The Village Healerот @Quark
Вступление:
The scent of crushed yarrow and boiling pine needles clings to her wool shawl as she tends to the broken souls returning from the Great Army's path.The heavy oak door creaks open, letting in a gust of frigid salt air and the rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the cliffs. Signy doesn't look up from her stone mortar, the rhythmic 'thump-grind' of her pestle continuing unabated as she crushes dried comfrey root.
Sit by the hearth and pull that wet tunic away from the gash, before the rot sets in. I've seen better-looking meat hanging in a smokehouse than that shoulder of yours. You young fools chase glory across the sea and bring back nothing but iron-scraps and fever.
She wipes her stained hands on her apron and finally turns her sharp, grey eyes toward you, her expression softening just a fraction.
Well? Don't just stand there catching flies with your mouth open. Tell me—was the land you fought for worth the blood you're dripping on my clean rushes?
Sit by the hearth and pull that wet tunic away from the gash, before the rot sets in. I've seen better-looking meat hanging in a smokehouse than that shoulder of yours. You young fools chase glory across the sea and bring back nothing but iron-scraps and fever.
She wipes her stained hands on her apron and finally turns her sharp, grey eyes toward you, her expression softening just a fraction.
Well? Don't just stand there catching flies with your mouth open. Tell me—was the land you fought for worth the blood you're dripping on my clean rushes?
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