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Poor Wayfaring Stranger - Tristan - 11-21-2018 tristan
Laying prone with his limbs spread, the blue sky overhead seemed endless. He watched, captivated and awed, as white clouds drifted lazily by and shifted shape upon an endless backdrop of blue. There was no sense of touch, of smell, or of sound and general awareness to his person. He was a stranger, a foreigner, unaccustomed and unwanted in a land he had no memory of arriving in. Everything existed in a muted sense, muffled, as though he were immersed in water. What was the last thing he could recall? Eyes fluttered closed, and he thought back. A sharp inhale, the scent of herbs or spice. Smoke. The calm, steady beat of his heart, dirt and foliage beneath his searching fingertips. Adrenaline. Panic. Steel. Silence in his ears. A shout of his name, and then nothing. Nothing? No, that wasn’t right. He was most definitely somewhere now and still very much alive, but where? With a groan, Tristan slowly forced himself to move from his prone position on the ground. He sat up, head throbbing, his entire body aching. Eyes opened and he took in his immediate surroundings, chest heaving as he attempted to catch his breath. A hand cupped at his left side, where his shirt was stained with blood from an injury he could not remember gaining, and blue eyes roamed the area that he found himself in. He had awoken upon dirt, grass, and some kind of plant that smelled almost sweet to his nose. Around him appeared to be a garden of some sorts, small and quaint in a way that reminded him of the farmstead he had grown up on. It was well tended to by someone far more talented than he was. As his eyes wandered, Tristan spotted the humble cottage only a few paces away, and were it not for the muddled state of his mind, he was certain an instinctual sort of panic would have taken hold. What was he doing here? And where was here? He had been riding along the main road, his horse at a leisurely lope beneath him, and then… Then… Sitting in a strange garden, the dirty, bloodied brunette remained still, hoping it would all come back to him. Above, the clouds continued to drift by in a sky of bright blue, the world both new and knowing. RE: Poor Wayfaring Stranger - Georgia - 11-21-2018
RE: Poor Wayfaring Stranger - Tristan - 11-21-2018 tristan
So out of it as he was, it had been easy to overlook the young woman who had exited the cottage to investigate his sudden arrival. Tristan turned his head at the sound of her voice, wincing a little and blinking past the sun in his eyes. Once, instinct would have told him to use caution; she could be a threat, but he lacked the energy and the strength to currently care. As the woman knelt down before him so that they were a more similar height, Tristan blinked slowly, letting his eyes wander across her youthful face. Cherubic, almost, a head with fiery red hair and pale skin with a face full of freckles that gave away the time she must have spent in the sun. Oh. Was this her garden? “Sorry,” he croaked without thinking, his voice rough as gravel as though he hadn’t spoken in a very long time. The brunette paused, a particularly baffled expression crossing his face at the sound of his own voice, then tried to speak once more but only after clearing his throat. “About your plants. Um.” Keeping a hand pressed against his injured side, Tristan looked around himself. He had indeed landed in a bushel of something, but he very much doubted that the plant did much to break his fall. Still, the woman’s sentiments were appreciated, especially when his whole body felt as though he had taken a large fall. Upon her further pressing as to his wellbeing, the man took a moment to really get stock of himself before attempting to answer. He moved his legs, then his arms, and straightened his back a little, hearing a little pop! from somewhere in his spine. Nothing seemed to be broken, luckily. Blue eyes focused back upon the woman’s freckled face, and he nodded, attempting to at least form some kind of cordial smile even though he was certain it would look more like a grimace. “I’m alright. Confused, more than anything. Erm…” Looking down once more, Tristan pulled his hand away from his side with a true pained grimace. His palm came away bloody. Pulling his shirt up, it was easy to spot the cause of the blood; upon his left side was a precise slice, as though from a blade. A quick glance around and he spotted his own swore laying a ways off, but the blade was clean. Letting his shirt fall back down, he turned his head to regard the redheaded woman once more. “You, ah, possibly wouldn’t have any bandages on you, by chance?” RE: Poor Wayfaring Stranger - Georgia - 11-21-2018
RE: Poor Wayfaring Stranger - Tristan - 11-21-2018 tristan
Something about what the redheaded woman was saying just didn’t seem right. Fall? Had he fallen? Tristan couldn’t remember. Lips pulled downward into a quizzical sort of frown, the brunette gave it thought once again. He had begun to assume that someone had simply dumped him here, not that he had fallen… And from the heights that the woman claimed were enough to break bones? That just wasn’t right. It wasn’t like he could have just fallen out of the sky. Still, Tristan was grateful that she didn’t seem angry that he had efficiently trampled her flowers, even though he couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty. If it had been the other way around and someone had ruined the crops in their garden on the homestead, he was quite certain that his mother would have throttled the culprit. As it was, the redhead seemed to not mind it at all. Pulled out of his musings by movement, the brunette watched as the stranger pushed herself up to her full height and offered him a hand. He stared for a moment, his sluggish mind struggling to catch up to what was going on before he realized she was offering to help him up and to his feet. “Right,” he murmured, more to bolster himself than to answer her. Letting his bloody hand cup his left side once more, Tristan reached up and took the woman’s pale hand in his own, taking a moment to really notice how small her hand was compared to his own before he struggled to stand. With a grunt, he pulled himself up and to his feet and struggled not to pull the woman over due to his greater weight, his head suddenly swimming with dizziness. For a moment he stood, certain he would topple right over, but he managed to stay upright for the time being. “Thank you, miss,” Tristan said softly once the dizziness had slowly begun to ebb away, “I really appreciate this.” Once more he looked to her and smiled. This time, however, he had to look down, for he stood over a foot taller than her. RE: Poor Wayfaring Stranger - Georgia - 11-24-2018
RE: Poor Wayfaring Stranger - Tristan - 11-25-2018 tristan
There was a moment of peculiar confusion at the woman’s words. ’Fall off your beanstalk?’ Tristan didn’t understand and he was certain that his blank-faced expression gave that away. Be it from the fall he was still recovering from or the ache of the wound in his side, it took him almost embarrassingly long to realize that it was a lighthearted joke directed at his height, and a grin mixed of lethargy and pain crossed his lips. “You know, miss, maybe I did.” It wasn’t as if he could really remember what happened to him, and he found that the redheaded woman’s assumption was just as likely as his own. It took a bit of care and maneuvering, but soon enough Tristan was out of the garden and situated in a chair inside of the small cottage, admiring the interior of the unassuming building with a quick glance. The smell of herbs and concoctions were thick in the air, but it wasn’t overwhelming. He caught sight of the small trinkets and items lying about; the mortar and pestle, the dried herbs, and other necessities for living seemingly in the middle of nowhere. It all looked well lived in, but lonely, and the brunette found himself wondering if the woman lived alone. He let her go and fetch whatever it was that she needed, and when she returned and offered him a bottle of amber colored liquid, the man arched a brow up at her. “Whiskey?” He questioned, but the answer came soon enough. To ‘help take the edge off’, huh? “Alright, then.” Deft fingers undid the stopper and he lifted the bottle to his lips, taking a hearty swig. The amber liquid burned going down and he coughed once, but then took another quick swallow and set the bottle down upon the table. “Thank you.” Knowing that she would need to reach the injury unhindered, Tristan cautiously removed his shirt. It took a bit of care and assistance from the redheaded woman, whose name he still didn’t know, but soon enough he was sitting bare-chested in the middle of a kind stranger’s kitchen. If he had been a different man, perhaps he would have been a bit sheepish, but there was nothing ulterior about what was going on here. The blood oozing from the slice in his side could attest for that. Keeping his hands elsewhere and letting her do whatever she needed to do, Tristan grit his teeth but spoke in an attempt to distract himself from the inevitable pain. “I don’t believe I caught your name, miss? I’m Tristan. I figure I should at least give my name when I accidentally ruined your flowers. This, ah… This is a nice little home you have. Do you live here alone?” RE: Poor Wayfaring Stranger - Georgia - 11-25-2018
RE: Poor Wayfaring Stranger - Tristan - 11-28-2018 tristan
As the redheaded woman knelt down to better get a look at his wound, Tristan followed her gaze. The wound itself was a clean laceration that cut between two layers of skin into the flesh and sinew just beneath his ribs, blood dripping steadily downwards to stain the hem of his pants. It was a nasty injury, and one that he couldn’t remember getting, but at least it seemed like a clean enough slice. Catching the woman’s cursory glance, he simply offered a shrug of a shoulder in return. Should it need stitches, then he was alright with that. Anything to make it heal quicker and without more mess. Despite his willingness, of course, it didn’t make it any less painful. The brunette grit his teeth as she began to clean and stitch the wound, doing his best to not shift around at the lingering pain, not wanting to make her job any more difficult but also not wanting to mess up her stitching. It was a necessity, and it wasn’t the first time that he’d had to stitch up a wound. Tristan truly doubted that it would be the last. Eventually, it seemed his words had an effect. That or she took pity on his pained winces and sharp inhales, for she introduced herself in that same dulcet tone as ‘Georgia’. Little did he know that Georgia would be only the first of many names he would learn in this mysterious world. Still, earning her name was a true treasure, considering he had done nothing but invaded her home and crushed her poor flowers. Tristan felt honored to know it. That strained smile didn’t last, however, as Georgia went into detail about her grandmother and how she had lost the elderly woman a year ago, but to know that she held such sentimental adoration for the cottage they were now sitting in was endearing. “Well,” Tristan gasped out, gritting his teeth as he inhaled sharply through the nose in an attempt to keep himself calm and still, “I think… She would be pleased with how well you’re taking care of it. The garden is beautiful.” From the bits he had seen, of course. Although that did make him feel all the more guilty about landing on top of her flowers… At Georgia’s own little inquiry, Tristan understood it for what it was. Not only was she prying for more information about him, but she was offering him a good distraction. This woman clearly knew her stuff, and he would remember her genuine bedside manner. “Ah. Um, a small farmstead in the Briarwood. I lived there with my parents before striking off on my own, but it was always home.” He wondered yet again if he would see them again, or if he was stuck in this world for the rest of his life. The thought was a terrifyingly sober one, and doing his best to not jostle Georgia’s hands, the brunette plucked up the bottle from the table and took another swig of whiskey. Eventually the wound was closed, and Tristan held still for a moment longer to allow her to wrap a soft, clean bandage around his middle before shifting and sitting up. Soft blue eyes watched as Georgia stood up and stretched, and the man smiled warmly. “Thank you, Georgia. I won’t forget your kindness. Um. Is there anything you need help with? I know you told me to take it easy, but… It doesn’t feel right to not offer some kind of trade. Maybe help with dinner? Or… Chores?” More than likely she would give him a look and order him to just sit there and take it easy for a while, but he had to try. |