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Fisticuffs and Frustrations [Closed]

Ceridwyn Calder

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#1
(( Firstfall 5, 9:35. Mid Afternoon. Conrad Krause ))

She'd gotten blood all over her only warm coat.

Well, she hadn't on purpose. The men who had tried to rob the elven mother of what vittles she had been able to procure--from one of the merchant's who deigned to sell outside the market--had done it. She was sure this was the fifth time her nose had been broken in her life, and she could taste the blood on her lips and in the back of her throat.

The three men were weaponless, but thuggish all the same. They had gotten a taste of her fists, and she had gotten a taste of theirs. A crowd had gathered around to watch, and she was sure she heard someone at some point calling out bets for and against her. She was going to disappoint some folks when she won this battle. Two of the three men were already rolling on the ground, it was just her and the bigger one.

She was strong, but her fists weren't doing much against the chest and abdomen of this guy. A few kidney shots had been effective but he was getting good at avoiding her getting behind him. That left one more avenue of attack that didn't involve breaking an arm or leg, and when the man charged her again, she dropped low, looking like she might toss him, but instead her fist connected hard with his crotch, both her own momentum and his causing the impact to be the final shot of the fight.

The man fell over with a squeal of pain, and she backed up bouncing on the balls of her feet. She wiped at her nose, which was still pouring blood, and looked around eyes open and alert in case these three had some friends who wanted a go.

Thankfully, no one else wanted to join in, and after a moment she turned to the woman who was the target of the men, "Here, in case what you have there isn't enough for your youngins'"

She passed the woman a few silver, really all she could spare until she could find actual work here, or until she got inside the city and got a chance to be with her Gran. She tilted her head back, trying to staunch the flow of blood, but then choked as it flowed down the back of her throat. "Sodding hells!"

She began to stumble away from the crowd, in what she figured would be a vain hope at finding a healer in this encampment.
 

Conrad Krause

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#2
Conrad wondered at the wisdom of accepting Teyrn Cousland’s offer to leave Denerim with his entourage and take up the position of healer at Highever. The compound at Denerim had been set to rights, true enough, and in the Teyrn’s absence, only the barest staff would remain to keep the estate in order.

But leaving Denerim had meant leaving the folk in the marketplace, who had only just begun to accept the scar-faced giant and come to him for treatment of their illnesses and injuries. He could have remained at the Denerim estate, but with only a few healthy individuals to look after, it would have felt dishonest to accept the Teyrn’s generosity in purchasing medicines and supplies to help the needy who far outnumbered them. He could also have left the Teyrn’s service and remained in Denerim, providing what help he could on his own, even though it would mean being able to do much less.

Ultimately, though, it had been habit, rather than logic, that had swayed him. His entire life, and the lives of generations before him, had been lived in sworn service. That the magistrates had ultimately proved unworthy of that dedication had not erased the need to serve a worthy master, or the fact that the array of choices that beset him nearly every day were becoming overwhelming. He was ill suited to independence, and Fergus Cousland was an honorable man, worthy of service. Johann would have approved of him.

And when they had reached Highever, Conrad had seen that there would be no shortage of folk in need of his skills. The encampment outside the south wall had, Ferren had explained, grown markedly since the end of the Blight, its numbers swollen by folk fleeing tainted farmland and destroyed settlements and drawn by word of the Teyrn’s generosity. But even generosity had its limits, and the city of Highever could not begin to accommodate the scores of refugees, many of whom knew nothing but farming. The Teyrn had tried to improve the accommodations and security, but his efforts were being met with sabotage: walls broken down, building supplies stolen or damaged, guards ambushed. Those behind the crimes remained elusive.

The infirmary in the castle, at least, was in good order and well supplied, and after acquainting himself with the needs of those in the Teyrn’s household, he had visited the two healers and the apothecary in the city itself, assuring them that he had no intent of encroaching on their business and inquiring carefully about their experiences in the encampment. One, an older man with a crotchety demeanor, had dismissed the inhabitants as vermin leeching off of the good Teyrn’s benevolence and made it clear that he had no intent of ever setting foot in the place. The other, a younger man and his wife, seemed to empathize with the refugees, but feared to go among them without an escort from the guard, so rampant had crime become.

So today, he had ventured out, after first notifying the guard at the gate of his planned whereabouts. So far, it had gone about as he had expected: folk gave him startled glances and a wide berth, save for the three cutpurses that he had caught and pitched ignominiously into the nearest puddles. He had managed to strike up conversations with a couple of the older men and work the fact that he was a healer into the chat. Give that time to circulate, and perhaps the next time he came, he would be able to open the pack that he carried and help someone. Then more the next time and the time after that. It would be slow, this gaining of trust, but Conrad was patient.

More patrols were definitely needed. There was a mob clustered ahead, and the shouts, jeers, and sound of wagers being made were something that he recognized easily: a fight was under way. The noise rose to a raucous crescendo, then tapered off into groans and swearing as money - and at least one chicken - changed hands.

An elvish woman pushed through the crowd, blood covering the front of her coat and flowing freely between her fingers from what was most likely a broken nose.

“Do you need help?” he asked, positioning himself so that he did not block her path. Her upper body was strongly built, and as the crowd thinned, he could see three men in varying stages of incapacity. Had she defeated them all? A formidable brawler, if so. Certainly no one in the crowd seemed interested in challenging her, though more than a few disgruntled looks were sent at her back. “I am a healer,” he added by way of clarifying his first statement, “and I have some experience with broken noses.” He allowed a faint smile as he touched a finger to his own off-center nose.
 

Ceridwyn Calder

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#3
Do you need help?” someone asked as she was moving away from where she had left the thugs. It was a kind gesture, and she turned to look at the person who asked.

"Maker... you're big," she said looking up at the man, her voice soft with a bit of awe. She took note of his attire, clean but not too fancy. A merchant's clothes maybe. The eye patch made her wonder what happened to his eye, but his accent intrigued her the most. It was certainly not one she had heard before.

I am a healer,” he said and she thought that definitely answered her question about the clothes, “and I have some experience with broken noses.

As he touched his own nose, she gave a chuckle which quickly turned into a choke and she spat out a large glob of blood on the ground. She tilted her head back a little, and looked at him with a bloody smile on her face, "I'd certainly appreciate the help, but I don't have a lot of coin. If that is alright with you, then by all means."

As he started to examine her nose, she kept a grin on her face. She was nervous, as she was sure if this man was a friend of those thugs, he could break her in half quite easily once he lulled her into a false sense of security.

"As you can see, not my first time broken either." She said with a little laugh, this time being more cautious about the blood running down the back of her throat.
 

Conrad Krause

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#4
In Conrad’s experience, elves tended to be more cowed by his size than humans, but apart from a slight slowing of her step, this woman did not seem to be alarmed.

“Maker… you’re big,” she remarked, sizing him up.

There was no hostility or ridicule in her tone, so Conrad took it in stride. “I have been informed of this before,” he replied, allowing himself a faint smile, “often enough that I must believe it to be true.”

She laughed - or tried to - when he indicated his own battered nose, but the laugh turned into a cough that produced a noteworthy clot of mucus and blood. "I'd certainly appreciate the help,” she remarked with a smile that put a mouthful of bloody teeth on display, “but I don't have a lot of coin. If that is alright with you, then by all means."

“The Teyrn pays my salary and provides the healing supplies,”
Conrad told her, motioning her to the side of the dusty lane where they were less likely to be jostled. "He wishes to provide what help he can to the folk in this encampment." She kept up an easy demeanor, but he could feel the tension in her as he carefully framed her face in his hands and probed at the sides of her nose. The pupils of her eyes, which had been constricted against the winter sun, were flared wider.

"As you can see, not my first time broken either,” she offered with a bit of a laugh, still trying to seem insouciant.

“Indeed,” he agreed, testing the damaged cartilage over the bridge, then higher to the nasal bone, which fortunately did not seem to have sustained a fracture, and the displacement was minimal … this time. “I estimate at least twice before this time.” He could feel the bumps of older healing as he positioned his fingers. “This will hurt,” he advised her, then quickly pushed the nose back into alignment before she could flinch or pull back.

“Are you a professional fighter?” he asked as he fished a pair of cloths out of his pack and wet them with his waterskin. He offered her one and used the other to clean the blood from his hands. “If so, I recommend avoiding any bouts for at least two weeks. My name is Conrad Krause,” he added.
 
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