“he’s certainly earning his keep around here,” elspeth says, shivering involuntarily at the cold on her skin. it must be some kind of magic for her to feel it so keenly through so much cloth. some experiment of sandal’s, perhaps? the lad is so preoccupied with runes. “lucky you thought to grab some. i never would’ve known to.” she knows only the most basic herbology, much of it focused on the coastal flora in highever. there are some things that grow everywhere—like elfroot—but her ability to recognize spindleweed isn’t doing her any good in the south.
elspeth tries to relax. this is daveth, after all, and she trusts him. it helps that bodahn’s magic ice is doing what it’s meant to do. she gives her shoulder an experimental roll and nods. “yes, it is.” she exhales a sigh of some relief, closing her eyes. “i can’t feel it at all.” this is such a welcome change from the constant ache of aggravated bruises she’s endured thus far, she hardly knows what more to say.
❝ I USED T’LIE IN THE SNOW. ❞
lothering lay far enough south that winters were brutal. snow would gather around the cottages until the whole village seemed buried beneath a quilt of white, rooftops peeking out from drifts higher than a man's waist. his father's temper always worsened with the cold. too little work. too little food. too many long days trapped beneath the same roof, breathing the same stale air.
daveth had spent more than one afternoon stretched out in the snowbank behind their house, letting the cold seep through threadbare clothes until he couldn’t feel much of anything. a crooked grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. ❝ magicked ice seems a sight more useful, though. don’t leave you soaked through, either. ❞
as she rolled her shoulder, testing the joint, daveth took the opportunity to inspect the damage. the bruise had already darkened into an ugly bloom of purple-black beneath her skin, swollen and raised along the edge.
he pressed the ice block against the injury once more, working it in slow circles. his fingers followed the edge of the bruise, easing the swelling outward with the practiced touch of someone who'd accumulated more injuries than any one person reasonably should. after a moment, he gave a satisfied nod. ❝ good. you'll live. might even be good as new in a few days if you stop throwin’ yerself at every threat pointed yer way. ❞
with his free hand, he reached into his pack and produced a small leather pouch. nestled in his palm was a clear, gelatinous salve that caught the low light like river glass. ❝ here. ❞ leaning around her shoulder, he held it out for inspection. ❝ witchleaf. fresh batch. it'll keep the swelling down while we're on the road. ❞
