It is late afternoon above the military camp that Prince Tyronius Carendil of Thane has set up in a convenient clearing, apparently preferring this to the idea of taking his injured brother the dozen or so hours it would take to get to an inn in his current state. (Or perhaps merely preferring it to the idea of losing several unnecessary hours of time on his mission.)

While it's clear that nether of the princes (or indeed Lyria, Nod, or Falnis) could pick a vein from an artery in terms of staunching a wound properly ("Hold it tight and cauterise it if you need to," being the extent of mandatory training in any land of Verun), Aerendir clearly can. With the air of someone who has done this before, he does an admirable job of binding up Marabir's wounds. He accompanies this with a much less welcome stream of acid criticism of Marabir's swordsmanship, his lack of sense in accepting duels from commoner thugs, and the general advantages of bows over swords in general (which Marabir endures like someone who's done this before, too.)

Lyria stands a few feet behind Aerendir, hand over her mouth as she watches silently. Aerendir endures this for all of twenty minutes before assigning her the job of boiling water to sterilise rags.

Nod-- banished from the healing tent for general queasiness at the sight of the blood bubbling up from the nastier gashes on Marabir-- seems to be trying to distract himself by composing a song about the day's events. Falnis, lounging on a tree branch next to him (one with a long branch connecting it to other trees in the forest that will offer a quick route of escape should Tyronius prove to be as racist regarding dark elves as the rumours claim), seems to be dividing his time between assessing the layout of the camp, and helpfully critiquing Nod's work for "accuracy".

OOC: Aerendir rolled 22 using 1d20+10.  Treat Injury.
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:53, Thu 30 Dec 2021.