Administering to the needy

The Chetwood
There is a large clearing in the trees here, a few hundred meters on each side. The clearing is in the shape of a rough oval, longer in the east-west direction than it is north-south. At the eastern side, the surrounding pines and thickets are thin enough that a faint trail can be made out. On all other sides the plant life appears to be impassable. Blinking fireflies fill the air about the clearing... Thousands of the insects flash on and then off... The scene is breathtaking. The last quarter moon seems a poor cousin to this beautiful display. The clearing is surrounded by a wall of towering pines and deep thicket. The barrier is thin enough in the east to allow passage, but thick enough in all other directions to stop all but the smallest of creatures.
Contents:
Halbarad
Ered-Luin Encampment
Kellan
Rhifaroth
Dwarven Camp
Thari
Obvious exits:
North, East, and West


[Thari(#31038)] Evening comes again for the poor band of heroes. They've camped now in this meadow, which seems perhaps slightly more defensible. More wounded are lying about on their cloaks being tended by the healthy.

Thari, having luckily escaped the wrath of the troll, is one of those tending to the rest. Right now the healer is finishing up spoon-feeding stew to a dwarf, murmuring quiet things to him, hand behind his head.

[Kellan(#31169)] A form moving slowly comes from the way of the luin encampment. The high-warder has looked better and worse in his time. The stout forms arm is in a sling having had his bones re-set, and under his clothes bandages for the wounds and broken ribs are wrapped tight. Kellan winces very little as he moves trying to not sure his wounded state. In his good arm he carried a jug taking a bit swig from it he wipes his beard on his sleeve.

[Frarin] Among the dark figures laid out in the clearing lies Frarin son of Forli, the silver merchant reduced to a still and sad bundle. There is a cloak beneath him and a rolled blanket beneath his head, but oddly, despite the hot summer evening, he is covered in multiple layers. Indeed, a closer look reveals the bundle of blankets to be shivering slightly. Frarin lies on his side instead of his back, his arms and legs arranged in the recovery position, though his left arm is held in a makeshift sling beneath his many layers.

The dwarf appears to sleep, but not well. His unconscious mind has at least the sense to refrain from moving his broken body, but his head moves restlessly, endlessly. Several small cuts cover his face and dried blood still clings to his beard, but his skin is cold and clammy, and beads of sweat stick to his brow despite his shivers. Now and again a shuddering cough wracks Frarin's body, bringing with it flecks of blood from his mouth.

Thari scrapes the last bit of stew from the bowl, feeds it to the wounded dwarf, then gently settles his head back on the ground. The healer murmurs more quiet things to him and stands, empty bowl in hand.

Grey eyes survey the camp. One or two dwarves are studied, including Kellan, but those walking do not earn much attention from Thari. There-- a shuddering bundle. The healer walks to Frarin and kneels, hand going to his brow. "'Tis Thari, good Frarin," comes quiet speech, as one might say to a skittish colt upon approaching.

[Combat Function Library(#15)] Thari tends to the injuries on Frarin.
HEALING: Thari attempts to treat your wounds...

Kellan looks over to the healer near enough to move over to, and the one upon the ground. The high-warder makes his way over taking serveral large drinks on the way. The dwarf coming to the side of the healer. "How is he?" he asks his voice low but still gruff he winces as his ribs give him a particular twinge of pain, but fights through it.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    The dusk light in the new camp also reveals another figure, one who despite his dislike of the situation, was forced to hop a ride on one of the Dwarven wagons when the camp was moved.

    Rhifaroth sits off to one edge of this familiar clearing, his bandaged leg stretched out before him and using his small pack as a prop to lean against. The man is turned on his side and using a boot knife to wittle patiently away at a stout, staff like stick someone has cut for him. There is also a smaller, already debarked smooth and curved short piece of wood by the man's elbow.

    Though the light is fading slowly towards twilight and darkness once more, the man's grey eyes skip up from his knife use to glance over the camp - settling most often upon Frarin.

[Frarin] Frarin continues to shiver and shake his head as he sleeps and as Thari nears him. But despite his troubled dreams, he does not wake as the healer's hand goes to his brow, nor at the quiet voice. Lips still closed, a painful gurgle comes from the back of his throat. It continues for awhile before something seems to catch and again the merchant is sputtering, dribbling blood onto the ground beside his face.

This most recent cough, however, does bring a sign of life to him. For a moment, no more than a second or two, Frarin's eyes flicker open. Whether or not he sees is another issue, for his pupils are dilated, even in the darkness, and the gaze unfocused for its brief awakening. Then his eyes shut again and his troubled dreams take hold once more.

[Thari(#31038)] Thari's hand moves behind Frarin's head when Kellan arrives, and the fingers flick quickly as the healer speaks in the same gentle voice. "He'll be fine. A day or two, and he'll not even remember this."

The bowl is set in the grass and a rag is wetted. Thari begins to bathe Frarin's face with the cool cloth, motions slow, still speaking soothingly, "And you will be fine, won't you, good Frarin? Don't know where we'd be without you."

[Kellan(#31169)] The other dwarf standing near the healer nods to the words. "Gah, I could do little for him except keep the thing busy, which I guess I did well gave it a lump or two i'd say." his chuckle is as quiet as can be taking another large drink. Kellan moves back a bit to let the healer work but watches closely.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    There is no comment from the man who watches the goings on in the Dwarven camp. Rhifaroth's own hands are busy shaping, slowly scooping out thin slivers of wood from one end of the staff, making something like a bowl shape on the one end. Every once in a while he sets the knife down and picks up the smaller, bunted, curved piece of wood and checks it's fit against the end he is carving. It may be that he's working to make himself a crutch.

    Still, he glances now and then towards where Thari and Kellan are with Frarin. Also, he keeps a wary eye on the trees around them, listening to the sounds of evening summer life in the wood, settling for the night.

[Frarin] Again there is no response from the silver merchant as Thari tends to him, speaking reassuring words that he will never hear and giving aid that he will never remember. A day or two? Such a prospect seems optimistic, even for Thari. To be conscious at all in a day or two would seem a feat, given Frarin's condition. Shallow, rapid breaths come him now, almost as if he is gasping, and they are accompanied by a deep grimace, this time unhidden by pride.

The eyelids flicker again, then are still.

[Thari(#31038)] "Glad ye did," Thari answers smoothly to Kellan. "Though I'm sure Frarin handled himself well. Always does." The healer lifts a bit of Frarin's beard and begins to wash the dried blood from it. "Rest will do him fine."

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    Finally finding the fit to be acceptable, the man sits up carefully and opens his pack, digging around in it until he finds a leather bag within. It's contents, fletching materials, are dumped out onto the ground. They will no longer be needed since the man has no bow or quiver now. But the bag itself he begins to cut using his small knife, turning it about this way and that to make a long, spiraled leather lace of it.

    Rhifaroth's shirt front has a bit of dried blood on the left breast where his stitches gave and tore the night before. Aside from a grimace now and then, he ignores the wound, trying to use the last bit of light before it is gone. Then his efforts using the knife will likely have to stop.

Ovor has arrived.

[Frarin] Rest may indeed do Frarin good, but he seems to find none of it now. Again his head rolls back and forth as Thari patiently begins to clean the dried blood from his beard. Another cough wrenches itself from his throat and this time the action is violent enough to bring the merchant's shoulders forward. This is turn elicits a grunt of pain, which itself seems painful to produce, for he groans at it.

And then, suddenly, unexpectedly, Frarin's eyes are open. They do not flicker open then shut again, nor do they have the half-closed look of the weary. Rather they are fully open, not as shocked, just...open. Again, it is difficult to say whether he sees or not, for though the eyelids are pulled back, Frarin seems to stare absently. His gaze is directed no where in particular, only skimming along the tops of the grasses just before his eyes.

Thari drops Frarin's beard and places a hand on his shoulder as he coughs. The kneeling healer then places both hands on hips, looking down at him with a frown. Finally, a sigh.

Thari pulls a small wooden bottle from a hip-pouch, then pours water into it. Thumb caps the hole and the thing is shaken hard in hand.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    The leather pouch has now been turned into a long, leather lace. The finely crafted boot knife, with a silver bound grip carved into the likeness of a raven's body and head, is returned to his right boot. Rhifaroth continues to sit up, vaguely watching the goings on in the Dwarven camp as he works now to begin to lash the top crosspiece into place on his in progress crutch.

    As usual, there is essentually no activity in the Ranger's portion of camp. They seem to come in only long enough to cook their meat, check on Rhifaroth, then slip back out. Perhaps the Dwarven camps are too noisy for them, or they are just so restless in their drifting about that they have no desire to linger in camps.

[Ovor(#20753)]      The slight jingle of ring mail, occasionally glinting in the dying light of the sun, announces another. Hammer upon his shoulder, this Dwarf is one that should be relatively well known by now: Ovor, Thane of Zinbar. This day, he does not walk amongst the other Dwarves, offering words and drink. No, this day he walks with more purpose.

    And once the Thane hears the coughing of Frarin, that seems to bring his purpose to the point. The Thane's feet bring him to the merchant and those around him he stops a few paces away, bringing his hammer to rest upon his foot. For the moment, he does not speak, merely observing, occasionally glancing north with a slight scowl.

[Frarin] On Frarin stares with that semi-permanent grimace on his face. He seems to make an effort to move suddenly, as if his mind has forgotten about his body, for his legs shift unexpectedly and his unharmed right hand, poking from beneath his many blankets, clenches and unclenches. But then the brutal reality of his condition seems to hammer on the closed door of his mind. Another low groan comes from him as he settles.

The merchant's head twists slightly upwards. He seems to see Thari and Kellan and Ovor, but only as one distracted by other things. His gaze passes over them without a word, then falls back to the earth.

[Thari(#31038)] "Shh! Be Still!" Thari commands Frarin as he suddenly moves. The healer grips his hand to move it back beneath the blankets then cups his head to try to tilt it a little better. A quick, pained glance is give upward to Ovor.

Thari then leans forward, face not far from the merchant's opened eyes. "Frarin, 'tis Thari." The words are firm. "You must listen. You must drink something. You must trust me and rest." The bottle is brought to his lips, bitter liquid slowly tilted into his mouth. "Swallow, good Frarin."

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    The binding is made fast and the curved, rounded portion has been secured to the top of the crutch - though it yet lacks padding or lower grip. The activity though using his arms and the muscles of his damaged chest have fatigued the man. Rhifaroth sets his work aside and leans back again against his pack to rest.

    The tall man's eyes return to watching the Dwarves as the last of the evening's light is rapidly fading.

[Ovor(#20753)]      The Thane's eyes flick back to Frarin, scowl turning into a frown. A few words are grumbled into his beard before he looks to Thari. "How is he?" The words are quietly rumbled as he crouches slightly, taking a bronze flask from his belt. He turns it in his hands for a few moments before removing the stop and taking a sip.

[Frarin] Frarin's gaze does not remain immobile. It roams here and there, broken now and again by a slow blink. His head pulls back slightly, however, as Thari's face comes close to his own and again he looks towards her but not at her, as if something vastly more interesting lies directly behind the healer. His mouth opens slightly, but the teeth are still clenched and the action would look almost as if he were baring his teeth if his lips did not move, soundlessly forming some obsolete word.

But as the bitter liquid is tipped into his open mouth, Frarin resists. At first he makes no effort to struggle, but as the liquid reaches further back into his throat, he wretches. The medicine spills sloppily from his mouth. A loud grunt pains the silver merchant, but he nonetheless shows his dislike.

[Thari(#31038)] Thari's eyes again go up to Ovor. "Fine, fine," says the healer, but something in the expression reveals fright, worry.

Thari's hand grips Frarin's hair tighter as he struggles, lifing up the bottle to avoid spilling the rest. "Frarin!" the healer scolds sharply. "I'll send you back to Bree, so help me, I swear I will! You'll be left in a room in the Prancing Pony wondering whatever happened to Thari and the rest of us! Now you drink this!" A very small amount of the bitter liquid is tilted testingly into the merchant's mouth.

[Ovor(#20753)]      The Thane's frown merely deepens and he grunts slightly. "Fine indeed." A moment passes before Ovor shakes his head slightly and speaks. "As soon as that Iron Horse returns, I bring the troll to battle. It will feel Zinbar steel and fear Dwarves. My Huskarls will stay here." The words are quietly rumbled again.

[Frarin] Something at the very back of Frarin's mind seems unaltered, at least. Pushing beyond the pain and the unfocused gaze, a tiny bit of Frarin's old character manages to rise to the surface, hammering aside the gurgled coughs and groans to make its brief, shining appearance. The silver merchant's lips part and badly slurred words forced their way out. They are nearly indiscernible, so sloppy in his tongue and his concentration, but the two words sound suspiciously like, "'luhdy 'ehl." Then his eyes roll back into his head and a great cough boils up.

But that tiny bit of awareness clings for dear life. The bitter liquid pours tentatively into Frarin's mouth and stays there for a time, sloshing about. Then, as his eyes roll back to forward, the jaw closes and the throat moves as he swallows the medicine.

Thari gives a great grin and tips the rest of the medicine into Frarin's mouth. "Good! Now swallow that and you'll be done."

The healer looks up and gives a sharp look to the Thane. Suddenly, fright turns to a flash of anger and Thari snaps. "Ovor! Thane or no Thane, if you go after that troll by yourself I will give you SUCH a smacking that your old mother at home will feel it!"

[Ovor(#20753)]      A snort of amusement comes from the Thane. "I go not by myself. At the very least, I am sure I will be accompanied by the Iron Horse. He is tracking it after all. Why would he not wish to destroy it? He said as much when I spoke with him." A few moments of silence before he speaks again. "We can better afford to lose two or three rather than a group, Thari. Besides," A grin twists his mouth slightly. "Think you I would make Zinbar search for a new Thane so quickly?"

[Frarin] A good amount of the remaining liquid ends up on the ground, spilling out of the corner of Frarin's mouth. But at least an equal amount is swallowed in a second gulp before the silver merchant shuts his mouth for good, jaw tightening and lips pursing in pain. His eyes close wearily, open again to show that distant look, then close for good. That short, gasping breathing takes over again, a battle between two essentials: the will to gain oxygen and the will to avoid pain.

Neither seems to win out though, for the short breaths continue, interspersed with the blood-flecked coughing again. Medicine has been had and healers have tended to him, but whether Frarin is on the mend is, as yet, by no means assured.

Thari drops the empty bottle and strokes a hand over the top of Frarin's head. The bit of cloth is taken up and again she washes the merchant's face, but her attention is given to Ovor. "You and one human?" she says dubiously. "Might as well say that you're going alone then, because you know how humans are! Not quite so stout as us, is what they are. You're going to get hurt, Ovor." Thari's voice has become fretful.

[Ovor(#20753)]      "It must be done. 'Tis as simple as that, Thari. If the troll is not killed or driven off, then it will return." The Thane falls silent for a few moments, snorting slightly. "Besides, it is time my hammer sees battle on this trip. Too often has it missed out. At any rate, I respect this manling. He took a drink of Keeneye's Iron Brew well enough and I will not turn down assistance in battle from those who offer it."

[Thari(#31038)] "I still don't like it. I just don't." Thari looks down at Frarin, adjusts his cloak a bit more, The healer curls up a fist and runs knuckles beneath the eyes with a sniff then stands up briskly. "It's a good sign that he takes to dwarven brew so easily but I can't have you... can't be... you can't be lying after the troll." Thari makes a gensture toward the gravely wounded merchant. "You just can't. There's a whole army after us."

[Ovor(#20753)]      "I am well aware of the facts, Thari." The words are rumbled quietly by the Thane. "I am Zinbar. Before we worked leather, we were warriors. Wounded or not, as long as I can lift my hammer I will fight." He stands, hefting his hammer onto his shoulder.

[Ovor(#20753)]      The Thane nods slightly before he stops his flask. After a moment, he places it beside Frarin before he walks back the way he came, ring mail jingling quietly again.