What sharp teeth you have!

River was mid-lunge, grabbing for Simon's arm, when Galadan pulled them out of Milliways. She stumbles, catches her balance, and holds where she is, motionless and coiled tight. A human, heavily armed and breathing hard, covered in grime and sweat and blood of various colors, one hand in Galadan's and the other in her brother's.

(A human unafraid in Pendaran -- but then, she's been here before, and she has reason to be unafraid, in such company. Or perhaps reason to be afraid, but all her attention is turned outward, all her tight-coiled watchfulness directed elsewhere than her two companions.)

The forest is never quiet. Not Pendaran, of its whispering spirits and living trees and ancient, cherished anger. But compared to Milliways a moment ago -- everything is very quiet here.

River's breathing is loud, amidst the rustling of leaves and the hissing of breezes.

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"Where are we?"

It's as quietly as he can speak and still be heard at all, especially while he's still struggling to slow down his own breathing.

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The Wolflord's gaze remains distant for another minute (indeed, almost to the second) before he comes back to himself, winter-grey eyes sharp and very clear.

A moment after that he lets go of River's wrist.

The shields he'd held so tightly during Milliways' last hours are relaxed; to do otherwise would be to invite trouble and curiosity, above and beyond what has already been instigated by their strange and precipitate arrival.

He can hear the voices of the wood, the deiena chattering across their trees, the andain cautiously testing the waters before approaching -- and other, darker things.

It is fortunate (and no accident) that they are in the outskirts of Pendaran, and not anywhere near its heart.

"This is Fionavar, first and fairest of all the Weaver's worlds. I would say 'welcome', but long experience tells me we are best served making our way further out. Our arrival was less . . . kind, as it were, than it might have been, and the wood of Pendaran has no love for violent trespassers."

Edited Date: 2012-02-27 04:40 pm (UTC)

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River's arm drops; her gaze, which was scanning the trees, cuts sharply to Galadan's face.

She doesn't nod, because she doesn't need to.

Galadan gets to take the lead in his own jurisdiction, for one thing; he knows the dangers and factors here far better, for another; his shields are loosened, for a third, and she comprehends. There's no need to force a fight that could be easily sidestepped.

She breathes in, turns her head (more slowly) towards Simon, and smiles at him, just a little. It's small, distracted but real, and meant to be reassuring. "Gonna be okay here," she says to him softly.

Milliways isn't, but -- well. Anyway.

"Call it a tactical rearrangement. Short-term. We can move."

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Short-term, she says, and that reassures the thought temporarily foremost on his mind: can we get home from here?

At least, he can choose for the moment to be reassured by it, and put that thought aside.

Quietly: "Are both of you all right? Were either of you injured?"

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"A question that can be best addressed at a farther point," is Galadan's swift reply.

He punctuates this, however, with a sweeping glance over the Tam siblings.

"Provided the both of you can walk."

River gets an extra questioning feeling in the corner of her brain.

It saves time.

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River rolls her eyes at both of them, and takes the first step, tugging Simon along. Her fingers shift against his with fine twitches stemming as much from superfluous adrenaline as River's usual tactile investigation.

"Got legs," she says.

(In the corner of her brain currently being questioned: if she's hurt, she isn't feeling it yet, and it didn't slow her in the fight. She honestly isn't sure, so as far as she's concerned it isn't important yet. She knows, in the faraway way that adrenaline brings, that at the very least she's bruised and tired, and at some point that will be relevant, but not yet. Her blood's still up. Right now, she's concentrating more than anything on not reacting as if she's still mid-battle.

Although Galadan may also be able to smell that some of the blood on her is fresh, and her own. Not a lot, but it's there.)

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He moves, silently, following River and Galadan.

There's a blurry dreamlike feeling trying to drift into his mind, and he works hard to banish it. This is not a dream.

Whatever else it may be, it's not a dream.

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For some it might almost seem a nightmare, or it would, were the Wolflord not at the head of their company.

He knows Pendaran of old, and they have something of a truce. It is why the trees do not impede their progress, save for the occasional upthrust root that was not there before.

It is why they are disturbed only by the faint rustling of bushes in the distance, but not by predators leaping out of the foliage in search of an easy meal.

And it is why, despite the pace that he insists on, no trace of worry or anxiety clouds the edges of River's perceptions. (Well, it is why in part that is the case.)

"This," Galadan says, after many minutes of walking, "may well be far enough, for the moment. Though there are more hospitable places to rest along a somewhat longer path."

It seems only fair to offer his human guests some degree of mercy. Plus he can still smell River's blood, and that is something that is best taken care of soon. He finds it . . . irritating.

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Yeah, River's starting to limp a little.

Not a lot. But a little.

Personally, she finds that irritating, but the long shallow slice along her calf refuses to go away despite any amount of annoyance with it.

Ditto the claw marks (also pretty shallow) raking one shoulder blade.

But that's it aside from the general bruises and minor scrapes and stuff that even the best fighter has a hard time avoiding in a multi-hour melee full of wildly varied demons and overwhelming odds.

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"How much longer?" Simon asks.

Yes, he's noticed River limping.

... and he left his bag on the ground near the greenhouse.

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"Long enough that everyone's limbs should remain fully functional."

Galadan's voice is dry and his gaze remains fixed on the southwest, mind questing outward to make certain that there is nothing (and no one) to impede their passage.

The general time should be twenty minutes to a half an hour, provided River's limp does not slow them down overmuch.

He seems confident that it won't -- or that River will let them know if it becomes overly likely.

"Hardly even what you would call a day trip, I should imagine."

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"She's fine."

River's voice is a little cranky, although it's directed more at her wounds than her companions.

(She's stubborn, is what she is.)

But she was a dancer before the Academy ever got its blue-gloved hands on her. That's a hobby that teaches you to assess and work through pain -- and do it with a smile, though River's not so good at that part these days.

"External logistics are the primary determinant."

It's not that she'd object to a stop for bandaging, but she can keep going fine too. It'll hurt, but not unmanageably, and it's not going to widen her wounds much more than fighting with them already did.

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"All right." Quiet. "Let me know if you need help."

He's not going to assume she does.

A glance up at Galadan: lead the way.

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--That was easier than expected.

Not that River's complaining!

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Galadan's eyebrows manifestly do not hit his hairline.

This is hardly the time.

He does resume his position at point, slipping soundlessly through the underbrush and moving toward what, as they move ever closer, reveals itself to be a swift-flowing stream.

"The opposite bank is what I would call an appropriate resting place."

And the stream is very convenient for cleaning the blood and ichor off of his hands.

And, you know. His face. Swishing the ichor out from between his teeth is also preferable. Few things taste more unpleasant, save perhaps the blood of the svart alfar.

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"Is there a bridge? Or is it safe to wade?"

He's hoping it's safe to drink, and/or to wash with. He may not have any disinfectant, but at the very least he can clean those scrapes once they've settled.

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River's already wading. (Carefully. This may be because the water is cold, which it is, or because of her injured leg, or just because she's River.)

So. Take that as you will, Simon!

Her boots can hardly take any more damage from a wetting than they've already gotten. The knee-deep water is already swirling darker downsteam with the grime coming off her boots and calves.

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"Traveling to the nearest bridge would take us several hours." Galadan's response is dry. It seems to be his natural tone.

"Wading is infinitely easier. And though blood will serve as the forest's libation, provided you do not cut yourself on stones in the stream bed, you'll take no harm at all."

And then he, too, wades through the stream, ripples spreading and multiplying in his wake.

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Beat.

"Thank you. That's very helpful."

Simon wades after him.

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River, meanwhile, has settled on the opposite bank.

(Oh, hey. Sitting down.)

Her left leg is stretched out in the water, so she can wash it off better. This has the side benefit of rinsing her hands, too. (And here, Pendaran, have a bit of blood. It won't particularly mollify it, but River doesn't mind courtesy! Especially when it accomplishes a more pressing practical purpose anyway.)

Having a few parts rinsed sorta-kinda-cleanish is making the rest of her look even grimier by comparison, but it's not as if she really cares.

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Galadan drops to a crouch on the bank, the toes of his boots submerged in the stream, and vigorously washes his face.

Once that is accomplished he lets the water flow past him before dipping his now-clean hands in and pulling up some water to drink.

After that he dips his hand into a belt-pouch, removing what may be a familiar (if faintly stained, despite being washed) lacy handkerchief, which he hands over to River.

In case she wants to clean up a little more vigorously than bare hands will allow.

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Simon's own hands and wrists are only slightly smeared, but his lower arms are gory to the elbow. He's taking advantage of the moment's rest to scrub at them with his own handkerchief, dampened in the stream.

Suddenly, overwhelmingly, he's exhausted.

Galadan passing River the handkerchief catches his eye, though, and he moves a little closer to her before settling down to sit on the bank.

Quiet: "Let me see to those?"

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