Page 267: Confessions Of
Confession's Of
Summary: Ser Rowan Nayland seeks out Marsden for healing of a physical and spiritual nature.
Date: 12/04/2012
Related Logs: The Kraken's Last Stand , And a few others.
Marsden Rowan 
Marsden's Tent!
A spartan tent, sizeable enough for two men. It has a small cot, and a place to hang armor. Nothing more.
11 April 289 A.L.

Late into the evening and it seems, that finally a septon's work is done. From the castle he's managed to come back, and sling off his shield and spear. As well as the bloody leather apron, which has been hung outside to dry as the water and blood mixture pools off into the soft turf. The plus sides of being a septon-or half septon in this case is you're left pretty much to one's self within the river lander's camp. Fire light from outside and now in as a candle's lit, bring a bit of coziness, and allow Marsden light to see himself by. His outer brown robe has been stripped off, same with the cowl, and right now, the man is wriggling out of his maile hauberk, and tossing it to his sleeping roll. He'll have to oil it before stowing that as well.

But, if were one to come to the tent, they'd find the flap tied open, and the man inside, humming to himself, in an off blue tunic and trousers.

"Oi," comes the soft greeting from without. There's a pale and slender boy — man, now, one would suppose. Did survive his first day as a knight, after all. He moves with the exaggerated care of the walking wounded, one hand pressed over his chest and the bloody mess of his shirt front. That would be Rickart Nayland's youngest — ward of the Terricks, or he was until just before battle. Now Ser Rowan, he's obviously waited some time to seek out attention for his wounds, and looks rather the worse for it. "Hate to bother… but… could I bother?" He smiles weakly.

"Lo." comes the reply of brother Marsden, as he finally gets the hauberk off with a grunt. hands sliding over his arms, before he is turning to look back to the youngest Nayland. "Aww" comes the voice followed by the grin of the septon as he rises up from his bedroll. "Ser Rowan innit? Stars an' spurs, of course you can." A half grin there as he is motioning for the lad to come further in. "Got something on your mind?" Though as eyes slide to Rowan's chest there's a brief nod. "Or somethin' else?" Despite asking a question, the septon does not wait for an answer. Instead, he moves to get his satchel. "It's clean an dry in here, so I can work.."

"Uhm. Well," the lad rasps a wry chuckle, stepping inside the tent. He unties the flap, letting it drop behind him. "Took a few inches of Valyrian steel to the chest area," he reports, cheerfully enough. As to why he's waited this long to have it looked at, "An' my situation, er… s'a bit unorthodox." He pulls his shirt up over his head, grunting in pain as he does. By the look of it, he was wearing bandages into battle already, bound tight from ribs to armpits, and of course all that is a worse bloody mess than his shirt. He sits carefully, not wanting to bleed on anything. "I'm guessing as a Septon, you're good with secrets."

"Half septon." Marsden corrects, without looking over his shoulder. Instead he's musing around in his satchel, looking for something. "But, yes to your point, I am good with secrets. If you want to consider this some odd healing visit of both the weights of the flesh and spirit, whatever you say won't leave here. I promise." A faint grin to himself, before he's slinging the satchel yo hang about his neck and block his chest as he rises. "I'm very good with secrets. I may be many things, but I will not profane nor go into too much sacrilege."

And there he turns and looks towards Rowan, his eyes narrowing for a moment. "Dear Mother, son..Were you already wounded going in?" And he is moving over to where Rowan has seated himself in the camp chair. Knife out in a flash. "Let me cut them off- It's a damned mess.."

"Not exactly," hedges Rowan, lifting his arms to allow the cutting. "I've heard you called half-septon, but wasn't sure what it meant. You seem septony enough t'me… just with more smite." The bloodied bandages part easily for the knife, falling away in scraps. And there's several nasty wounds beneath — nothing that's going to bleed out or spill innards, but the kind that certainly need seeing to being there's an infection. Also, breasts. Small, high, and firm — traced with a pale scar or two already and smeared with blood… but. Uhm. Breasts. Of the female variety.

"I'll tell you, as it matters not. It is known, that once I was a septon." Marsden offers "And then I was defrocked for foregoing my vow of celibacy. As it stands, I've served as a septon in many different bands, and armies.." He allows before he's carefully nicking away the bandages and he begins to peel off the bloody mess away. "But, I do smite, yea an verily.." a grin there as then bandages come free, his face drops for a moment. One slightly bloody hand does come up and rub at his chin for a moment. "Ah.." He knows what breasts look like, given his own admissions, and these are clearly not deposits of fat on a youth. No, they are female breasts. "Hmm" Marsden says before he is standing up, and there's a turn back as he's going to reach for a skin of water, and a vial of something else. "Yes, well those are some impressive."

A beat

"Scars that you will have Ser Rowan." his voice a bit softer, but it seems the septon is not flinching in his duty. Water is poured into a small bowl after rummaging about some more, and he's coming back to kneel down opposite of where Rowan is seated. "Does Hal-err. Does Ser Jarod know?" he might as well ask.

The boy — girl — Ser Rowan cough-wheezes a laugh. "Fuck," she croaks, wincing deeply. "Hurts." She can't help but grin. "Right. Well. Not so impressive that they can't be hidden. Obviously." She hesitates a moment. "He does," she says, before adding, defensively, "but he has never, ever taken advantage."

Marsden nods once. 'Well, they are going to, you got cut open with the best steel in the seven kingdoms." Marsden replies before he's reaching down to the satchel, and is pulling out a scrap of linen that he cuts, which immediately goes into the bowl of water. "Of course." he adds, before he is indeed, washing away what he can of the blood so as to clean the wounds, before he flushes them, which will hurt.

Eyes look up from his work for a moment, before he simply nods. "Just so. I was hoping you didn't fool the man who knighted you."

Pale and gripping the edge of the cot with chalk-white knuckles, she bears the cleansing of the wounds with a set chin and a clenched jaw. Not her first time, by far. She doesn't so much as whimper. "He knows," she repeats, her voice tight and strained, eyes shut. "Couldn't be knighted by someone who didn't. Know. Wouldn't have been knighting me, would they?"

There's a faint sneer, though it's mainly given to the task at hand, as opposed to the words. "I will agree with that, Ser." the septon says softly, as he continues to clean, and scrape at the skin. "I'm sorry, this is unpleasant, but it looks as if you have an infection, and you'll die quicker from that.." Linen tossed down he's reaching into the bowl of mixed copper and water, and washes his fingers, before he's pulling out the vial, and another scrap of linen. "This, my dear is going to hurt a lot, but it'll eat int infection right out." And he pauses to reach into the satchel again pulling out a small strop of leather, offering it to the knight.

"And I meant no offense-please know that." said before he is indeed swabbing the wounds before he will 'flush' the liquid in and disease out. It will sting and feel as if fire was eating at you, but it will kill the infection. "May I say something?" which of course Marsden has been nattering along anyway.

"Would you believe I've had worse?" quips Rowan, voice a taut rasp. When the fire comes, she stiffens and grunts, growling through her teeth, all the muscles in that slender body standing out stark. If the cot were less sturdy, the wood frame would likely crack under the grip she's got on it. Vision spotty and head swimming with the pain, she just nods stiffly. Apparently, the half-septon has leave to speak freely.

"Would I?" Marsden asks back to himself. "Probably, yes. Though, I do not know who you got to heal you." he jokes before he is finishing up. A last scrape of linen and he's reaching back down for a small tin from within the satchel, the tin itself is opened and he looks in a faint frown at the pot, before fingers dip in. "I wanted to say, that for what you've done?" A raise of one brow. " I commend you. You've done something that not many others can achieve and have hit a high mark." a grin there. "You're a noble knight" as if there some sort of reverence there. "If You were my own flesh 'n blood I would be proud of you." added, before he's dipping in a small clearish salve along the wounds edges. It would sting-and then become increasingly numb. Like winter up and kissed her breasts.

"I've had just as worse.." now he speaks like a solder to soldier. "I've got web work of scars from a flogging on my back some on my belly. I know th' pain.."

Rowan — if that really is her name, which is like as isn't — stares at the half-septon for a few moments, more than a bit stunned by the sentiment. Another rough laugh, mostly breath, escapes her. "Shut the fuck up, you," she whispers, shutting her eyes again. Her slender throat works in a swallow. "You'll make me cry — I've never cried over my wounds, either. Not once." There's a note in the rebuke, however, that sounds like nothing so much as gratitude. She breathes in deep. "Chastity's overrated," she opines, at length. "You seem like a damn fine septon to me."

Marsden grins back towards Rowan Wassername with a faint grin. "How about this, I'll tell you how I earned my stripes, an you can tell me if the count was worth the offense?" and like that the sentimentality and all that is thrown out with a brief laugh, even if the septon is a bit more tender when it comes to apply the salve. Once that's done he's reaching into his satchel once more, the ever deepening bag of junk that it is.

"Do you want stitches, or I can cauterize it?" he'll ask before he proceeds. "Cauterizing will hurt, but I have something for that with wine, that'll sit. Stitches, will be normal, an I can pull em out before we get off the ships." As to her compliment he bows his head. "I tend to agree, and hopefully Lord Anton will think the same. I go with him and Ser Gedeon after all this."

"Hah!" the girl barks a laugh, wincing as bit, but nods. "There's a deal," she agrees. As for the next choice she's offered, "Stitches. Never had to be burned shut, b'fore — unless you think it better, I'd rather not start now." She sobers as he mentions Anton and Gedeon, nodding slightly. "After you tell me your tale, septon, will you hear my confession?"

"Good." The septon offers with a grin, before he is nodding. There's a pause as he moves to get closer to the candle (and to stretch his legs) as the needle is heated. Thread tired within the light of the dark, before he is looking back to Rowan. "Oh I don't think you need to be burned. I was offering, if you didn't want someone poking you again." A slight wink and he's back to kneeling down before the she knight. "Bite on the leather if it hurts, incase the salve did not take- Don't want you choking on your tongue.." And then he begins. Luckily, the septon also was gifted with a seamstress' hand as he can do sure and small stitches.

"Of course I shall, if you want sacrament, I can do that as well." Marsden says with a half grin. His mouth mainly twisted in concentration. "Alright, so I was a chaplain fresh out of the septontry to a Lord Goodbrook.." a sniff there. "And I had in fact become confessor to his wife and his young daughter. Now, his young daughter was about my age- So It wasn't as if I was stealing sheep from under him." He coughs, and continues. "Never the less, her confessions were a bit on th' sordid side, an I the young lusty lad I was, indulged her to hear more. My testicles got the better of me. And we fucked." A sniff there as he continues stitching carefully.

"We fucked a lot, and I got her pregnant. She her father did tell, and I was drug through the town and whipped. I think I was lucky, that that was all that happened to me."

"Pfft," scoffs Ser Rowan, shaking her head. "I'm not going to need leather for a little needlework." She's not impervious to it, as is apparent by her intake of breath when he begins, and her eyes shutting once more. But. No fear of needles, it seems. The pain appears to be, for her, well within what's tolerable. She grunts at the conclusion of his tale. "You are fortunate. And damned so. Lord's daughter — " she flashes a tight smile through the discomfort of the stitching and laughs. "Holy fuck, you did have more balls than brains." The very slightest of shrugs, careful to move aught but her shoulders. "Forbidden fruit's sweetest, though. Gods know that well enough."

"He had other daughters all married off. She was the last one, I believe or they had another one coming. Fuck if I know. I don't know what happened to her." he sniffs. "Or the child. Don't even know if it were a girl or boy. I speculate a girl, but I don't really know." Marsden adds. "And The whippin was supposed to kill me. Close to forty lash, did I receive. I believe the Mother took pity on me, her servant." A half grin at that as he finishes one scar and moves to another. "Or the stranger wants me to damn myself more before he comes for me." Marsden says with a grin. "And thank you. That's changed, I'm a bit more cautious with my dalliances now. I don't go peeling for strange turf. I stick to the common strand."

She grins back, though the expression's tight around the eyes. Stitches are no fun. "Maybe the gods wanted you to live — just wiser. And it sounds as though you do." She pauses, breathing through it. "How old would they be, now? Your daughter or son?"

Marsden pauses for a moment. "I was seventeen then.." And he is quiet for a moment. "In their twenties, I imagine.." he says before he looks back towards Rowan. "But that is my own confession there. For all I know the Lord father put my welp in a sack and tossed it in a river."

"I doubt it," says the young knight, gently and kindly, meeting the half-septon's eyes. "She's probably married with her own, by now, having been brought up a lady. Or if she was cast away, I'm sure the Seven looked after her — and she was pulled from the water by devout old fisherman who'd been praying for his child, since he and his wife had none."

" A truly wonderful world, you live in Ser." he jokes as he finishes the work, Still he is not lingering on the thought of his own child right now. Instead he is trying to finish this boob wound job he has gotten himself into. "Now you." Marsden says softly. "What do you need to confess?"

"There's no way to know," Rowan says softly. "So I will believe the gods looked after her, somehow… even if the reality's not quite so poetic as being fished from the river by a barren couple." The young woman breathes in through her nose as the thread pulls the edges of her flesh together. "Before you go to serve them," she says, "there's a thing or two you should know about Anton Valentin and Gedeon Tordane. Let that be my confession…"

The confession of evil works is the first beginning of good works. — Saint Augustine