Chapter 1 - Change

Gawen looks at Kara, now wingless in the light of day, then back to Isolde. "This has something to do with Kara?" he asks. Meanwhile in the clearing, Pen's eyes widen and his tail stands excitedly on end as Glöyn cuts off a small chunk of the rabbit and throws it to the ground near Gann. The dog looks between Glöyn, Gann and the meat, the tip of his tail waving very slightly as his hunger and inquisitiveness fight against his instinctive caution - the former wins out and he creeps slowly towards the meat, eyes on Gann. Reaching it, he picks it up and quickly devours it in a couple of short bites, before licking his lips and looking expectantly up at Glöyn again, evidently hopeful that there may be more forthcoming. As Gann offers his hand, the small dog looks at it with interest, evidently wondering whether it might contain more food. He creeps a little closer, giving it a sniff and an experimental lick.

Gann barely makes a move, and his calloused arm remains extended for as long as the dog feels comfortable to inquire about it. He tries to crack a smile when his fingers feel the warmth of Penn's breath but it comes weary and too subtle to notice. He then turns his attention away from it when the dog closes on Glöyn's offering so it feels comfortable about it. An agitated dog's bark would draw more unwanted attention than a fed and content one. "It is not a stray. Do not cause it harm." He doesn't face Glöyn with his guttural drawl but the words are only meant for one person on this tiny clearing. "The folk it belongs to, they don't deserve it either. They are not the men you hunt for. Common folk will not set ground near if they were. If you must, you should leave me Glöyn." The last few words come more distanced and an unexpected rejection than they should but Gann doesn't notice at first. His mind is lost among the few options he has. Giving the dog a piece of his equipment to take away as a trophy may draw attention into the thick of the woods but is the risk worth it? What if these people would take an easy opportunity to take away the meager nothing that his life and belongings are? An old man and a child wouldn't. Under different conditions, Gann wouldn't even consider the risk but he looks at the dog busy in its short ordeal with a made mind.

Isolde smiles up at Gawen vacantly, before dancing back off to frolic amongst the flowers. Branok chuckles as she does so and wanders over to the tall druid. "Ah, blant," he sighs between laughs. " Maen nhw'n gweld y byd yn eu ffordd eu hunain, yn enwedig Isolde. A wnaethoch chi ddod o hyd i'r hyn yr oeddech chi'n edrych amdano isod? Nid yw'r Arglwyddes Kara yn edrych fawr o waeth am wisgo." Cornish: Ah, children. They see the world in their own way, especially Isolde. Did you find what you were looking for below? Lady Kara looks little worse for wear.

Gloyn cuts another hunk and tosses it towards Gann. "Fear not, northman. I will not hurt the common folk, only those who traffic in people's misery. I believe you that this animal is not a beast of slavers. I believe it belongs to the old man. Feed it again, mayhaps I can head back while you keep an eye on this creature and investigate these people outside the Wookey Hole. Perhaps they have some information on the men I seek."

The sanguineous lump of hare meat plops close to Gann's left side and he shifts to reach it with a calm movement in time for Penn's attention to focus on a new fresh treat. Gann's hand then rests on the dampish soil to make it clear it is its to take, should it feel safe to sniff and gait closer. " Snottor . You do that," Gann nods. "If they see me alone, they might think wise to leave me to the woods. If you have me the rest of the haring, Ei shall keep it busy for a while." Talking, even a couple sentences at a time is exhausting him, lungs weighting like sacks of flour inside his body. Gann rests his head back on the gnarly bark of the tree, eyes on Penn.

"A good idea." She slowly approaches Gann, keeping the large man between her and Penn. She carefully passes him one of her knives and the rabbit carcass. "I will slip away and go investigate these people more closely. Get some more information." With that, Gloyn moves back slowly and disappears into the woods.

Gann takes the rabbit carcass from her hand but then refuses Glöyn's knife. In a silent confirmation, he pats on the buckskin kurtzseax sheath at his thigh. "Go." He exhales with a wavering wheeze and puts the meat far away from the dog so that it has to entertain some jolly wag to get more meaty bloody treats from this friendly pair of strangers.

"Efallai..." , replies Gawen thoughtfully, carefully expecting the small ornament to see if there was any detail visible in the light of day that he'd missed in the cavern. Drained as he was, he could no longer sense its otherworldly aura, but he had no doubt it was still there. A small object to have caused so much trouble. "Gwelsom hyn mewn hen feddrod isod. Rwy'n credu mai dyna oedd Isolde eisiau, ond wn i ddim beth yw ei arwyddocâd. Pan wnaethon ni ei gymryd, cafodd gweddillion y rhai a gladdwyd yno eu hanimeiddio a cheisio ei adfer, felly mae'n rhaid ei fod o rywfaint o fewnforio. Bu bron iddo ein llethu, a syrthiodd Ewan yn eu hymladd ... Mae'n dynged ryfedd y dylem ddioddef cymaint o ofn ac amheuaeth dros beth mor fach. Rwy'n gobeithio na roddwyd bywyd Ewan yn ddideimlad." Welsh: "Maybe... We found this in an old tomb below. I believe it's what Isolde wanted, but I don't know what its significance is. When we took it, the remains of those interred there became animated and tried to retrieve it, so it must be of some import. It almost overwhelmed us, and Ewan fell fighting them... It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing. I hope Ewan's life was not given for naught." He looks over to where Kara was watching Isolde play, and calls out to her, intending to ask her about the statue - and the appearance of her wings. "Kara?" Welsh: "Kara?" Pen doesn't notice Glöyn quietly slip away, focused instead on the potential for being given more food. Seeing Gann put the meat out of reach, Pen sits and watches him expectantly.

Kara turns her head towards Gawen, unsure what exactly was needed. While she could feel the holy presence of Freya around her still, ensuring she knew she still had the Goddess's favor, she was unable to properly reach out and touch it, which she realized she had been doing when she had healed everyone. It struck her as odd she had the power to help the sick, for it meant she could turn the tide of battle. However, with Gawen calling her name, she seems happy for the distraction, for nothing was worse than not having anyone to party with, and Gawen was a pick she had no trouble making. But, remembering he may not understand, and being unable to recall if she could even understand him, she tries her best Saxon. "You called for me?"  Her mastery of the language was not complete, and it was clear she was no native speaker. But she was understandable some what.

Once left alone with the dog, Gann meets its inquisitive look that darts between him and the hare. "You and I, we are both dogs to man. So I make an oath," he whispers hoarsely. His mind is blurry that talking to a dog doesn't need a reason. "If your old man helps me live, you will have many harring from me." With that, he reaches for the kutzseax and slowly unsheathes it not to startle the dog, then takes a slow blood-drenched cut off the side of the hare and throws another juicy bit to Penn. Then he drops the crimson-clad blade and goes limp again. While the dog eats he thinks of Glöyn and how gods have willed their paths to cross. She had a warrior spirit -- not an unthinkable thing but rare -- and a strong grudge to bear. Beauty and youth, too; it would have been rude not to notice. Alone, she stood little chance if she plumped headlong into trouble. The men he had barely avoided two nights ago were battle-ready and too many to count by noise alone. Under different circumstances, he would be useful if only to speak reason and to protect her from harm. Slowly but surely, breathing starts to become a struggle. Cold sweat sheens his forehead and he wipes it off, smearing clotted animal blood along the forming wrinkles. For a fleeting moment he drifts, snapping back to reality with effort, unaware at first how much time had passed. The dog is still here and still eating, its tail raised and enjoying the meal. But his lungs ache, as if the flour in those miller sacks coagulates into something heavy that drags him down in a drowsy sleep. Gann fights the feeling and tries to shift himself against the fallen tree and finds that the tingling has spread across much of his leg and groin, both immovable for too long. Fighting the impending torpor, Gann keeps himself busy cutting another piece of the hare, while rasping for air.

Pen eagerly swallows the second hunk of meat Gann throws to him. Looking up at his newfound friend, the small dog sees the large man go limp with exhaustion. As he seems to rouse himself and continue cutting meat, Pen moves a bit closer and, with a slight whine, moves in and licks the Gann's hand again, before disappearing into the woods in the direction he'd first appeared from. "You called for me?" asked Kara. Gawen shows her the statuette by way of reply. "This is what we found below, what Isolde wanted us to get, I think. But when I asked her about it just now, she pointed to you." Handing her the small object, he gives her a moment to inspect it before asking, "Does it mean anything to you? Do you feel anything from it?" He's about broach the topic of Kara's wings when Pen appears from the undergrowth nearby and gives a small bark. Gawen looks over to him. "Pen, dyna chi. Roeddwn i'n meddwl y dywedais wrthych am warchod. Dewch yma, fachgen!" Welsh: "Pen, there you are. I thought I told you to stand guard. Come here, boy!" Expecting the dog to come to his call, Gawen crouches slightly and pats his thigh, but the dog stays where it is at the edge of the clearing and barks again. It clearly wants them to come to it. Gawen looks at Kara, puzzled. "You think there could be more of Arthek's men in the woods?" Not wanting to disturb Magan and Theli for what might be nothing, he calls softly to Guthric and motions for him and Kara to follow, before heading into the woods after Pen.

Kara takes the small statuette from Gawen, unsure why Isolde would think she knew what it was or had to do with anything. All it really did was seem similar to the raven she carried, but even then, this was not a raven. She turns it over for a few moments, trying to find out if there was any power in it. This is however interrupted when Pen comes out, and barks. As Pen refused to get close to them, Kara gets her shield ready again, and her sword out, stowing the statuette in a pouch next to the other. "Do I think? perhaps. We never did fight them all, so there is no telling how many there are, nor if they have reinforcements . However, we need to take the fight to them, otherwise we will lose. We have little left." Her chest still hurt some from were the undead had touched her, and her eyesight, while better, still swam from the earlier fight with Arthek. If they were to win, they would need to set a perfect ambush.

Gann was about to finish another long juicy cut that smells heavy of sanguine when the dog stood up off its haunch at the edge of his blurred sight. The warmth of the dog's tongue barely detects on the tanned callus of his hand. "Nae... nae." Gann gruffs with hoarse voice then tosses the meat but the dog is already padding away at the edge of the small opening. He stares after it uncertain what caused the sudden loss of interest. "Don't run..." He rests back, unable to do anything else, and looks up at the shades of emerald that weave the foliage of the trees above.

From her hidden position Glöyn watches this group as the engage with the old man and child, they clearly had the look of warriors about them... seasoned warriors from the looks of it. They were nearly all injured in some fashion, but they did not look as slavers. Perhaps she could watch them a bit longer... when she heard the sound of that dog crashing through the woods. 'Damn the beast! I know I should have silenced it.' Just as the others start following after the canine, she just drops down from her position in the tree above... and rolls her ankle as she drops onto a hidden rock. She crashes to the ground with an involuntary yelp of pain and a loud crunch of leaves and underbrush!

Gawen carefully follows Pen into the woods, quarterstaff held at the ready. They barely make it a few feet in before there is the sound of rustling amongst the undergrowth off to their left, and a hastily-silenced shout of unexpected pain. Gawen cautiously approaches the source of the sound, struggling to see its origin amongst the dappled shade and low plants at the edge of the forest. "Who's there?" , he calls as authoritatively as he can muster, motioning to Kara and Guthric to try and surround the stranger as best they can. Meanwhile, Pen stands and barks impatiently from further into the trees, evidently confused as to why his master and old friends are wasting time talking to one of his new friends when his other new friend needs help.

The exit from Wookie Hole had been almost as uncomfortable for Guthric as thr entrance. With a wounded hound, he stopped repeatedly to check Claw's condition, make a makeshift bandage, lift the great mastiffs out of the hole they'd fallen in earlier, and try to lift their spirits. After the short climb to the main tunnel, Guthric's fang necklace seemed to almost glow for a minute amid the Pict's talks. I know...Gawen can help, Branok too...He would be very proud of you both...don't look at me like that, we needed you this entire time. Besides, you have many more bonus to chew on now. Once outside, Guthric can take better stock of Claw's condition. A deep gash in his flank accounted for the worst of it, but some swelling and surface bleeding on the side of his head needed attention too. Fang had faired much better with some minor wounds that were already stable and would mend in a day or so. The sudden commotion in the woods jolted Guthric to his feet. He took up his sword and shield, then whispered to his hounds, "Claw, stay with Branok, Theli, and Isolde. Fang, with me to the side." The outlander and Fang sweep around wide of Gawen, hoping to flank and overrun the quarry.

Kara turns towards the noise, and creeps her way to the side, her shield raised with the holy symbol of Freya displayed on the front, and Helgi already radiating from her hand. She was not all that quiet, but compared to both the first snap, and being louder than Guthric or Fang could ever be, she was obvious in her flanking moving. She had no idea what she was about to see, but would face it like any proper and brave Norsewoman. She calls out in Norse "You! Show yourself and Freya may find mercy in her wisdom for you! You shall perish if you persist these foolish games!"  Being unable to speak anything more than Saxon, she had stuck with her mother tongue.

Glöyn scrambles to her feet as these strangers begin to sweep around her, she is up quickly with her spear held out in front of her. "Come no closer!" she replies in the Cornish tongue as she moves some distance back. "I am seeking slavers in those caves. They hold my brother, if you are them then give him to me and we shall depart in peace. If you do not, then I shall end each of you in these woods!"

Gawen lowers his staff slightly in surprise. He wasn't sure who he'd been expecting, but this dirt-stained young woman wasn't it. "We're no friends of those inside the caves. We fought a number ourselves to free two of our own they'd taken. We didn't see any other captives, but the caves go further back and there are more men inside." Sensing the woman is telling the truth, he lowers his quarterstaff fully, hoping to appear less threatening. "If what you say is true, we mean you no harm. My name is Gawen, an emissary from Glywysing to the north, across Môr Hafren . We were travelling elsewhere when the men waylaid us and took a woman and child from our party. We chased them here and fought a small number of them, but others retreated deeper into the hill." Pen gives another agitated bark from further into the woods, towards where Gann lies.

The young woman watches this group warily, keeps shifting backwards carefully should any of them advance; however, as Gawen speaks her stance becomes a bit more relaxed as she begins to see the truth in his words and eyes. "Cymraeg wyt ti? Sut daethoch chi mor bell â'r de?" She asks in the Welsh tongue. Gawen weighs the young woman's words. "Dwi yn. Stori am dro arall yw honno. Byddwn yn siarad amdano yn nes ymlaen." He then transitions back into the Cornish tongue which may be easier for some of his companions to understand. "You say you seek your brother with these men? What is your name?" The young woman continues to watch him warily. "You can call me, Glöyn. If you are enemies of these men I seek, then perhaps we could help each other. I have another with me; a man who is injured. Your animal found him nearby. It seems he was attacked and is in desperate need of help. You have the look of Derwydd about you. You could maybe help him. I think he has a blood infection, but I am unsure and do not know which herbs will help him. He is under my protection, so should any of you try to harm him I will kill you. I would then go into this cave to seek out these other men. Were there any others with your woman and child? A young boy perhaps?" "You are Welsh? How came you this far south? " "I am. That is a story for another time. We shall speak of it later."

Kara, despite being nearby, seems profoundly confused as Gawen relaxes. Clearly this young woman was hostile towards them, and she did not put it past those they had just fought to have someone hang back. But, she would trust Gawen as he seemed to understand the woman when they started talking that strange language of theirs. She muttered something about this is why she was still single, because she was clueless as to why one would drop their guard around an unknown stranger. And then after Gawen put it into a language she somewhat understood, it helped only a little. All she heard was more fighting, and more glory for Freya. That is what counted. She wasn't a proper enough healer to help, but told Gawen "I can help best I can, but I have no knowledge of what that would be. Perhaps cut the leg? I heard that helps drain infection. Or was it cut it off?" Her face shows she is out of her depth, but willing to help, if guided. Kara did know a little about battlefield wounds.

"We'll... see how bad it is," replies Gawen expressionlessly. "Take me to him and I'll lend what aid I can." He follows Glöyn - almost certainly not her true name, he reflected - and Pen through the trees to the hollow where Gann still lies, slipping in and out of consciousness. Pen runs up to the man, gives his hand a lick, then looks at Gawen meaningfully. The druid nods. "Ci da, Pen." Gawen lets Glöyn approach the man first before cautiously following, aware that fear can make even a man in the most weakened state dangerous and that his tall frame could be intimidating. He holds his hands up to show they are empty, and says as gently as he can muster, "Are you awake? Can you hear me?"

When Glöyn steps into the clearing, she finds the wounded man exactly the way she left him. His head has tilted back over the fallen tree log and he stares into the high foliage, unaware of their arrival. He almost appears to have lost consciousness except for the futile attempt of his hand to rub some life into his stiff and leaden legs. He seems to respond to the noise made albeit slowly and in a fever state. The rest of the group are met first with the smell and it is not a pleasant one. The faint after-smell of raw game have been mixed with a heavy rancid stench of vagrancy and sickness. The man in dire need of help is shorter in height, with a haggard look under the clotted beard. We wear simple leather tunic and a chain shirt, both of them showing heavy wear. The man appears to have a warrior's build, the exposed arms are carved with thick veins running down sinewed forearms, his fingers thickset and bereft of grace. A shape of lang seax rests nearby in a sheath of animal skin. His left leg is bound in a thick bandage, dark from dirt and worse, and has been recently opened. Flies impatiently circle it in search of carrion. Gann recognizes the shape of Glöyn but his instincts flare when he notices the massive shape of a man following it and the bush rustling with more feet incoming. His sight is blurred for a moment so blinks hard to clear it. Gann's heartbeat races. I am dead. His hand immediately reaches for the seax held at an arm's distance, trained muscle memory cutting through the despair. These are not an old man and a child. I am dead. This is it. He puts all his will into retracting his bad leg, and he cannot feel it. I cannot move. I am dead. His fist clenches on the weapon shaft before the words of Gawen make their way through. "Ei has nothing!" Gann's deep hoarse northern drawl reeks in desperation, rough as whetstone. "Ei mean no harm!"

Glöyn steps up next to Gann and kneels beside him. "Be still, Gann, these folk are here to help. They are not the slavers I was pursuing, they travel with the old man and this man, Gawen, is the owner of the beast. He seems to think he may be able to help you in ways I could not. I will not let them harm you, I swear this."

Gann's breathing is irregular and wheezing and his forehead covered with tiny beads of sweat. He comes to his senses as Glöyn speaks reason to him. Gann releases the seax and brings his hand to his chest then barely nods his head in a polite common greeting though his eyes seem affixed onto the strangers. "Please." , he says then nods once to all, but mostly to Glöyn.

Gawen tenses and draws back slightly as Gann reaches for his langseax, but Glöyn's presence and words seem to calm the man down slightly. The druid reaches in and carefully unwinds the bandage, revealing the festering wound beneath. He flinches slightly from the smell - there's clearly a lot of dead flesh there. A few dried herbs are visible inside the bandage from Glöyn's earlier ministrations. It doesn't look good - almost certainly a death sentence if left to rot, but he's seen wounds of this nature before. The druids who had raised and educated him had served as healers for the community, and he'd been instructed in the basics of cleaning and dressing injuries. This one seemed to have gone untreated for some time though - in his experience, a wound at this stage would prove fatal perhaps half the time, even with the best care. This man looked strong though. That strength might be the difference between life and death. Pulling out his waterskin, he first cleans away the dirt, pus, and dried blood to reveal the flesh beneath. The edges of the wound are tinted with the telltale tint of infection. It would have to be removed, one way or another - Kara's suggestion of amputation was not entirely without merit, but he judged the infected area was not so great as for that to be the only option. Most of the leg was still hale, it would just be a case of separating the bad from the good. The druids back home had kept a supply of fly larvae for just such a purpose - though unpleasant they could eat away the dead flesh, leaving behind the healthy tissue. They didn't travel well though, and he hadn't any with him. It would have to be done by hand. The first thing would be limit the blood flow. It would do no good for the man to bleed out whilst Gawen worked. Reaching into his bag, he pulls out a short length of thin rope, which he fastens around the base of Gann's leg. Finding a sturdy stick, he ties the ends of the rope to it and twists until the rope is tight, hopefully cutting off most of the blood to the wound. "Gweld a allwch chi ddod o hyd i rywbeth iddo frathu arno. Bydd hyn yn brifo," he murmers to Glöyn, pulling out his knife. He wipes it clean and tests it for sharpness. Looking up to Kara and Guthric, he adds in Mercian, "You will probably need to restrain him once I start work. It will be painful and he may thrash." (Welsh: "See if you can find something for him to bite on. This will hurt.") With his companions so prepared, he looks at Gann to ensure the man is ready, and begins cutting. The knife is a versatile tool. In one set of hands, capable of causing great pain, or taking away life in an instant. But in another, perhaps capable of saving it. Gawen works tirelessly but carefully to remove the infected tissue without harming the healthy, pausing occasionally to wash the wound clean again. After a few minutes - minutes which feel much longer for Gawen, and no doubt an eternity for Gann - he finishes. Putting the knife down and reaching into his bag again, he pulls out a small leather pouch which he opens to reveal a thick paste - a healing salve made from ground garlic mixed into  honey alongside a few other curative herbs. He smears this liberally across the wound, before producing a clean length of cloth which he fastens tightly around the leg, covering the injury and pulling the edges of the wound together. "Rwyf wedi gwneud yr hyn a allaf. Mae eich bywyd yn nwylo'r duwiau nawr," he sighs, sitting back. (Welsh: "I've done what I can. Your life is in the hands of the gods now.")

Gann's left calf looks like some sort of animal bite rend flesh almost to the white of the bone, luckily missing the arteries and sinew. A mistake has been to bandage it hastily and not check on a regular basis for anyone attentive would have noticed the early signs of the wound turning foul. The dirt collected on the bandage had been the culprit and without a clean one, there would be no escape from this fate. Dead flesh that should have been stripped a long time ago hangs loose covered with dried specks of an old healing salve and below it meat has tinted from sick yellow to purple dark. Gann breathes heavily, attention shifting from Gawen's careful touch to the Glöyn and back. He breathes with difficulty, trying to read his verdict from their expression. If anyone else approaches his attention shifts, almost feral at this point. When Gawen addresses Glöyn with instructions Gann doesn't wait for a translation, picking enough words. He nods curtly, then unbuckles the kurtzseax off his belt - making sure not to draw steel blade in presence of friends, - puts its shaft firmly into his mouth and bites hard. It starts as a deep guttural growl but then pitches high into an excruciating howl of pain that awaken every nerve into his body, likely startling Penn and whatever animals that thread nearby. Gann's neck flexes, thickly-corded and coated with dirt. He takes few precious inhales of air before the world flashes white with agony and he trashes his head back into the tree for support and his hands dig into the dirt of the earth. With only a fraction of the worst gone, he repeats the process keeping his gurgling scream guttural and low pitched to avoid drawing unwanted attention, and there seems to be a method to his way of coping for not once he reaches out to interfere, his lower half numb helping as well. Saliva coats his beard, dripping down the weapon shaft. After Gawen is finished Gann meets the giant man's stare with gratitude in his watering eyes, dry sweat and dirt-smeared beneath them. He takes a long pause to wet his lips with the few remaining gulps of water from a waterskin nearby, the one Glöyn left him. His breathing is still difficult and with an audible wheeze that seems to be caused by nasal deformity, a common thing in a rough life. "Diolch chi." He nods, almost slurring the words with a deep, graven voice. His body burns with aftershock from the cutting but it only makes him feel alive. "Rwy ' n Gann. Mae ' n ddyledus i chi os bydd duwiau i mi fyw. " (Welsh: Thank you. -- I am Gann. I owe you as much if the gods will me to live.)

The initial calming of hostilities was reassuring at least. Though ready for a fight, Guthric felt no thrill at more conflict for the day. In the nearby clearing where Gann was found, Guthric stared at the man from a distance. It was a bad omen to approach dying men in this state, but Fang carried no such sentiments. The hound crept up and sniffed at the air around Gann, then at his leg. Guthric hissed at the hound, making clicking and snapping signals a few times before Fang withdrew. Guthric grabs the man's shoulder and shushes him. The dialects of the northerners was different with a few loose similarities, but he didn't feel comfortable trying to bridge the gap. The Pict patted his shoulder to offer himself as a brace against pain, then snapped for Fang who sat on Gann's good ankle, then flopped on the rest of the leg like a blanket. The real fight began as soon as metal touched skin. Guthric has height and weight over Gann, but the smaller man had considerably more strength for his build. The outlander locked Gann by the elbow and threw himself against the tree with Gann's shoulder in between. He wrapped his other arm around the trunk to keep Gann pinned. Where Guthric expected the injured man to claw at the pain, he felt the man lock onto the back of his head. In the painful few minutes that followed, Guthric was sure he'd be missing scalp when all was done. The whole operation was an ordeal to keep Gann from thrashing loose of his retainers. When it was said and done, Guthric flopped to the side and Fang fell in beside. "Guthric," he patted on his chest, then his hand flopped over to pat his hound, "Fang."

Gann nods to both the large Pict who held him firmly during the most difficult time of the debridement process and the large dog that still has its weight comfortably warming on his other leg. The struggle to cope has left him short of air and although he rode the wave of adrenaline for a while, it wears off quickly. "Gann," he repeats and then tests the waters with some rough Mercian. "Ei owe yow all." He glances at Glöyn with a faint nod of gratitude as well, trying to read her expression or how much she trusts the strangers who have been so far as much a godsent as she were. "If there is an old man and a child with yow, ei do not wish to trouble them. Was victim of a beast, is all." Gann's gravel words ring honest but there's too much aversion to it.

Kara had stood back and watched, for well everyone else was helping, she knew of traps set like this, and it was not an uncommon practice for those who were not honorable to ambush those trying to heal. She even recalled one such story from the eastern raiders how they were baited into an area that if they had not the numbers with them, they all would have surely perished under the assault from those who had set it. She also had been serious about taking the leg, for she had dran Helgi and had her at the ready, but Gawen gave no sign the leg needed to be gone. What got to her the most was the stench of the wound, enough so she had to turn her head and behind a tree threw up what little was in her stomach. Despite being covered in grime, her own blood, and surely others blood, something about smell got to the large Norse woman, and she just could not help herself. Luckily that was done during most of the cutting and removal of flesh, so no one was really able to notice her step a few paces away, though it was most likely out of care for Gann than anything. When he stood up, Kara finally spoke up, though her accent was clear, and she misused a few words. "Good you are not dead. Fight another day would help you out some I would guess. I am Kara, Paladin to Freya, Goddess of All."  She pointed to the symbol of Freya on her shield if it wasn't clear, though she had no idea if Gann even knew Freya.

Gann looks up at the tall woman and either studies her or has trouble focusing his sight for it takes a long moment before nodding. Surrounded by their towering presence - that of Guthric and Kara, not to mention Gawen sitting nearby - the wounded man looks almost diminutive compared to them. He repeats his name and nods back to Kara, a simple courtesy at first. But when shown the symbol on her shield, he places a calloused hand on his chest, closes his eyes and bows for a breath or two to it before leaning back. Not for a moment he raises a word of their signs of recent battle, the scrapes of blade or spray of clotted blood that mark clothing or faces. Either too accustomed to the sight of lives taken, or threading carefully among strangers.

"Back to the wagon," Guthric announces, "The way he is, I don't think he's a danger. Claw needs rest too and will keep him in line." He nudges Kara's arm and nods to Gann's arms to help carry him away.

As Gawen, Kara, and Guthric emerge from the treeline with Goewyn and Gann in tow, Branok looks up with a start. He gets up from where he's been tending to Theli and jogs over towards them. "Fy daioni, mae gennych chi ffordd o ddenu'r clwyfedig a'r blinedig, onid oes?" the old man mutters as he gets a good look at Gann. "Dewch ag ef drosodd i'r tân, mae'n edrych yn oer fel marwolaeth." Cornish - "My goodness, you do have a way of attracting the wounded and the weary, don't you? Bring him over to the fire, he looks cold as death."

Hearing the commotion outside, Magan wipes his face dry and pulls his hair which is growing even longer than he usually keeps from where it has matted across his cheeks. The loose curls now cover his ears and fall down to his neck at the back. He gives Theli's hand a reassuring squeeze and snatches up his axe and shield. "What's going on out here. Who are these people?" He eyes Goewyn suspiciously for a second before his eyes flick over to Gann, weighing up the threats. "Where is Isolde?" He raises his shield protectively as he looks around for the girl. 

When tall figures loom above him and reach out to lift him up, Gann tries his best to assist them. In strong hands he almost feels like a rotten log of wood. Not as light as he appears from a distance however the vagrant lifestyle had fed on the veined muscle and his skin feels gunky and moist. The wretched smell that comes from his body may be too much for Kara for such close distance, but at least the grim state spares the wounded man the shame of acknowledging it. He is too weak to speak of his meager belongings - a mangy looking cotton sack, an empty waterskin, and the seax wrapped in animal skin. One can hope, they are taken as well. Maybe Fang or Penn will also take what is left of the hare, too. Being lifted and moved around makes Gann feel weightless and floating, the burning sensation across the numb bottom half of his body awakening with raw vengeance as nerves across his body respond to movement he was unable to will himself. He grits his teeth and endures, concentrating on breathing regularly. Only occasional soft, deep growl help deal with the full return to sensation and lets others know he is still alive and awake. Thankfully, soon his consciousness is penetrated by new voices. As Branok's face emerges in his watered vision and he hears recognizable speech, Gann tries to nod and speak though words come gravel and slurred. "Dydw i ddim eisiau eich trwbwl." As he is moved again, he slurs. "Does ond angen i mi orff." The way he says rest , however, comes of Pictish common use, or maybe swallowed by the impending exhaustion. As Gann registers Magan's voice, his mind subconsciously filters all other noise around him. Trained to recognize a command voice from a distance and react based on simple instinct, he locates the direction of the voice. He barely makes eye contact when the shield-clad man turns away calling for someone's name. Most likely being the child he was told about by Glöyn. Gann tries to think of complications but his thoughts tie to a knot and weight heavy like ship anchor. Welsh: I do not wish to be of trouble. -- I just need to rest.

As Magan scours the area for Isolde, he feels a small hand tug at his leg, and looks down to find her standing besides him. The little girl gazes up at the ranger with a gentle smile, before skipping off towards where the others are carrying Gann towards the fire. However, as she draws closer the stench reaches her, and her face twists in disgust. Once the heavy-set man is on the ground, Branok unpacks his healer's kit and goes about seeing to the injured pict in more detail. A number of pointed metal implements are set near the fire to heat, along with a small pot of water that is coming to the boil. First, he takes a basic work knife and begins to cut the loose remains of the rotten old leather tunic away from Gann's body. "Mae angen bath arnoch chi, ddyn ifanc," he chuckles, as he goes about his work. Once the majority of the filthy material has been removed, he takes a look at the wound itself - only to find it already cleaned and bandaged. "Mae eich gwaith mor drawiadol ag erioed, Gawen," he remarks. "Ni allwn fod wedi gwneud hyn yn well fy hun." Cornish - "You need a bath, young man." "Your work is as impressive as ever, Gawen. I couldn't have done this better myelf."

Gann's cold-limp flesh feel the motherly caress of the nearby fire. While his wounded leg burns with hellish ember the warmth outside is welcome and soothing. The smooth Cornish talk of the old man, well versed with calming the sick and troubled, gets to him and makes it even more difficult to fight the impending curtain of slumber. Gann nods once to Brannok, but his tiny window of consciousness is too occupied searching for the direction of the demanding voice he heard a moment ago to comprehend what the old man was saying. The leather tunic has almost glued to the cloth beneath it and the constant exposure to the early autumn downpours with no soaping or oiling, it has lost much of its stiffness. The surface feels sticky and cracked and the foul-smelling rot clings to the touch. Where it was worn over bare skin, some of it had painted the flesh in light grey. Branok cuts through the leather with ease following the sewing lines. When it is over, and the pieces of the leather come apart with adhesive noise from the cloth under it, Gann seems to stir. A good third of the gray-matted cloth has been torn apart and used for bandages, the rest is shredded by too many blade cuts. Gann's physique is honed to animalistic perfection, each fiber of muscle moving on its own under the thin pale-tanned skin and blue veins branching up from his loins across his obliques. As the blade makes first ripping into the sweat-soaked cloth, Gann's right hand swiftly strikes like a coiled snake at the old man's wrist. A calloused hand fit for a smithen almost completely engulfs the old man's wrist and the force applied locks hard on its movement. Gann's brown eyes pierce intently into Brannok but there's no wanton aggression in them. There's desperation, and the choking physical aura of feral fear. Gann's breathing has halted, nostrils flared and every muscle on his face strained.

The young woman follows behind the others with her spear ready should they turn to deceit, she watches all around and keeps a weary eye on the treelines. She looks furtive and distrustful, but willing to go along with this for now. "Once we have Gann comfortable I intend to investigate these caves more fully. These slavers have someone I seek and intend to recover him from them, then I shall kill any that live. Would any of you care to join me? I would split any spoils with those that do." As they come to the impromptu camp and Magan stands with weapons in hand, Goewyn shifts into a weary stance and the point of her spear extends. She relaxes as the old man and child approach, seeing that this warrior is simply doing his work to protect those with him. "I am Glöyn, this man here is named Gann. He was beset upon by beasts during his travels through the woods. I came upon him while stalking the men in these caves whom I am to understand you have killed a number of them. I seek someone they took, a young boy. I would seek your aid in searching these tunnels for this boy if you would. I will kill any that stand with these slavers and their spoils shall be split among those that aid me." She spots Branok tending to Gann and the larger man's reaction. She rushes over to his side and clamps her own, smaller hand upon Gann's. She leans down and speaks to him in Welsh to calm him. "Byddwch yn llonydd, Gann. Rhaid iddo eich iacháu. Byddwch yn llonydd. Rhoddais fy ngair ichi na fydd yr un yn eich niweidio." Welsh: "Be still, Gann. He must to heal you. Be still. I gave you my word that none shall harm you. " She looks at Branok as she works on removing the steely grip. "Gallaf eich helpu. Rwy'n gwybod rhai sgiliau iacháu a ddysgodd fy mam imi am anhwylderau gwaed. Mae gen i berlysiau a all eich helpu chi i ddweud wrthyf beth sydd ei angen arno." Cornish: "I can help you. I know some healing skills that my mother taught me about blood ailments. I have herbs that can help you can tell me what he needs."

"Ssh, ssh, ssh," Branok murmurs to Gann, not pushing against his grip or resisting. "Ni fydd hynny'n gwneud, nawr, a fydd, lad? Neis a hawdd nawr." He nods to Kara and Guthric to assist him, and restrain Gann if necessary, before releasing the knife and laying a fresh, damp cloth over the man's forehead. "Tawelwch y cyhyrau hynny nawr. Mae angen hyn arnoch chi. Rydw i'n mynd i'ch helpu chi." Carefully, he continues his work, waiting for those stronger than him to be ready. "Yn gyntaf rydyn ni'n glanhaun," Branok tells Goewyn patiently. "Gweld y creithiau?" He adds, gesturing to the white marks visible through the gaps in the shredded wool. "Mae hyn yn bell o'r tro cyntaf i'r un hwn wybod poen. Gall ei gymryd." "Dywedwch wrthyf, Glöyn. Pa berlysiau ydych chi'n eu cario gyda chi?" Cornish - "That won't do, now, will it, lad? Nice and easy now. Calm those muscles now. You need this. I'm going to help you." "First we clean. See the scars? This is far from the first time this one has known pain. He can take it. Tell me, Glöyn, what herbs do you carry with you?"

Guthric sits on the end of the wagon, ready for whenever he is needed. Seeing Gann going under a knife again gives him a morbid smile, "I've seen deer cut less for a feast than you are now."

It takes more than Glöyn's stern words and her strong hands applied to his fist to make it into Gann's locked-in consciousness. His lips part with a wheeze of exhale, face stretching in a grimace that tries to produce some word from his throat but nothing comes out. He slowly shakes his head at Brannok when the old man points at Gann's chest, the aura of dread possessing him just as hard as he strong as cold fingers locked tight around the old man's wrist. Warm wetness drips from the hot cloth on his furrowed forehead. Slowly, however, Gann becomes aware of his surroundings. His hunter eyes strike side glance at the spearwoman and his ears registering the steps of others, making him aware his instincts have put him in a very precarious situation.

Branok gives Guthric and Kara both a meaningful look, from each of them to Gann's tense arms. Meanwhile, Isolde dares to creep closer and rests her hands on the old man's back as she peers over his shoulder at the panicked pict.

Magan follows Isolde forward, putting a hand on her shoulder to keep her back from danger. He eyes up the man on the ground, impressed by his muscles but his tension is eased slightly as he sees the extent of his wounds and smells the reek of death on his flesh. This is no trick, he is of no threat. Allowing Branok to work he turns his attention instead to Glöyn, the wariness of her movements and the confidence of her tone as she makes her intentions clear cause him to reassess the dangers posed by the two new people in his camp. He bites back his initial reaction to laugh at her invitation and his eyes crinkle with amusement for just a second before turning to concern. Addressing her in the language she has used thus far he switches back to Cornish, his grammar is flawless but there is still a heavy Saxon accent on many words.   " Y grwp o gaethweision yn yr ogofâu? Maen nhw'n beryglus iawn, os ydyn nhw'r un grŵp ag rydyn ni newydd ei fagu. Byddech chi'n gwneud yn dda i gymryd eiliad i baratoi a mynd gyda ni." He gives a sympathetic smile, barely visible through his thick, unkept beard. "Rydyn ni'n gwybod y boen mae'r dynion hyn yn ei achosi, byddai'n anghywir i ni eu gadael i weithio yma" Cornish: " The group of slavers in the caves? They are very dangerous, if they are the same group as we have just faught. You would do well to take a moment to prepare and go with us." "We know the pain these men inflict, it would be wrong of us to leave them to work here."

Gann's grip on Brannok's hand relaxes only a bit when the old man relaxes his hold on the blade. Hopeful both he and the compassionate old man would both be willing to deescalate the situation that has been all his own fault, Gann withdraws. The deeply rooted eruption of desperation seems to stall for longer as Gann tries to control his irregular breathing and the weakness of his body hits harder now than a moment ago. He notices a bearded man's face evaluate him for above in a brief moment before turning away to address Glöyn. Gann's confused mind scrambles to provide a meaningful explanation to the sudden outburst and finds nothing. "Fy ymddiheuriadau. Nid oeddwn yn bwriadu eich brifo," he mutters to Brannok. There's honest guilt in his voice. He fully releases Brannok's hand and then clenches the large fist on his own chest. "Dim ond rhaid i mi orffwys, dyn da." My apologies. I did not mean to hurt you. -- I need to rest, that is all.

Glöyn looks to Branok as she begins to rummage around in a satchel at her belt. She looks up at the older man as she removes several dried smaller bags and glass vials with all manner of vegetable matter. "Mae gen i beth bynnag y bydd ei angen arnoch chi; ysgaw, yarrow, balm lemwn, dolydd y to, lovage, vervain, comfrey, elfwort, betony, a rhywfaint o woad. Bydd Yarrow yn helpu gyda'r gwaedu ar ôl, ond efallai y bydd y llwyth yn helpu nawr. Gallwn fragu ysgaw i mewn i de i'w helpu i gysgu ar ôl i chi orffen." Cornish: "I have whatever you may require; elder, yarrow, lemon balm, meadowsweet, lovage, vervain, comfrey, elfwort, betony, and some woad. Yarrow will help with the bleeding after, but the woad may help now. We can brew elder into a tea to help him sleep after you have finished. " She glances at Magan with a grateful nod. "Rwy'n ddiolchgar am unrhyw gymorth. Y dynion rwy'n eu ceisio yw Sacsoniaid, yn ysbeilio ger fy nghartref." Whereas Magan's Saxon accent stands out, it is clear this young woman comes from the welsh lands by her accent and the heavy wool accents of her clothing. Cornish: "I am grateful for any assistance. The men I seek are Saxons, raiding near my home."

Magan winces a little. "I think these are not the men you were looking for. Arthek's men are no Saxons, they followed us from near Tintagel." A  sad, sympathetic smile crosses his face. "The caves are a large network though, perhaps the men you seek are further in. Do you have a horse? If not you should take one from the men we killed."

Gann's hopes that his primitive response would have startled Brannok -- poorly thought as in different circumstances he could have found himself at a blade's end the very instant -- shatter in vain. The old man's hands are on the fabric of the tunic, stripping him firmly. Gann's face twists in internal struggle, and he grabs on the tunic in order not to grab someone else and do harm he would later regret. "Na. Atal. Naa..." Gann's growl builds up in his dry throat, but the sultry wool rips apart with ease. CREACH CÙ. RAIDING CUR. Among the map of minor scar that mats his skin with pale splotches, the words are carved deep into the flesh, from the right shoulder to just below the left chest, that the savagery of the interminable accusation had done permanent damage. The carving had been done with a short, broad blade but then the flesh had been burned repeatedly so it doesn't even attempt to heal. The last two most damning carvings had gone so deep that they had cut the left pectoralis and the muscle had contracted higher than normal leaving a dun-colored nipple sagging. With not an ounce of padding under Gann's skin, there's no softness to conceal the harm done. But the accusation of those words is a heavy burden and impossible to ignore. A murderer. A raider. A beast. Gann exhales, the moment intense. He freezes and his eyes narrow to slits, his lower lip curls and he bites into his tongue to squeeze the last few remaining tears of adrenaline into his blood. Fighting the weakness of the fever, he lets himself read into Brannok's expression before quickly scanning the perimeter for an immediate response. The wounded man lets his instinct take over, unable to muster an immediate response. No. Stop. No.

For the first time since the young woman had appeared to the group, that constant look of determined confidence falters as Magan's information reaches her. She frowns and starts as if struck physically, shaking her head in disbelief as she switches to the Saxon tongue to match Magan. "No, that cannot be right. They were known as the Jormun Gang, I was told they were seen heading to the Wookey Hole. It is as you say, this is a large network and they must be hiding within still. They must be in there! You don't understand; it took me several days of travel to get here! If they are not here, then I will have lost all that ground!" She shakes her head violently. "Show me these men. I---" She stops as she sees Gann struggling with Branok as if looking for somewhere to run. "Wait... come now! All of you, we must restrain him."

Magan flings his shield aside and drops to the ground to take one of Gann's legs, confident his nearby companions would have the other and his arms. Even holding just one limb he can feel the strength in the muscles there and in the effort of holding it down he feels the crushing pain in his chest once again. Flinching in pain he knows his strength won't hold out and he twists his knees bwneeth him to kneel on Gann's ankle and hold him down by weight rather than strength. Breathing heavily he sucks air back into his lungs and tries to fight off the dizziness. As his eyes open, he focuses on the carvings on Gann's chest. Later, there are many who would have gladly branded me the same. When Branok is done we will assess his risk and send him on his way. 

With the rancid layer of wool removed, Branok takes a cup of warm water and rinses the rest of the grime from Gann's body, searching for any further injuries and seeing to them as he goes. Once the work is complete he bundles the man in furs and leaves him by the fire to heat up. "Rwy'n gobeithio bod gennym ni ddillad sbâr,"  he laughs to anyone listening as he washes his hands. "O, ac ni fyddai'r te hynaf hwnnw'n mynd yn amharod," he adds, for Goewyn's benefit. "Mae angen y gweddill arno. Rydych chi wedi paratoi'n dda, fenyw ifanc. Mae'n rhaid bod eich mam wedi bod yn iachawr iawn." Gann regains one wound and four vigour. Cornish - "I do hope we have some spare clothes! Oh, and that elder tea wouldn't go amiss. He needs the rest. You are well prepared, young lady. Your mother must have been quite the healer."