The first thing that Tristan notes about the injury, after the sheer grisly nature of it, is the smell. It isn't fetid, which is a good sign. He makes no move to touch or otherwise manoeuvre the man's hand for a better look.
"It seems you lost," he dryly remarks, standing after a moment. There's far more to the story, he's sure, but that's not important right now. "You must clean it."
He's witnessed even the hardiest soldiers laid low by festering wounds, injuries that might have been survived had they been properly tended to in time. Experience hasn't been a kind teacher but he's learned its lessons well. Though it may already be too late for this man, he feels compelled to at least try to help; it's almost a guaranteed death sentence otherwise, this far out with no other pockets of humanity for miles.
A piercing whistle calls his horse — a strongly built, compact dapple grey Andalusian, laden with travelling supplies — from where he'd sheltered during the fight. He seems much calmer now, though he gives the remains of the creatures a wide berth on his way to his master, who rewards him by stroking his neck and murmuring words too quiet to make out. Then Tristan speaks normally.
"You'll watch him, enh?" Whether he's addressing his horse or the man is unclear, but the horse seems to answer with a low sound and remains standing by the stranger as Tristan sets off to search one of the nearby abandoned homes. He reappears a minute later carrying a dusty basin, which he rinses out and fills from the stream that winds through part of the village. It's set before the man, along with some linen cloths from the home and soap from his own saddlebag. He remains crouched there, watching the man with an expectant look.
"I can do it for you," he offers, having noticed the shivering, and anticipating that the pain might exhaust whatever strength the man has left. "Though you won't like it. But it must be done."
no subject
"It seems you lost," he dryly remarks, standing after a moment. There's far more to the story, he's sure, but that's not important right now. "You must clean it."
He's witnessed even the hardiest soldiers laid low by festering wounds, injuries that might have been survived had they been properly tended to in time. Experience hasn't been a kind teacher but he's learned its lessons well. Though it may already be too late for this man, he feels compelled to at least try to help; it's almost a guaranteed death sentence otherwise, this far out with no other pockets of humanity for miles.
A piercing whistle calls his horse — a strongly built, compact dapple grey Andalusian, laden with travelling supplies — from where he'd sheltered during the fight. He seems much calmer now, though he gives the remains of the creatures a wide berth on his way to his master, who rewards him by stroking his neck and murmuring words too quiet to make out. Then Tristan speaks normally.
"You'll watch him, enh?" Whether he's addressing his horse or the man is unclear, but the horse seems to answer with a low sound and remains standing by the stranger as Tristan sets off to search one of the nearby abandoned homes. He reappears a minute later carrying a dusty basin, which he rinses out and fills from the stream that winds through part of the village. It's set before the man, along with some linen cloths from the home and soap from his own saddlebag. He remains crouched there, watching the man with an expectant look.
"I can do it for you," he offers, having noticed the shivering, and anticipating that the pain might exhaust whatever strength the man has left. "Though you won't like it. But it must be done."