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Old 05-24-2006, 04:24 PM   #27
Firefoot
Illusionary Holbytla
 
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Join Date: Dec 2003
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Firefoot has been trapped in the Barrow!
“I think my wrist is broken.”

Scyld raised his eyebrows at the abrupt change in topic. He knew that she probably wanted a healer of some sort, but that certainly was not within his power to grant, even if he really wanted to. Which he didn’t, not necessarily. He considered a simple snide, You’ll live, but thought better of it. He didn’t want her to hate him, after all. A little bit of provocation might be enjoyable, but it was not his goal to make her as miserable as possible.

“I highly doubt that Sorn would care much if I told him,” he said instead, and knew it was true. Sorn might laugh, or maybe even punish him for bringing such a trifling detail to his attention.

“Nor do you, I suppose,” she half-whimpered, half-snarled.

Scyld laughed, but not at her predicament as she might suppose. “See now! Already you are learning to dispense with your diplomacy.” He could feel as much as see her glare. “As for caring… well, I guess I have not decided yet. And if I did, there really would not be very much I could do. Certainly I could not – or would not – send for a healer, not without Sorn’s permission, which I would be entirely reluctant to ask. And I doubt you would care for me as a healer. I have only slightly more experience with injuries than with ‘standing responsible over lives,’ as I believe you put it.” Still she did not respond, and Scyld realized that it was very real pain that prevented her from speaking, not just another act. Pain was a difficult thing to deal with, if you are not accustomed to it… Scyld started at this thought. Or perhaps it was not so much a thought as his twelve-year-old self talking to him. He had been a different person then.

“Listen,” he said. “I can’t get you a healer. Your skirt is certainly long enough; why don’t you rip of some strips of that and try to wrap up your wrist? I can’t help you; Sorn would notice of the knot was too neat, and right now…” He shrugged. “My life over yours.” He considered the vast supply of wine and beer kept in the cellar. “But maybe if I’m feeling charitable, or if you beg enough, I’ll slip you some wine – or something stronger, perhaps? – with your next meal. It might take the edge off the pain, anyway.” And to even his own surprise, the jeering edge had disappeared from his voice.
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