bakerstreet | ( nursed back to health shipping meme. )

It was a lovely day and Jaskier had been entirely set on enjoying it.

He'd woken on the road (had camped comfortably under the stars) and set out, meandering in the beautiful sunshine. He followed the main road south from Redania, just as he had done the day before, and would probably do tomorrow. Spring was in the air, the birds were singing, the wind sighed through the trees, and the perfume of wildflowers danced all around him. Truly, it was the ideal day to be outdoors, the kind of day that begged for musical accompaniment.

Jaskier decided to greet this fine day with an equally fine song.

Unfortunately, as he traveled, he met a group of fine gentlemen.

These fine gentlemen, large and scary as they were, insisted that he lighten his load and hand over his wallet, supplies, and instrument. He had declined--quite politely--and had invited them to a tune and a drink of some of the brandy he kept in a flask in his boot. They, similarly, declined his offer and then insisted he surrender his things.

It had been a very short but very pointed disagreement. Jaskier had, in the end, failed to convince them of his point of view and was forced to acquiesce to their firm requests.

"Fuck," Jaskier wheezed as he stared up at the branches waving in the mid-morning sunlight. A bird chirped brightly somewhere off to his left. The bard hissed and groaned as he tried to sit up--blinding pain danced up his side and his vision spotted over in a whole array of painful, brilliant color and dark shapes. His ribs screamed and his gasp of pain turned into a dark, bitter chuckle. He didn't press his hand against them, he wasn't an idiot, but he did pause once he'd managed to sit up.

The trampled grass around him was rather depressing.

The kicks to his side had been, of course, fair. He'd been prone, he'd antagonized them--really, it was his own fault that they'd broken--what felt like two of his ribs. The kick to his face, however, had been entirely uncalled for. His vision cleared in time, but the throbbing was insistent. He hoped they hadn't broken his nose--he couldn't breathe through it, but he couldn't really breathe on the whole, so that was a secondary concern. In fact, so were his ribs.

His hand pressed hard against his stomach and, when he finally steeled himself, he let out a stuttering moan of pain as he pushed up on to his knees. He felt a sluggish, insistent liquid warmth creep through his fingers and tried to ignore it. The cut itself hurt rather badly--a cutting (hah) and jagged pain, one that radiated through the whole of his torso. It was extremely unpleasant but, overall, he was much more alarmed by the bits that didn't hurt. He could feel the wound where it cut into him, felt the sting of it, but it was a distant sort of feeling.

Jaskier thought that being stabbed ought to be much more...insistently painful.

Was this shock?

This might be shock.

His heart was beating rather hard, and he was shaky. Those didn't sound much like shock but, frankly, he could worry about the shakes later.

His whole outfit was ruined, which was sad. They had taken all his supplies, his food, his money, his songbook, and pack, which was very inconvenient. They had taken his lute--ah, and that, above all things, was fucking tragic.

With a great deal of effort, Jaskier got his feet under him. He swooned a bit--distantly he realized his leg hurt. It was a bright, glittering sort of pain, one that was much more insistent than the hole in his side. He was tempted to bend and examine it--no, he lacked the balance for something that complicated. He would have to tough it out...insofar as he could.

Honestly, the more he thought about everything...the less he felt any of it.

That was bad, wasn't it?

Jaskier managed a few steps, halting and staggered by pain, before he made it out of the grassy...well, for lack of a better word: ditch. They had dumped him in a ditch.

"Rude," he wheezed and turned his attention to the road.

The road back toward Redania was long, straight, and crossed a great deal of plain. It had been nice to walk along all morning, but it would take more than a day to reach anyone or anything if he went that way. He could see nearly to the horizon. He looked the other way, ahead toward the bendy paths in the wood, and tried to mentally retrace the map he no longer had. He failed to recall anything but, frankly, he didn't have much choice.

"Well, I guess I get to follow the fellows who mugged me," he muttered bitterly, if only because the sound of his own voice helped fill the peaceful quiet around him. Suddenly the solitude, the calm, seemed impossibly desolate. His heart was still hammering and the breeze took on a note of unpleasant coolness.

"Fuck," he repeated and started down the road.

It was fortunate he'd become adept at walking over the years--he had endurance. He could make it somewhere...he was sure he could.

It'd been a quiet day. Pleasant. She'd kept roughly the pace she'd optimistically hoped, a large dip in the earth a ways from the road afforded a degree of privacy and an eye on passers by comfortably fit her tent, the weather had been fine. The sole, though not unexpected worry, was food. Simple logistics. At least a day to anywhere it might be purchased; foraging never presented much challenge, but wasn't what she would call robust; hunting was...not a favored activity. Doable, but unpleasant.

A quarter-hour had passed since a change in the air tabled any leisurely internal debate. She scented blood like a hound these days, and knew significant injury when it wafted by. Something larger hunting more seriously, she presumed. Not uncommon for large enough game or a hard enough fight to capture more of her attention than would be ideal. It never passed, which was bizarre.

Merely wounded and still moving, the hungrier part of her opportunistically hoped. Hard work done for her.

Wounded and still hunted, the melancholy in her decided. The poor thing.

And it didn't pass. Steady and consistent, like a draft frustratingly easy to differentiate from the breeze. Moving. Moving closer.

Still convinced it was some atypically strong, pitiable game, she'd been fussing with the beginnings of a fire if only for something to do when she spotted him. Fortunately, as the immediate doubt he could make much noise if he wanted to seemed more substantiated the longer she looked.

Yelling would startle. Sprinting would startle. The easy slope up to the road is thus taken at a somewhat frantic jog, and she does her damndest to keep her voice level when she speaks.

"Hey! Hey, I-- easy--" Immediately ducking under an arm to relieve some of his own weight, she steered him toward her tent. (Wouldn't make it anywhere else, clearly - wonder he'd made it this far.) "I'm helping, I've got you."

Navigating the dip was more patience-testing than difficult, accomplished quickly enough. Easing him onto her bedroll without feeling somehow personally responsible for every wince or twitch was exclusively difficult.

"What happened?"

He had been moving on muscle memory alone--a strong breeze could have had him collapsing and, indeed, he'd left quite a trail of blood trickling in his wake. He had no idea how long he was walking before he spotted that woman. He'd been convinced she was a vision, something he imagined on the roadside, until she hurried to him.

He hadn't the energy to startle.

She wound her arm beneath his and held, it wasn't a bad idea--the only complication lie in the fact that one side of him was clutching a deep wound and the other had broken ribs. She opted for the side without the blood, which Jaskier distantly acknowledged made sense, but what meager thoughts remained in his head fled him, then. He gaped as she took some of his weight and pressed into his broken ribs--he was silent and gasping messily until they got him to the bedroll.

The only thing that prevented him from collapsing in a heap, then, was the hold she had on his arm. His head swam as the ground pressed on his back and Jaskier blinked up at her, dazed, for several seconds as he tried to breathe. He did a very poor job of it.

It was hard to pull his hand away from his side, the blood around his wound had already started to dry where it soaked his doublet. It stuck to his fingers. He had to show her the wound, clearly she couldn't have guessed without the confirmation--but that was just about the only answer he could give. He wheezed and let his eyes close, lest he court vomiting.

"Oh, you know," Jaskier said in a tone he hoped was light and conversational. It was not, but that was beside the point. "Disagree with someone about whose wallet that is, whose belt it's attached to, and sometimes they get a bit argumentative. This fellow, I will admit, had a very good point."

Edited (well fine typos, be that way) 2020-03-18 09:57 (UTC)

Very much not game. But nearly as sad.

That her eyes didn't widen at the reveal of the injury itself was more testament to a modicum of pragmatism under pressure than any mental distance from his suffering. A location is presented to focus on, and that mandated abandonment of the doublet and any undershirt. (Which she would consider a favor - it couldn't be comfortable.) Rasping breath fortunately reminded her the effort of full removal might have been too much.

The jacket was then merely unbuttoned, left as open and out of the way as could be managed without jostling him. Any and all forms of undershirt carefully, gently rolled up. The impressively bruised side opposite was then freed to catch attention, and--

Well, one would permit a small widening of eyes at that point.

"How thorough was that point, exactly? Details. Everywhere it hurts."

Easy prompt. If not everything, it would at least provide highlights, direct a little of her urgency. The cut to mend would do so well enough in the moment. She would leave his side for a moment, to rummage through a bag - a bottle produced, contents unknown tipped onto a clean scrap of cloth.

While listening carefully for an answer, the delicate task of cleaning began.

"Oh, he and his fellows were very verbose," Jaskier wheezed as she shoved his shirt up. His voice had a rasping, weak quality, like a thin whistle through a narrow passage of rock. Fuck this hurt.

She'd probably guessed about his face--his nose couldn't have been broken too terribly or she'd have mentioned, right? Mercy maybe it was in tact--he could dream.

She pressed that cloth against the deep cut in his abdomen and he hissed, gritting his teeth hard. The flesh was tender and angry after all his exertion--the way he flexed upward before dropping back did nothing to help. A fresh, sluggish chug of blood rose to the surface of it and slid thickly down his side. Gods' how long had that dagger been? He couldn't remember.

He gaped a bit, let his mouth hang open and it moved as he sought words.

"Kicked in the ribs," he says, much less charm and cleverness in his tone, then. "My right leg--I don't know."

The glittering pain in that leg had remained constant, hadn't faded like the others, lost to the numbness of shock or the distraction of shivering. That was the boot he kept his flask in--had the glass shattered? Probably. It must have been empty, else he had less brandy then he thought.

There would be no withholding a wince on his behalf; no pleasure taken in it, but it had to be done. A little more aggravation before she could see about mending. New blood was wiped away along with the old, the latter quite understandably being a repetitive and careful task in lieu of a scrubbing one.

The new round of pained breathing and shaky explanation is enough that she amended the goal; short questions, moving forward. Yes or no or some equivalent whenever she could help it.

"Leg, or foot?" Would be a little rude to jostle someone out of their trousers for what would turn out to be no reason, after all.

A return made to the bag - a proper length of cloth produced, and a small waterskin. It contains a liquid (paste, more like), to be certain, but not water. It was added to the aforementioned cloth and carefully, methodically spread across and around the cut. It carried no burn or unpleasantness inherent to itself, nothing intended in any way to exacerbate discomfort.

He might in fact notice it smells like lavender. It's intended to soothe.

Little things.

"If you can lean up for me a little, I need to get this around you." Fasten cloth to wound, tight enough to stay in place. It could be managed without his assistance, but less pleasantly for all involved.

"Calf," he answered distractedly, or thought he had. It was hard to tell, frankly, with his pulse in his ears and his head so faint and foggy. He tried to breathe but it was an effort--something he found he had a great deal of trouble managing.

"Up?" He repeated distantly, unaware that time had passed or that she had spread anything across the cut in his stomach. He cracks an eye at her and the golden curls floating above him, against the radiant light that bounced through the canvas tent, seem almost ethereal. He was going to die...but at least he got to stare at someone lovely while he did.

His smile is soft and fond and desperate, but he tries, oh how he tries, to do as she asks.

It was enough to make out, barely. Small mercies.

"Up," came the echo, not quite brusque but clearly focused on the task at hand, the utility of an answer. Until the attempt to fulfill the request, scarcely better than nothing. Working the cloth under him was something of a task, but accomplished quickly enough for her taste. Not the most professional she'd done, but it would hold, and she could confidently call that all but dealt with provided he kept still and didn't fuss.

Which it seemed, as she glanced up, a heartbreakingly easy assumption to make. His gaze (incomplete and hazy as it must be) is met and held. The smile all but breaks her, and her own expression softens considerably to accommodate it. A tremendous amount of pain for a person, it must be frightening - the smile ought to confuse her, and yet.

Well. She'd been through her own share scrapes alone. A soul to smile at would have been cause to smile. Perhaps it was why treatment came to a short pause, long enough to gingerly take the nearest hand in both of hers. Minimal pressure, if only to ground him.

"You're going to be alright, I swear that, if you're listening. Nobody's getting to you here. Rest, for me? Eyes shut, relax. You're safe."

She'll take care of it. The ribs will be a headache, but she can work with it. He needn't be aware through it all.

It's her tone more than her words that reach him. She smiles, holds his hand, and talks softly to him. Her voice is melodious, reassuring, and lilts softly as her fingers press just barely against his, as she squeezes like he is made of glass. He might be--he feels like it, at the moment.

"Dear lady," he breathes, intent to say something else, but that is all the air he has within him. The next breath is shallow and his eyes flutter. They close, despite his urge to keep them up, and it isn't long before he passes clear out.

It's a long moment before she next shifts; it wouldn't do to abandon the gesture too soon. Closed eyes mean less than deep, slow breath, and for obviously reasons that was something not easily gauged at current. A deep breath for her, then. A slow count to forty. One last moment to marvel at, all things considered, his word choice in a time of crisis.

And then back to work.

The right boot is removed, and barring a grimace - why would one store glass there to begin with - the injured calf and ankle immediately set upon. Slow work, frustratingly pyrrhic considering how many small cuts she herself accumulated in the process. Glass is removed, herbs applied, and the leg wrapped.

The nose receives the same salve as the stomach wound, without a wrap. The ribs won't be entirely set to rights until he's awake and cooperating, but a head start comes in the form of a damp, evergreen-smelling sachet applied continuously, as if bruises could be sponged off. (They lighten noticeably. Perhaps they can.)

Much as she would like to have taken up another task by the time he comes to, she's likely still tending it.

It would be nice to dart up the path, see if these thieves were lingering in the area, but -- his health.

He's still handled as if he were glass.

He wakes sluggishly, like rising up through a bog to breathe air again. His eyes do not open at the same time--one is swollen with the injury on his nose, the other is slow to focus. He stares up at the canvas above him, at the failing light, and has no thoughts for some time. When they bubble up to meet him, they are gradual, simple things, and he manages to croak them out through a dry throat as they occur to him.

"I have no idea where this is," he says dazedly but with no panic.

"Why does everything hurt?" he asks and, as something brushes a tender part of his ribs, he hisses and recalls. "Ah--that's right. The mugging."

Everything smells of lavender and evergreen and it is wondrous. Oh--he can smell again? How delightful.

It actually merits a laugh, however brief. That was much more befitting a thoroughly beaten person. The distraction is appreciated. The company, really - gets dull, staring at a ribcage and listening to bird calls.

"The mugging," she echoes, on the off chance he needed his own returning memory corroborated. "But it ought to be hurting a lot less. You're talking, which is as relief. And nice. I doubt it'll be tempting, but try not to move around too much just yet--" Right, right, important question, "What do I call you?"

He gamely resists the urge to move and tries to spy her out of the corner of his downturned eyes. He can see a halo of golden hair and feel the press of her fingers and a cloth against his side, but little else. He lets his eyes close, even as he stays awake--it seems easier, just listening.

"Jaskier," he tells her and tries to take a deeper breath than he should. It stutters and he lets out a groaning chuckle. Neither sound helps the pain in any other part of him, but it's a dull throb now, in place of a heavy veil of agony.

"And I am always nice, my dear lady," Jaskier defends and tries to sound haughty. It is not particularly effective with his nose bashed in as it is. "What might I call you?"

Open Prompt/Starter - Injured Jaskier

concern.jpg

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

I am sorry this is short.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject