A pre-winter's day tale...
Hawk lay sprawled on the ground on her belly, half in-half out of the creek that dripped slowly downstream. She was only beginning to regain consciousness and her first awareness was of a crick in her neck. She went to turn over, and discovered it took great effort to rise enough simply to get herself turned onto her back. Once done, she spread her arms out and squinting, cursed at the sun glaring in her eyes. Her mind was murky and aching. She looked from side to side to try and figure out where she was and how she got here and into this state. She let her head fall back onto the sandy stream bank as memories of the last few days began to filter through. Reaching to her lower right side, she touched the wound; she had begun to notice the throb as she was became more conscious. In fact, she realized, she hurt all over, it was only a matter of worse here and there. As she tried to sit up, Hawk's head began to swirl and she settled for rolling onto her side, propped on an elbow, where she could get a better look at the wound on her side. Nasty, aye, but she'd live if she didn't come down with blood poisoning. Reaching further, she pulled back the sliced material of her left pant leg and checked the cut she found there. Easing herself back down, she stared again at the sky and took inventory. Her head was splitting, two blade wounds, one to a leg making travel more difficult and her ribs hurt. Yep, everything hurt.
Hawk began to breathe deeply, in rhythm, to cleanse some of the pain. As she did so, images of the battle ran through her mind. She saw the meadow where they had fought, and the dead and dying that lay, covering it, when all was done. What was left of the band she had fought with buried the dead from both sides before they left. All but a few of the enemy had perished, and the survivors captured. There were not many more of the Rhocene clan left alive than there were of the Davons, who they supposedly defeated. Sighing, then wincing at the pain brought by the exhalation of breath, Hawk guessed that they had won; if one cared to call it that. One hundred strong on either side on Tuesday, noble and brave warriors all, Hawk thought almost sarcastically. By Thursday, there were 20 Rhocene left and herself, and but nine Davons. A hollow victory, indeed. Though wounded and weak from loss of blood, she had done her best to help with the burial of the dead, 'twas a sacred task not to be shirked. When the duty was finished, the Rhocene's leader thanked her and handed her a pouch of gold coins for her service. Her blood money.
A wave of self-disgust went through Hawk at the memory of the money. The anger, though, gave her the strength to rise enough to move herself round to reach the stream and drink. The cold water was elixir for her, and after a couple of deep gulps, she lapped it slowly, letting the drops linger in her mouth. Then she dunked her head and raised it up, slinging the chilling water from her hair. Untying the scarf from her neck, she soaked it and cleansed her wounds. Then taking the flask from over her shoulder, she filled it from the stream, pausing to drink once more. She washed the scarf that Dee had given her as best she could and put it back round her neck, and reslung the flask. Getting herself onto her hands and knees, she slowly, achingly, rose to her feet. She stood with her legs far apart to brace herself as a rush of dizziness overtook her. Breathing evenly, she stilled the dizziness and stood straight, turning carefully, surveying the land and gauging the sun till she had her bearings. Then with plodding, difficult steps, she headed west towards Rarlion and home.
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