A Tale of Two Mercenaries

Status
Not open for further replies.
Zaira watches him. She has done a lot of watching all her life, and now is not the time to stop. From the way he responds to her words, she believes to have said too much. His story was disarming, and she revealed a part of her life that not many knew. When she looks back into the honest gaze of the man who is to be her partner, her eyes are only guarded and hard. They are the eyes of someone who feels she has done something wrong. When he bows, she simply inclines her head. "Tomorrow," she replies before disappearing into the other room.

Zaira does not sleep on this night. She wonders why she was so unconscious in her decision to reveal her past. Truth, she knows that it is her story of why she is what she is, but Arean does not need to know. They are not permanent partners. She curses her slip of the tongue before making attempts to sleep once more.

Morning finds her hair disheveled and one boot off. She has overslept, for she hears knocking and knows it must be Arean. She proceeds with haste to find her left boot and braid her hair to hide the tangled locks. Once she finds herself suitable to present herself, she opens the door. "Morning," she says shortly, making sure she hasn't left anything in the room. She travels light, and any bags she carries are attached to whatever horse she has acquired.

She brushes past Arean to exit into the bar area. She doesn't understand men, for she notices several who have already drained two or three cups of something alcoholic. She rolls her eyes at them before she leaves and finds the entrance to the stable. Legs lets her know he notices her approach with a nicker, and she gives him a quick smile. The horse is the only person who has the privilege to receive such an expression. At least for now. Zaira finds him well, though he is not saddled like she had hoped. The stable boy had no idea when she would leave, so it is to be expected. She hefts the thick blanket onto Legs's back, brushing out his mane and removing the matted tangles. She is quick to throw the saddle on top of the blanket and cinch the straps. Legs does not enjoy the bridle, but he takes the bit into his mouth regardless.

"Good boy," she croons, scratching him. How a horse has managed to turn her into someone soft, even she does not know.
 
"Come on, we have places to be…" Arean mumbles as he knocks on the door a second time before raising his voice enough for Zaria to hear him on the other side of the doorway. The hallway is long and curves down to the left and the staircase there winds its way to the first floor. There are brightly lit maple panels covering the space with long lanterns that hang from the ceiling. Because of the time of day, they aren't lit. "Ms. Hale, I'll be waiting --" but before he can finish his sentence, telling her he would be downstairs until she is ready, is hardly said for Zaria opens up the door with hardly any bags. His mouth drops because he isn't used to girls packing so lightly. But then again, she is a Merc and has been on the run for her entire life so Arean knows he cannot place such generalizations about her gender in the picture. The last thing he wants to seem is sexist.

We walks past him without a word but instead of stopping this dark haired beauty, Arean simply lets her be. The man follows her downstairs but when he notices her not moving to a table and instead to the back, he scoffs gently. What in the world is she doing? He asks himself internally, pushing past a few drinkers as they're already teetering on the edges of their seats. Passing through the small windowed door, Arean pauses when he sees the reactions between her steed and herself. Arean, for whatever reason, thought he was the only one to have such a strengthened compassion for a beast. But after seeing Zaria take out the tangles of her pride and joy, he knows the exact warmth that comes from greeting a mare in the mornings dew. It's chilly, enough to make him shiver and wish himself back inside.

With his bags waiting by the door in his own room, Arean is quick to take the duffel bag filled with supplies and sling his square backpack over his shoulder. It's there where he has a few tools, food, and three or four changes of clothing. But now that they are going to be moving out of the city, he knows that a special sort of skin will be needed. Arean looks to the closet and smiles. It takes him ten or so minutes to clasp everything to his person, asking the woman next door to help him clip some of the straps in the back to his chain mail. Now when he exits the bar, seeing Zaria finishing up with the rest of her saddle and gear, he is laden in the bright gray armor of his people.

"Good morning Zaria. Do you wish for breakfast?" It's a simple enough question, the knight moving over to stand next to her as he holds out a loaf of bread. "This is normally all I eat in the morning so if you wish for anything else… you better place your order in the kitchens before the sun rises too high in the sky." There is that sweet, simple smile tugging at the corners of his lips before he places a hand on his two-handed great sword hilt and moves into the stables to gather his own steed. It won't be long until they set out, at least Arean hopes as much. "The sooner we get on our route, the less time it will take to reach a safe location for spending the night. You plan to ride all day, yes?"
 
Zaira is carefully inspecting Legs's gangly limbs, making sure he is fit for travel. Her head is bent, eyes traveling along the legs and hooves of her horse when Arean approaches. Her head snaps up so fast, she nearly hits the back of her skull on Legs's jaw. Her hair whips with the motion as she looks up, but she does not narrow her eyes as she might have done for another man. Her gaze darts down to the bread, but Legs is the first to move forward and bite at the food. "No," she commands to the horse, hand swiping his nose down, "none for you." Legs snorts and paws at the ground, but he does not make another pass for the food.

Zaira takes it instead, breaking a piece off. "Thank you," she says, gnawing on the small section she's torn. "I need nothing else." Eating in front of strangers is difficult for her, particularly ones she travels with. Drinking is of no consequence, for she often drinks herself into a stupor when other men and women are around. Food seems to be on another level for her, but she does not dwell on the subject. "Yes, I plan to ride for most of the day. I cannot say the same for Legs here, so I am sure breaks will be in order."
 
Arean has to stop himself from laughing, his insides shaking but no sound coming to or out of his mouth. "Ms. Hale, you misunderstand me," the knight informs her as she brings the bread to her lips and chews on it as if it were the first thing she has had in days, "The whole loaf is yours and you may do with it what you wish." The glaze on the top of the bread is dark brown and shiny, the mixture of egg, water, and herbs drying nicely to make a daring shine. Its insides are airy and white as if they were the very clouds above their heads. "I find that taking food while traveling reveals itself to be important. If you sit and have a meal, you waste time. But with something as easy to carry as this oval shaped loaf," he watches carefully to see if she takes it from his palm or not, "then you can nibble all you want."

He makes sure his black warhorse is saddled correctly and slips another loaf of bread into his own bag before tying it to the syrup colored saddle. "Do you know how to get to our next stop?" he asks as he heaves his armored self up onto the horse. It's true that their steeds with require breaks and he nods when she asks such a statement. A grunt escapes his lips, a strike lashing across his side where the wound is still healing. To make sure nothing comes in between their journey, he wrapped it extra well and won't look at it until he is certain Zaria is asleep.

"I have a map of this area and a few settlements around it but I can assure you that it will not due for the direction we wish to head in. The mountains are a strange, strange, place, Ms. Hale. Even with a map, I am not certain of our fate in finding this cave." It isn't until Ms. Hale is saddled and ready that he motions for her to lead the way, holding the reigns in one hand and a fist full of bread in the other as they ride from the city. To the plains they ride, knowing the village they seek will be welcoming them. At least, that's all Arean can hope. Traveling has come to be a second nature for her but as he looks over towards Zaria, he wonders how experienced she actually is in the lay of the land.
 
Last edited:
No one has given her food before. Well, maybe they have and Zaira refuses to remember such kindness, but she dips her head nonetheless. "Thank you," she says, but the tone of her voice suggests otherwise, for it is short and to the point. She stashes the rest of the bread in one of her saddle bags, searching the other ones to be sure she has spare fletching for her arrows as well as leather for... whatever she may need it for. She verifies the existence of some extra shirts as well as another pair of leather pants, wrapped tightly in one of the larger bags.

She turns back to him as he lifts himself into the saddle of the black horse. She is a beauty, as well as the armor that encases her new partner. The sun reflects the dull steel, making it easier to look at the markings and dents. It's clear that he understands how to use that armor as well as his sword. She gives herself an inward shake and swings herself into the saddle. She doesn't notice the shadowy man until he is right beside her horse, startling the poor beast with a snort.

"Master Ranir wished me to bequeath these to your person." Zaira rolls her eyes at the word choice, but she snatches the two scrolls from the man anyway. "They will help guide you through the Pointpeak Swamps."

"Swamps? We were not--" Zaira looks up to find the man gone, and she grumbles her discontent before she moves Legs up toward Arean. She unfurls the scroll and looks down, eyes traveling across the lines that meant mountains, rivers, and roads. "It appears to be a straight road from here to Balvis, which we are supposed to go to before attacking this... dragon." She frowns at the talk of the large beast guarding their prize. She does not understand how to kill a dragon, and she does not think she will figure out a secure method within a few days.

"I suppose we should simply go forward for now, lest you have a better idea." She nudges Legs forward, passing Arean and giving him the unfurled map. Ranir was kind enough to give them two, and Zaira doubts he's kind enough to do anything else.
 
Arean waits quietly by the edge of the stables for Zaria to finish packing. When the shadow of a man appears before him, the years of experience causes him to draw the falchion sword attached to his other hip. It's strange to have those two weapons together, a blade made for slashing and cutting down what seems to be an entire tree in quick, curved slashes, while the other one can jab through an entire sheet of metal if Arean so wishes it. But either one of those blades are well used by this knight and he has sworn, at least to himself, that his new partner's life is as valuable as his own. He won't be leaving her for anything.

"Swamps?" he practically snickers as the shadow simple fades into the oblivion whence it came, "Oh this is going to be an adventure for the storybooks, Ms. Hale. I hear there are plenty of things in those trees other than lots of water and slithering trees." He bites down on his lip gently as he thinks to himself, "The damn Pointpeak Swamp. We might as well be walking off the edge of the world and hoping that we…" Arean stops himself before he starts to ramble more. Even if he doesn't admit it, putting his life on the line day after day for other people is starting to dig into him and reveal a hole he doesn't want others seeing.

"Well…" Arean breathes before stuffing the map in the leather pouch he has attached to his belt underneath the ribbed pieces of armor, "Thank you, Ms. Hale." Then for the rest of the ride out of the city, the knight stays quiet. Perhaps its just that he doesn't know what else to say or he is fearful of what may come if they were to be overheard. Many people are greedy in this new chaotic world and obtaining an ear in a mercenary trail can lead to great riches. Many of their bothers and sisters wishing to make money, other loyal mercenaries, are killed after retrieving whatever their masters wished for them. Then those goods are stolen by rotten folk, their bodies left to rot somewhere.

For the first day and well onto that night, Arean doesn't speak. Well, they might converse about the landscape or a small glimpse into one anthers life but for the long haul, they hardly speak. He constantly tries and think of topics that they could speak about but rarely finds his tongue on such matters. As soon as the twilight hits, they are settled around their first fire together and Arean hardly bothers stripping himself of his armor. He knows he should, for his wound's sake, but he will have to wait until Ms. Hale is asleep.

"We should take shifts staying awake, Ms. Hale," he informs her, eating another fistful of his bread rations, "I hear these woods are littered with bandits just waiting for people as stupid as we are to take a nice little camping trip." Arean chuckles before throwing another twig into the fire and watching it ignite. The orange flickers against his face, catching on his teeth when he smiles.
 
Zaira does not try to make conversation. She knows she is not good with words, particularly in a one on one session. Legs is the only one she speaks to, whether it is to praise him or scold him for trying to pull up grass while they travel. She chooses to study the map instead, biting a fingernail as she attempts to discover the quickest route. The Pointpeak Swamps were going to eat up time, for Arean spoke true and they were filled with all manner of deplorable creatures and people.

Zaira only notices that it becomes night when she cannot see the map in front of her. She has hardly been paying attention to the road, and she is lucky her horse has been following the black mare for most of the way. She silently chastises herself for not learning her surroundings, but there is little time to learn now. She folds the map and stuffs it into one of the saddle bags behind her before jumping off the side of Legs. She straps her thigh quiver to his saddle horn, keeping the larger one on her back. She fishes the bread from the bag, though it has grown hard and slightly stale, something she hardly cares about.

Once she's settled next to the fire, across from Arean, she undoes the braid in her hair, leaving the dark strands wavy and long. She pulls the bow from her back and sets it beside her, but it is always within reach. She breaks another piece of bread off, nodding at Arean's words. "I understand." She knows far better than anyone about bandit attacks, especially on such a main trade road. "Though I would hardly call either of us stupid. You seem to have a grasp on how to handle your sword, and I my bow. I do, however, admit that I'm little good with a blade like yours." Zaira curses herself again, retracting the statement about her not being stupid. She uttered a weakness, and that mistake flashes in her dark eyes, visible in the fire.

"Please, call me Zaira. I've no love for titles, even minor ones. It might be... proper, but I do not think myself in such a way, and neither should you." There, that ought to distract him from the fact that she has spoken of something she cannot do.
 
Arean licks his lips slightly, looking from the fire across the way to Zaria. He feels a drop in his stomach when she starts to take down her hair. His breath catches in his throat and his eyes narrow and immediately turn from her before she can catch his eyes. The last thing he wants is to cloud his mind with unwanted images. After all the times he might have teamed up with another being on this earth, the last one he anticipated was a woman. After all his years in experience, there is still a touch of magic to a woman's way of life. At least in his eyes there is. Now, across from him, sits a well capable woman. He sighs heavily and places his hands in his head, wanting to bump out any and all thoughts of entanglement. Even if they are just based on looks.

Squatting down on a log he had dragged over from the fallen brush, Arean chews his bread and listens for a change. If he opens his mouth, he might say something stupid. No. He knows he will say something stupid. So when she comments about him calling the both of them dumb, he finds the words flowing out as easily as water does off a cliff. "No, no, I mean, that…" he huffs, chuckling at himself as his thumbs run over the creases of his face as gently as he can without giving too much away. The heat of his body rises and his face feels hot, "I wasn't calling you stupid, Ms. Hale. No. And I don't think that I really meant my words about either of us. Even though I have yet to see you in action yet, I know that the way you cradle that weapon," he smiles gently, lowering his hands to his knees, "you sure as hell can use it."

"Maybe tomorrow in the sunlight," he asks with a sense of challenge, really wanting her to make worth of herself, "you can finally show me those talents I'm betting my life on." There is a simple, curt nod after she informs him just to call her Zaria. At first he opens his mouth to protest such a request but realizes how genuine it sounds coming from her mouth. He takes a moment to focus on her dark hair, the curls showering downwards from her skull, before he finds himself avoiding her gaze again. He had heard her about the sword but chooses to ignore it at this moment. Perhaps another day he can teach her some of his skills but until that day comes, he will keep his mouth shut.

"As you wish it, Zaria. I… I" the words fall out of his mouth slowly, his brain not sure why he is saying such a thing, "apologize if you have been offended by my being proper but you cannot deny what you are. You are a woman and therefore, doesn't it at least feel good, after all these years?" he tilts his head slightly, "to be called a proper title? A brightness in your chest?" Arean asks this carefully, his hand moving to his plated chest as if he could rub his own heart. But as soon as his fingers touch the cold metal, he drops them towards the fire again. He swallows, looking back to the flames and resting his chin on his folded hands as they prop themselves up on his knees. "I know I feel it," he whispers, passing over her gaze before looking to the hairline trees before them. Tomorrow they'll ride through the denser parts of the forest but for now, they can still see the planes.
 
Last edited:
To Zaira's relief, Arean does not comment on her lack of skill with the sword. Instead, he chooses to focus on what to call her, which she finds almost saddening. She does not mean to appear offended, but he takes her appearance as such. She almost interrupts him, but he speaks of how he feels when someone speaks his name with a prefix. "It is not offensive," she corrects, mirroring his position of propped knees with arms encasing her legs. "I am not used to such proper titling and things. My upbringing did not call for such words. If... If you feel more comfortable using titles, I suppose I cannot tell you otherwise. I just do not see myself the way you might. Woman or not."

She does not want to admit that she does like to hear the minor title be used. It's not as upsetting or terrible as she's making it out to be, but Zaira keeps her mouth closed on the matter. Still, she can't stop the slight flush of pink that colors her cheeks as she thinks on his words. Snatching her bow from the ground with considerable force, she fixes the strap of the quiver over her shoulder. "I will take the first watch. I'll wake you in a few hours," she says, not willing to argue the subject. She finds a short tree with leafy branches, sticking her boots into the bark and climbing to a low hanging branch. Settling back as well as she can with the quiver on her back, she looks out over the sparse trees. They aren't well guarded, but she could see patrols under the stark moonlight. They are lucky that no clouds cover the lunar light, for bandits are more inclined to attack on darker days.

Her eyes close but her ears are trained for noises. She blocks out the faint crackling of the fire and instead listens for splintering branches, rustling leaves, or light whispers. Zaira focuses herself, more than she was when she was on her horse. From the ground or any other position, she appears to be sleeping, but the tight grip on her bow or her tense muscles say otherwise.
 
"After all these years of being a Mercenary, I cannot say I can blame you, Ms. …" Arean cuts himself off, clearing his throat before correcting his words gently with a small nod of his head, "Zaria. It seems that we are of different worlds, as many are who travel this planet." The silence of the forest creeps up alongside of his ears as he pauses, figuring out what to say and how to explain himself before continuing his words. "I was born into my trade, you see. There was not a comfortable bed waiting for my body after long and tedious days of training with weaponry but rather straw in the stables. I worked in a grand castle, making sure my King and other high officials were safe but I did not live the life they had," he takes in a deep breath, "and that is why I call you a proper title. It's what I'm used to."

Looking from the flames, their light yellow color licking the air around them in quick blinks of life, he looks up at her just as she flushes. But Arean doesn't think that his words could have done such a thing. There must be, he concludes silently, that a thought of her own mind must have made her release such an action. The sleek bow is plucked from the ground, Arean's hand flexing as if she were to attack him. It's when her words come to his ears that he bows his head, "You are most kind, Zaria. And not to worry, the more time we spend together, the less slip-ups I will make with calling you by your name. I guarantee it." He would have stopped her from taking the first watch but he actually finds himself rather tired from the ride.

"I shall see you in a few hours," Arean tells her, unsheathing his falchion sword and great sword from his sides and placing them on the ground next to him. But unlike a foolish soldier, he falls asleep with both of them tight in his grasp. He leans against the nearest tree, settling himself between two large roots protruding from the ground and bending as if they were knuckles. He lets himself drift off into a slumber, his chest rising and falling in unison to his heartbeat.

But he has never been a heavy sleeper so when and if there is a rustling in the wood, all it will take to wait him is a single shout. He will wait until his shift in order to re-bandage himself. Perhaps he will even take a walk around the parameter of the camp to not stay in one place where Zaria can see him. The last thing he wishes is for her to consider him weak or venerable because of a few, deep, scratches.
 
Zaira and the atmosphere are silent during the night, but she wishes to sleep. Exhaustion is a weakness in her mind, but one she cannot escape. Nearing the end of her watch shift, Zaira climbs down from the tree to eat a few chunks of bread to fill her belly and keep her mind alert. Legs doesn't stir from his sleep as she straps the bag back in place. However, the horse nickers at something off in the distance. Zaira places one hand on his nose and the other on the curving point of the bow. She's not overly fond that there is no noise, but she keeps her eyes trained on the horizon in the dimming light of the fire.

Several minutes pass, but nothing comes to attack them. Zaira notices the moon's position and walks over to prod Arean's leg with her boot. "Your turn, Sir Arean." Using the title is of no consequence, and she feels no lesser for speaking his name in such a way. He lived in a castle and was of ultimately higher birth than she. Was she not supposed to refer to him in such a manner?

Deciding not to think on it, Zaira settles her back against a tree, removing her quiver and leaning the arrow holder against the bark. Her bow balances on her crossed legs and her head tilts back, shifting to find a good position on the unforgiving trunk. Perhaps too quickly, the female falls asleep, her arms relaxing in her lap for once. Dreams are not meant for her mind, but memories flash across her subconscious regardless, making her twist her body a few times in her restless slumber.
 
His dreams come in small fragments, each and every action lived in as the moment passes but quickly forgotten once a new scene starts. Arean's body snaps to attention once he feels Zaria nudge his leg with her boot, his eyes flashing open. The breath hardly has time to escape his lungs before he is sitting up, blades upright in front of him. Every single muscle in his torso tighten. That includes adding strain on the repairing slash across his side. He is lucky that the fire is so far away, the flapping flames unable to cast a seen expression across his face. His eyes shut, the tissue feeling as though every small microfiber is taring as he sat up, his head looking away.

"Hm," he grumbles, teeth barring beneath his shut mouth. For now, the knight can only blame it on the fogginess of his mind and the buzzing in his ears. Now that he looks up at Zaria, she has moved to another tree and starts to settle her own small nest there. The image before him, the dark green of the woods, takes a moment to come into focus. A breath is taken in and pushed back out as he now has the grueling task of keeping his eyes awake when his mind wishes for them to shut. It is truly a battle of skill now between himself. Before Zaria gets too comfortable, Arean takes a short moment to keep the flames hungrily eating at the dry wood. He cannot help but smile wide while his back is turned to her.

Along with keeping his ears as open as he can, Arean keeps a firm eye on Zaria as well. It troubles him that she cannot find a peaceful sleep. He frowns, knowing that he should't care for such things but for whatever higher purpose, he cannot help it. He has spent his life looking after others and it doesn't matter to him if they know his name or not, if they know anything about him, as long as they are safe underneath his watch. "Poor girl," he whispers only to himself, watching the world carefully around him before deciding that Zaria is, indeed, as fast asleep as she might get for now.

Every article of his breastplate is taken off along with his shoulder plates as his back faces Zaria. He knows that it will be and is a stupid idea, himself being left so defenseless but it's not like he is cracking his swords in half. It's only his armor, not a death sentence for his life. With or without armor, he has shown the world in those pits, he can take a few blows and give even better ones. He had received three rubies for his troubles, three prizes that he shall spend on something grand one day. But for now, they are buried deep within his articles. The wrappings are taken off and turns more towards the flames, inspecting the slash that now is pink around the edges but not yet hard, the scab not yet formed. How it burns! But all Arean can do is wrap his fingers in a tight fist until he wraps it again with a few linen scraps he took from the bar.
 
Zaira is aware of outside noise, but she thinks nothing of it. Arean keeps watch, and she has no reason to fear. Her dream state wonders why she's placing her trust in this man. Many males have betrayed her trust, and putting her life into the hands of this knight is no different. With some difficulty, she rouses herself, but she does not move. She notices that Arean's armor has been stripped, laying beside him in pieces. The fire illuminates his body, which is not entirely unpleasant to look at. She can see lines of muscle cross, even under the tunic he wears. It's clear he works his body into shape constantly, something to admire, even if from afar.

Zaira's pulled-back hair nearly whips her in the face as her head makes a sudden, but quiet shake of her head. No, she does not need such thoughts. She is here for the money and nothing else. She can respect her partner, and she steels herself to feel nothing beyond that. He is a knight, a man. And that is all he will ever be.

However, though she tells herself not to pry or glance at her handsome new colleague, she cannot help but notice the wound in his side. The fire isn't bright, but it is enough to show that his wound exists. It appears painful, though she cannot say for sure, having never sustained such an injury before. He must have wanted to keep it from her, for he had not said a word previous to their trip about being injured. The fact that he has removed his armor while she is resting is testament enough to that.

Zaira weighs the options of making her woken presence known or watching him from a distance. He has handled his wound with grace and now care, and she has little reason to doubt that it will heal soon enough. However, she didn't know if it will hinder his ability to fight should they be ambushed. This is her deciding factor, the one that makes her stand and come to his side. "Will you be well enough to fight?" A poor choice of words, but ones she cannot take back now. "I do not mean to belittle you or your skill, but your wound looks troubling."
 
His breath shutters as he dares to turn in the direction of the cut, his hand immediately going to his mouth so that he may bite his knuckle to stop himself from making a noise. There is a large, oblong shape covering the outside of the wound that has soaked into his azule blue linen shirt. Its texture looks itchy but it served as yet another agent for helping the puss and blood be soaked out of the wound instead of festering there for days. For now, he has simply tugged the side of his shirt upwards so that he may inspect the healing process. His falchion sword rests right at his feet, his great sword resting diagonally against the same long bark of wood he sits on. It might look as though his guard is lowered but the man's ears are as open as he can manage. Of course they won't surpass Zaria's hunting knowledge but they haven't failed him yet.

The fire pops, sparks flying into the air and mixing with the small, gray, spiral of smoke that twirls upwards. Then, it seems, Arean finally comes aware of the sounds behind him when Zaria stands. Try as she might not to disturb Arean and the tending of his wounds, the knight knows that he cannot take anything for granted. His heart jumps, every muscle in his body expecting battle. It's his job to protect Zaria so as quick as a lightening bolt, his shirt is let go of, the wound covered up and now he faces her with his falchion blade ready in his hand. If she is carefully watching him, she might notice the strain in his eyes, such swift movements causing his side to burn once more. Now that he sees it's Zaria, his blade lowers immediately, eyes moving from her to the world around them. The world stops around them. Then she speaks.

Arean stands tall though, not giving any outward signs, or at least as little as he can, about the pain flaring into his eyes. But now she is so close and he finally gets a good, long look, at her if he desires it. But the knight doesn't keep his eyes on her, the amber hues looking to the fire. "W-wh…" he starts, his mind telling him to lie and push whatever she is saying away. But he is a man of honor and it's not like he can convince her that she didn't just see him pressing his fingers around the gash. He chews on his lip to try and dull the pain as he thinks about sitting back down. "Yes, yes," he nods a few times, his blade at his side completely, knowing that she has torn through his defenses with her eyes alone.

"I will be well, yes." the smile comes back to his lips, but this time he shifts on the balls of his feet from one leg to the other. He says nothing of her choice of words for he knows her, or thinks he does, to be a kind-hearted girl. No matter what she might say otherwise. "No, no, I wouldn't think that one wound would hinder my abilities. A knight knows that even in pain, I cannot show it," he takes in a sharp breath as stealthily as he can manage, "for that will give the enemy knowledge that I do not wish them to have." His hand gingerly presses to his side, "I am fine," he tries to assure her, "If I woke you, you have my apologies."
 
Last edited:
Zaira nearly jumps back at the blade, but she holds her ground. This man is simply in pain, and she can see that in his eyes. The blade drops away from where it nearly pointed at her, and she regains a step she didn't know she'd taken back. He does not look fine, and she decides to say as much. However, he continues to speak and and assure her that he won't be held back by his wound. Her eyes dare to soften ever so slightly. Arean has kept his pain from her so she would not worry about his ability to fight. She understands, for she would do the same. However, his wound is much more severe than anything she's ever sustained before in her dangerous career.

"No, I... have not slept on a tree for a few days. I am reminded how uncomfortable it is." She speaks carefully even as she moves to Legs's saddle bags. For the second time that night, her horse is woken up, much to his dismay this next time around. "Oh, hush, you," she scolds, smacking his shoulder while she digs through a small bag near the front of the saddle. Finally finding what she's looking for, she pulls a small glass vial full of a strange gel, cradling it in her fingers before she walks back to Arean.

"This should help you. You do not seem to have any sort of salve, so... here," she says, holding out the vial for him with the tips of her fingers, as if she's doing her best to avoid contact with this man. "You may say you are fine, but because I do not believe you, I am inclined to help you. Besides, you are my... partner," she tests the word on her tongue and finds it suitable, "and I find it my duty to assist you. That is what partners do, no?"
 
"What exactly is it?" Arean questions, looking at the small vial quite carefully before he even thinks of picking it up with his fingers. His brows knit together gently, not out of anger but one of curiosity. "Sleeping against a tree?" he mumbles to himself, not really noticing for he has spent many a nights without a comfortable straw stuffed bed. "Yeah," he chuckles just a little bit before sucking in another breath and turning his attention to his wound once more. "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," comes his voice again in a soft whisper, speaking as if the wound were a sick child needing a father's care. So he looks to that bottle again and then back at Zaria. She has made a good point and he, after all, should show his trust of his new partner and use the vial.

His fingers, free of any armor scaled restrictions, reach out and pluck the vial from her hand. He notices how relenting she is to touch him so he makes her job easy and grabs it in the best interests not to touch her hand in return. It's a notion of respect in his mind. This is, after all, their first time together really and there is no way in telling how much longer they have together. An army of bandits might attack them tonight or they could become disoriented and lose their maps. As beautiful as she may look, he inwardly concludes, Arean doesn't want to be stuck with her forever. A woman like her needs to keep moving. At least that's what he assumes internally.

"But," he nods, "thank you for this." There is another pause in his speech, leaving his mouth open but no words coming through. He chooses then to move his hand towards the fire, "Will you sit a while? You're welcome to but the only thing that I can recommend is that you get some shut eye. I gather that you have only been asleep for," his amber eyes glance up towards the sky that is streaked with clouds and the giant waning gibbous that lies there. It's a beautiful sight to see the blackness of the sky break around the illuminated crater. It's not long before he turns his attention back to her, his position sitting down once more on the rock with his sword by his feet.

Looking down to the flat liquid, no signs of bubbles or air pockets, Arean is hesitant to open it. He holds it out against the fire, not too far as to heat it up but just enough so that the light can become lost in the molasses form. "But we really shouldn't waste this, Ms. Hale," his eyes shut, a quick scold losing itself from his lips, "I mean, Zaria." His attention turns back to her, his clean shaven face already starting to become covered in dirt and ash from the fire. "But if we are going to face a dragon, then I think that the application of this substance should be saved until we desperately need it." For once, he actually thinks about the words that are spoken from his mouth, "Tell me, how much did this cost? Is it rare? I'll happily reimburse you when we reach the next village. Hell, we can even get Ranir to supply us with more of this healing gear. As much as I hate to say it, Zaria, I doubt we will both be walking away from this one unscathed. It doesn't matter if we have one another."
 
"I regret to say that I do not know what it is. I'm sure it has magical properties, but I have used it on myself several times and it has not harmed me. I trust it is safe. You do not need very much on your wound. A thin coat of the gel on top of your injury should suffice. It does sting and itch, but the feeling doesn't last." She doesn't know why she's advocating so hard for the unknown substance. Maybe it is because Arean is harmed, and so it harms her chances of surviving in a fight, should she be relying on him. Zaira doesn't think she should be relying on him, or anyone else, but if he is her partner, she should trust him. Even if he is a man.

She takes a place beside him, a short but healthy distance between their sitting bodies. "Do not worry about its cost. As for its rarity, I cannot say. The merchant who I purchased it from moved from his main location. Whether he was supplied more or made it himself, I do not know. I have not been able to find him." This only seems to further the idea that the item has magical properties, but Zaira doesn't press the matter. In fact, she lets him voice his ideas about fighting the dragon, and she cannot help but agree.

"That is why you are only to use a small amount of that," she says, motioning to the bottle in his hand. "I've used it plenty of times to know what it will do. It will leave a scar, but I'm sure it's nothing you cannot handle." She dares to glance at him, finding his observant eyes on her. She is quick to turn her gaze back to the fire, letting the heat clear her thoughts, except for a small nagging one, a buried question in the darkest corner of her mind. "Do you really believe two can kill a dragon? We may be competent fighters, but I cannot say I've gone up against such a beast or anything like it."
 
"That is not exactly the greatest thing to hear," Arean admits in a quiet voice, not trusting this unknown substance. A great part of him thinks that it's the best idea to ask her to show him a scar just as proof for what this remedy can do. But then again, she could show him any old nick and tell him that the gel healed it up. His fingers twitch and to stop it, he laces them together, his knuckles feeling the stinging burn of the flickering flames. He should trust her because it makes no sense otherwise. Why would she want to kill him? She might have a fierce side, something he can admire greatly in time, but right now the last thing on his mind is to cross her. At least he has a brain in his skull and the mind to not cross her. Not yet.

His eyes move down to the bottle, turning it around in his fingers again and again. "But I thank you for giving it to me, I truly do." There is a hesitant breath, as if another contemplation burrows itself into his brain. But this partnership won't work if he doesn't start taking the chances. She is shy, whether she wants to admit it or not, and Arean knows that the only way to make this work would be for him to extend his hand. Sooner or later, she will see the good in him, whether he sees it or not, and will extend a possible olive branch. There are chemistry mixtures in both their bodies and although everything is sugar coated now, Arean will keep his eyes open for when they either start to mix or make fire.

"I'll do as you say, Zaria," Arean nods his head, opening the corked bottle so that he may take a small amount of the goo and place it on his wound. "I can deal with another scar. Let's say it will be another added to my collection." He turns towards her, the firelight changing its angle upon his gently bronzed skin. Opening his arms wide, he shows her a gallery of both small nicks and large gashes he has gotten over his years of being in the wilderness of their world. "I am sure that you have gotten your fair share as well. It's nearly impossible to live as we do and not be slashed. With every opponent comes one that we are hardly equally matched against whether it be skill or numbers."

He points to his largest one, a slice right along his right bicep, "It was one that I got on one of my first missions by myself," he takes another look at Zaria, noting from her reaction if he should continue or not. So instead of speaking, he dabs a small, dime sized drop on his finger, holding it up for inspection. "Just a little bit," he adds, nodding before applying it to his wound. Just as she said, he applies a thin layer to his wound. "Oh that does sting," he whispers, chuckling to mask the small, cold sensation that rests there. Keeping a hand below the wound, he is sure to mask it's lathered in this gel. It soon starts to sting just like she told him it would. A small sensation that grows worse with every lick from the air around them. Each prick sets off ten more, his tongue finding its way between his lips.
 
Last edited:
Zaira glances at him again, but once he begins to display the various marks, she can't help but let her eyes search his body. There is no scrutinizing in her gaze, only curiosity, and given her disposition on men, it's a strange thing to see in her eyes. There is a story behind every scar, even if she does not have the same amount as him. Being at a range so often, she sees the advantage for what it is, even if she is deficient in fighting close-quarters. She notices that he left the question of their fate against the dragon hanging in the air, but she does not blame him. Apprehension about that impending battle fills her, but she does her best to think about other, more immediate things. Namely, the man in front of her who speaks about his biggest scar on his arm. He only begins the story, choosing to fall silent and focus on his wound.

She notices the way he handles his injury, and she leans over, taking the bottle of gel back. He couldn't possibly need any more on his wound than he had already put on, and the substance is valuable enough to put back in its original spot on Legs's saddle bag. Once she plants herself beside Arean again, she watches his expression. It seems as though the possibly-magical substance is affecting him more than it ever had for her. She is unsure of how to handle what pain he seems to be going through, and it shows in her gaze as she tries to burn holes in the already burning fire.

Eventually, her thoughts prompt her to lift part of her leather tunic, revealing a slightly tanned side with a paled scar biting into the skin. It's a half inch deep and three inches across, and it leads up to show off part of her abdomen, one that is toned due to her work with her bow. She only flashes it for a few seconds before the leather flops down against her hip again. "That is what the substance helped heal. I was treated by a non-magical medicine man, but he said that it would have been worse had I not had such an item with me." She fiddles with the strap on her thigh, the spare quiver tied to the saddle. Her eyes find his prone form again, giving it a once over before she speaks again. "I understand your idea of wanting to save it for the fight with the beast, but I fear it won't be enough. The dragon has enough power to slay us both."
 
"It," he refers to the jagged scar sliced by a serrated blade, "was a gift, you could say," Arean jokes lightly, the memory splashing happily about in the pools of his memory, "by the beast who had been guarding the treasure my master wished. This was long after I had the satisfaction of being a guard. I had no idea what safety that job really elicited." there is a small hint of reflection in his words before he moves onwards with his story, still rubbing the mixture into his cut, "But, anyway, the world was a new notion where I knew I couldn't trust anyone but, knowing my foolish youth, I ended up doing so. I met this man named Geran along the roads to the south and he swore his allegiance to me as long as he could share in the spoils."

Arean licks his lips, the pain in his side now dumbing itself down to a small, steady, throb. "Well, as you can predict, as soon as we had gotten the treasure, he ran off. I attempted to catch him but," Arean shrugs, "He knew the land more than I did and I sooner turned back than risk my own neck to the elements. The master, infuriated with my lack of brain, gave me this as a reminder to listen to what is up here…" he gently taps his skull before turning his attention to her as she sits down next to him again.

As soon as her hands move to her tunic, Arean's gut reaction is to look away from the cured leather completely. His gut hungers to see the skin of a woman for it has been too long but perhaps it is still the gentleman part in him, the proud guard who greeted Kings and Queens, Lords and Ladies, that makes him turn his head away so suddenly. But he soon realizes that she is only wishing to show him a scar and the man plays it off as looking for something in the distance as if he heard a sound. "I thought I…" he mumbles, shaking his head and clearing it of such bandit thoughts, "Hm, never mind." His mouth is soon shut once more and his attention is on Zaria. He notices the way she gently plucks and turns the leather strap on her thigh. Perhaps it's a sense of nakedness without the quiver there just as he would be uncomfortable without a sword sleeping at his hip.

Then comes the issue about the dragon. His heart falls into his stomach as the cold reality of their mission comes to light. They do not know the size of this dragon nor the capabilities it has. It could be dead for all they know or very much alive with an unchangeable blood thrust to its core. "I have doubts, I won't say I don't, but…" Arean starts, trying to think of something smart to say or perhaps words of reassurance. But when he isn't certain for himself, how in the world is he to convince her? He licks his lips, taking a moment to glance down at the medicine hardening over the wound. "But just because a beast is larger or might shoot fire from its mouth and… fly," he weighs those possibilities with a motion of his hand, "doesn't necessarily mean that we are powerless against it. We just have to remember that it isn't all brawn that takes down creatures of a legendary status. We'll have to work together and use every ounce of brainpower. Then we might have a chance."
 
Status
Not open for further replies.
Top Bottom
Back