Gwennol listened as Pren explained how the people he had met on his first journey to the north had accompanied him south, only betray him and leave him for dead. He spoke of dark figures firing arrows, swift and strong they were but he did not see their faces. All he knew was that he had lived and lusted for revenge against the faithless man who he believed was behind it all. It was a fight with this man that left him in such a state and once again, they had tried to kill him. Tying him and leaving him to drown. Once he finished, the young woman shook her head slowly, "Such are men from this land? That they would call you friend and then do such a thing."
She bid him to rest and asked if he needed something for the pain, holding up a strip of willowbark.
Pren sat down on the furs, laying back gingerly to ease the abdominal wound and shrugged, "I am a warrior, I am used to pain."
Gwennol raised her eyebrow and then poured some of the steaming water from the kettle into a carved horn cup, steeping the willowbark and she added a bit of honey to mask the bitter taste, "Just because you can, doesn't mean you should be in pain needlessly. Here."
She offered him the cup and he took it with a grunt and downed the liquid in one swig, pushing the cup back into her hands. He lay back, still barechested with the dozen wounds smeared with yarrow and sage paste, the large one bound in soft wool. Gwennol banked the fire, sitting on her own bedding on the other side of the ruins. Though she was tired, she waited until she heard the deep breathing and light snores from the man before she started to relax. Though she did not fear attack, even if the men who tired to kill him might be looking for his corpse, the woman had trouble sleeping. The presence of the warrior disturbed her routine, she had been alone for months on her journey and even before that it was often just her mentor, an elderly sage named Ffion who kept her company.
Cysgod pecked at the darkened grass and hopped up onto her knee eyeing her with his keen black gaze. She looked down at him, absently stroking his smooth feathers and spoke in a low voice, "The spirits are at work here, even if they are in a deaf land. How else could a man of Dunland wash up right at my feet? That is fate, that is the Huntsman wanting something. I just do not know what yet."
The bird made a warbling sound and then jumped down, heading near the fire to peck at the left over stew put out for him. Gwennol lay back, gazing up at the stars. She picked out the Huntsman, the bright white stars of his belt standing out and she mentally traced the image of his legs and arms and the great antlers. What did He want? He sent the spirit of the Boar to guide her here, to the land where the boars were made of stone and the people could not hear the spirits of the forest. Why here of all places to go and find nothing. Nothing but a wounded kinsman so far from home. Sleep found her and she did not wake until dawn crept up, the sun peeking over the hills on the other side of the lake.
Gwennol rose, gathering her basket and a change of clothing. Pren was still asleep and she left him there while she went about her morning chores. In the lake that was called Nen Harn she bathed herself and dressed in the clean robes, washing her only other outfit and she left it on a stone to dry. The woman gathered useful plants as she walked to check her traps for small game. Edible plants, medicinal and those herbs and berries that had use known only to the Derudh went into her basket. She frowned as each trap came up empty and one was broken. Perhaps she would fish later but she needed to get back to her patient.
