Jodiah Ayreg shouldered open the door to room twelve, and groaned. He kept a bloody hand lay cupped on his side over the lower-left portion of his ribs, while his free hand began pulling the buttons free down the front of his coat.
He flexed his arms out of the sleeves of his coat as he slid it off. His teeth grit together, sucking in a sharp hiss of a breath. The pull on the flesh of his side tugged at the wound. It throbbed with his heartbeat, causing the pain to be more intense than it truly was.
His shirt was even more ruined than his coat -- not only did it have an identical slash up his left side, but it was by now soaking in blood. Tugging on drawstrings, Jodiah pulled the shirt off his body as well. Standing before the mirror in his rented room, Ayreg examined the wound.
No ribs were visible, and only toward the very beginning of the injury did he see the red muscle beneath. It faded to subcutaneous flesh toward the middle and top, and he nodded faintly to himself. It was a superficial wound, though it could have been much, much worse.
Maria Copperfield had issued the answer for his challenge in the weeks before, and they crossed swords in the back alley behind the Red Dragon. The action brought the attention of several patrons, who eventually decided it was simply too cold to stand out there for long.
The battle between them was inconclusive, though he suspected her drawing blood on him gave her the edge in their duel. She didn't leave entirely unscathed herself, but a crushed shoulder and battered nose didn't leave the visceral reminder that a fresh scar would.
The little minx was fast, he mused to himself, fingering at the cut on his ribs. The other injuries he sustained -- a sprain to his wrist and a rather underhanded kick to his arthritic knee -- were a passing thing and needed no special care. For now, Ayreg had to battle infection, and awaiting healing. He would not die from a disease, of course. No, the death knight in sworn service to The Plaguebringer, one of many embodiments of evil in the Nihil, would not succumb to that which his master has dominion over.
It could, however, turn him into an invalid until it passed. Ayreg had no great desire to have puss running in his wound, and to live with a fever for a fortnight.
He had left an order with the server, Destre to have bandages and dressing, warm water, and a supply of cow urine sent up to his room. She tried to talk him into whiskey, but Jodiah Ayreg would not put that filth into his body.
As the aging man with the graying hair began off toward his room, he had run into Obsidian again. The rather tall -- considerably tall, actually -- woman with the sylvan features seemed to express some amount of concern for him, and insisted she help him to clean and dress his injuries. His lips twitched, but he accepted her help and told her his room number.
Sitting down uneasily onto the edge of his bed, Ayreg kept one hand pressed into the wound, and the other rubbed at his knee. That kick really didn't help the ache there. There was perhaps nothing to do for his arthritis, but once the slash itself was properly cleaned and dressed, the wound suffered would only be a monumental inconvenience for about a week.
Jodiah had left the door unlatched, expecting Obsidian's presence soon. He also awaited the delivery of his medical supplies.
He flexed his arms out of the sleeves of his coat as he slid it off. His teeth grit together, sucking in a sharp hiss of a breath. The pull on the flesh of his side tugged at the wound. It throbbed with his heartbeat, causing the pain to be more intense than it truly was.
His shirt was even more ruined than his coat -- not only did it have an identical slash up his left side, but it was by now soaking in blood. Tugging on drawstrings, Jodiah pulled the shirt off his body as well. Standing before the mirror in his rented room, Ayreg examined the wound.
No ribs were visible, and only toward the very beginning of the injury did he see the red muscle beneath. It faded to subcutaneous flesh toward the middle and top, and he nodded faintly to himself. It was a superficial wound, though it could have been much, much worse.
Maria Copperfield had issued the answer for his challenge in the weeks before, and they crossed swords in the back alley behind the Red Dragon. The action brought the attention of several patrons, who eventually decided it was simply too cold to stand out there for long.
The battle between them was inconclusive, though he suspected her drawing blood on him gave her the edge in their duel. She didn't leave entirely unscathed herself, but a crushed shoulder and battered nose didn't leave the visceral reminder that a fresh scar would.
The little minx was fast, he mused to himself, fingering at the cut on his ribs. The other injuries he sustained -- a sprain to his wrist and a rather underhanded kick to his arthritic knee -- were a passing thing and needed no special care. For now, Ayreg had to battle infection, and awaiting healing. He would not die from a disease, of course. No, the death knight in sworn service to The Plaguebringer, one of many embodiments of evil in the Nihil, would not succumb to that which his master has dominion over.
It could, however, turn him into an invalid until it passed. Ayreg had no great desire to have puss running in his wound, and to live with a fever for a fortnight.
He had left an order with the server, Destre to have bandages and dressing, warm water, and a supply of cow urine sent up to his room. She tried to talk him into whiskey, but Jodiah Ayreg would not put that filth into his body.
As the aging man with the graying hair began off toward his room, he had run into Obsidian again. The rather tall -- considerably tall, actually -- woman with the sylvan features seemed to express some amount of concern for him, and insisted she help him to clean and dress his injuries. His lips twitched, but he accepted her help and told her his room number.
Sitting down uneasily onto the edge of his bed, Ayreg kept one hand pressed into the wound, and the other rubbed at his knee. That kick really didn't help the ache there. There was perhaps nothing to do for his arthritis, but once the slash itself was properly cleaned and dressed, the wound suffered would only be a monumental inconvenience for about a week.
Jodiah had left the door unlatched, expecting Obsidian's presence soon. He also awaited the delivery of his medical supplies.