(no subject)
The hill country in parts of Dardania is wild, and rough; there are beasts living there that one might well think had survived somehow from the age of Titans, and of the first Earth Men, who made their swords of stone. They make good hunting for a prince and his companions, as one can make a name for himself that way, and no harm done to the standing of any neighbors or allies. And the trophies of such a hunt are appreciated all the more, for the work and valor and skill that must go into taking them. Even the prizes that must be given after to this or that man who did some great deed in the process of bringing a raging boar down are seldom grudged, for the giver is talked of as often and as well as the one who won them. All around, it is seldom a losing proposition, save if someone dies inconveniently.
Or, perhaps, if someone is wounded. That happens often, as the pig is fighting for its life and the men are, after all, only men; and sometimes even a beast on the edge of death can surprise you.
Hektor is not entirely sure how much of the blood on his thigh is his own, how much the pig's, how much that of his cousin who had been at his side, but he knows the wound is a bad one. He had hoped to get it washed clean in his tent before having someone look to it properly. But there is no light beyond the dim red glow of a fire-pit in his tent, he knows that for certain; so when he looks about upon his entrance, his look is one of more surprise than pain. "This place," he murmurs to himself. "I had almost forgotten..."
Awkwardly, painfully, he bows in the direction of the Bar and makes his way over towards the fire. To the alarmed-sounding waitrat that approaches he says, "Ask the Lady for wine, please, and water, and something to wash with. I would see just what harm's been done before I go any further this evening."
Or, perhaps, if someone is wounded. That happens often, as the pig is fighting for its life and the men are, after all, only men; and sometimes even a beast on the edge of death can surprise you.
Hektor is not entirely sure how much of the blood on his thigh is his own, how much the pig's, how much that of his cousin who had been at his side, but he knows the wound is a bad one. He had hoped to get it washed clean in his tent before having someone look to it properly. But there is no light beyond the dim red glow of a fire-pit in his tent, he knows that for certain; so when he looks about upon his entrance, his look is one of more surprise than pain. "This place," he murmurs to himself. "I had almost forgotten..."
Awkwardly, painfully, he bows in the direction of the Bar and makes his way over towards the fire. To the alarmed-sounding waitrat that approaches he says, "Ask the Lady for wine, please, and water, and something to wash with. I would see just what harm's been done before I go any further this evening."