B R Y N A N I A N Y R E
No sense of time.
Brynan dropped her scimitars to the ground with a clatter. She stumbled back a few feet, her eyes lifted to the cloudy night sky. It was with extreme care that she kept her eyes there, lifted high and safely away from the filth that covered her body; filth she would not think about. No. That was a bad idea. Better not do that.
Her mind was sluggish. So was the rest of her, really. The rage subsided quickly and left with it a dull ache all over and, even worse, a fatigue that felt like death was breathing down her neck.
She swallowed past the dryness in her mouth.
With jerky, deliberate steps - lacking any of the grace with which she usually moved - she made her way off the road and towards a line of nearby trees. There, she bent over double and loudly threw up the entire contents of her stomach. It was violent but quick, and once the vile - don't think about it - substance was out of her she felt somewhat better. Eventually she stood up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. It only spread the filth around and for a moment her stomach heaved again, but she rallied and pushed forward. Rejoining the rest of the party, she was met by Stur.
Surprised by his offer, she gratefully took the waterskin.
"Let's ... not do that again," she said, then raised it to her lips and drank deeply. A remote part of her mind knew it was wine, bitter and cheap, but to her it was the most refreshing, delicious thing she had ever tasted. She stopped and looked at Stur, then added; "I doubt you'll want this back."
Then, quite suddenly, she sat down where she stood. Her legs, she found, refused to hold her any longer. A rest - that was all she needed. A rest and a bath.
"Is anyone hurt?" she asked. "Where's that coward, Nathaniel?"