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* Tarri strolls through the woods just outside Marsember, dressed in loose-fitting pants and tunic and carrying a basket over one arm. She stops occasionally to carefully uproot a small plant or pluck leaves from trees, which go into the basket. * Orlann is laying face down just off the path. He is a tall, bulky man with very dark skin and his long black hair is worn in hundreds of tiny braids. His breathing is irregular and a crossbow bolt protrudes from his side, throbbing in rhythm with his faltering heartbeat. * Tarri freezes for a moment as she spies the fallen man, then looks around, her eyes darting from bush to shadow to tree to seek others. After a moment, she approaches and kneels, not *quite* within arm's reach. "Hello? ...Sir?" * Orlann turns his head with a great effort, making no sound. He has a laceration just over one eye that's scabbing over. His face is covered in dried blood. He opens one eye. <Tarri> ::calmly, despite the widening of her eyes:: I'm a healer. ::watching his face for comprehension:: Can you understand me? I want to help you. <Orlann> ... help? ::his voice is cracked and weak:: <Tarri> ::firmly:: Yes. Help. ::She reaches out a hand, slowly, to touch the skin around the wound on his face.:: <Orlann> ...sniper... 'ware... <Tarri> ::looks around again quickly:: I think he's gone. ::she shifts to look at the bolt in his side, ripping the hole in his shirt a bit wider:: I don't suppose you could walk, if I helped? <Orlann> ..running for days... might. Shot me... ::he struggles to push himself up on his hands:: <Bran> ::with a raucous caw and a rattle of twigs, a large raven coasts into a perch on a branch above them and cocks its head to regard the almost-meal with one bright eye:: * Tarri moves to his uninjured side and tries to help him stand. "Well, I need to get you somewhere better than-" She stops and looks up at the bird. "Kerawn!" She struggles under the stranger's weight, and looks up again. "Go and fetch Master Bran, Kerawn. Please!" <Bran> ::the raven cocks its head to the other side as if considering her request and takes off again in a fresh rattle of branches, disappearing into the thinning trees to the east:: * Orlann tries to keep his not inconsiderable weight off the girl, but he can not. To one side of where he was laying is a large, double-bladed sword, one end clean, the other stained with gore. * Tarri notes the sword, but keeps her concentration on supporting the man, murmuring meaningless encouragement. Her gaze drifts eastward hopefully. <Orlann> ...you shouldn't be... ::he pants for breath:: ...not on my watch. ::he staggers:: <Tarri> Oh! ::nearly collapses as he staggers, then tightens her grip on his waist.:: You're not on watch, now. You're wounded. Hold still. <Bran> ::the slam of a wooden door sounds in the distance. After a few minutes, the struggling pair can hear the approach of booted feet, moving at a run:: <Tarri> ::sighs with relief:: That'll be Master Bran. We'll take you back to the 'Nest and get you patched up, okay? <Orlann> ..Patch's dead... all dead... ::he shudders, groaning as the motion tears at his wounded side:: <Bran> ::Kerawn the raven glides back into view and grabs for a landing on a thick branch just as Bran bursts through the trees at a run. He carries what looks like a bundle of sticks and canvas over his shoulder, although on closer inspection Tarri might recognize the spear from over his mantle as part of the bundle:: <Tarri> ::soothing:: Now, now, try not to think about it. We need to get you- Master Bran! Thank goodness... <Tarri> ::forestalling questions:: I have no idea, Master Bran; he was just lying there on the side of the path. ::she nods to indicate where the sword still lies:: <Orlann> ... last stand, sir. Wall was breached... no, sir, he didn't make it... ::his words are slurred, his eyes unfocused:: <Tarri> ::glances up at the stranger's face, biting her lip:: Delirium... Wound fever? ::she looks back at Bran, silently urging him to hurry building the stretcher.:: <Bran> ::nodding to her as he stops and unlimbers himself:: Tarri. ::his eyes move from the injured man to his sword and back, doing a quick catalogue of his injuries:: Here-- I've a stretcher, if you can take one end. ::kneeling and quickly assembling the spear and pole and canvas into a stretcher, looking up at Orlann's words:: Stand down, soldier, we'll take it from here. ::looking back at Tarri:: Tarri, you'd best fetch his sword also. <Orlann> Aye, Captain... ::pulls up one hand in a weak salute:: Thank you, sir. * Tarri helps lower the stranger onto the stretcher, then picks up the sword and lays it across his chest, point downward, before taking one end of the stretcher. <Bran> Quite likely... possibly dehydrated, too. He looks to have lost a lot of blood. ::Taking hold of his end of the stretcher:: Alright, up on three, ready? One... two... *three*! ::hefting his end easily:: * Orlann groans again, barely twitching. "They're coming through!" * Tarri lifts her end less easily, but without straining. "Is he going to be okay?" <Bran> ::heading towards his cabin at a quick, even walk, spacing his strides so as not to outpace Tarri:: Too soon to tell, 'til we've had a better look at him. <Orlann> ... get the women out, damn you! <Tarri> ::glances at the man, biting her lip, then speaks softly:: It's fine. Just rest now. * Orlann subsides, his eyes slipping closed. <Bran> ::his face is taut, but he gives no other indication that he heard the man's words as he navigates the porch steps:: Kerawn, the door, please. ::the raven caws again, beating its wings and diving for the thumb latch of the door, the weight of its landing enough to pop it open:: <Tarri> ::looks relieved:: The cut on his head isn't too bad, actually. Just messy. But the bolt in his side has chewed him up a lot, and it's deeper than I've worked on, ever... <Bran> ::nodding, his tone calm and matter-of-fact:: Most of what you've dealt with so far have been accidents, bar brawls, the like. That bolt was meant to kill him. ::frowning as the man quiets:: And still might. Here, set him down in front of the fire, he's been out in the cold a long time, I'd wager. * Tarri lowers her end of the stretcher carefully in line with Bran's. "I've seen real fights before, Master Bran." She takes a deep breath, eyeing the patient. "I'll go fix him a draught - what do you want in it, besides willow and numbweed?" <Bran> Nettle... he'll need something to build the blood. And bring the drawing ointment... I don't like the looks of the redness around that wound, it's bound to be dirty. <Tarri> Yessir. ::she brushes off her hands, then heads off toward the stillroom with an air of purpose:: <Bran> ::calling after her:: And bring the good brandy! ::muttering:: We're in for a long evening. ::hanging the iron kettle and fetching a few woolen blankets to have to hand before turning back to the patient, setting the sword to one side to inspect his wound:: <Orlann> ::shaking his head, his voice barely more than a whisper:: No, no... Lina... gods, don't... <Bran> ::softly, as he rummages in his sewing basket for the heavy snips:: Peace, lad. You're at the healer's, now, you're safe for the moment. Save your strength. * Tarri returns after a few minutes, a small earthenware pot in one hand, a steaming mug in the other. She kneels by the man's head and hands the pot to Bran. "There's the ointment... You want brandy in the tea, or for later?" <Bran> A little in the tea now to make it go down easier... not too much, or he'll choke on it. Get a little into him, and then we'll see about getting that crossbow bolt out. * Tarri pulls a jar of brandy from her tunic pocket and splashes a little into the mug. While Bran cuts the stranger's shirt away from his tunic, she puts one hand under his head and lifts, holding the mug close to his mouth. "Time for your medicine," she says. "Wake up and take a few sips, now... Come on..." * Bran cuts around the arrow wound, carefully peeling it away and taking small snips until he can free the cloth from around the bolt. <Orlann> Lin? ::he opens his eyes, but it's clear he's not seeing Tarri:: Lin, did you leave the window open? ::he takes a few sips from the cup without tasting it:: <Tarri> ::soothingly:: I know it's cold. Drink some more, it will help you feel warmer, and help with the pain, too. * Orlann finishes the cup of medicine, a little spills down his chin. <Tarri> Very good. ::dabs up the spill with her sleeve, then lets his head back down to the floor and watches Bran:: * Bran pauses a moment to throw another log on the fire and fetch a bowl and a handful of clean cloths. "Good work. Here, help me turn him so I can get a better look at that arrow wound, and then you can start on that eye." * Tarri nods and works her arm under the man's shoulders, murmuring calmly as she helps Bran roll him onto his good side to expose the crossbow bolt. Once she's certain he's stable, she picks up one of the clean cloths and starts to clean the gore from his face. * Bran steadies the patient on his uninjured side with Tarri's help, and leans close to inspect the wound in the light of the fire. "Blast... it's lodged in the bone. Still, he was lucky it missed his kidney or he'd have been crow's meat days ago." <Bran> Where's that-- ah, here. ::unsealing the pot of drawing ointment, releasing a pungent odor of medicines with a faint breath of summer as he daubs carefully around the wound:: <Tarri> ::without looking up:: Warn me before you draw it... ::she looks at the man's eyes critically:: The numbweed's nearly set in. Another minute or so... <Orlann> ::murmurs:: Tell Tinner he'd best send us some damn reinforcements... <Bran> Oh, yes. I'll want you to help hold him down when I do... even unconscious, he's going to feel it. <Tarri> Hush, now... You've done all you can. You can rest now. <Orlann> ::nodding, as if agreeing with her:: We can't hold here... sound the retreat. <Tarri> Just rest... ::very softly, to herself:: I wonder where he's from... <Bran> ::shaking his head, frowning a little:: You're better up on the gossip than I... there's not been a war or a siege anywhere nearby this winter, has there? ::murmurs:: Most of the military idiots at least plan these things for the summer... <Tarri> I haven't heard anything. He said he'd been running for days, though. <Bran> Mm. Perhaps with a horse, he'd have made some miles... this would have slowed him down quite a bit, I'd wager, were he just on foot. <Tarri> Maybe if- *when* he wakes up, he'll be able to make sense. <Bran> ::gives Tarri a mild glace at her word correction:: Mm. ::rubbing his hands together, and fetching a suede glove from on top of the woodpile:: Here, hold him, I'm going to draw it now. Looks like the ointment has loosened things up a little for me. <Bran> ::putting the glove on his right hand and bracing his left against the man's hip:: Be ready with a hot cloth, and be ready to duck... if there's infection in there, it's going to go when I draw this out. Right? <Tarri> ::takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly:: Okay. ::she leans heavily on the man's shoulders, a cloth in one hand, speaking into his ear:: We're going to pull the bolt now, understand? Try not to fight it too much, and it'll go smoother. * Bran takes a breath of his own, clenching his teeth as he takes firm hold of the arrow shaft. The cords of his neck stand out as he pulls against it, hard but steady, holding down the hip with his other hand. The arrow finally gives, and Bran falls backwards with a thump. * Orlann screams once as the bolt comes out, blood gushing from the wound. * Tarri immediately jumps to put the cloth over the wound. "Are you all right, Master Bran?" <Bran> Fine, fine... body and blood... ::sitting up slowly and squinting at the head of the crossbow bolt:: Ah, good... looks like I got it all. How's the patient? <Orlann> ::darkly:: Will *someone* put an arrow in that thrice-damned mage? <Tarri> ::glancing up toward the stranger's face:: About the same, I guess... <Bran> Hm. Not dead, at least. ::rubbing his elbow and setting the arrow aside:: Pack the wound with drawing ointment-- that'll pull out any residual infection-- and cover it loosely with a poultice of smartweed and mullein leaves. Deep wounds need to stay open but protected, or they'll heal over and trap infection inside again. * Orlann mutters, then takes a deep, shuddering breath and either falls asleep or passes out. It's difficult to tell the difference. * Bran draws his brows down in a scowl and takes the patient's wrist, feeling for his pulse. "How's that eye? Need stitches?"" <Tarri> Yessir. ::She picks up the ointment pot and starts to dress the wound. As he collapses into unconsciousness, she glances back at Bran:: A few stitches. A few stitches, but it's not too bad. Just a little drawing ointment, or some brandy to clean it out. <Bran> ::nods absently, frowning deeper as he counts the pulse:: Little fast... and irregular. ::feeling the man's cheeks and forehead with the back of his hand:: And he's a little clammy... ::peels back an eyelid:: Mildly concussed... someone-- or some *tree*-- must've whacked him pretty hard. <Bran> ::looks up at Tarri:: I guess that means the first thing we do with him is cover him up in front of the fire and wake him every half-hour to be sure he *can* wake. <Tarri> ::nods, biting her lip:: <Tarri> I meant... ::shakes her head quickly and goes back to packing the wound:: Shouldn't we tell someone, maybe? <Bran> Kerawn can watch him between times. Ah, I see... such as the Dragons, you mean? ::frowns consideringly, studying the man's face:: Our first duty's to our patient. He's obviously no danger to anyone, the shape he's in... nor capable of delivering a message, if he has one. let's give him a day, at least, to get over the concussion. He seems a strong sort... if he survives that, barring a bad wound fever, he's likely to recover. Then we can talk about what to do with him. <Bran> ::quirking a smile:: After all, he should have some say in that discussion, don't you think? <Tarri> ::half-smiles:: I guess so. <Bran> In the meantime, Tarri, I'd like for you to stay here, if it's not too great an inconvenience to you. I'd hate to think of you being caught foul of whoever might be following this lad, aye? * Tarri glances at the bolt, shivers, and nods emphatically. "Yessir." <Bran> Well enough. ::eyes straying to his abandoned spear, he stands and hangs it back in its usual place over the mantle:: If it comes to it, this cabin's defensible enough. Now have a nip of brandy and get some rest. I'll take the first watch. * Orlann drifts in and out of consciousness through the afternoon and into the night. With effort, the healers are able to rouse him on the half hours, but he rarely does more than open his eyes and mutter. Towards morning, he wakes with a start. * Tarri is sitting by the fire, her knees pulled in close to her chest and her arms crossed over them, only half-awake as she watches. As the man wakes, however, she comes fully alert. "Hello." She speaks softly, both to avoid waking Bran unnecessarily and to not startle the patient. * Orlann takes a deep breath and looks around. His eyes are pale blue, a strange match with his dark skin. "Who... where am I?" <Tarri> I am Tarri, a healer-in-training. This is my teacher's home. I found you in the woods, not far from here, and we brought you back to heal you... How's your head? * Orlann laughs, a short, low bark. "Feels like a giant borrowed me in place of his club." He pauses, swallowing. "Truth, I feel half-dead." <Tarri> ::half-smiles:: Well, that's an improvement. When we brought you in, it was closer to three-quarters. <Orlann> ::gingerly touches his fingers to his head and winces away:: Then I owe you a debt, healer-in-training Tarri. Did... ::he looks around:: No one else? * Tarri shifts closer to the fire and pulls out the pot that's been keeping warm on its hook. She ladles a thin broth into the mug and offers it to him. "For the pain." She shakes her head. "No... I didn't find anyone else with you." <Orlann> ::takes the mug, but doesn't drink, staring into the fire:: Damn... <Tarri> ::tentatively:: Perhaps... you were only separated? <Orlann> ::shakes his head, and winces again, then takes a swallow from the mug:: They meant to kill us, down to the last... <Tarri> But why? <Bran> ::Kerawn shifts from foot to foot on a perch on top of the woodpile, and caws once, softly, as Bran's tread is heard in the hall:: <Orlann> ::shrugs once, draining the rest of the mug:: Damned if I know... <Bran> ::quietly:: Tarri? All's well? I thought I heard voices... ah! Our patient's awake, then? <Tarri> ::looks up as Bran comes into the room:: He woke just a few minutes ago, of his own accord. * Orlann shifts a little, looking down at himself. "How... what's wrong with my leg?" <Bran> Good, very good. ::smiling:: Any muzziness, blurriness of vision? ::glancing down at the blankets:: You took a crossbow bolt to the hip, narrowly missing the organs. You're lucky you're alive, but your leg might be out of commission for a little while. No sudden moves, alright? <Orlann> ::nods slowly:: I wondered if I dreamed that... ::looks up at the bird:: Guess not. <Bran> Likely not. You were near-delirious when my apprentice found you. ::nodding to Tarri:: I'm Bran Cormac, master healer, this is my cabin. You're about a half-mile outside of the city of Marsember, in Cormyr. Do you remember who you are, and where you hail from? <Orlann> Name's Orlann Drilgar, Corporal in Shill's militia. From Bleakhill, just east of the Stormhorns... <Bran> The Stormhorns? ::raising his eyebrows:: You've come some way, then. <Orlann> ::nods:: Chased... horse died, I don't know, lost track of my days... <Bran> ::exchanging a grim glance with Tarri:: Chased... then you believe there is still someone on your track? It was quiet, this past night. There's a barracksfull of Purple Dragons not a mile away, if you came in search of aid. <Tarri> What happened? <Orlann> ::shrugs one shoulder:: Don't know... thought I killed that last one, but... ::he looks disgusted:: Half-dream, half nightmare... <Bran> ::patiently repeating Tarri:: What happened? You were stationed in defense of Bleakhill, and...? <Orlann> Besieged... damned motherless bastards... parked around us half the damned winter ::glances at Tarri:: Pardon. <Tarri> ::shakes her head, dismissing the rough language:: Who? <Orlann> ::shrugs:: Gobbies... some orcs... Bleakhill's a small town, we didn't... ::he takes a deep breath:: We couldn't hold. <Tarri> ::closes her eyes:: I'm sorry... <Bran> ::bows his head for a moment in acknowledgement of the dead:: And you? What sent you so far to the south? Or-- ::frowning a little:: were you wounded at the siege, or after? <Orlann> ::puts one hand to his head again, wincing:: Captain sent me, Tinner and a few to try and take the women an' children out. There're tunnels in the mountains... We were to get through and head to Suzail, if we could... <Tarri> ::softly:: And...? <Bran> Tinner... ::nodding:: you spoke that name when you were unconscious. <Orlann> They followed us out of the mountains... picked us off, a few here, a few there. Bleedin... couldn't see them. Fetch water from a nearby creek and when you looked up, three women were dead with arrows sticking out of their backs. ::looks both grieved and furious:: <Tarri> ::horrified:: That's awful! <Orlann> ::shakes his head:: Don't know how long s'been. Just me and Lina and her boy, these last few. I... ::he closes his eyes:: I couldn't save them. <Bran> ::face grave:: I'm sorry, lad. * Orlann stares into the fire, obviously fighting grief. His lip pulls up in a snarl and he clenches one fist. <Bran> ::watching him with concern:: Take it easy... you're still chancy, with that hip. There's naught you can do just now. <Tarri> ::bites her lip, then looks at Bran:: We should- I could go and bring the Dragons. <Orlann> ::laughs bitterly:: There was naught I could do *then*. <Bran> ::frowning deeper:: You did what you could, and no more could man or gods ask. ::looking up:: Not alone, you're not, just in case. ::thinks, rubbing his chin:: Kerawn could bear a message, perhaps. <Tarri> ::looking stubborn:: Master Bran, if there were any of them out there, they would have finished him before I found him! Or could have taken me before I asked Kerawn to call you! The rangers would know. <Bran> ::nods reluctantly:: That's as so... but to ease an old man's worries, at least take Kerawn with you. <Tarri> ::nods, standing and brushing her hands off on her tunic, which is streaked with Orlann's blood:: Come on, Kerawn... ::she offers Orlann a faint smile:: You're in good hands, Corporal. And it shouldn't take me half an hour to bring a Dragon or two to talk with you. <Bran> ::smiling faintly:: Wash your hands before you go, Tarri. No need to cause more alarm than necessary. * Orlann nods moodily, staring into the embers of the fire. <Tarri> Yessir. ::She heads for the kitchen, splashes for a moment in the sink, and then heads out again, Kerawn flying close attendance:: <Bran> ::the sound of liquid sloshing into a glass sounds behind Orlann, and Bran reaches around him to offer him a half-full snifter of brandy:: A toast to remembered friends, for medicinal purposes? Only one, though. <Orlann> ::nods again and takes the snifter, wordless, and quaffs it:: |
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