traveled and with a confident air. The oddness was not just the rugged nature of her garb, not the fact that she carried a tall, finely crafted bow. It was her ruff. Now ruffs were common, and it was not the first time nor the last the commons hall would shelter a canine customer. Dogs were common critters; most farmers had at least one or two or three if the kept cattle or sheep.
This one stood a bit taller than most, its rough fur long and tossled, even to the flopped ears and the tumble of its forelocks over its long snout. It was if every color ruff hair in the wold was woven into its coat ... even to more than a little grey.
Just as the sun was about to settle below the horizon, just the top of Her disc showing far off in the west, another woman slipped into the room. The most distinctive thing about her, besides her short shorn hair was her short stature. Aside from Margie she was the smallest peron entering the commons. Pauli gave her an odd look - a woman coming in all alone - but pennies were pennies, so stew and shelter against the night could be hers too.
Eventually the merchant's three sons returned from settling their carters to rest. A first round of beer made its round about the commons as Missus Pauli ladeled out a large helping of stew into deep wooden bowls. She called for her daughter's aid.
"Margie, you be getting bread outta' the oven, leebkin?"
There was silence from the kitchen.
"Leebkin ... we be the bread needing!"
"Margie?"
For a moment both husband and wife looked worried. But then the front door opened and Margie bustled in. Bustled is quite the word. She dragged, ran around and pushed, tugged on a skirt and otherwise, as only little children can, herded the inn's last patron into the warm hall.
She was a young woman. There was no way she could have seen more than twenty tears, making her, except for Margie, the youngest here tonight. She looked as if she had been in the center of a winter's storm, save the storm season was still a week or so off. Exhausted, tired, long blonde hair tangled and disheveled, as if the only bath she has seen were the brutally cold mountain downpours. Her clothes were fine, far too fine, but they were torn and bore not just the stains of travel.
"Mat and Va!"
Margie called out all bright eyed.
"I found her wandering down by the water bucket place, at night even. She's all gone and lost."
The five year old peeked at her parents from beneath her auburn bangs,
She buried her hand in the ruff’s nape fur and scratched as she settled on the rocky outcropping and stared down at the walls of the inn as if she could, through sheer force of will, cause it to reveal whatever secrets it kept hidden. Her nose wrinkled in distaste. Even at this distance, the stench reached her.
The trader’s words came back to her, about stepping cautiously near the “civilized” areas. The man knew of the old ways, was a follower of Marrennen, as many traders were. He had told her of things only hinted at by others of her Pack. She thought they would have told her eventually, had they lived. She chewed her lip thoughtfully as she considered.
Females had their place in the Pack. Without them the Pack would wither and die. They were not equals, but sometimes could be. It was accepted that it happened. She, herself, was evidence of that. But the city dwellers, they were very different. Her being a Hunter would make her valuable for her skills, but a woman who carried weapons seemed to either be a joke or a threat or both.
Yes, she must step cautiously lest she become prey...
She needed to study them learn their ways, just as she would if it were a creature in the forest she had not seen before. That would require moving among them. She could hide her weapons, even the bow if it were unstrung, but there was no mistaking the hound at her side for what he was. No, she would not pretend to be something other than a Hunter. It was what and who she was.
She had considered trying to disguise the fact of her gender, but it had been a few years since she could pass for a lad. There really was no other choice but to go in as she was. She had taken only small game since leaving with trader. She had not needed more, only enough to feed herself and Longtooth, but it might work in her favor. The smaller game had consisted mainly of cony and fox and pheasant. She had used the parts she needed and treated and packed the rest to be traded or used as needed.
More recently, though, knowing she would have to find better shelter for the two of them then what she could make of lashed together branches, she had taken a larger kill, a hart. By far, it was too much for just them too even with the ruff’s ravenous appetite, but it’s flesh could be bartered for a room and a meal and a drink for them as well as some coin.
The first of the real storms would be here soon. She pushed up to her feet and resettled her packs, her kill and her weapons, the buckskin traveling cloak draped over her and all. “Come along, Longtooth. Let’s get to seeing what kind of shelter we might find there.”
Padding down the hill together, woman and hound made a slow, wary approach to the Plainsend Inn. Her sharp eyes took note of everything and everyone as she came upon it. The hood of her traveling cloak, pulled low to keep the frequent rain from her face shadowed her eyes and nose. As she entered she pushed back the hood letting it fall, exposing her sun burnished complexion, tawny hair and amber eyes.
Those eyes swept the inn until they lighted on the innkeep. The ruff at her side, she went to him and, iIn an accent naming her to be from the High Tarn, she asked, “Innkeep, might’n you be needin’ more meat for yon stew?”
The man walks up to the inn, leading his horse. Having dismounted to cross the bridge he kept walking, not wanting to waste the effort to remount the short distance.
Reaching the porch, he removes and shakes out his rain gear, sighing as he looks down at the rings in his mail. It will be another long night of cleaning and oiling. Can't wait on it either, lest the rust start to set.
**First things first.** He thinks, and leads his horse over to the stables. Finding a stable-hand he hands over the lead and enough coin for some oats and good currying. "Her name's Talia, though she'll perk up at just 'Tal' as well." He says, watching the young boy lead the Silver Bay Crusader off. "Watch your hands around her." He calls. "She tends to nip if you're not careful. Oh, and if you do a good job oiling the tack I'll toss in another coin for you."
Watching to make sure the boy knows what he is doing, he then heads into the inn, paying for a meal but deferring on a room for the moment. He wants to see how things go first. **One never knows who they might meet in a crossroads inn.**
Entering the inn, his stride is graceful and light, almost as if he glides across the ground. A dancers gait. He pulls off his hooded cloak, revealing a light complexion, with striking green eyes, and he wears his dark brown hair long, in a pony tail tied with leather cord. He is fairly average looking, certainly not overly handsome, but not bad, and looks to be in his early 20s. He is well muscled and trim.
He notes the man in red and gold curiously, but finds a table to himself near the fireplace where he can warm up from the early evening chill and to help dry his clothes and gear. He sets his damp cloak on a chair, pushed near the fire to dry, which reveals a short sword and long, large hilted dagger.
Dropping his pack to the floor he rummages in it and comes up with some cloth and a container of oil. Ordering a drink to go with his meal, he begins to carefully clean and dry his armour and weapons as he waits.
When his meal and drink arrives, he pauses in his work, long enough to take the edge off his hunger, then resumes meticulously cleaning and oiling. As he works, and the firelight glints of a small silver chain around his neck, he considers all that has happened to him lately. The fight with the bandits in vengeance for Killian is fresh in his thoughts. **Lucky there, and stupid. Charging so many. Should have whittled them down more first.** His eyes stray to two freshly healed cuts on his left arm. **Yes. Lucky.**
After sometime he stops and examines his work, grunting in satisfaction, and replacing everything carefully. He then sits back and casually finishes his meal and drink, taking in the room beyond as he does so.
He looks up as the others enter, first the three merchants with their female companion. Then the woman with the bow and dog. Then the small woman arriving alone. At each of the latter two arrivals his eyebrow rises higher and higher and his face takes on an expression of careful consideration.
At the final arrival, the innkeeper's daughter with her bedraggled companion, his eyes sharpen and his glance flicks to the innkeeper to see how he will react.
(OOC - Wolf, note that I typically use "quoted text" for speech and **italicized text within paired asterisks** to denote thoughts.)
The trip had been uneventful so far for the young woman. Early on she'd fallen in with some traders who were only too willing to have her join them on their travels. She was able to add to the pot at times, small things she’d noticed as they were traveling, but more importantly she stopped a few minor injuries from turning into anything more serious. And they weren't stupid. Comfrey enjoyed that about them the most. She hadn't lost her temper once, raised her voice, or been brusque at all. Maybe they were right, she thought with the warm glow of accomplishment. Travel is broadening to one's education.
She entered the Plainsend with a bit of sadness. It wasn’t the inn itself, it looked lovely – warm and comfortable. But she would miss her traveling companions, brief though their travels together had been. “Lady hold them in Your heart and healing hands,” she voiced quietly a she often did. She’d learned the hard way that an outloud voice was the best way for her to get herself in trouble… or rather, gain a mild look of disappointment from someone she held in her esteem.
She took a few moments in her room, thanking again the kindness of the trader and his sons, trying to tame her unruly mass of brown hair. Finally giving up on the lost cause she’d do her best to do a coil braid to make it presentable and head downstairs. Cutting it short would just make it worse as it would try to corkscrew in seven or more directions at once. She could practice her chicken scratches and hope for miraculous improvement or just enjoy the inn for the evening. It wasn’t a difficult decision. Chicken scratches could often wait, but the chance of hearing conversation was something else.
The plain faced woman enjoyed the meal giving the good food the attention it deserved and solemnly thanking the young girl who took her empty plate away. She gave careful, sidelong glances from her brown eyes at the two men, and a brief look of surprise at the woman with the hart meat and ruff and the other, smaller one. A brief smile of approval crossed her face. The warmth of the inn and fullness of the inn was lulling her to a gentle torpor until the door opened again and Margie and her ‘charge’ came in. Unconsciously she began to rise to her feet.
Celi slipped in quietly, having learned not to pay attention to anyone, lest they pay undue attention to her.
She had discussed this idiosyncrasy of city folk -- the tendency to move in herds and converse for no good reason -- with her erstwhile companion, and had come to no real conclusion. When she arrived, she first went to the stable to see to her solid little gray, her only real tangible gift from her Grandmother. She said tangible, because everything she was or did, was really a gift from her Grandmother, who taught her how to *be*. In the stable, she inquired as to job openings; with all the sudden rush of inn attendance, surely they could use someone on a temporary basis to help with the care and maintenance of the stock that traveled along with the people. She demonstrated her considerable gift for horse care with one angry gelding, whom she talked down to a state of calm and encouraged him to eat some of the bran mash they had by way of fodder. Fresh cut oats would have been better, but one had to make do when people were involved. The stableman was in awe; nobody had ever managed that difficult horse so smoothly. He promised to mention it to the innkeeper, and she gave him her name -- Celi -- and told him she would be inside, but she didn't mind sleeping in the stable if that was part of the job.
She didn't tell him she thought it smelled a lot better. People didn't understand that.
Inside she found a chair away from everyone else and settled in it, though she was willing to pay -- carefully counted coin -- for a meal that made her gorge rise and some milk. She didn't drink ale or spirits, and tried not to wrinkle her nose up at the offerings they called food.
Celi was clad in soft but sturdy buckskin garments that appeared to have been hand-made some time ago and well worn since, including some soft high moccasins with laces but no other adornments. She had a deerhide belt with a couple of odd kukra-like knives with well-worn hilts sheathed on it, plus a pouch for her coin and possibles. Around her neck was a thick earth-toned scarf around her neck that could be rearranged to serve as a hood. There was a wolf-skin coat rolled up on the back of her little gray's saddle, for when the Raven rolled through and it finally got genuinely cold.
Celi was very short and slim, almost childlike in dimension, but wiry and fit, and she moved with animal-like confidence. Once she had made arrangements for service, she balanced her metal stew plate on her lap and ate mostly using a piece of bread and her fingers, eschewing any utensils. She thought almost everything was fascinating, the way a disfigurement on someone else keeps drawing your eyes to it. Such was her wide-eyed focus on the goings-on around her.
Last edited by Nicki Jett; Sat 29/10/201122:24 UTC.
The Heartwood The Plainsend Inn at the foothills of the Highgaard Reaches
Pauli glances between the newcomer ... her ruff .. to the newcomer ... to the ruff ... and it is almost as if it the big furry canine that gives the amber eyed woman her legitimacy.
"Yah lass, cover you and yours stay and handful of crown?"
Celi's startlingly pale blue eyes followed the interaction between Pauli Threeleg and the ruffwoman with rapt interest. The relationship between woman and ruff was an improvement over ordinary human behavior, she thought, though still not quite to Celi's taste. The ruff catered too much to his person's nature, which Celi found oddly disquieting.
Maybe there was some debt not obvious at first glance. Idly, she wondered how the ruff saw each of them: probably as a unique scent infusing a glob of color. The globs might appear similar, but the individual scent would be both identifying and defining. It would be very difficult to conceal yourself from the ruff.
She nodded. It was as she thought. An offer of fresh meat always seemed to smooth the way. It was a youngish buck. Much older and it likely would have been to big for her to carry. So the meat would be tender. But she had offered only the meat, not the hide, nor the hooves, nor the bones, nor the hooves, nor the small bit of antler.
"Iff'n I kin borra some cook space, I'll be about the dressin' and cleanin' of it."
A moderately tall, strongly built young man with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes walked down the stairs from above, dressed in crimson and black. He had a broadsword at one hip and a sheathed dagger on the other along with a purse at his waist. A silver necklace and disc around his neck spoke of position and means as did the quality of his clothes and weapons.
He paused on the steps and looked over the gathering crowd below and spotted the woman in white, smiling finally and coming down the steps. He approached the table and bowed his head.
"Lady Comfrey? I am Squire Lord Conrad Shannon of the Rock, come to escort you to Craigside and see to your safety and well being."
(in my attempt to keep my own time line right - remove if not needed)
Though she saw the finely dressed Squire, she ignored him as less important then the potentially injured woman. Otherwise she would say something she knew she would regret later.
Chatter was secondary to helping. She was in good health; the woman might not be.
....water from the well, just a sip. That's all I wanted.
She promised herself she would sneak only that much and then she would move on, back into the anonymity of the night, as it might her last.
Just a sip of fresh water from the well. Was that stealing? It wasn't really stealing. Right? It was a well?
It wasn’t her well though, and she knew it. Stealing was wrong… but dying was worse. She could have ignored the child. She could have knocked the child aside or worse in order to effect an escape.
No I couldn’t… I wouldn’t … ever…
So, like a snared cut-purse she found herself taking the halting steps, pulled and pushed by the small child towards the Inn and the warmth and the sounds.
Was it too much to hope that I might find a wild berry thistle or something like that as well? She didn't even know what might grow near here, as she had never been near here before. But hunger and fear conflicted and she didn't dare come closer to the PlainsEnd Inn that she saw only from the relative safety of the growing shadows of night. A bustle of activity and the smell of something cooking, maybe a meat... and bread. Bread? Oh how she desired bread at this moment. Truth be told, she would eat anything, even a water-logged crust discarded in the muck.
If only she could have summoned the will to risk being seen, she might have just entered the place and asked for charity. But, she no longer knew who friend or foe was... What if 'THEY' were here, waiting, or relaxing in the thought they had left her to a miserable death. As long as she still clung to the hope that she would survive, she didn't dare act reckless and risk anyone knowing she was near... near, but all the while dying slowly and in desperate sadness.
How long had it been? The whole of it, since Trundle? And then since she was on her own? She hadn't eaten anything in, maybe, a handful of days. At least it seemed that way. They all ran together in the dreary grayness of the coming Raven.
Not a penny had they left her, when they abandoned her along the Dirkwood Road. They probably didn't believe she would last, but being free of her somehow absolved them of their guilt. Yeah, who was she fooling? They felt no guilt. Several just wanted to kill her, maybe bury her never to be found by anyone by stray feral ruffs too hungry to care. She had heard some coins jangle but in the scuffle to drag her from the cart, the kicking and flailing and weeping and begging, she must have lost them to the mud and the puddles. For too long she had simply sat there where she had been tossed before accepting that this was her fate. At first, before the elemental onslaught gave her a reality check, she was certain that it was a bad dream within the whole nightmare. By the time she felt the cold biting sting of the rain, sleet and driving wind, the coins were gone to her by then.
It was a true indignity and a crassness of character to treat anyone that way but she was...
What was she? Really?
Who am I?
All the finery and frippery didn't keep her hands and feet warm. Diction and manners didn't do any service to the thinness of her garments nor buffer against the sleet. All the education didn't keep her skin dry nor her hair from the pasted tangle it had become. And pennies, fished out of the mud, would have been small consolation for the realization that at least they had decided killing her might cause them more trouble later. She didn't even have that.
Trundle on the Hill was too far to go, but it was Home. And it was where she desperately wanted to be right now. More than a FullHand ago her abductors had taken her down the Road East, south towards the Tarn or the distant Vales or wherever their dark hearts had as a plan. But all that changed a few days ago. Felt like days. The disc that was She rose and set and rose and set, but always the rain obscured her so the rise and set was just grey and then darkness. The moons didn't tell her much since she seldom saw them and if they were out she was too busy trying to get something, anything to eat, and any drink from any source of water that wasn't some muddy puddle. She had lost track of the exactness of time.
When had I last slept? Not even as a captive did she really sleep more than a fitful hour or two at a time. Sleep was a comfort for those at peace. She had been stolen from her home, bound and spirited out of the Imperial Palace proper, under the very noses of those sworn to protect and defend. Since then, sleep was fleeting and too expensive a commodity to risk among the brigands and ruffians who didn’t hesitate to discuss the consequences for disobedience or troublesome behavior.
And then, after she was abandoned she didn't even have the threadbare burlap sacks that smelled of tuber roots and dirt to wrap herself in anymore. It was hard to sleep knowing that the gales of wind and slashing rain that were lit only by peals of lightning and drowned out in rolling thunder crashes would be the only comfort you got. In that dangerous light she found herself scared to move for the fear that anything and everything from within the fell Dirkwood might slither up, snake you in a ravenous grasp and drag you into the darkness as a meal.
Some meal would I make. Hah.
Drinking puddle water had caused her no end to misery from her insides now and she threw up the grasses she had finally been able to force herself to eat, and then the real anguish began in the cramping and nausea.
There had been a few brief scant moments when she first put it on, spinning around to see it flair, relishing the moment that she could actually wear such a pretty garment, but it was short-lived and now a distant memory. The full length purple over-tunic had black and gold checkerboard trim at cuffs, skirt hem and key-style collar. Beneath that was a light red, not pink, under-tunic. A long black belt cinched her waist and hung along her right thigh. The soft leather boots were so comfortable, hard soled for walking the streets of Trundle or the halls of the Palace.
But mud caked the boots, and they were so water-logged now that each step made a squishing suction sound. Absolutely ruined. And the same could be said for all of her clothes. Torn by hands and brambles, spattered and splattered from falls and tumbles, layered for inches at the hem by mud and the dung of the road, stained and soiled by herself… even some blood.
If desperation hadn't already overwhelmed her she might actually feel shame standing now as she did, just inside the threshold of a tavern she had been too fearful to approach. Dirty, wet, beaten down by weather and weariness, with the last slivers of Hope crushed and slipping from her grasp. All she could do was shiver and shake and drip water about her like so much weather beaten thatch.
She could feel the warmth now, but it wasn’t her warmth. She was an intruder. But her body ached so badly, so deeply to the bone that just moving caused her pain. She hadn’t much feeling in her fingers and hands and cheeks any longer, just a deep aching in all her joints. Being drawn, pulled and pushed by the child towards the tavern as though she were some livestock animal to be herded added to her sense of desolation. She didn't deserve this effort, even from someone so little who probably didn't fully understand her plight. And yet, she couldn't deny the child the effort either. What might await her could certainly be a quicker end than what she was experiencing now, or... it might actually be some rare and unexpected kindness that she had no means of affording.
She didn't even know where she was, all she could smell was the bread. That alone invaded and occupied every sense, but her fear and shame had rooted her into place like some prey animal in the sights of Khannish the Hunter.
Not daring to look up at those inside the inn, she stood stock still, aside from the shivering and shaking that is, hands and arms and face blanched from the exposure to the cold brutal elements, unable to flex her fingers or relax her stiffened posture. What if the noises and voices she heard were her captors... what then?
There would be time for her later to know why whatever it was happened. There would be time later to think through the other inngoer's reactions. But for now she saw a shaking, shivering person, harmed by the elements and perhaps other forces as well. Even the outfit was of secondary importance. It didn't matter. The person did.
She took several strides forward so she and her Lady's whites could be seen.
"Come, sit, let me see to your injuries." Her tone was not the hasty or impatient one it often was. This was the caring tone that had first attracted the attention of the village healer. Whether the girl had coin or not was of no importance. not to Comfrey, not now.
Last edited by Raven; Sun 30/10/201101:31 UTC. Reason: spelling
The woman was young, maybe very young, maybe old enough to know better than be outside in weather like this, especially this time of year.
Brilliant blue eyes, and though the rain had soaked her through and plastered her long blonde hair to her face, it was easy to see she was very fair in complexion.
She swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her tunic and self-conscious of the water pooling around her muddy boots. Then came a sniffle and small hacking cough that she tried to cut-off... unsucessful though.
Her cramped hand didn't even make it to her face to shield her coughing as was an apprpriate gesture for civilized people.
Just shivering and shaking with darting eyes, trying to see everyone. Afraid to move, hurting to the joints, she glanced back at the woman speaking to her and then looking around her again. Another swallow and an attempt to push the strands of tangled hair from her face... unsucessful though.
"Sorry," whispered in a hoarse voice. Perhaps she couldn't manage more than that. But still she resisted moving further into the room. "I'll clean..."
The movement of the woman in white caught her attention for a moment, just long enough to glance back and see who she spoke to. A single thought left unspoken. Prey.
She returned her attention to the innkeep, waiting for his answer. The kitchen would be best, secondary would be the smithy kiln.
The Heartwood The Plainsend Inn at the foothills of the Highgaard Reaches
"Kitchen's through the door ... and ..." Pauli's words came to a halt as both the lady in white and at the dripping scene at the door. 'Mother ... get us a big bowl of stew and a blanket."
With a Lady in the room, charity comes natural.
He then looked back to the huntress.
"But there's a rack under the eaves outside so you can hang it to bleed. Should be ready for morning?"
“Aye,” she answered with a short bob of her head without seeing the need to explain it wouldn’t take till morn.
She turned then to tend to the matter but paused and watched Longtooth’s movements knowing he could ken some things better than she. She noted the person that garnered his interest, making note of clothing and movement. She would have to watch that one.
Darian laid a hand on the back of his head, just between his ears, gave him a bit of a scratch. His size meant she could do so without bending or even leaning. She spoke to him in low tones, meant only for his sharp ears. “Ye stay inside, me friend, dry and warm. I not be long.”
The ruff lifted his head a bit to look at her as if he were deciding. Then he padded towards the fire, there to dry his fur and warm his bones. He chose a spot, made a couple of circles before settling his great bulk on the floor. He laid his head on his paws but did not close his eyes. Though in repose, he was ever vigilant.
A corner of her mouth turned up as she noted he had placed himself in such a way as to watch for her and to still keep the other in view. He truly was her friend, the only one she had in all the Heartwood. With an understanding look passing between them, she turned and headed back out into the night, managing to slip by both the child and her weeping find. They were none of her concern.
Outside in the light of the sputtering torches she easily found the rack. Slipping the hart from beneath her cloak, she quickly trussed it to the rack and set to work. Silent words were spoken as she began. Her movements were quick and sure and reverent. A bucket was set beneath to catch the blood, platters were retrieved from the kitchen to hold the meat and those parts that could not be eaten by people were put aside for Longtooth along with meat from a haunch.
Once the edible parts were stored in the kitchen, Darian moved the skin into the smithy to dry by the heat available there. A quick curing would have to do. Perhaps the traders would be interested in it, though, more likely they would want the smaller pelts. Musing and hide hanging done, she returned to the interior by way of the kitchen. She gathered up the meal for Longtooth and a bowl of water, seeing to his needs before her own. She set the food and water before him then retrieve stew, bread and mead for herself.
When she came back, she put her meal down long enough to divest herself of th cloak and hang it over th back of chair to dry. Her packs and bedroll went on the seat. The bow and quiver tilted against it. She lowered herself to the floor next to the ruff. She leaned against the chair, one leg pressing against the big ruff’s side. He had waited until she had returned to his side and settled herself before beginning to eat.
She observed the happenings in the common room with the curiosity of one learning their surroundings. Her amber eyes did occasionally stray to the one who had aroused Longtooth’s interest, wondering what it was about her that he had noted. What or who had he sensed?
Celi finally spotted someone who looked more miserable than she felt. Which made her a possible roommate, reducing the coin Celi would have to carefully count out. Celi much preferred her own company, and always traveled alone. Well, alone as far as human company was concerned. But she did not have an unlimited source of funds. She had hoped for at least a temporary post in the stable, what with all the people coming in, but apparently that was not in the offing. Unless she got a job, which so far was not looking too good, the cost of a room and food was going to challenge her funds. The girl in the wrong clothes also sounded a little under the weather; that cough was iffy. But ...if she was sick, not to worry. Celi could do something about that when they were out of the public eye. And maybe she would feel financially grateful.
She rose to her feet and dragged over another empty chair, intending to weave her way through the room to the woman's side and share her stew and milk, and invite her to have a seat; but about that time, the innkeeper's mother bustled over with a blanket and a bowl of stew. Celi cursed herself for not coming in looking more bedraggled, and thereby saving the carefully counted coin she had just spent for her meal. She plunked back down in her chair. Something might still be possible, but she was a terrible solicitor, so all she could do was try to look pleasant -- not that easy a task -- and keep her eye on the wet woman, in case she showed some interest in a place to sit or more..
The squire did not take offense as the Lady got to her feet and went in a hurry to see to the comfort of the young woman. It had been what he planned to do after presenting himself anyway and the proper thing for an acolyte of the Lady to do.
And so he turned and followed Comfrey over to the wet and miserable young woman, taking in her torn and stained clothing, the quality and cut of them and her boots marking her as a woman of station.
Conrad pulled the chair up for her and took the blanket from the innkeepers wife to gently place around the girl's shoulders while Comfrey attended to her.
She was already in front of her new charge, and she was crying. Without a thought Comfrey would move to gently enfold her in a careful hug and get her to sit down. Crying creatures often needed it, but she'd not take it amiss were it refused. That happened too sometimes.
"Ssshhhh," she murmured softly, "you are safe now. We have food and aid for you, and for cleaning? That will be dealt with too. There will be a place of safe rest too. We must look to your hurts, yes?"
Comfrey had a lovely room and warm blankets thanks to her friends. Even if she hadn't, the was always enough to share. That's what her coin was for after all.
So many faces, all of them staring. Not all them at her, but still there was an intensity in this place. The young woman couldn't manage her physical composure any more than she could stop the flow of tears. She felt the pressure and warmth of the embrace from the... A real Lady of Attera? For a certainty, that is what she must be. She dressed as one but appearances could be contrived or manipulated to deceive. The manner in which this Lady conducted herself was the more convincing truth.
At least that was the hope as the scared and cold woman, little more than a girl herself, accepted the comfort and embrace as she wrapped her arms about the woman and pulled her as tightly to herself as strength would allow.
"I do not mean to intrude," she whispered in a raspy voice. She hadn't had anyone to speak to in days and the effort to hear her own voice would have been wasted energy better spent on keeping warm or finding something to eat. "I am not worthy of such kindness..."
Her shoulders sank and she returned to her seat, covering her embarrassment by setting her stew and milk on the second chair as if that had been her intent all along. She always took too long in trying to parse human interactions. They did not come naturally to her; she had no autonomic reactions where other humans were concerned. Fight-or-flight situations? She had those. Ordinary kindness? She didn't understand it, so she had to reason through it, and that meant she was always a step behind everyone else, even when she came to a correct conclusion. Things were a lot easier on he road.
Just about the same time Celi stands up to bring over a chair, the young man sitting near the fire also stands. He reaches over to pick up his cloak, intending to offer it to the young woman who is clearly chilled to the bone, but about that time the young girl is swarmed upon by a woman dressed as a Lady of Attera, the man, 'Squire Conrad of the Rock', and the inkeeper's daughter bringing a blanket.
**Well met, that.** He thinks, about the healer. **Be nice to get some confirmation that the rot has not set into those cuts.**
But she is busy now, and he knows well the Lady's Handmaids beneficence and would not think to interfere.
He stands a moment longer, holding the cloak, then re-hangs it on the chair near the fire where it was drying. As he does, he turns his head towards the small woman not too far from him, at a table on the other side of the fire, who also stood as he did. He shrugs at her, offering a small smile and a wink. As if to say, 'Oh well.'
About then he sees the big dog, a dog about whom he suspects he knows it's origin, especially coming in with the woman in forest garb with a hunter's bow, come walking over towards the fire and settle itself into a spot about midway between his table and that of the small woman.
He wonders about all these women. With Cameron's Light Horse there were no women. In fact they were in the field so often that the occasions he had to interact with women, since his mother and sister died, were few and far between. Other than the occasional Lady of Attera they could find to heal wounds, but he never really thought of those as 'women'. He always tried to be as honourable as he could on those few instances, trying to not do anything he thought would embarrass him to his mother. Still, it was not like he had extensive experience at it.
So after seeing he was apparently not needed to help attend to the bedraggled woman, and giving the small woman across the way a smile. He sits back down and picks his glass back up, sipping at it as he listens carefully to the commotion around the woman in the dirty, but seemingly well made clothing.
**There's a story there worth keeping an eye on.** He muses.
Celi realized her attempt had caught the eye of the young man by the fire, which elicited the usual cautionary behavior on her part. No good thing ever occurred from being noticed. They saw you, then they noticed you, then they decided you weren't like them, then they decided you needed punishing for being different. It was always the same.
He *was* healthy-looking, though: well-formed and graceful. She had looked away at his smile, but she sneaked a glance back to watch the play of muscle beneath his garments. People could actually be attractive, if they cared for themselves and lived a life that kept them fit. Too many of them became enamored of the trappings of civilization -- the clothes and weapons and finery. This one was clean-limbed, with a broad sinewy back, a narrow tapered waist, powerful haunches. Abruptly she realized he was looking at her eyes, so she quickly looked away, blushing at her own carelessness.
"All are, do not belittle yourself so, hmm?" Comfrey returned the pressure, but gently, gently so as not to cause any more harm. "Nor are you an intrusion."
"Now, you need out of those clothes and to get warm. Food is already here it seems," she smiled her thanks as the stew and blanket was coming. "Both can be done at once I think. The cough and others things will be dealt with too, but I'd rather your teeth not chatter their way through my fingers."
Blankets could cover much, and stew could fill nicely.
She'd look her over as well she could. things needing immediate attention would be dealt with but otherwise, the woman needed to be wrapped in warmth and wrapped around her food.
When the young girl looks away, and he sees the slight rise of colour on her cheeks, he pauses a moment, unsure.
**Did I offer insult?** He wonders worriedly.
But she does not look angry. More..., well perhaps annoyed is the best term he can come up with. Almost as if she thought not to be noticed? But then why did she stand and draw attention to herself? Although, as he looks around it seems he is the only one who did notice. He's always been quick with his peripheral vision. It's saved him from more than one ambush.
**Well, no need to rub it in.**
He turns away, glancing to the girl in forest dress who has now sat near her ruff, not too far from him, and close by the heat of the fire.
"Nice ruff." He says to her casually. "I had one, back home. Named Hammer, after the spring stars. A big dog. Not as big as yours, though." His voice has a bit of a melancholy tone to it, and has an accent of the area around Brockman's Holdfast. "He died one winter. Protecting our milker. It was Midwinter's night, and everyone was at their revel. A Coven Wolf came off the High Tarn to take the milker. Hammer gave it what for. Chased it off, but he didn't make it to morning. Good dog."
†Restricted forums can only be accessed by DreamLyrics members of the age of 18 years or older. Access which is granted by the Behind Closed Doors Procedure. ™DreamLyrics Play-by-Post. DreamLyrics Play-by-Post does not own copyright on DreamLyrics texts or graphics, except trademarked DreamLyrics logos and logotypes. The works contained in DreamLyrics are copyrighted (automatically, under the Berne Convention) by the original authors and may be available under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence. (See Copyrights for details.) Privacy Policy
![[Linked Image]](http://cache.reelz.com/assets/content/article/Milla.jpg)
![[Linked Image]](http://0.tqn.com/d/scifi/1/0/i/w/-/-/s2_arthur_01_170x192.jpg)
![[Linked Image]](http://www.dreamlyrics.com/forums/gallery/291/full/3490.jpg)
![[Linked Image]](http://www.dreamlyrics.com/forums/gallery/291/full/3489.jpg)
She didn't even know where she was, all she could smell was the bread. That alone invaded and occupied every sense, but her fear and shame had rooted her into place like some prey animal in the sights of Khannish the Hunter. 