It was a man, a large man with swarthy skin, a thick beard and fierce dark eyes. Gwennol instantly recognized the look from his face to the fur and leathers he wore. He was a man of Dunland, her own kin and so very far north. Quickly she bent to untie the waterlogged rope that bound his arms and she noticed the blood stained wet clothing and a large slash in the tunic. His long hair was matted with mud and lake weeds tangled in the braid and she could see bruises and cuts on his arms and hands.
"You're hurt," she stated in the common tongue and then spoke the language of their kin, "Come with me, if you can walk. I cannot drag you."
Cysgod cawed and hopped around on the ground, watching it all with his beady black eyes. The small woman bent and offered her shoulder, grunting as he put his great weight on her but she bore him and he staggered to his feet. He grimaced in pain but said nothing as she helped him to her campsite not far from the lake shore. The fire still burned among the crumbling walls of the ancient ruin, her tent and supplies where she had left them.
"Take your tunic off, I need to examine you," Gwennol ordered, picking up a leather satchel and a copper pot. At his narrow look, she replied, touching the antler tine talisman on her neck, "I am Derudh, trained to heal."
He visibly relaxed though she could see the discomfort that he refused to voice. The large man was a warrior of Dunland, no stranger to pain. When he removed the tunic, she could see not only the open wound on his stomach but the number of healed scars and the tattoos representing several of the tribes. That was unusual, rarely did a person have more than one or perhaps two, if they married into another tribe. On his thick chest and arms bore the marks for the Ox, Stag, Falcon, Dragon and Avanc clans, and a variety of other designs. None were of her tribe, the Boar and she was not sure to be relieved or worried about that. Instead, she focused on the task at hand and steeped the yarrow and comfrey together, adding in sage to prevent wound from becoming inflamed. Gwennol bent to study it, the water had washed away any debris and old blood, though fresh oozed from the lips of the wound. A sword strike, though the leather armor must have born the brunt of the blow. Any deeper and he would have spilled his guts. She made a poultice and smeared it on, binding his waist with a clean wool cloth.
As she tended the smaller cuts and abrasions she spoke again, "I am Gwennol, what are you called?"
He looked down at her from his great height, about a foot taller than she, and said, "I am Pren."
A small smile twitched her lips, "That is indeed appropriate. Alright, Pren, remove your trousers so I can see if you're hurt anywhere else."
After assessing his wounds, a deeper cut that needed stitching on the meat of his thigh, she told him, "You need to rest, you may stay here until you are fit to travel."
Gwennol went about fixing up a pallet for him to sleep on, spreading a thick bear hide and then a woolen blanket. As she worked she spoke to him, "I suppose you're wondering the same thing I am. Why are you here, so far north?"
Pren watched her work, "I came to kill the man who left me to die."
