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The mire is miserable — and puzzling, Daithi cannot fathom the shemlen penchant for such settlements, — though not so miserable, either, as to spoil the Inquisitor's spirits. He returns from mission peaceable, more so than his companions, sour in their expressions, and even smiles for another's approach. ... though the gesture is, in part, a means of reassurance as well.

"It's not that bad," he promises Brigham, palm against stomach.

The wound is most obvious for the tear in Daithi's clothing, though the stains are pale, an excess of rain and swamp water, and Daithi's pain seems minimal, — even in spite of an arrow, split across the shaft, fixt into his left spaulder. He is otherwise a mess of muck and mane, plaits falling heavy and free, and feels more in need of fresh water, warm clothes, than Brigham's magic or a series of potions.

Edited 2017-08-15 02:17 (UTC)

Brigham, likewise, cannot find any wisdom in settling in such a wretched locale. It seemed to be perpetually raining, and every inch of the bog was some degree of sopping wet. Elfroot was plentiful, at least, and he had even noted dawn lotus, but the hallucinogenic blood lotus was equally plentiful. Even if necessity had dictated these people stay for some length of time, why would they make permanent homes here? But perhaps it was better when it wasn't raining (if that ever happened), and water wasn't littered with the plagued bodies of the dead (though he's hardly surprised a plague found plenty of hosts here), and if the dead didn't walk right out of the water when anyone so much as ventured close.

He can't help but wonder if the Avvar chieftain's son chose this mire in hopes either the sickness or the undead would finish off the Inquisitor before he had chance to answer the challenge. If he's honest, it's a miracle neither did, because Inquisitor Lavellan hardly seems cautious of either.

"At least this will be quick, then, Your Worship," Brigham answers coolly. He pulls a tent flap aside for the Herald. The copper-haired enchanter is soaked, having waiting outside for Daithi's return, wavy hair clinging to his brow and temples. He is glad that this time, it is 'not that bad'. Despite Andraste's blessing, Daithi seems to attempt to collect scars like a noblewoman might collect jewelry. The healer does his best to dissuade such attempts. Idly he has wondered once or twice if Andraste in her journeys was protected by the hand of the Maker, or if she too might have had a healer following after her.

"— ah," Daithi agrees, stepping into the tent.

He is accustom to most pains (even the anchor is familiar, now) and often, forgets himself for such resilience. Others remember in his place, however, and although 'Your Worship' remains a strange title, foreign and uncomfortable for an inescapable truth, — he is holy to this man, to many and more, — Brigham's attention is familiar. Routine is quick to form aside the other mage.

Inside, Daithi pauses center of the tent. Excess water saturates the floor. (He is growing accustom to that as well, the unending presence of wet, though wonders for the sake of the Inquisition's soldiers. Will the chill of rain claim them as soon as plague? He is not keen to idle in this place.) Daithi unfastens his left spaulder, then, curious of the arrow's success, though finds the fabric neath the armor piece untorn. His palm remains against his stomach.

Brigham notes the pause, albeit belatedly, and gives Daithi something of a 'what can you do' expression. There are two stumps set along one side of the tent as places to sit; not ideal, but certainly better than the sodden ground and, at the moment, all they had to work with. He is glad the Inquisitor is not in worse shape, though has come to learn that he takes wounds better than most.

He notes that Daithi's shoulder is uninjured, and thanks the Maker for that much, but the damage to his midsection remains unknown. That it has remained covered is less than reassuring. "Let us see, then," he beckons, motioning for Daithi to move his hand away.

Daithi tosses the spaulder to the tent floor, uncaring the piece might wet, and pauses once Brigham speaks. He opens his mouth as though to protest — glances from the enchanter, instead, shifting his weight, and then, gradual, ... raises his palm to reveal another arrow: what remains, at least, given much of the shaft is missing. Edges of the arrowhead are visible, though, askew in its entrance. Daithi's skin is an angry red.

Cautious, he watches Brigham.

The healer's expression remains passive, save for the slightest loft of his eyebrows. A cursory inspection shows that is remarkably shallow - shot from a great distance, perhaps, or with the bow barely drawn. Or, perhaps simple the grace of the Maker. After all, the other arrow didn't even pierce skin, despite lodging in his armor.

The other side of the tent (somewhat small, but room enough to move about, necessary of a healer's station) bears a cot held aloft of the mud by spare duckboards. Brigham motions to it and turns away to an array of potions and elixirs on a too-small table. "Carefully," he warns without turning back. The potion he reaches for turns out not to be for Daithi, but for himself. He uncorks a bottle with an unearthly blue liquid, takes a sip then re-corks the remainder.

"An arrow to the abdomen... I wonder what wound you consider 'that bad'," Brigham muses as he turns back to his patient's side. There is a faint touch of humour in his tone, but no smile to accompany it - rarely, if ever, did the Enchanter smile. He gathers his robes to kneel next to the pallet. "How recently was this?" he asks, glancing over Daithi for the best way to remove enough armor to safely get the arrow out and begin healing.

Daithi attributes such fortune to mere rot. The rising corpses within the mire are troublesome, of course, though nothing more than that; carcass is soft, after all, prone to squish and tear, and magic or otherwise, a week's worth of swamp rot will further weaken remains. Weapons will not fair well, either. Daithi knows, too, however ...

Such fortune is for not meeting Avvar in skirmish.

He assents to Brigham's guidance, then, shuffling towards the cot. (The pain is minimal; the arrow, shifting the slightest for each step, is not. Daithi's palm returns to his stomach.) There, he sets the quilt aside, courteous that he is so wet, and sits, slouching without Brigham's immediate attention. When the man turns, Daithi is caught using his teeth to remove a glove. He smiles for either of them.

"Perhaps two arrows," he jests, setting the glove across his thigh. The anchor glows faintly. Then, sobering, "an hour or so." Daithi's tunic is torn enough to reveal the arrow — and perhaps enough for Brigham to work — though was not enough for Daithi to remove the offending object himself; he half expects to unclothe. (The upper half of his armor is nothing more than spaulder and plate, at least: a rare moment to appreciate that another armor, suiting the new title of Inquisitor, remains incomplete.)

The response to such news is merely 'mmn'. It could have been much worse, then, with the shaft snapped as it was, Brigham wasn't sure if he'd perhaps been fighting and traveling the afternoon with the wound. Few normal men could do such a thing without pure fighting instinct fueling them the entire time. (Brigham had seen it, though, and he hadn't gotten used to it yet. In Markham, he eased the passing of their oldest Enchanters and saw to illnesses and the occasional self-inflicted magic wound. He had never seen battle before the rebellion.)

"Could be worse," Brigham affirms. He inspects the tunic, though decides its too meddlesome to try and hold up or work around. "Your tunic needs to be removed," he says, matter-of-fact, but waits just a moment to see if Daithi prefers remove the armor himself - mostly given that the man had already walked all this way and didn't seem too worse for wear.

Daithi nods in agreement, reaching to unfasten the remains of his armor.

Like its twin, Daithi's right spaulder falls to the floor, and soon thereafter, a pile of armor and glove clutters aside the cot. Such movement is purposeful and rote ... though seems as well to weaken in each passing minute: the fatigue of exertion, perhaps, or the stillness of a moment's reprieve.

Daithi slows evermore, however, while removing his coat. To lift and extend his arm so much agitates the arrow: its edges, seeking to further injure and root. Daithi's expression pinches, then, — the sensation is strange — and his tunic grows sanguine with a fresh stain. He pauses, collecting himself, as the article falls away.

Perhaps it was adrenaline then, or the Inquisitor was simply approaching his limit. The healer reaches forward wordlessly, carefully tugging the tunic away from the broken arrow so it didn't catch or snag on the fabric. Brigham has never seemed rough, of course, but for someone of his size and demeanor, it might be a bit surprising how gentle he is. He guides Daithi's arms from the tunic, lifting them as little as possible.

"Lay back," he instructs. "Relax your stomach, if you can."

Daithi sighs through his nose. (Perhaps an arrow is that bad, after all.) He allows Brigham's guidance without complaint, though: even appreciates the gesture, murmuring in gratitude, and complies as much as able. He adjusts a knee for comfort. (— forgets his coat as well, half resting on the fabric.)

Comfortable, Daithi rolls his neck, examining the wound for a moment, and then clinical, ... thumbs the protruding tip. The arrow remains still for once. Daithi's gaze shifts to Brigham. (He is not masochistic so much as curious.) "How do you plan to get it out?" he asks.

Brigham produces a handkerchief, and sets it in his lap. "Don't touch," he says mildly and without looking up from his task, as though reminding an apprentice of something on reflex.

He glances up momentarily, lifting his hands to the wound. "By pulling." How else might one remove a foreign object from the flesh?

His answer is Daithi's only warning. There would be pain for a moment, to be sure: he turns the remainder of the arrow shaft just enough to ensure the head of it would not dislodge. Then, he removes it at the angle that would provide - hopefully - the least resistance. Any finesse he lacks in his skill as a field surgeon, he soothes with a wash of magic as soon as the arrow is free. He casts with a gesture of his free hand, easing the protest of raw nerve and knitting flesh. The broken arrow he discards next to him, and turns to his task fully.

He has known surgeons to open patient wounds, a practice which allows smooth retrieval, — though such thoughts rush from Daithi's head in an instant. He arches against the cot, gritting his teeth, spearing tension through his temples. His heel presses into the pallet; his knuckles whiten into tight fists. His cheeks pale.

The pain is quick, though, coming and going in a flash, and Daithi relaxes in increments, an unfurling of muscle that starts in his jaw and hand. He remains still, then, soft and pliable neath Brigham's fingers, watching the tent ceiling in silence. The tug of the enchanter's magic, a gentle pull against the anchor, is growing familiar.

Were the arrow deeper, especially if it had been broken from the shaft, Brigham likely would have; a feat still beyond his skills, he thinks. He glances from his work for only a moment, a sympathetic look towards Daithi, if not an apologetic one. He disliked seeing others in pain, even if that was the harsh reality of being at war. He could not have avoided it. But, the Herald's slow relax signals that his magic is working.

The resistance of the Anchor to his magic is like a persistent pull, gentle but constant. It's strange more than uncomfortable, but he too is growing familiar with it.

He sits back on his heels, finally, the tingle of magic across skin fading as the last of the wound knits itself whole. The only indication left that a wound had been there at all was angry red skin, already easing.

Daithi is still for another moment ... then, reaches to massage his stomach. There, his skin is warm and tender though far from painful or even uncomfortable; mere instinct, something so primal even a mage cannot resist, is all the reason Daithi touches himself. His fingertips tingle.

He rolls his neck, catching sight of Brigham, and offers a slight smile. "Thank you," he murmurs.

The healer doesn't mind, now that Daithi's curiosity doesn't come with risk of exacerbating a wound. The handkerchief he had been holding in his lap he now wets with a skin of water, and cleans the area of blood to double check. Satisfied, he looks to the Herald. "You do not need to thank me, Your Worship. I am only glad I can be of use. If you wish to rest, it will do you good."

He shifts, intent to rise from the cot, though pauses for Brigham, resting on his elbows. Tempting as the suggestion is ... Daithi's smile widens. "Unfortunately," he answers. "I've too much work to do."

Brigham cannot deny that. His eyes close momentarily, a slow inhale drawing his focus back. He bestows another spell on the Herald: rejuvenate, to ease any weariness and even hasten the recovery of stamina.

"To speed you on your way, then," he relents. While he would prefer the Herald rest after battle and injury, the healer well understands the momentous work before the Inquisitor. He stands, then, brushing soil from the knees of his plain robes, though that does little for the dampness that has soaked into the hem - something all those currently stationed in the Fallow Mire seem to be getting used to.

The spell's effect is rather immediate, granting Daithi an alert clarity of the mind. He remains on his elbows, though, watching the mage. "Beginning to think I wouldn't get very far without you," he says. His smile is wide in the corners, still.

Brigham's pause in his tidying, however brief, suggests surprise. He lifts his gaze momentarily to Daithi, and then away again, though does not quite resume what he was doing, and instead fiddles with the soiled kerchief. "That is kind of you to say," is all he manages, tone steady as ever - save for one slight hesitation.

The enchanter seems to realize his fidgeting, glancing down to his hands, then folds it with a sort of finality, perhaps a mental admonishment, and puts it aside. He fetches the arrow he had discarded earlier, and examines it briefly. "There would be someone else, if it was not me," he decides aloud. "I am fortunate to be able to help."

Daithi watches Brigham for another moment. He notices the fidget of kerchief though opts to remain silent, sitting to inspect his tunic, instead. He fingers the tear. (His armor will require repair as well.)

He raises his head as Brigham continues, remains silent for another pause, ... then, stands, turning from the other man. "You're right," he concedes, pulling the tunic over his head. "It was Solas before you arrived." He reaches for his coat. "But I like your bedside better."

Daithi glances across his shoulder, then, smiling once more.

Brigham glances over his shoulder towards the Herald momentarily, before returning to his task - little more than busying himself, unsure of how to deal with such praise. It was unlike him to be caught off guard for something like a minor compliment. Perhaps it was because the Herald... yes. It was certainly not unreasonable, he thinks.

Solas... the elf apostate. The Enchanter disapproves of apostasy, but even he acknowledges the man's control over magic. He respects him for that, besides seeming generally reasonable (something most apostates he'd met, and even some Circle mages, lacked utterly). "I am humbled," he answers quietly. "I will do my best to remain worth of such praise."

Edited 2017-08-19 13:02 (UTC)

Daithi chuckles, a soft (perhaps inaudible) noise. Such response is strange, he thinks, though he supposes it must feel strange, too, to receive compliment from the Herald. (— to think he truly is the Herald.)

"You make me sound disagreeable," Daithi teases. Then, smile obvious in his voice, "you don't have to try so hard, you know. I think of you as a companion."

"That was not my attention at all." For a moment, Brigham is quiet. He seems to realize he is being teased, then.

"I respectfully disagree," he says mildly, with a touch perhaps even of dry humor. "If I did not who knows how many arrows you would accumulate."

He pauses, half in the process of fastening his chest plate, chuckling once more; the noise is audible, this time. "You would have an easier time joining me afield, then."