[RP/D] Wounds and Words (Open)

The hour was early but Harwin was up and moving around already. He felt around the cut on his side a bit but couldn't get a good look at. He twisted his head, raised his arm higher and tried another look but again he could only see the edges of the injury. Been putting this off but best to get the maester to take a look at it. Last thing I need is to be laid low by my own hand.

The door to the maester's chamber sat open but he heard little from within. Glancing in the chamber, he spotted a plump and balding young man with a few odd patches of stubble on his chins. Intent on the tomes in front of him he does not note the old warrior's arrival for a moment. Hard to imagine a soul much different than my own stubborn self than this one. Might not be a lad you want with ya in a fight but mayhaps he'll be one you want with ya at its end.


"Ahem. Maester Ronnel right? Got a cut on my side could use a look if ya can pry yerself away from those pages. Figure it would likely heal on its own but the men recommended yerself take a look."

As the maester nods timidly, Harwin enters the room and takes his shirt off. A variety of scars are littered throughout his torso. Most prominent among the scars sit an old arrow wound near his left shoulder, a sword stroke in his lower back and the kiss of small blade under his clavicle.

(ooc-we can move to an intrigue if we want to highlight disadvantages mechanically.)

((ooc - lets see if an intrigue occurs 'naturally' as they interact - if not we might come up with a reason for one))

"Y... you are Harwin."  Ronnel is obviously nervous and he watches almost in awe, which scholars will tell you is not always a good thing, as the man exposes his body and decades worth of scar tissue.  The Maester does not mention that he saw Harwin stab himself in the square days ago.  A lifetime it seems to the young man.  He also wonders that the man is still alive.

"This is infected.  Please, sit here." he indicates a stool.  "I need to cut it open to get the infection out."  Ronnel never meets the man's eyes, always looking at the warrior's wounds or at some point in the room other than the man's face.

Ronnel goes to a long table where he gathers a small razor sharp knife and a bowl to catch blood and pus.

"Brownie, attend me!" he calls and his assistant, as tall and lanky as Ronnel is short and plump enters.  Right away the young man gathers strips of clean cloth, alcohol and a jar half filled with green paste.

Though still nervous, the Maester is in his element now.  The knife blade does not waver as he  stands, waiting for the warrior to obey.

The maester notes a shrug and grunt from the man as he takes the offered seat.
"Lived through worse." He states flatly once seated.

Few men are as close kin with silence or as stingy with words as yourself. String a few spare words together for some idle chatter every now and then.

The memory hits him in full force causing him to shiver for a moment. He let his dead wife's words guide him easily, instinct and habit taking over.

"How long you been here Maester"

The intent was friendly chatter but the execution left something to be desired. The words were more clipped aloud than in his mind. The smile he had intended only gave his face an odd look. It was as if the smile could only fight off the man's normal grimace so much and thus left more of a half grimace than any recognizable smile.

"Five years now. Brownie, hold the cloth... yes just there, thank you." Ronnel cuts a thin line through the middle of the infected wound and Brownie puts the cloth over it to prevent stuff from squirting into the Maester's eyes. Ronnel leaves Brownie to attend the wound while it leaks and he turns to face this man, great in size and by all by all accounts a terrifying warrior. Intimidating and fierce, it is all Ronnel can do to look the man in the eyes.

Roll:

"What about you, Harwin. Y... you're not Vale-born, are you?"

"Vale-born? Nay Northern blood runs in these veins lad. Cold, enduring and harsh like the land itself they say."

He gives the Maester a quick scowl before that odd half grimace replaced it yet again. Surely a jest counts as some good idle chatter.

A born jokester he was not, the lad was just as likely to heed his words as truth rather than jest.

RP Roll:

((OOC - I'm a bit new to this style of gaming yet. Can you tell me what your roll is for and if you succeeded or not?))

(It's not really a game mechanic roll per say, mostly just a charm check for me on the delivery of his jest. That's pretty much the best non-dp influenced roll Harwin can make for charm. If he had bombed it with a 1 or 2, I might have made the delivery more unintentionally threatening... As it is, Ronnel is just as likely to miss the jest and take it for bluster.)

"Heard of the Lonely Hills in your books Maester?"

Rp roll:

(TN3)

Ronnel pauses, his eyes half close for a brief moment.  "Lonely Hills." he recites from memory.  "The lonely hills are a series of hills controlled by House Umber under the banner of House Stark.  The hills are east of Long Lake, south of the Last River and northeast of the Dreadfort of House Bolton also under the Banner of Stark.

I have read of them yes."

Harwin listened to the septon's accounting of his birth home with interest and admittedly was impressed with the young man's knowledge of those northern lands.

"Aye and I was born of them. Fore a dragon and a snake tempted me southward with dreams of glory."

He sits still and silent for a few minutes while the septon does his work.

"Where was home before you wore that chain? Vale or Riverborn or mayhaps a child of the crownlands?"

"By the age of seven, I was at the citadel. I try to forget what happened before." The Maester says this in the most amiable way that he can, but he knows it isn't much of an answer.

Memories roamed around inside his head as the Maester responded. His mother's death first, then his father's last words to him as he departed south.
We run with wolves boy, not dragons. Wolves protect the pack, Dragons burn everything around em with nary a second thought.

"Aye the citadel was home then." He nodded again more to himself than the maester before drifting off to his own thoughts again.

Fucking Da seems a greenseer looking back, hell of a phrase from a drunken old cripple.

Harwin stays trapped in his own thoughts as the maester finishes his work on the warrior's wound.

Awareness Roll:

(OOC-We can probably wind it down as solid first interaction between the warrior and the maester. Neither particularly positive or negative, a mild chat and doctor visit. Would like to start the Cronesmonth Monthly Event rolls this weekend)

"For twelve years, yes." using a small wooden spatula, Ronnel; slathers the wound with the green paste and sets a bit of cloth that won't stick over it before tying it secure with a bandage.

"Don't get that wet. Come back here same time tomorrow and I will look at it again. The infection is not bad, so you should be fine. And if you'll take a healer's advice, don't go about stabbing yourself. Not much good can some of it."

Done, Ronnel bids the large man a good day an follows Brownie off to see another patient.

Roll diag / trea ail:

The older man mumbled under his breath as he stood. "Seemed like a good idea at the time..." He rose to cross the room and don his shirt.

Before departing he yelled his thanks at the departing maester.

"My thanks Maester, see ya around."

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