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Logs

Stitching

Tags: nurenhir,  brev,  gidon,  ollie,  narthalion

Short Summary: Brev, with the help of Gidon, treats a patient.
Date (real-life): 2010-04-20
Scene Location: Shepherding Village

 

Shepherding Village

This is the home of a small, proud, and independent people who live primarily by herding sheep in the open lands south of the Great East Road. Once driven from this region by troll depredations, they have returned and appear to be prospering, perhaps because they can also profit by trade on the Great East Road.

Or rather.... we should say it /was/ the home of these people. The many sturdy houses and smaller huts clustered on a hill here have mostly been burned. Some are yet standing, more are nothing more than charred timbers. Once, they were safely ensconced behind a deep ditch and wall. The ditch is filled with the ashy ghosts of thorn bushes ... and the gate hangs crookedly, black as charcoal.

But a stone wall is being built by a group of industrious dwarves, and many of the buildings that were still standing have been repaired. The village is now a mixture of the charred, skeletons of houses, and shiny new ones.

A long, low, smoke-stained building, sprawling along the hillside below the caravanserai, appears to the south. Its thatched roof has miraculously escaped burning - though there are black patches across it. Thick lead-paned windows are dark. A group of industrious men and dwarves and a few elves are camped in the open area.

Contents:

Tiriel

Ollie

Brev

Sulgirion

Hraefengar

Ered-Luin Encampment

Large Ballista

Finest Herd

Obvious exits:

Gathering House, Caravanserai, and Great East Road

==============================================================================

                           | Yfelwydan Time (YST) |                          

==============================================================================

** Real time is: Tue Apr 20 15:12:28 2010, GMT -8 **

Elendor time is: Twilight on a Rainy Highday, Day 23 of September 3049.

Note: It's nighttime out, so it's safe to wander outside.

==============================================================================

The sun has set, its face a rosy glow behind the grey rainclouds that have persisted for the last few days. Cloaks and canvasses have popped up over the makeshift camp as villagers and dwarven builders seek shelter from the damp. It is dinnertime, and some have seen fit to break out in song and good drink, in defiance of the danger that newly lurks outside their half-built wall.

Nurenhir does not take part in the rainy festivity, but is crouched beneath a cloak repurposed as tarp. The (horrible) borrowed hair-shirt has been tossed aside, and he shivers, unseeing, as the raindrops fall upon bare shoulders. Strewn-about wads of bandages show fresh scarlet stains.

 

[Ollie(#15066)] Gidon is among those eating and drinking - a thin line of dried blood across his neck is his newest ornament - and a half-grown puppy gambols around his feet. After a while, it appears the boy is looking for someone, and not finding them. He moves through the damp but cheerful crowd, and a frown grows on his face. Finally, he gets a refill on his bowl of soup, and heads out into the drizzle with it; coming at last to crouch beside Nurenhir. Uncertain what to do, he frowns at the elf worriedly, then holds out the bowl of soup abruptly. "Y'should eat summat..."

 

Nurenhir smiles at the boy, but seems to look through him. "I don't need any," he says hollowly, nudging the bowl back at the boy. "You should eat more."

 

[Brev(#30997)] For once Brev is neither working, eating nor sleeping. The rain alone cannot provide any excuse for idleness, for most tasks have continued despite it. Nevertheless, he is not amongst the group downing tools and heading for the fire, nor amongst those making merry. Rather he walks the edge of the camp, the bulk of a pack visible beneath his rain-darkened cloak, and like Gidon he too appears to be looking for something.

At the sight of the crouching lad, he strides toward him. "Gidon. Good. I-" The words halt as the half-clad, rain-soaked figure beneath the makeshift tarpaulin becomes visible. "Kiern," he mutters, "So much for the fabled might and wisdom of Elf-kind..."

 

[Ollie(#15066)] "But," Gidon protests, then he shakes his head, biting his lip. "I ate already," he says. "This here's for you..." He looks up, relief flooding his face at Brev's approach. "I think he's sick," he says. "He got cut awful bad."

 

"Eat more," Nurenhir encourages, his face grey. His dark eyes follow Brev, but carry none of the unsettling brightness. "I am fine," the Elf murmurs faintly, the syllables slurring into a different, musical tongue. He hugs himself a little, and a stain spreads under his fingers. "But it isn't stopping at all ... Calendis?"

 

[Brev(#30997)] Brev is looking down at the mess of bared skin and stained bandages with appalled curiosity. He even forgets to avert his gaze - not like this particular Elf looks in any state to attempt sorcery in any case. "Which is why I figured I'd check-" The words break off as the Elf starts muttering, and he scowls. "Who in Kiern's name let him wander off in this state to sit and bleed? There's half a village sitting there ready to be used as shelter. Gidon," his gaze, steady now, rests on the youth for a moment, "run and find who's house is nearest, will you? Spin them any tale you like. We need to move him. Then ..." his gaze shifts to the shivering figure, "if you're going to act like a man, you can be treated like a man. Flesh is flesh, eh?"

 

[Narthalion(#31143)]

The strange party gets a little stranger. Narthalion appears out of the shadows, cloak gone, leaving nothing but dark clothing and dark hair and pale skin. "How..." he begins, more or less at Brev and Gidon before Nurenhir's whispered word registers. "What in the name of the Valar have you done now, Herunnur?" He hardly sounds worried - more exasperated than aught else.

 

[Ollie(#15066)] Gidon sets the bowl down carefully, jumping up and running off. The puppy hesitates for a minute - follow the boy, or eat the soup? Gidon brushes past Narthalion as he runs, but pays the other elf no attention at all, and the dog decides, bounding after the boy.

They are back in a few minutes, Gidon panting. "That one," he points. "Roof's done and all. S'fire even."

 

"House?" whispers Nurenhir. "Nay, our house burned, you said ... burning arrows," the Sinda's bemused wandering cuts off at the sound of a familiar elvish voice, and he curls tighter, sweat standing out upon his skin only to be washed away by rain.

 

[Brev(#30997)] Brev's head whips round as the new voice speaks, his shoulders tightening automatically. His answer is a time coming, and when it does it is casual. "Way I heard it, he attacked a giant with his bare hands. Of course, my informant was a little biased." For a moment one side of his mouth curls up.

At Gidon's return he nods. "Good lad. Coming?" Turning again to Narthalion - and now he does avert his gaze slightly - he orders the other curtly, "Help me move him. If he's not bled to death yet, he won't in the next few minutes. I can stop the bleeding, clean him up a bit - you can perform whatever magics your kind practise when I'm done. Were he a man, I'd say he had the wound-fever."

 

[Ollie(#15066)] The bowl of soup apparently forgotten, the hound puppy sniffs around it, and then dives in eagerly, lapping noisily.

 

[Narthalion(#31143)]

"Funny," Narthalion answers with something that's supposed to be a laugh, "We would say the same thing."

Moving nearer, Narthalion crouches down beside Nurenhir, switching his words to Sindarin, "Calendis is not here, my friend. You are wounded and weary. Come, we will get you out of the rain, aye?" He holds out a hand to Nurenhir.

 

[Ollie(#15066)] Gidon hovers uncertainly, anxiously; watching the older man and the ageless elf. From their adventure, he himself has only the scratch on his neck and a collection of bruises.

 

"I know," Nurenhir says quietly, reaching out for the other's hand. "I left her behind." He says no more, standing limply, although his gaze is numb and downcast.

 

[Brev(#30997)] Brev frowns as the injured Elf manages to stand; clearly he had not expected that. Then he shrugs, looking round to Gidon and ignoring the burst of musical speech. "Take this, will you?" He pulls the pack from beneath his cloak, tosses it to land at Gidon's feet, then moves up to support Nurenhir on the uninjured side, clearly expecting that Narthalion will do likewise. His gaze is focused on the hut ahead, and no sooner are they inside than he's issuing suggestions (surely they cannot be orders?) "Water. Linen - should be some in the pack. Lets see how bad it is, eh? Don't suppose you can tell me when it was last looked at." The words are seemingly addressed to Nurenhir, but the question is plainly intended as rhetorical.

 

[Ollie(#15066)] The boy stoops down catching up the pack in his good hand, and follows.

 

The Sinda clings to the wall as soon as they are inside, fingers running over the rough wooden planks. The sudden warmth of the room seems to pull him a little back to the present, and he obliges, unraveling the bandage with a trembling hand. His side is scored with a new gash that crosses the old one, although it seems deeper and more expertly made -- the wound still weeps, although Nurenhir does his best not to agitate it.

 

[Ollie(#15066)] Gidon squats down, setting the pack on the floor and shuffling through it. He brings out some folded white cloth, then looks around for water. There is none here, though a low fire burns in a stone hearth. Without waiting, the boy runs out again into the rain.

 

[Brev(#30997)] Brev leaves it to Narthalion to make his kin comfortable - clearly the little hut has recently been in use, for there is a blanket over the piled-up mass of heather and bracken against one wall, as well as the fire on the hearth. He snatches at the proffered linen, without turnins his gaze away from the wound that is unveiled. "Ugly," he comments. "But less bad than I thought. Stitches might work better than a knife." He tilts his head, features calm, as though he were considering some tricky carpentry problem.

"You do realize that if you were under my command I'd have you tied down? Can't go wasting perfectly good bodies." The words, addressed to Nurenhir, are dry in tone, and one side of his mouth pulls back in a faintly mocking smile. "Press a minute," the instruction comes along with a small wad of linen; he pulls his pack across the floor to rummage in it.

 

[Ollie(#15066)] Gidon is back, the puppy at his heels. Turning his head, the boy speaks a sharp word, and the dog lies down obediently in one corner, tongue lolling out as he pants. "D'you want it hot?" he asks Brev, gesturing towards the kettle he has cradled in his arm. It is about half full of water.

 

Nurenhir smiles at the voice swimming nearby, pressing the cloth to his ribs with splayed fingers. "I am sorry," he murmurs softly, shifting in the pile of cut underbrush.

 

[Brev(#30997)] Brev glances up at Gidon, a small black flask and a leathern cup in his hand. "Most of it hot, unless it's already been boiled. But some in here first." He extends the cup, then once it is filled he adds a single drop from the flask. This he holds out to Gidon while he waits for the other to set the kettle down. "Give him no more than half. And for Kiern's sake put the rest out of the dog's reach!"

Nurenhir's response brings a raised brow. "Meek and mild. What in Kiern's name were you after, anyway? There's plenty others to go out and play straw target." While he speaks he is locating various other items.

 

[Ollie(#15066)] "It was day," Gidon explains. "We... /I/ thought none of them come out in th'day. We were lookin' for herbs an' things." He hangs the kettle over the fire and adds another stick of wood, then takes the cup and crouches down beside Nurenhir. "Here, drink this," he tells the elf, before looking up defensively. "He won't drink none! I told him t'lay still."

 

"I took valerian already." Nurenhir looks up at what appears to be Gidon, but takes the cup reluctantly. One sip causes him to wince at the taste, but he takes another, then passes it back. "It does not hurt anymore, really... we met an orcish thing, but larger. In day." The Elf closes his eyes, breathing deeply.

 

[Ollie(#15066)] Gidon looks into the cup. It is not exactly half empty. He looks up at Brev for instruction. Was that enough?

 

[Brev(#30997)] Brev gives Gidon a half-hearted smile. "Better day than night, eh? Though under the dark of those trees, might as well be bloody night." The smile fades and his voice becomes urgent, almost harsh. "Telling's not enough. Cups spill. Put it out of reach!" His gaze flicks momentarily to the Elf as the latter speaks and he frowns slightly, then nods at Gidon. "That'll do for now. Remember, out of reach."

He waits only long enough for the water to heat before setting to work. "You'll feel a bit cold," he tells Nurenhir. "Shouldn't be much pain though." And he guides the other's hand away from his side so that he can clean the wound with plain boiled water on another piece of the rapidly diminishing linen stocks before picking up an ugly black needle and a little knife. He starts to close the gash with swift, jerking stiches, his lips pressed together and his features tense with concentration.

 

[Ollie(#15066)] Gidon nods, standing to set the cup on the mantel above the fire. "Never thought they come out in th'day," he repeats. Then he squats back down, watching, blanching a little; his eyes flickering up to Nurenhir's face.

 

"They were here last year," says the steward slowly, staring up at the roughly thatched ceiling. "It -- one of them killed our kin, and set fire to the village. They are back." Sweat runs down Nurenhir's face, between the dark hair plastered flat; he is silent, crushing the bracken under his hand into dust.

 

[Brev(#30997)] Brev nods to Gidon's words without looking up from his work - and hence not seeing the blanching. "Want to talk about it? You seem to have come off none too badly, getting the feel of that spear?"

The words fade into silence as Nurenhir speaks - or maybe it is the other's shuddering sweat that disturbs him. "Fire," he hisses between his teeth. "Why is it always fire?"

Another jerk, another knot and the stitching is done. He rocks back on his heels to survey his handiwork, reaches for a bandage then scowls and instead wipes his hand on his trews and sets to chopping up a piece of wizened root. "Wish I knew what they used for fever," he mutters, doubtful.

Brev examines the injuries on Nurenhir.

Brev tends to the injuries on Nurenhir.

 

[Ollie(#15066)] Gidon looks down at Nurenhir's hands. "Lost it," he says unhappily. "I - din't see nothing. Nor hear, neither. Not til he started barking." He jerks his head towards the dog panting happily in the corner. "Then he -" this nod is for the elf, "Come running, an' I seen it... couldn't get m'spear b'fore he stepped on't." He stops, swallowing. His eyes don't see what they are looking at now, but a cold forest and the glint on a blade. "Got m'collar an' held that sword up." His hand rises to the cut on his neck. "Dog got him from b'hind, an' I jumped."

 

Nurenhir is silent now, and as he stares sidelong at the fire it seems he has slipped back from the present. The wound, closed, bleeds less, although the elf is still trembling and sweat-drenched.

 

[Brev(#30997)] Brev scoops up his makeshift 'poultice' on a knife-tip and daubs it on in the vicinity of the stitches. He would appear not to be listening to Gidon - but when he reaches again for the bandages, his head turns and he offers gruffly, "Can show you how to hold a spear so they can't get a foot planted next time." He hesitates, then adds, "I think you should keep the dog. Has the strawhaired fellow named a price?"

He returns his attention to bandaging then, working in silence; when he is done he looks up and sighs. "Stopped the bleeding like I said, but ... figure he should have his own kind to tend him." Nurenhir he regards with awkward pity, and for the first time the furtive fear is gone from Brev's gaze. "I'll go fetch one." He tucks away his needle and knife and rises to his feet, hands filled with dirty linen.

 

[Ollie(#15066)] "He give him t'me," Gidon says, a remnant of awe still in his voice as he looks at the dog. "He's mine." He savors the words. Then the boy nods. "I'll stay with him," he volunteers.

 

Nurenhir's hooded gaze quickly loses focus and intensity, and he smiles weakly in the general direction of the voices. The soft sound of rain and the dry fire are calming, and it is not long before consciousness fades into a fevered dream.

 

[Ollie(#15066)] Gidon sits patiently beside the unconscious elf, watching him worriedly for a while before his attention drifts, and he dozes.

 

 


Date added: 2010-04-21 18:10:53    Hits: 138
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