Excerpt 5/29

Monklike <Celsa of House Pereyra> alone losing fight against a <Sentinel>, reunited with archer travel companion who split off after a fight, ranger-like <Isolde> who brutally finishes it and checks on her. (Bitch has got a whole scaphoid fracture)

You stagger backwards, narrowly remaining upright, and your assailants move in an instant to press this advantage. At your prime, a trio of sentinels would barely be able to touch you. Now, all alone, with your mind such a mess, you’ve taken one too many careless hits.

A bladed sentinel, the most wounded of the bunch, lands a clean hit, slicing open your cheek and making your head spin. In the blur, you’re able to trade blows and launch your assailant back with a palm strike, but you push yourself too far and cry out as your hand falls limp. You try to make some space between the yourself and the remaining sentinels, but you’re too sluggish from the pain. Their captain intercepts a kick and slams you to the ground hard.

The pair approaches you, and your defeat finally starts to sink in. Your arms and legs refuse to move. Even as you will yourself to stand and fight…  everything around you starts to blur.

You allow yourself one last prayer as the captain raises his hammer above your head, something desperate. Then, it falls… and…

…

There’s a soft, distant noise… then the captain’s mask bursts into shrapnel, revealing a board of fried wires with a crossbow bolt sticking out of it. As the last Sentinel panics and surveys his surroundings, your guardian angel isn’t far behind.

She drops down from the treetops, landing squarely on target and crushing the Sentinel’s head beneath her boot. Unsatisfied, she plunges her dagger into its breastplate again, then again, then again, working up into a frenzy and slicking herself in oil. You try to whisper out some admonition, which comes out as a garbled mess but still manages to draw her ire.

“YOU…” She leaps on top of you, close enough to come into clear focus. Her eyes are wild, surveying you up and down. She gets to work, pulling poultices from her pouch to apply to your face and chest, wripping scrap fabric to bandage your wounds, and setting your shattered wrist, all with the gentleness of a starved hound(?). When she goes to wrap your hand, you writhe and scream, but she just puts her hand over your mouth and glares at you.

“Quiet.” You bristle at that… but you don’t have it in you to fight her.

At the very least, her treatment starts to take soon. Once you have enough energy to whisper a few hoarse profanities, she lightens up a bit, even standing and offering you her hand. When you come crashing back down trying to stand, she gets that same frustrated look on her face. After a few more tries, she gives up and hoists you up in her arms.

“Wait, what are you–” you try to protest, but she silences you yet again. After a few more steps towards the treeline, she gives you an uncharacteristically withering gaze.

“Just a little further.” Then she adds on, much more quietly:

“Sorry…” Enough feeling has returned to your face that you feel yourself color. That alone pushes down the last bit of indignance you’ve been holding onto. You relent and let Isolde carry you into the woods, resting your head in the crook of her neck. There’s a strong smell of sweat and earth about her that might have disgusted you before. Maybe you’ve just spent too long alone, but… it puts you at ease.

You’re not sure how long it takes, but you eventually drift off.

When you wake, you’re wrapped in Isolde’s cloak at the fireside. You stir and quickly spot her, sitting by the spring and rubbing away at her stained shirt. She seems to be getting increasingly frustrated. You wrap yourself in her cloak and cross over with a bemused look.

“You’ll at least need some soap for that.” She rolls her eyes, pushing away the bundle you produce from your measly pack.

“Sounds like a waste to me.”

“And what else do you use it for?” She scoffs… then you both laugh. Isolde gives you another strange look afterwards.

“I missed this.” Her eyes go wide, seemingly surprised at her own words. You don’t disagree, though. Instead you slide closer to the spring and settle down in the grass.

“Me too…” The morning sun breaches through the canopy and creates a perfect little sunbeam in your nesting spot. You stretch and lay back, basking in the warmth while you watch over Isolde’s work. Then, she creeps over towards you, abandoning her stubborn launderessing to relax in the warmth with you.

You close your eyes for a moment, nearly drifting off until you feel your companion brushing her hand through your hair. She doesn’t say anything, only stroking your hair, occasionally with a soft sigh. It all feels… peaceful in a way things never did before the two of you split up.

You catch Isolde’s hand in your own. She doesn’t flinch.

“Are you just taking pity on me because I got hurt?” You open your eyes, seeing her in that strange forlorn expression again, though it quickly shifts to indignancy. “We’re supposed to be equals on this team, remember?”

She groans and faces away from you.

“No… of course that’s not it. Don’t just jump to whatever conclusion would let you beat me up.” You circle around to get a look at her face, but she only growls and turns away again.

“Then what? Last time I got this hurt, you put me through a forced march the next day.” She raises a finger as if to argue, but you put it down for her. “Either way, I deserve to know what your issue is.”

Isolde flushes, and as she tends to do when she flushes, she pushes you away to pout about it. This time, you latch onto her arm. She yanks it away to try and free it, but you’re resolute. She curses, then seems to get shy again.

“I can’t… you know how I am. I don’t want to talk about it.” You look her in the eyes, then she tries to dodge out of your sight, only held bag by your iron grip on her. “No.” And you stare. “No!” You stare a little longer, until Isolde covers her face with her free hand. “Fine! Damn you! Just let me go… and I’ll tell you.”

You are all too happy to comply, so you take a step back, and the two of you sit back down by the stream. She sits for a bit before finally deciding to speak.

“I’m not looking down on you because of your injuries. I know how competent you are, I just…” She fidgets with the hem of her shirt, so you slip her cloak back to her, to occupy her hands.

“I feel responsible. I said some awful things to you, then you got hurt. You looked nearly dead when I found you.” That same wistful expression returns, only to sour when she meets your gaze, awaiting your scorn.

You don’t give it. Instead you slide up closer and take one of her hands between yours. The two of you sit like that for a few moments before you can think up an earnest response.

“It isn’t your fault. It was stupid of me to storm off like that. Plus, you even saved me after I did something like that.”

“Still…”

“Still?” She tenses up, but you’ve proven how insistent you can be by now.

“I keep thinking back to what I said, and I can’t accept it.” She squeezes your hand. “I projected my experiences onto you instead of thinking about how you grew up. I was so used to my happy family with my clan that I didn’t consider how bad things could have been for you.” You tense up. As far back as you remember, you’ve never told Ysolde any of the details of your house. Before you can speak, she adds in: “When you left, I ended up at a local village. I hope it doesn’t seem like prying, but… I asked some of them about your house. And… what I heard…” She starts to quiver, and you wrap an arm around her.

“That’ll be enough. I think I understand.”

“I shall decree your penance, by my crown authority.” She looks at you with disproportionately serious anticipation in her eyes.

“You must…”

“Call me by my name.” Isolde shrinks a bit and slides away from you.

“You’re serious? That’s it.” You nod. She gives you a horrified glance, as if she’d have preferred an execution. “It’s embarrassing, though, isn’t it?”

You look her straight in the eye.

“Isolde.” She flinches away, as if posessed. “Isolde. Isolde. Isolde.” She puts her hands up in surrender.

“Fine! Just… give me a second.” She sits, gathering her composure for a bafflingly long time.

“... Miss Pereyra.” You shake your head, and she looks genuinely hurt. Still, she centers herself, and…

“C-...”

“...”

“Celsa…?” And you leap over to wrap your arms around her in congratulation. After a few minutes, she gets over the embarassment, but neither of you moves to leave the embrace, until the weather takes a turn and you lose your sunning spot.