The woman leaving Towerglan might have been an alarming sight to behold from a distance, leading a horse and cart from the town, the front of her skirt covered in blood with the bottom few inches torn off. Her expression was hollow, as if she didn’t fully take in her surroundings. One might have thought she’d been attacked by the look of her, but upon closer inspection he might see that none of the blood was hers, for she bore no wounds, and though the bottom of her dress had been ripped away, it had been done so carefully, a clean tear. And the expression on her face was not one indicative of a state of shock, but rather that of one with thoughts turned inward, to memories, as she sorted out what happened and what to do about it while a small, persistent voice needled at the back of her mind, constant as ever…
The evening at the Boar had started quiet, meeting the barmaid Theo again and talking about, well, matters that weren’t her biggest concern at the moment. The two people who came in next were two-thirds of it. Dagramir had apparently slipped into the inn quietly, and Narys sometime after him. The former she regarded with a cool demeanor, her words toward him as frank as his were sly. It was when Narys beckoned her off a way that the trouble started. Next thing she knew, there was a slam followed by a string of expletives. It was when Narys shouted his name that the man was revealed to her to be Taraborn, whom Narys had once mentioned as her love.
Narys looked so hurt, so conflicted, as if every word and blow that was directed between the two of them were directed at her, especially Dagramir’s words. For so long, the huntress was able to keep herself from the fighting, but when Dagramir was stabbed, she had to intervene. What might she have been thinking? That if she were gone, the fighting would have no reason to continue? That she could quell their raging blood? But it was thanks to her and Deorda’s intervention that moved them out of the Boar. There, both men nigh demanded that she go with them. Sareva’s heart cried out to her to go with neither, to walk off on her own, to not give them a reward for their fighting and anger and venom, to choose herself.
She didn’t; she walked off with Taraborn, and after offering and a word from Narys, Sareva followed Dagramir to stitch him up. She endured the verbal abuse he shot at her, not wanting her help, but followed him until he eventually fainted from the blood loss, hitting his head on the way down. It would have been easy to leave him there, to let him die of his own stupidity and stubbornness, to say that he had bled out and she couldn’t save him. But she would have known, and she had to try. Not for him though, she couldn’t care less if he died. For the care Narys still had for him, and for the copper haired woman’s request to her. Sareva would have known the truth, but more than that, she would not make Narys’s life decisions for her by eliminating the options. She didn’t want to let him die to spare Narys, she didn’t want to let him live for his own sake; the only reason she was sewing up the unconscious man before her, her dress soaking up the blood that spilled out onto the cobblestones as she knelt beside him, was because Narys had asked her to.
The bottom few inches of her dress served as a kind of binding over the newly made stitches. It was then she turned her attention to the dirk Dagramir had tucked into his belt after pulling the bloody blade from his side, Taraborn’s dirk. If Dagramir had any strength when he awoke, she didn’t want him turning it on her, a distinct possibility after the verbal onslaught he had given her. “Always protect yourself,” she reminded herself in a whisper. Unfortunately, he had regained enough consciousness to realize what she was doing, hugging it possessively with a weak arm and requesting that she leave it with him. It didn’t take much effort to take it; he could hardly move. She simply slipped it from under his belt, planning on throwing it in the lake and telling him as much. He practically begged her then, saying how he needed it, needed it to kill Taraborn, to protect Narys. Hah, not only folly to think that she needed his protection, for in her opinion Narys might be protected from him, but she also knew that any further confrontation would continue to involve Narys, and one of those days, Narys would be the one bleeding on the ground. The blade would only serve as a focus for his feud, a reminder of his murderous intent. So, she took the dirk, despite his protestations, and left it where no one would retrieve it. Hopefully, it would never see the light of day again.
For that, she endured more of his ire. She told him exactly what she thought of him, the emotionally manipulative knave and whoreson, and he his opinion of her. “.. You're not funny.. You're not smart.. And I will run through you if you get in my way..”
Sareva sighed. "Now that we've established our mutual disinterest in each other's opinions, do you know anyone nearby with a cart who can drag your carcass home? If not, I'll go borrow my neighbor's because I can't drag you myself.” Dagramir didn’t respond, refusing to even meet her eyes, instead staring up at the sky. When she got back with the cart, it was clear the stubborn sod had tried to go on his own, doubled over about a yard away from where she left him. She helped haul him into the cart and saw him home, even going so far as to help him inside to his bed. No one could say she hadn’t fulfilled her job. He didn’t seem at all pleased to now owe her his life, and she would be very pleased to never have to see him again.
That left her walking down the road, rather in a sorry looking state. Her spirit stood unbent by the words thrown at her, but the whole evening’s incident had left her weary. Once at home, she sighed, slumping into the nearest chair. The stresses of the evening were finally allowed to express themselves, such that her mind wouldn’t settle. Narys, what must she be going through. If she could hardly settle her own mind, the other woman’s must be a storm. Most importantly, she didn’t know if Narys was even safe. The man she had walked off with had shown himself to be impulsive and full of rage.
Sitting down wasn’t helping, her thoughts needed a voice. Blood washed from her arms and dress changed, she headed down the road toward Holcrick.
