[center][b]Ennis[/b][/center]

It had been a rough morning for the Ambassador. It had taken more than a few knocks to stir the man out of his restless sleep, and even then his body was too stiff to move. He never did find that bathhouse; most of his evening had been spent trying to keep an eye out for any trouble within the group. Vesta had, luckily, backed down from challenging that paladin (after Ennis had discretely cast a spell on her that made her words sound like mush). Realizing almost instantly what had happened, his “bodyguard” had stormed off—the reaction Ennis had hoped for but hadn’t been a hundred percent sure he would get. Fortune smiled on him, thankfully. He didn’t see her for the rest of the night; likely, she was off venting her frustrations on some poor bottle of liquor. 

Eventually he did clamber out of bed and into his travelling clothes, although urges from the Sentinels that he hurries up prevented him from taking his usual time to groom himself. Hair sticking every-which-way and his eyes deeply set within two dark sockets, Ennis looked more as if he had walked out of a war zone than had spent a day riding at a steady pace. Vesta was already ready with his horse by the time he had joined the others, although the woman said no word to him as she handed him the reins. In fact, she had said no word to anyone since the paladin had chastised her and Ennis had temporarily snipped her venomous tongue. Even as they rode the woman was silent, occasionally separating from the group to either scout ahead or to avoid the others. Ennis knew that is was probably both. The woman was vigilant, but she was also beyond stubborn.

[center][b]Vesta[/b][/center]

And, more importantly, she was hiding her drinking. Vesta had started that morning and had no intention on stopping until they either made camp or she fell off of her horse as drunk as a lord. She didn’t even know why she was hiding it. She cared little if they found out about her vice, let alone if they left her to freeze on the Guratan wastes; she would still follow Cyril as he, like that bastard paladin said, led children into battle. It was her duty to protect Olain’s children, even if they were arrogant, self-righteous idiots who surrounded themselves with sycophants, serpents, and strangers—not to mention cowardly drunks. 

She was riding on their flank right now, her bow drawn as if she was keeping her eyes out for any wandering miscreants. Not that it mattered, for Vesta knew that if they stumbled upon a bandit, rogue, or pirate that Cyril would wave his hands around, declare an imperial decree, and draft the cutthroat into his merry band of riffraff. The man’s unrelenting idealism was almost impressive. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but she could almost see Cyril going up to Gartian, shaking his hand, and asking him to join their cause to stop his own damn army. She spat at the thought. Her eyes flashed back towards the group; they were stopping for some reason.

She spurred her horse and rejoined the others as they crowded around the crumpled figure. A corpse; so what? Through the haze of her vision, however, she could see the dead body’s chest rise and fall. She sighed. It was a hindrance, but even the reformed bandit wasn’t low enough to leave an injured man out in the field. In her mind, it was the same as being the one who had inflicted the wound in the first place. Slowly dismounting from her her horse, she hovered behind Lora as the woman revealed his shoulder injury. Vesta had seen her fair share of wounds in her day, and could immediately determine what she was looking at. She shook her head disparagingly. [i]What idiot pulls out an arrow without having someone around to help heal the wound?[/i]

“Poor lad,” said Ennis.

“He’s a dumbass,” said Vesta, steadying herself with both hands on her makeshift cane. Lora had said that the wound was old. That meant he either felt no need to get it patched up or felt like he could trust no one to patch it up. Vesta knew from experience that even most magic couldn’t heal a wound that had been given too much time to improperly heal. It was the very reason why she no longer put money on bar bets that required her to race somebody. She couldn’t help but empathize with the wounded man; part of her even hoped they were not too late for the fellow, idiot or not.

Another part of her was on high alert.

“We should do something,” said Ennis, ignoring Vesta’s correction and offering no solutions on to what something would actually be. 

[i]Yeah, I get it.[/i]

“Lora, unless you know any healing magic then get out of the way,” she said, stepping a few more feet away from the man herself. Her voice was stern and steady, but wasn’t necessarily harsh. She tucked her sheath into her belt and drew her bow. “A common tactic among bandits is to use a wounded individual as bait to force travelers to lower their guard. Cyril, command [i]your[/i] men to set up a perimeter around the area just in case.” She glared at Diane. “You, [i]Lady Laues[/i]: despite what Damon says cripples are not completely dependent on Divines or babysitters. More importantly, Ayano is not a child; you can stop doting on her for a minute. Surely, that staff is not just for show. Heal this man; I’ll cover you if he turns out to just be a good actor.”

“Now,” she said firmly as she notched an arrow.