(PF) Rise of the Runelords: Burnt Offerings IC

[Miraqariftsky]

"Yer right at that, Red. Worry ye not o'ermuch, 'sjust a scratch..." Looking down at the concerned Red, the halforc deputy grimaces. She lets her improvised club-qum-shield sag to the cobbles, sheathes the shortsword in her right hand then shrugs off her greatcoat, draping it on the toppled table's unbloodied edge.

Working with professional efficency, she squeezes her wounded left forearm to quicken the bleeding. She then rips the scarlet silk blouse--- the only fancy thing she owns, worn only at Red's request earlier this morning--- seizes a bottle of brandy nearby and soaks the now-ragged strip of cloth. While setting to bandaging her wound, she snorts and she jokes at Red, "Hrhmm. Sorry 'bout ruinin' yer idea. Looks like we'll hafta wear earplugs next time Missus Mila comes along, eh?"

With nary a wince, she flexes her freshly cleansed, freshly bandaged arm and nods judiciously. She takes out her shortsword from its spine-sheath and gives the broad, slightly curved blade a twirl. Those who would be savvy to such matters might recognize the metalwork as once having belonged to a now-broken, now-mended Sarenite sabre, with the Dawnflower's icon on the silver pommel.

She then spares a smile at Red as she says, "Don't worry. Be it the road or the sea, fighting inna line, inna pack, it don't matta iffen yer deh one wot does deh killshot or deh one wot backboards wi' flankin'. A team's a team, izzennit?"