Arthur Brais
With a still-trembling hand, Arthur made a flourishing gesture in request for a quill, though the athletic woman at his bedside seemed not to quite understand what he was trying to communicate. She stared blankly a moment, repeating the same gesture the second time that he made it, until finally she caught on. "Oh, ink an' paper?" she asked, to which he curtly nodded, a relieved sigh turning to pinkish spluttering as more blood and dribble sprayed past his lips, around the swollen mass of his tongue. The pain seemed to have numbed considerably by now, though there was still a faint tickling sensation coming from Arthur's thigh, the bandage wiggling almost imperceptibly, flesh writhing beneath it. She seemed to contemplate briefly before stepping out to the doorway, asking after the innkeeper again, and where he may keep such things. She hurried off quickly enough, apparently looking for what it was that he'd need to field his questions.
He was left to his own devices, few as they would be that is. In an attempt to prop himself at least into a seated position, the reverent could feel his abdomen protesting sharply, muscle creaking and shuddering, eventually falling slack despite his best efforts, leaving him to fall back against the pallet again, stomach lurching at the sudden stop. He gagged again, nearly losing whatever still settled in his stomach. Below the floorboards, Arthur could make out a few sharp remarks, though they were muffled to the point he couldn't recognize them by the snippets that he caught; for all he knew, they were speaking another language again. There were the sounds of some rummaging about, but on reflection, it seemed quite quiet for a tavern, though perhaps merely because of the time. A look out the rickety-shuttered window revealed that the sun hung high in the sky, saying that it should be about mid-day. Which day though?
The Westerwoman's return was heralded by heavy boots on the driftwood stairs, thumping their way upward to the dusty quarters he'd been loaned. Why exactly though, still eluded him. True, armed men in the tavern were usually turned away, often forcefully, but why risk their necks for his sake? Also, why tend his wounds, and have a foreign doctor treat him? There were too many questions rumbling behind his brow, churning like stormclouds as he tried to piece together what sort of compensation they'd be in search of.
When she stepped back in through the door, needing to duck her head slightly to keep from crashing it into the lintel. In one hand, she held a stick of charcoal, hastily wrapped in a dingy patch of cloth, and in the other, a ragged scrap of paper. Apparently the written word wasn't overly popular in this particular establishment, though little surprise that was. He accepted both with a nod and forced smile, struggling to form the expression with the excessive swelling inside his mouth. "Not exactly such as yourself'd be used to, but what we've got," she explained almost needlessly. In hindsight, would any of his rescuers be able to read? The Vosgian probably not, he struggled enough to speak Lyrennian... The owner of the tavern was another unlikely, and judging by his initial estimate at this girl's upbringing, she may not be capable either...
Either way, the nobleman-turned-sneakthief set to jotting out his questions with an unsteady hand.
"
How long was I sleeping? Why did you help me? What do you want?" he scrawled quickly. The three were his most important questions after all. He extended the paper with one hand, letting the stick of charcoal fall alongside his lap, where it rolled to a rest against his leg, and the bandage binding it. While she took the note, the woman appeared to struggle with what was written on it, though fared better than he'd only just started to expect. Her lips moved while she read, muttering beneath her breath, trying to sound each syllable out manually.
"How, lung? Long. W- How long were you asleep?" she asked in confirmation, though forming a response before receiving any confirmation. "Bout a day and a half 'suppose?" she practically mumbled, brow furrowing to concentrate on the rest of the wording.
It took a few moments, but she eventually got the best of his message, and pulled something from the bedside table, probably the only item in its one drawer. A worn-smooth square of iron dangling from a bit of hempen string. His medallion. "Isn't it obvious? Help a fellow countryman?" she asked, only looking at the medallion briefly as it spun lazily on the end of the string. What did she mean? Arthur had never even been to Drahlen...
Your minds are simple and frail...
"Sides, you look rich enough, nose still straight and all," she remarked next, thumbing at her own nose to make a point, forcing him to just now realize its crookedness. Was every Drahlite so violent as that?
At least it would explain why they'd helped him, though breaking that news wouldn't exactly be pleasant...
"C'mon, you'll need some food in your belly," she went on, not giving him a moment to protest as she slipped a thickly-muscled arm beneath his shoulders, and dragged him upright almost effortlessly. Arthur shook his head, disagreeing with the brash, even casual treatment at such contact. The woman didn't seem to be perturbed in the least though, dragging him into a seated position before forcing him onto his feet.
Wincing, bracing himself for the worst, Arthur found relatively little pain in his leg now, though it remained tender, even weak as it buckled beneath him. Still beside him, the still-unnamed woman caught, and steadied him, helping him put one foot before the other. "That's it," came some encouragement that burned at him a little bit more than it should have. The stairs proved quite a challenge, but making their way to the bottom, the inside of the tavern was largely empty, but for the owner and his foreign acquaintance, as well as a small group of individuals at the corner table next to the door. There was a red-brown stain about the size of a palm near the bottom of the doorframe, and a few scorch-marks on the floor near the fireplace that seemed slightly out of place, though he had a guess at where they'd come from. There were a couple of bowls of something lain on the bar already, one steaming, filled with a brownish broth, the other with a chunky grey slop, probably cold, and meant for him...
Arthur wouldn't complain though, he couldn't not since he was still breathing, and, so far as he could tell, not bleeding anymore. Now what would they expect of him though? Things had plenty of room to turn sideways at this point...
How exactly should Arthur play this?
[ ] Come clean, admit to not being from Drahlen.
[ ] Play it by ear, and try to keep up appearances, to eventually get out, and pretend he could pay them back.
[ ] Remain noncommittal, only answering as much as is entirely necessary to clear any suspicions.
Crown Points: 1
