Furley winced as he cleaned his wound again with water. It had been a miserable few days, and he was cold, dirty, tired and fatigued. His leg hadn't healed properly, and when he pulled the bandage back he felt he could smell something slightly acrid. If only Ashwyneth were here, he thought aloud to himself. In fact, the very thought made him think once more about giving up this escapade and returning home to comfort and wine.
Cursing at himself, he hit the floor in frustration, which only caked his hand in mud and made him more annoyed. Sighing, he tried to force his mind to quiet, as the flames of his fire licked at the wood and twigs he had found, shielding him from the cold.
He kept playing the encounter over and over in his mind, wondering more and more who the bloodhound was. If only he'd have gotten a look at his face, perhaps it would've helped. He'd mentioned the Chetwood, but that could be anything. He had been a guard, and had often gone after thieves who hid in the wood. Then again, he'd also gone after those in the wood who had once threatened his caravans, and then again during one of his many feuds in the Prancing Pony. Not forgetting that scuffle in Beggars Alley...
Looking up, his eyes suddenly opened wide in alarm, as he saw a man, hooded and cloaked, sat opposite him at the fire, smiling youthfully as he tore into another piece of bread he picked apart. Furley's arm instinctively shot out to his side, but found nothing there.
"Looking for this?" the man asked, grinning, holding up the scabbard of Furley's blade, goading him by shaking the hilt at him. "I must say, I don't feel very welcome, you reaching for your blade and all".
Furley froze in shock, but quickly regained his senses, and studied the man. His face was covered by his hood so that his eyes could not be seen, and as the fire danced in the night between them, he got fleeting, shadowy glimpses of the man's features.
"Who the hell are you" Furley said, flatly. He'd deduced it wasn't the bloodhound, for this man's tone sounded different.
"Ooh. And the tone he takes too" the figure chuckled. "To think I was going to break my bread with you" he laughed at Furley. "Man like you looks like you need a good meal".
"Who are you?"
"Oh, don't worry" he responded back to Furley. "I won't harm you. I mean, I'd cut off that leg of yours, but that'd probably only save you" he smiled, goading Furley. It was working. Furley was about to respond, until a hunk of bread came flying his way, landing precisely into his lap.
As Furley watched the bread sail through the air, his eyes locked upon it, he didn't see the stranger move. Not until he looked to his right, and saw the man up close, staring right at him, and now he could really see the youthful cheek of a smile as he beamed at him with strangely white teeth. Huh. This man's well-to-do, he thought.
"Chunk that down, whilst I look at that leg" the man said to him, and before Furley could protest, the man had grabbed his good leg, swivelled him round to face him, and began unfurling the bandages.
"Oooh, tut tut tut" the man said to him. Although, the more he thought about it, this man sounded like he'd barely aged from being a boy. In fact, he seemed like a downright brat, teasing him the way he did. As Furley bit a piece of bread, unable to contain his hunger, he watched as the man applied a salve to his wound on his leg, then replace the bandage effortlessly with a spare from his bag, and then place the pot next to Furley's pack for him to keep.
"Now, apply that twice a day for the next week or so, and you'll be sprinting through the spring fayre in no time" he chuckled, before moving away from Furley a little. "Now, I think that's earned me a coffee, don't you think? Get it out your pack".
"Wait, wha? How do you know about what I have in my pack?".
The figure looked at him, grinning, pulling his hood back, and Furley could see his face now, properly. He had a light scar across his face, but it didn't marr his features too much. He had patchy hair, where it seemed to be growing thicker again on top, but looked as if he'd been attacked by someone with a razor at some point and sheared it off. He held himself well, like he'd been schooled in it, and he didn't slouch or carry himself like someone who worked labouriously. Eventually, the man spoke, and his blue eyes beamed at Furley's across the fire.
"Because I've been following you for the last couple of days, after I heard the commotion from Amon Sul. You're not looking too well, but you aren't being pursued. At least, not any longer by anyone that isn't myself" he laughed at Furley, jibing him.
"Hold up, wait a moment" Furley said, staring at him, feeling more irritable. "Who are you? Coffee for a name" he replied, grinning in his own way, to which the man almost feigned being bruised by it.
"Oh, well, since you're driving a hard bargain. My name is Davamir de Beauchamp, and I am the man who has just saved your life from a poisoned blade".
