Raymond had only ventured into Tinea Swamp once before, perhaps out of some subconscious desire to disobey Florentine (or, more likely, because he was just Busy with other things), but it was an easy enough walk to manage even for a pair of wounded scrappers such as they. Where elsewhere in Novus had begun to go red and yellow with the onset of Autumn, the swamp resisted, wrapped as it was in its cocoon of dreary, humid heat. There were many things that the swamp resisted, as all swamps do.
A marsh is a magical place, the clan elder would say, primitive and insistent. It bows to no master.
Horses like them could understand a place like this. Pavetta's worthiness of such inclusion was writ within the swath of blood drying on her left side; the red stallion needed to know nothing more than what she showed on the Steppes, though he knew he would ask eventually.
The ache in his shoulder had worked its way through and around the muscle, and with time the abrasions had filled and scabbed over with a thin upwelling of blood. It was a good sort of pain, and he neither tried to conceal his limp nor complained about it. He'd had far worse, and so had his companion. The red stallion inspected a clean, babbling spring, declaring it suitable to their purpose before turning to address the striped mare directly. It was the first thing of substance he had said since leaving the battlefield, though even that seemed somehow proper.
Raymond cultivated silence as lovingly as he did stories.
"Okay, professor," he said without the slightest hint of pejorativeness, indicating the gash in her side with a flick of his muzzle, "tell me what I can do to help take care of that." Then we can talk, his tone seemed to finish for him. As far as he was concerned, however shallow her injury and however well-kept his blade, the concern for her wellbeing took precedence over any other preoccupations on his part. Even a clean cut can get infected.
A marsh is a magical place, the clan elder would say, primitive and insistent. It bows to no master.
Horses like them could understand a place like this. Pavetta's worthiness of such inclusion was writ within the swath of blood drying on her left side; the red stallion needed to know nothing more than what she showed on the Steppes, though he knew he would ask eventually.
The ache in his shoulder had worked its way through and around the muscle, and with time the abrasions had filled and scabbed over with a thin upwelling of blood. It was a good sort of pain, and he neither tried to conceal his limp nor complained about it. He'd had far worse, and so had his companion. The red stallion inspected a clean, babbling spring, declaring it suitable to their purpose before turning to address the striped mare directly. It was the first thing of substance he had said since leaving the battlefield, though even that seemed somehow proper.
Raymond cultivated silence as lovingly as he did stories.
"Okay, professor," he said without the slightest hint of pejorativeness, indicating the gash in her side with a flick of his muzzle, "tell me what I can do to help take care of that." Then we can talk, his tone seemed to finish for him. As far as he was concerned, however shallow her injury and however well-kept his blade, the concern for her wellbeing took precedence over any other preoccupations on his part. Even a clean cut can get infected.
Raymond.
"he's an outlaw loose and runnin'," came the whisper from each lip
"and he's here to do some business with the big iron on his hip."
"he's an outlaw loose and runnin'," came the whisper from each lip
"and he's here to do some business with the big iron on his hip."
@Pavetta
aut viam inveniam aut faciam
