bakerstreet | ( nursed back to health shipping meme. )

Firefoot's killed his fair share of wargs.

[ Besides, they weren't hunting wargs any more, they were looking for a witcher. And she found him.

Shifting back up to her feet, she brushes her hands off on her legs and then reaches out to Eskel, bracing herself to accept his weight and to haul him up off the ground. ]

It's not far.

[True to his words, he regains his feet, though his sword- rough hand grips hers tightly.]

Swords are over there somewhere. [He pants, pointing.] Just need to get those and then I'll go wherever you want me to go as long as you promise I can be drunk and horizontal when I get there.

Edited 2020-09-01 01:53 (UTC)

[ Her hands are just as rough as his, and her grip is strong and sure as she helps him regain his footing. She steps in close to him once he's standing, reaching out to try to steady him until he stops swaying dangerously. ]

I'm not sure if you should be hunting for your weapons right now... if you fall down, you might not get up again.

[ Shifting her grip on him, she brings her hand up to her mouth before catching sight of how bloody her fingers are and grimacing. Right. That won't work. Instead, she purses her lips and whistles without her fingers to assist, still managing a piercing shrill note that cuts through the woodland air easily.

It doesn't take long for the sounds of a horse approaching to become clear, and not much longer after that for a massive gray stallion to come cantering into the little clearing she found the witcher in. ]

Can't leave without them. [He insists, leaning on her as he feels and then sees the stallion arrive. He lights up at the sight of such a beautiful beast, as he has a somewhat incongruous soft spot for animals. As the horse comes closer, he extends a hand.] Hey there.

You're not going to, calm down.

[ Watching Eskel soften in the face of her giant charger cements Éomer's opinion of him in a way that little else could. She takes great pride in her horse, in all of her horses, and has raised him from a foal and trained him to be able to carry her in full armor in the midst of a battlefield without hurting himself. He's a magnificent beast, and she's terribly proud of him.

She isn't, however, oblivious to his faults. ]

Careful, he bites.

Alright. [Bypassing the nose then. He pats the stallion's shoulder with the hand he can move enough to do so.] Never seen horses like you have here. If I make a little money, maybe I'll get one to take back home with me come the fall.

[ She feels a little bad that Eskel's attempts at petting were thwarted, so she elaborates. ]

You smell like a warg. [ Considering he's been rolling around with a fair number of them, and is covered in their blood, that's hardly surprising. ] I've trained him to attack them.

[ It explains why Firefoot snorts and dances a little in place, obviously unhappy with this warg-smelling man being led closer to his side, but all it takes is a few terse commands from Éomer to have him stilling, though his ears make his displeasure known. ]

Just give him some time to settle.

[ Eskel isn't the first man to visit the Riddermark and want to take some horseflesh home with him; usually Éomer isn't exactly encouraging of such endeavors, mainly because she's stubborn and a little territorial, but if Eskel makes it through these injuries, and if he isn't heartily sick of anything Rohirrim by the end of his recovery, she'll help him find a colt or a filly to take with him. ]

Yeah alright. That's fair, buddy. [He concedes to the horse, dropping his hand to not cause further offense. He's vaguely aware of how filthy he is, covered in warg blood and witcher blood and mud and soot. And he's so, so tired.]

[ Patting Eskel on the back, Éomer maneuvers him closer to the horse and then ducks down to give him a boost up into the saddle, heaving with her not inconsiderable strength to get the injured witcher up onto her horse. ]

I'll fetch your swords, hang on.

[ They aren't particularly hard to find, even half-buried in warg corpses as they are, and it doesn't take her very long to lash them to Firefoot's saddle, followed by her own kit and Eskel's bags both. Once she's satisfied with that, and lengthens her stirrups a little to accommodate his longer legs, she heads to Firefoot's nose and strokes her hand over his neck as she murmurs to him quietly and coaxes him forward. ]

[Eskel makes a series of uncomfortable noise, his attempts to not express his pain, let he startle Firefoot. He's dizzy and there's bright white spots of pain in front of his eyes but he gets up onto the horse. He admires Éomer's raw strength for hauling his weight up onto the saddle with shameful little assistance from the wounded witcher. He settles into the saddle, gripping the horn of the saddle with white knuckles. He grids his teeth, bracing himself as the horse starts forward. He just has to stay upright and conscious until she gets him back to town. He can do this. Won't do to faint in front of the lady, would it?]

[ Éomer is torn between letting Eskel suffer in silence to allow his wounded pride some plausible deniability and facing the practicalities of their situation head-on.

Being practical wins out, in the end, as she knew it would. ]

Do you need me to tie you to the saddle?

[ Her voice isn't loud, but it isn't particularly gentle, either. She's not trying to coddle him. She just wants to know, does he need her to lash him to her horse so that he can't fall off? ]

Let's hope not. [He says, grimly. His face is pale and sweating.] Gonna try to stay upright on my own, thanks.

[It doesn't work. All it takes is a few changes in the terrain beneath them for Eskel to realize he can't hang on with his knees because his right leg simply won't respond without feeling like something is threatening to tear.]

Alright. You...might have been onto something there.

[ Éomer isn't silent as she moves to pick up the length of coiled rope she carries with her, but the stream of words that come from her mouth aren't really meant to be responded to. They're for Eskel's benefit, but they're said in the same tone she'd used to calm a spooked horse, giving him something else to focus on as she secures him to the back of her horse so that he doesn't have to strain so hard to keep upright. ]

[It's amusing and endearing, the way she murmurs to him like she would a nervous horse. It almost takes the edge off the way she has to secure him where he sits. Even if he has to admit that once the fear of sliding off has been mitigated, it helps considerably.] Sorry. [He says, of his stubbornness.] Not used to dealing with this kind of thing with help, makes me wanna act like I can handle it when I obviously can't. Can't remember the last time I got my ass kicked like this.

[ Caught out, she laughs a little, unrepentant but also a little embarrassed nonetheless.

Once her task is complete, she reaches up and pats Eskel on his good thigh. ] You're a man. [ Mutated witcher or not, that much is true. ] It's to be expected. You're all the same, down at the core. None of you are good at accepting help when you need it, least of all from a woman.

[He gives her an incredulous look.] Your sex's got nothing to do with it. I just watched you stitch up me up without flinching and with all the skills of any field medic I've ever met. Woman or not, that's impressive. Your womenfolk out here are tougher than some of the men in other parts of the world that I've met. I'm more than happy to place myself into your incredibly capable hands, providing I can get my head out of my ass, thinking I can get by on my own. As it stands, I think a puppy could kill me right now, if it felt particularly motivated.

We learned early on that even those who do not wield a sword can still die upon one. [ An understatement, to be sure. ] And how to carry on once the menfolk have gotten themselves slaughtered.

[ Nearly every village has a farrier, or an inkeeper, or a tanner who is a woman, a widow taking over her late husband's profession, a woman stepping in to fill a need when there is no man around to do it instead.

She pats his leg again. ]

It would have to be a rather large puppy, I would hope.

[He makes a small noise of understanding and just focuses on staying upright, at last lapsing into the more taciturn mode typical of witchers.

When he spies the town, he thanks the gods. He's dizzy again without distraction, nauseated from the potions that are finally passing out of his system, and in terrible pain, the arm which hangs uselessly at his side in particular.]

[ It takes a little while to get back to Hjaroarholt, but not too much longer, and the sounds of the village reach them quicker than the sight of it, the addition of the men of her éored making the general hustle and bustle of a settlement all the more obvious.

Eskel may be too loopy to notice it, but the moment the village comes into view, Éomer seems to grow taller, her shoulders drawing back, her chin lifting, and she strides into the place like she owns it, immediately barking commands to a few of the men who come closer to see what their leader dragged home.

After the commotion settles down, a handful of her riders are mounting up and riding off towards where the wargs were dispatched, sent away to deal with the corpses so they did not attract more carrion-feeders, and Éomer has convinced the alderman to give Eskel two-thirds of his agreed upon price as well as a cottage to recuperate in, one that was recently vacated by an unfortunately deceased farmer.

Perhaps it's a little morbid to be sleeping in the bed of a dead man, but it's better than the muddy forest floor, so she's going to take it as a victory.

Many hands help Eskel off her horse, and for a time she loses sight of him as she's drawn off into a hushed meeting, but eventually, she comes to find him again in his new set up. She's had time to clean herself off a little, to take her armor off and to wash her hands and her face, and without the breastplate and pauldrons hardening her frame, she suddenly looks actually like a woman and not just a beardless man.

Ducking to fit beneath the lintel of the cottage, she lets herself in and takes a critical look at the witcher with his fresh bandages. ] I see the healer has been to see you as promised.

[It's a bit of a whirlwind at that point, though he is aware-- and impressed by-- the way Éomer's voice changes, the way her men obey respectfully. The heft of the coin-purse she convinces the alderman to give him.

He's surprised at the number of the hands that reach to help him, and he's glad that he only growls and grumbles a little at his inability to control the situation, at the vulnerability of it.

By the time Éomer returns to him, he's laying in bed shirtless and in his small-clothes, though he's covered with a blanket someone found in a ceder chest in the little house. He's well bandaged with his mangled arm in a sling and the blood and filth has been cleared away. The lurid scar on his face is more visible, as are a myriad of other scars across his torso.]

Forgive my state of indecency, my lady. [He teases.] And the healer complimented your excellent stitches. All she did was close a few more spots and clean everything. I'm completely covered in antiseptic salve despite my insistence that witchers can't catch infections. Think it's got some kind of numbing plant in it, so that's nice. Said I should recover from the blood loss in a couple of days, reckon I'll recover faster than she thinks [He smiles his twisted-up smile and sinks back into the pillows, looking her over with a mix of curiosity and admiration.] People do what you say around here, it's impressive.

Don't you my lady me.

[ The scarring is more but also less impressive now that he's not covered in blood too; Éomer is used to seeing men with scars, though perhaps less extensive scars than the ones that decorate Eskel's torso, so it's not like he's some sort of disgusting terrifying monster to her.

The scar on his face is a bit of a shame. He was probably quite handsome before that injury.

She doesn't park herself on the edge of his bed or poke at his bandages, but she does squint at him in the dim interior of the cottage before nodding decisively, like she's satisfied. ] A little antiseptic can't hurt. Just because you don't succumb to infections like a normal man doesn't mean you should grind dirt into your wounds for the hell of it.

[ Crossing her arms under her chest, she lifts one shoulder in a shrug and tries not to look pleased. Of course her men answer to her. She leads their éored. And the villagers answer to her because, as far as they're concerned, she's the mouthpiece for their king. It's still nice to have that acknowledged by an outsider, though. Life in an éored is hard. Life in an éored as a woman is even harder. ]

I am very good at yelling.

I'll say, I wouldn't want to be on your wrong side. [He laughs. He laughs so easily, particularly compared to his typically more dour brethren. There's a warmth to Eskel that people rarely expect, providing they get over the disgust his witcher's eyes and ruined face inspire.] Well...I suppose you've done all you can for me. Thank you, Éomer. I owe you a life debt, certainly. I probably didn't have more than a few hours left in me before you arrived. [The healer informed him it may still be a bit risky, that he must rest to avoid compromising any more blood vessels. But there's no reason to trouble Éomer with this; she probably already knows, having seen men wounded in battle.]

[ Eskel is the only witcher Éomer has met in the flesh, so to her, they must all laugh this much. It's nice. He has a pleasant laugh, and it's nice to see a man who must spend so much of his life witnessing pain and anger able to find joy in small things.

His eyes are a bit strange, she'll admit that much. But the eyes are only part of the face, and she's already spent so much time talking to him and thinking of him as a person, it seems a little churlish to start taking offense now.

She uncrosses her arms to wave one hand dismissively. ] I would do it for anyone. You owe me nothing.

[ What kind of person would she be if she left a man to bleed to death alone? At the very least, she had been determined to sit with him while he died. The fact that he's still kicking, figuratively, is a miracle in and of itself, one that has very little to do with her intervention. ]

If you manage to survive a few hour's more, I will bring you that ale I promised. Unfortunately, for now, you'll have to wait a bit longer.

Oooh, I'll hang on for that promise of ale. [He swears, settling back onto the pillow.] And the company. Healer says I'll be here a while longer than I planned. Especially if I'm to recuperate sufficiently to not lose any range of motion in my arm. I'm going to go home as soon as I can though, no sense in getting myself killed later in the season because I'm still stiff or weakened.

Yes, I would think it in everyone's best interests if we avoided that.

[ She steps a little closer and reaches out to pat the back of his hand. ]

Rest. I will see to your horse and bring you some food once you have slept some and once the carcasses have been dealt with.

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