Public — Knuckle Therapy
1627
Context
In Argarths camp day after the prisoner was killed [[[s02:session-47|Session 47]]]
Events
Berra spends time with the camp, and then finds a space in which to practice the sword. She seems frustrated but a little more relaxed at the end of it.
Sometime after Berra finishes her training, Varanis storms back into camp. “Where’s my helmet?!” she rages.
Berra does not jump up to go find it, although a few of the infantry do. The Humakti takes the time to tie off the knot in the sandal that she is carefully repairing, and then stands up to test it out.
When someone turns up with the helmet in hand, Varanis remembers her manners enough to thank him by name. She jams it onto her head impatiently. She turns to Berra. “Keep them alive and get them home to Esrolia, if you can.” Then she turns back in the direction she came from.
Berra stares for a moment, says, “Fuck,” and hurries after Varanis.
Not long afterwards, off in that direction that is shouting and commotion.
Irillo looks over, and sighs, and then stands, putting on an emollient expression.
It is a little further off than merely standing will let him see. Still, the noise is growing. Perhaps it will be with them shortly.
Xenofos puts away his writing kit, leaves the Tarshian prisoners and walks towards the commotion.
After a few minutes, he comes on a scene of impressive carnage, given that nobody is dead. A crowd is clustered around several injured and unconscious people, and there seems to be an argument in progress. Three people are laid out on the floor, one is whimpering in a pile of his own breakfast, while clutching at his groin, and others are gravely discussing, helping by shouting a lot, or actually helping by applying healing magic.
There are several phrases that he catches; berserker is a word he knows. “The little one was a berserker,” is quite easy. And, “Beaten by a woman, like a hide with mud on!” And, “Her name is Deathchild. The little one. She rides a bison.” That is from a man testing his weight on his right leg, where a bloodied knuckleprint to the front of his knee says why he is not eager to put his full weight on it.
The two women who caused this, assuming they caused it, are nowhere to be seen.
Xenofos observes the scene looking for two familiar women and listening to possible sound of further commotion.
There is a man just angling in towards Xenofos. Dark and bearded means little here, but this man is dark and bearded, and he seems about to say something, then he just jerks his thumb over his shoulder, glances that way, and walks past.
Xenofos nods and proceeds to pointed direction.
That way is a narrow boulevard between tents, and just at the end of it are a Vingan and the Humakti she is ushering on, turning towards the West, where there is as Xenofos recalls a healers’ tent. The White Ladies are up there, but so is Glasswall, if one walks far enough. They are probably not going back there to invade alone.
For one, they would have to go through Alda Chur first.
Scholar looks follows the disappearing figures at quickening pace.
Berra is walking slowly, with Varanis keeping that pace. As Xenofos approaches, it is clear that Berra is hurt – her left arm dangles with a twist in it, and she is picking her way carefully to avoid jarring it. Still, she is keeping an eye around her, although that does not extend to her usual glances everywhere followed by intense staring.
Xenofos loosens his sword in it’s scabbard with his left hand and makes a scan around to see if the women or he himself are being followed.
It seems that there is nobody doing that, which is perhaps a little odd.
Varanis is entirely focussed on Berra.
Out of sword range scholar asks in Esrolian “I saw the other party, what happened?”
Berra gives a glance that way, and says, “Ow. Bending neck hurts too.” She has a black eye and her lips are puffy with the lower one split. If she had her helmet on leaving camp, she no longer does; her hair is a mess. Everything is a mess. Fortunately she was in light armour elsewhere.
“Xeno. On her other side, please.”
Scribe goes where instructed and looks at Varanis.
“I’m fine,” Berra tells him. “Not going to fall over. But we’ll get it set.” She looks pale, too.
“Say before you keel over.” Scribe stays close enough to catch her but does not try to offer support before it is needed.
“There was a bit of a scuffle.”
Since Xenofos is not wearing a helmet his raised eyebrow is quite apparent.
Berra says peacefully, “There was. My elbow got scuffled.”
“It was fun for a while,” the Vingan says with a shrug.
“Yeah.” Berra nods, agreeing along.
“When we get you mended, I should go looking for your helmet,” Varanis notes. “We seem to have left it behind.”
“You might need company. You left some quite unhappy people behind too, it seems,” Xenofos says drily.
“It’s at camp. I was mending my shoe.” Berra looks down at it. “Hey, it held up!” No worry at all.
When Berra looks down Xenofos’ hands rise to catch her if that is start of a fall.
“I’m *fine*,” she tells him, although that is only fine in that she has failed to fall over yet. “Just the arm, and a few bruises.” She nods to the big tent with its white flags outside. “Anyhow, I learned some more Praxian. Although I don’t know what it means.”
“Stay with her a moment,” Varanis tells her cousin. “I want to check on our welcome.” Without waiting for a reply (when does she ever wait?), she dips through the flap and into the tent.
Xenofos nods to his cousin’s back and returns his attention to Berra.
Berra takes a deep breath, and does not offer to fight Xenofos.
“Do you want to tell the reason why?” scribe asks after a moment of silence.
“We’re both fucking angry,” Berra said quietly, “And this was better than not getting…. uh. Words. Than the things with bigger chances of people getting killed.”
Varanis re-emerges with a couple of white-robed healers. “My companion’s arm is broken,” she is saying, “and there are a few others who might need looking at, over that way. I healed one a bit, but his head got rattled hard.” She doesn’t mention how, but given the nature of the camp, she doesn’t really need to.
One of the healers, a stout woman, goes off to see to that. The other, a man similar to her in build, stays behind to look at Berra’s arm. “If you can set it, I can heal it,” the Humakti tells him.
Xenofos nods at Berra’s words.
It takes a few minutes for the man to look Berra over, ease the fractured joint, and despite her protestations add a little healing magic. “No, how could I not for one with such a valued companion?” He glances at Xenofos.
Varanis watches carefully. “May I make a donation to your temple?” she asks when he finishes with Berra.
“Of course,” he says. “We are always open.”
“Thanks,” Berra tells him, stretching out her arm gingerly. While he is looking away she makes a fist, but it does not seem to be to threaten anyone.
“Back to camp then,” Varanis states. “Let’s go.” To the healer she says, “Thank you. I’ll come by to visit later.”
He says, “As you will,” and then to Xenofos, “Lightbringer? Your story inspired me.”
Xenofos nods. “I was just following Orlanth” He nods towards Varanis “and tried to tell what I saw.”
“It is why I am here,” the healer replies. “I followed my cousin too.” He hurries away then, rather than letting the conversation drag out.
Xenofos raises his eyebrow and then follows the women.
Berra walks back to the camp in silence, save for her magic; she heals enough that her arm moves easily.
Back at camp, Varanis makes arrangements to ensure that she has a ready supply of beer. She also pulls out the last of her wine supply and whatever food stuff she can find. Just in case any of the Praxians take her up on her invitation.
There is a little trouble, and a little pushing at the pickets, but nobody breaks in that day, and that night there are songs in the Straw Weaver camp that are all about Rajar and his companions. There are polite visitors, but not many.
Over the next day or two, Praxians arrive to call on the camp. Some have small gifts for the sentries, others have a little something for Berra or Varanis. The Straw Weavers bring soft food and warm clothing for Rajar.
Berra deals with it by politeness and a little of confusion.
Varanis is perplexed by it too, but has chosen to stay close to camp. She is still waiting for either Venna or Argrath to see her. She walks the pickets at night, checking in with the guards. She watches training. She peers nervously over Irillo the Quartermaster’s shoulder. Essentially, she seems to be everywhere within the camp, trying to let other people go about their tasks, but unable to stay still.
After some hours, Berra might have understood what is going on: she invites Varanis to take particular parts of the training; shield wall drills that require called orders, and to inspect weapons and gear. Make-work for some, it is also good practice for the Esrolians, and turns up a few irregularities. ‘Lost’ things may have accidentally been traded.
Xenofos is mostly talking with the prisoners and making notes. At other times he loiters so that they stay within his sight.
The bard composes praise-music to Varanis, his captor, but does not call for it to be heard.
Morning after the fistfight Xenofos rides out of the camp with a following of five cavalrytroopers. Only after he is gone does Berra think to ask who was commanding that.
Rations are cut, as food supplies become more of a problem. Varanis is rarely seen to eat. She continues to try to speak with either Venna or Argrath.
With the cutting of rations, there is less exercising, and a released schedule; plenty of kit inspections but more chance for people to leave the camp and wander and look around. At least at first, there is little trouble.
Varanis will tell the commanders to make sure no one leaves camp alone.
