|To Catch A Crossbow Bolt|
|Summary:||Rygar summons Senna to attend a wounded man.|
|Related Logs:||The Iron Eagle: I|
|Market Square - Seagard|
|Post-battle, the streets are full of corpses and debris.|
|28 January, 289 A.L.|
In the aftermath of the day's fighting, and the sudden retreat of the the Ironborn from Seagard, many are given to jubilation, while others are occupied by grief. Apart from both of these emotional responses are those such as Rygar, for whom the victory is simply another day, with new tasks and duties to see attended. Overlooking the arrangement of those killed in the day's heaviest fighting, the Nayland knight had sent for Mistress Delacourt to be brought up with her herbs and instruments.
Senna saw to the men who were brought to the tents first. THe first casualties of the battle. There's been blood, and gore, and various bodily fluids, not all of which could be avoided. And then there was the cautery, which adds its own distinctive stench to the rest. Particularly when soap and water are in painfully short supply. Senna's done her best to clean away the worst of it - her hands at least are clean - with damp spots on her dress from scrubbing. Whatever she used to clean herself carries a sharp, herbal aroma as well. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, her hair braided close to her head despite the long hours as she answers the summons.
"Mistress Delacourt," Rygar greets simply, giving a short nod to acknowledge that the woman has arrived as instructed. He turns to give instruction to his squire to "Make certain the work continues," before turning toward a nearby shopfront along the street laid waste by battle, clearly expecting Senna to follow. At the door a Nayland man at arms stands, and within is another guardsman, serving the highly unneccessary task of making certain that a critically wounded prisoner doesnt try to leap up and escape. Ulfr Kenning has been set on a table, with his own wadded-up cloak serving as a pillow. A maile hauberk had been cut off of him, and rudimentary efforts at staunching the bleeding taken. "Mistress Delacourt. You are to keep this man alive."
Senna follows Rygar into the building without question, even offering a small smile to the guard on duty as she passes him. That smile fades, though, when she sees what awaits and hears her orders. For just a moment, it looks like she might question those orders. Normally she'd cover that reaction better, but it's been a long day. After just a beat, though, she draws a breath, nodding. "Yes, m'lord," she answers simply, pulling a stool with her to the side of the table and starting to set out her supplies with long-practiced motions. And pinching the chieftain's arm is just a way to check if he's conscious, of course.
Rygar's cold regard is unfaltering on Senna as she goes through that moment of weariness. A simple nod follows her assent, and the nobleman waits to observe the work.
The Ironborn nobleman is conscious, albeit barely. He is pale, and breaths come to the man shallowly. A wordless grunt answers the mild pinch, which draws out into a pained groan.
"Yes, well," Senna sighs to that groan. "You do seem to have managed to catch a crossbow bolt. It happens." She presses her lips together, then moves to the other side of the table, carefully prodding around where the bolt protrudes. "Lucky to be alive," she murmurs, slipping an arm under the man and setting her shoulder to the work of rolling him to his side, the better to see the back side of that particular wound.
"Yeah, lucky," Ulfr mutters, in a wan moment of gallows humor. The crossbow bolt is solidly lodged in his torso, up to the fletching, but the head does not stick out the back, which likely explains his continued life. Forcing it clear though would likely not be viable with a torso wound. The tearing puncture wound that tends to come from certain beaked polearms is also visible on the back on his left shoulder, as he is rolled.
"I presume you were using barbed heads?" Senna asks, looking up to Rygar as she lowers the chieftain to the table once more. Efficient, she reaches into her skirts to retrieve a small blade. "I'm going to need a fire," she adds to the guard.
"Square heads," Rygar corrects. "Barbs would weaken the heads to the point of making plate proof against them," he notes idly, despite the fact that the stricken Kenning was armored in maile, not plate. He looks aside to the same guard and nods once, in support of the order for a fire.
"Mmmm," Senna hums, moving toward the top of the table to get a better view of the wound. "I understand you want him alive. How attached are you to his ability to continue using this arm?" As she inspects the wound visually, her fingers move around the shaft of the bolt, tracing the musculature around it and - now and then - pressing to see what might be damaged beneath it all.
Every pressure draws a wince, and a grinding of teeth, but Ulfr Kenning doesnt cry out, too weak or too proud. Rygar's answer is that, "Treat the man as a wounded noble, mistress. Do everything you can to preserve the his body, and cripple him only to preserve the life."
"You're luckier than you know, Lord Kenning," Senna informs the man currently under her care. "I think I can work around the muscle groups," she adds to Rygar. "But I'm going to need to cut the bolt out either way, and better a clean cut than digging around in it." Reluctantly, she draws a small tin from her satchel, opening it up and dipping a finger into the edges, where more of the product lingers. "This is going to sting, and tingle," she adds to Ulfr. "And then it should go numb. Mostly."
"Numb.. good," Ulfr mumbles between shallow breaths. Rygar's instruction to Senna is, "Do so, mistress." A look aside as he judges the progress of the 'bringing fire'.
As she waits for the fire, Senna uses the solution in her waterskin to rinse out the wound, then pats the edges dry and carefully taps some of the cream from her tin to the skin around the injury. Once that's done, she takes a small, thin metal rod from her bag, using it to gently pull back the edges of the wound to get a better look at what awaits her inside.
<FS3> Senna rolls Chiurgeonry: Great Success.
Once someone brings her fire, Senna straightens from her stool, holding the edge of her knife into the flame until it glows orange, then red. "I need a man at his shoulders and a man at his legs," she says, eyes still on the blade, certain someone will oblige. And once the chieftain is thus restrained, she sets to work. The sizzle of flesh on the hot blade as she cuts around the shaft send the faintest wisp of smoke up. But she does make quick work of it, carving out the heavy head of the crossbow bolt and dropped it at the side of the table. After that, the cleaning and stitching of both that wound and the pike wound on his back are routine and simple; there's been a good deal of practice with it lately.
Only once it's done does Senna straighten, leaning back to survey her work. "It's done, my lord," she says for Rygar, letting out a slow breath.
Mercifully, the crippled Kenning blacks out after the first several seconds of searing agony, letting Senna work with a minimum of fuss. Once the work is finished and the wounds closed as best the can, the deathly pale Ironlord is still, but the faint motions of his chest indicate lingering life, at least for the moment. "Will he live?" Rygar wonders evenly of Senna as she completes her work.
Senna wipes the back of one wrist across her brow, pressing a hand to the Kenning's throat to test his pulse and casting a critical eye over the pallor of his skin. "That's in the hands of the gods, my lord," she answers slowly. "But so long as the wound doesn't turn? He should. The bolt seems to have missed his lungs, his heart, his guts. The heat from the blade will have stopped any major bleeding. He may not have the strength across his chest that he used to when he recovers, but so long as he doesn't take up the mace, he shouldn't suffer overmuch."
"Had he never taken up the axe to begin with, he would yet be whole," Rygar returns with a sharp sniff, nodding shortly once in acceptance of the situation as Senna explains it. "Very well, you have performed your duty, mistress. Your good service will be remembered."
"Thank you, my lord." Senna quietly starts to gather her things once more, pausing long enough to scrub her hands clean again. "Shall I look in on him in the morning, or will you be entrusting his care to a maester?" she asks, looking up with a slight arch of her brow.
"Unless the wound begins to turn, such should not be necessary, mistress. I do not expect a maester to be spared, nor would I fully trust the ministrations of one," Rygar states crisply. "A good day to you, mistress Delacourt."
Senna nods once to Rygar. "In the morning, then, my lord," she replies simply, tucking the last of her tools into the satchel. Unconscious reaver on the table or no, she even curtseys before slipping out of the room.