[Orual]

"I would greatly appreciate anything you can do to ease my pain, Dôranna," Desolyn replied, smiling a little.

Dôranna took some of the salve and grabbed some dried herbs out of her pack, ground into a fine powder. "I don't have much," she said apologetically, "and I wish it wasn't dried--everything is better fresh-cut--but we use what we have, don't we." She mixed a bit of it on her hand, and lifted the back of Desolyn's shirt. "This may sting a little bit," she added apologetically as Desolyn inhaled sharply. "These are ugly, Desolyn. They might take a while to heal, but this will soothe them some--once the stinging stops--and it will protect them, some, from infection."

As she rubbed the salve onto Desolyn's wounds, Dôranna studied the back of the woman's head. She knew that Desolyn had been born a slave. What would it be like to not have a home to return to? To have no certain future? Desolyn even looked something like an Easterling. Where would she go?

Dôranna blinked and her hand faltered for a moment. For that matter, what would she do? It had been...over a hundred years, though Dôranna winced to think of it. That was a hundred years for everyone else, too, including her fiancé. What if he had moved on?

Desolyn winced as Dôranna accidentally put too much pressure on one of the wounds. "I'm sorry," the Elf said in a soft voice. She had to keep her thoughts on the present. If she wanted to survive, she did.