bakerstreet | ( nursed back to health shipping meme. )

[ 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.

Yes ma'am. [In truth, it's not hard to do as she asks. His eyes are closed by the time she crosses the threshold and he's sound asleep a few moments after that. Exhausted by his brush with death, he sleeps deeply and mercifully bereft of the nightmares known to inflict witchers. He's asleep still when she returns to him, snoring somewhat.]

[ True to her word, Éomer seeks out the witcher's horse, already stabled and cared for, and sets to grooming her again regardless, murmuring to her quietly in her lilting mother tongue and enjoying the way the horse's ears flick back and forth like she's trying to understand what Éomer is saying to her.

Once the mare has been seen to, she sees to Firefoot as well even though her squire has already washed the blood off him and brushed him down, repeating the whole process herself, holding a one-sided conversation with him as well.

After both horses are happily munching through a nose-bag of oats, settled in their borrowed stalls far enough away from each other that she doesn't have to worry about someone starting a fight with anyone else, Éomer goes and sees to herself next.

The rest of the day passes in much the same way, with Éomer killing time replenishing the éored's stores, speaking with the alderman about official business, visiting the farrier, tracking down the village medicine woman to see if she can procure some more of the herbs that keep her from getting her monthlies while out on patrol. By the time the evening meal rolls around, all her men have returned from their duties as well, and the small village tavern is full to bursting, raucous laughter and drunken singing spilling from the open doors like torchlight. Éomer stays long enough to drink a pint of ale herself, and grab a few bites to eat, but she's not particularly hungry and she promised someone else she'd bring him some sustenance.

The cottage is dark when she slips through the door, but she thinks the witcher is awake. ]

I don't suppose you could light the hearth all the way from over there, could you?

Mmm? [A sleepy growl from the bed. He heaves himself up on his good arm with a groan and in the dark she might be able to see that his eyes reflect, the mirror-shine gaze of a predatory beast.] The fire? Maybe, but you're gonna want to stand well clear while I try. [Of course, he can't resist the urge to show off, even beat to shit as he is.]

[ That sleepy growl was rather nice, actually. Éomer firmly pushes that thought aside. Now is not the time for even idle speculation.

His eyes flashing like a cat is a little odd, but it's not like it's altogether surprising, if she thinks about it. He's already got the slitted pupils of a cat, it stands to reason that they'd react to dim light the same way a barn cat's eyes would.

The grunting and the shuffling around in bed is a very human noise, though. Even if his eyes did disquiet her, the rest would be enough to put her at ease. ]

...You aren't going to burn the cottage down, are you? This is a thatched roof.

I'll be careful. [He promises, shifting a bit and focusing through the ache in his ravaged body. He focuses and makes the sign of Igni and a whirl of flame lurches across the space. The sparks dissipate instantaneously when he stops making the sign, but a little tongue of flame has caught in the hearth. He sinks back against the headboard, looking very pleased with himself, if a bit sweaty with the effort. The spell isn't really meant for such precision but he'd managed it.] Told you.

Good heavens.

[ Watching someone launch fire across a room, even a room as small as this one, seems like it would require more swearing than that, but Éomer has already seen Eskel with fire dancing across his fingertips, so she at least was somewhat prepared.

Still. That was impressive.

Though, in the light that the fire is now producing, she can see the sweat that's cropping up along his brow and in the hollow of his throat, and she frowns at him. ]

You could have said no. I wouldn't have thought less of you.

[ Honestly. Men. They're all the same. ]

Here. Drink your ale.

Hell no. My pride won't let me fail to cast twice in a row in front of good company. [He takes the ale, sipping it gratefully. Beyond the fact that he's thirsty and in the need of having his spirits lifted in the way only the effervescence of beer can provide, it's also just really good beer. He makes a very pleased noise and restrains himself so he can savor it for a while. He looks at her over the rim of the mug.] Damn, that's good. Thanks.

Unbelievable.

[ Perfectly believable, actually.

Rolling her eyes at him, she sets the trencher she brought with her down on the bed beside his good leg and goes to fetch herself a chair that she can drag a little closer to his bedside. ]

I thought you might need a little sustenance. Healing is thirsty work.

Much appreciated. [He's happy to dig in, though he does his best to retain some semblance of manners. A little difficult with only one hand but he'll manage. And she spends all her time with soldiers, surely she's seen a man bolt his food a time or two.] You don't have to stay too long, though I'd be glad of the company for a little while. Otherwise I'm just gonna lay here and think about how itchy and sore I am.

[ She purposefully brought him food that could be eaten one-handed: bread with butter, cured meats, some roasted vegetables. The stew that was served to her men had been delicious, but she thought perhaps navigating a bowl and spoon with only one hand available would be too difficult, so she decided not to bring any to the recuperating witcher. ]

Sitting with you means not having to yell to be heard, so I'm quite happy to remain.

[ His company is pleasant, too, especially when he's not bleeding all over her. Stretching her legs out comfortably in front of her and crossing her ankles, she settles into her chair and watches him eat. ]

I know what the healer told me, but what do you think? Will you recover?

If I'm a very good boy and sit still for a while. [He jokes, chewing the thick crust of the bread. It's good, chewy with oats and the butter is sweet. Beats dry rations on the road, for sure.] But I think I'll be fine, thanks to my knight in shining armor. [He winks at her with his unscarred eye.]

And are you going to be good?

[ She knows better than to expect any man to actually listen to everything a healer says. Her own riders like to push their luck when it comes to their recovery, and she knows enough about witchers now to know that their healing rates differ from a full human's. Who knows how Eskel will react to being told he has to stay in bed for a few days.

She smirks and picks at a stain on her trousers. ] Hard to find anything still shining out on the plains. Too dusty.

Yeah, I'll be good. Have to be, if I don't make it home for the winter, you're going to have some very nosy, very irritable witchers on your doorstep and I'd hate for that to happen. [He piles some of the cured meats on the bread to multitask on the efficient way he's scarfing down his dinner.] And yet there you were, like a beacon in the blood and the smoke and the mud.

Well, if they're anything like you are, I don't really see why that would be a problem... [ She's enjoyed their acquaintance, so far. Though if the witchers descended upon the Riddermark to avenge a fallen comrade, they might be a little less pleasant than Eskel's been so far. ]

Are you a poet as well as a witcher, Eskel?

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