bakerstreet | ( nursed back to health shipping meme. )

Alderman? [He guesses.] I'm sure he'll regret you finding me, providing I get back to civilization alive. He won't have to pay full price, but he owes me for at least six. [He laughs dryly, pointing at the crumpled figures of the wargs.] I'll have to get the tails...[Focusing on business makes it harder to focus on the pull of needle through ragged flesh. He might not feel pain as keenly as another man, might be able to fight through it, but there were some operative words there. He might not feel pain as strongly but he could feel it and, not being presently engaged in combat, it was much harder to ignore the pain when there was nothing to fight through. He sucks his teeth and breathes steadily through his nose.]

He'll pay you what you're owed.

[ Even banished, Éomer's word carries more than a little weight, especially this far from Edoras. The people here know her better than any of her other uncle's Marshals, as they see her far more frequently.

In an effort to keep his mind off his injuries, she digs deep within herself to make conversation. It is not necessarily her strong suit, but the more she keeps him talking, the more likely he'll remain conscious. That's no small thing. ]

Tell me, Eskel. What is a witcher doing in these parts? I thought your kind kept closer to the coasts.

Hunting is always better this side of the mountains. Between Isengard and the marshes that run to the foot of the Ash Mountains.[He tips his head back against the tree, yellow eyes closing against the dizziness.] Major river makes it easy to travel. [He's far from home though, for the witchers live at the foot of the Gray Mountains.]

Hm.

[ Éomer grew up on tales of witchers, of men who were made more to battle the monsters that encroached upon their lands. There was a time she found them romantic, exciting. What bravery it must take to follow the trail of creatures hellbent on destruction, what honor there must have been found in killing them and rescuing those under attack.

And then her parents were killed by a warg and she pissed herself in terror, nearly smothering her baby sister with the hand held over her mouth to keep her from screaming, and all the honor and romance crumbled.

It's a job, like any other. And, as aptly demonstrated by the blood caking itself under her fingernails as she painstakingly stitches muscle and skin back together, witchers are just men. ]

More monsters around, these days.

Yeah. Something's brewing, and nothing good. [He admits.] You'll probably see more, but it's worse to the west already. [The wounds are terrible, but he watches Éomer ably close the wounds. It'll get him back to somewhere he can rest, anyway.] You're good. If I make it back to somewhere I can rest for a while, I might be alright. [He smiles, and this close, it might be evident that under the blood, his face is mangled in a way that's torn and deformed his upper lip into a perpetual sneer, the wound running all the way to his hairline. But it's an old wound, healed badly. It ruins his smile and he knows it, but he can't help it.]

Edited 2020-08-31 16:39 (UTC)

Is it really.

[ That doesn't bode well for Rohan's future. She's heard talk of encroachment from the east, and if the creatures in the west are growing in numbers, that leaves the Riddermark between a rock and a hard place with very few allies to call on.

Yet another thing to fret over in the days ahead.

But first things first.

The scar on the witcher's face is all-too evident, but if he's expecting her to recoil from him, he'll be disappointed. Éomer is no stranger to men with scars, even though his are perhaps more fearsome than some others. She bears a few herself, mostly contained to her strong forearms and a rather gruesome one at the join of her neck and shoulder, a wound sustained because she had removed her helm on a nice day to enjoy the balmy weather and caught an arrow to the throat. Had the shooter been a little more precise, or had she not turned her head at just the right time, she'd have been dead in an instant.

She smiles back at him. ] You will if I have anything to say about it.

Yeah. I just have a bad feeling, and the nonhumans we've spoken to-- my brothers and I-- have bad feelings. And we do not live as long as elves, but you live long enough and you learn to trust your gut. More work for us, but we cannot be everywhere at once. [Not to mention the fact that their numbers are dwindling, with no promise of more to come as they succumb to their work one by one.]

[ Éomer remains silent for a minute or so, focusing on what she's doing and trying to think of how to say what she wants to without it coming across the wrong way. Her strength is not in diplomacy, and she's grateful that she will never have to sit on a throne and be polite to people when she's not feeling in the mood for it.

There are some benefits to simply being a lesser cousin, and a woman, to boot. ]

There are fewer of you now, aren't there.

[He blinks at her, the yellow eyes wary.] We're a rare breed these days, yeah. I know my school is greatly reduced. I don't know about the others in the Order, but I encounter them less and less so...[He shrugs and offers her another his lopsided smile.] Means you're trying to save an endangered species here. No pressure.

And you are not...taking on new apprentices?

[ In times of war, Éomer is well aware how recruitment picks up for the éoreds, boys who seem far too young to be holding a blade conscripted into service to their king and kingdom. Surely witchers must do the same.

She grunts at him, but her hands don't change from their steady pace as she methodically stitches him up with unwavering fingers. ]

No. [He won't tell her why. The secrets of the witchers will die out: their mages are dead, their alchemical texts lost, their master too old to raise a class of witchers on his own. To say nothing of the fact that his youngest brother, the last surviving generation of Wolves, would die himself before he allowed them to put any more boys through the Changes, even if they still had the ability to do so.] Not anymore. I'm sure there's plenty of people who will rejoice when the body of the last witcher is found.

[ She doesn't really expect him to. For all that she's got her hands slippery with his blood, they're essentially strangers to one another. Still... ]

I think you will be proven wrong.

[ Although, for what she knows about most people, he's not wrong at all. People have always seemed happy to behave against their self-interest, and the news of the last witcher dying will almost surely be met with joy. Joy which will turn to fear and horror when the reality of that sets in: without witchers around to do it, who will kill the monsters? ]

I hope so, at least.

[Another one of those tinny, barking laughs.] I'll be dead, what will it matter to me if I'm right or wrong? Either by monster or man, my order will be lost, in time. [He's silent for a long time.] If I don't make it, you have to burn my body. Burn my body and my bag. You may keep my swords and this...[He touches the medallion of a snarling wolf on his chest.] If you meet a witcher with another medallion like it, tell him what happened and give him those things. But my body must be destroyed.

[ She smiles down at her hands as she moves on to the mess that is his thigh, pleased when he laughs even if it sounds strained. She knows nothing about a witcher's stamina, or their ability to heal, but things seem more or less positive for now, and barring any unfortunate turns for the worse, she's cautiously hopeful that he'll pull through.

Of course, she's seen men on the mend make spectacular nose-dives in their recovery, so she's not holding her breath. ]

Rather grim, isn't it? [ Honestly, she would have burned him anyway, to deter a warg from digging up his corpse and then deciding to try the nearest village for fresh meat when his decaying body didn't satisfy, but he doesn't need to know that. ] But alright. Is there someone I should send word to? A sweetheart waiting for you, perhaps?

[He shakes his head.] If you happen across another witcher, tell them. Word will get to my brothers one way or another that way. [A small snort.] Sweetheart? Nah, I'm not the romantic type and the ladies don't exactly yearn for the company of witchers.

[ Now she lifts her eyes to smile at his face, her eyebrows quirking a little as she smirks. ]

You'd be surprised what ladies yearn for, Eskel.

[ Though, alright, maybe he does know better than she does how women react when they see him, but Éomer's a woman, and she wouldn't say no to a man with a body like the one currently beneath her hands. If he weren't bleeding everywhere, of course. And if a few more criteria were met, too. The point is, she's seen uglier men than Eskel with a woman hanging off their arm. ]

A favorite whore, perhaps? [ There's no censure in her voice. Working women are women, still, and just as worthy of respect in her books. ] There aren't too many brothels in the Riddermark, but word can still be passed along. Someone must wonder where you are when you go.

Nope. I bear no ill-will towards the trade but you can only see so many of 'em recoil at the sight of you before you realize it's unkind to keep turning up and asking. No, my brothers will be the only ones who will look for me, come winter. [He closes his eyes again, leaning back against the tree.] So you're an expert on what the ladies yearn for, eh? [It's a better distraction. There's no insinuation in his tone, just a note of teasing.] I promise you, witchers make poor company. We're wanderers, we're likely to die without leaving word and just as likely to turn up covered in blood and monsterous ichors. We're unsettling to behold-- especially in the dark-- and our bodies are torn apart by scarring. Some, like myself, are particularly blessed in the scar department. We're so unnatural in our origins that we're sterile as mules. Not exactly the makings of a man you want to settle down with.

Edited 2020-08-31 19:10 (UTC)

Well, more of an expert than a man would be, at least...

[ It sounds like a sad life, a lonely life, but not that much sadder or lonelier than her own. If the tables were turned, she'd likely be fielding the same questions and giving the same answers. Such is the life of those who ply their trade through violence.

The sterile comment gets a raised eyebrow, but not much more of a surprised reaction than that. ] Some women might prefer that, actually. [ A widow, perhaps, who had taken over her first husband's profession after his death might prefer a man who isn't interested in taking over her life, or adding to her brood of children. Some women, like herself, are not cut out to be mothers at all and find the thought of settling down to be more than a little disquieting. What would she do with children? Once they are old enough to sit astride a horse and not fall off, she feels a little more confident with them, but when she is handed a babe in swaddling clothes all she can think of is what might happen if she drops it. ]

So. [ It's hard to think of a way to word this delicately, so she just blurts it out. ] It all...works? [ Laughing a little, embarrassed but curious nonetheless, she elaborates. ] People tell all sorts of stories about witchers. Some say you have cocks like wolves. Some say you don't have cocks at all.

[That elicits a laugh so sharp and loud that it physically hurts and makes him wheeze. Huh, definitely cracked a rib or three, probably when one of the beasts had thrown him to the ground.] Yeah, it works. And it looks just like any man's, as far as I can tell.

Gods, be careful.

[ At least he laughed, though, which makes Éomer laugh again, even as she reaches up to press her hands to his torso to hold him steady, leaving smeared bloody hand prints on the small clean strips left of his bloodied shirt. ] Don't hurt yourself worse because of my poor jokes.

[ Once she's fairly certain he won't damage himself further, she returns to trying to patch up the mess that is his leg, still chuckling quietly to herself. ]

[He catches his breath, glad at least that she wasn't embarrassed by his answer or her own impertinent question.] Right, I'd hate to burden your conscience if I pop a lung. You've got a soldier's sense of humor as well as a soldier's medical prowess.

[ She spends all her waking moments surrounded by men. If talking about pricks was enough to embarrass her, she'd be in the wrong profession. ]

Are you trying to tell me I'm doing a poor job of it?

[ She's just joking. But, again, keeping him talking means keeping him alive, and that's what she's focusing on right now. ]

Doing better than I was managing, anyway. [He says, ruefully.] Couldn't even get my belt off to tourniquet the thing.

Because you're hurt, I won't even make a joke about your equipment even though you set it up for me.

[ Even without a tourniquet, things seem to be slowing down in the bleeding department, which Éomer is quite grateful for. If he's more or less patched up, she can get him onto her horse and back to the village. If he's still bleeding everywhere, she's going to have to fashion a pallet to drag behind Firefoot with him lying on it and that doesn't look like it's going to go over well with anyone involved. ]

If I get out of this alright, we can revisit jokes about my equipment, eh? [Probably not, it's probably unseemly but it's good for the banter that's keeping him awake.] Melitele, I need a drink. Wherever you're taking me, I hope there's booze.

Edited (Forgot for a moment that he was invoking the wrong deity instead of merely swearing) 2020-08-31 22:49 (UTC)

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