Whitewater Gorge wyrd bið ful āræd

the deep timbre of the man's voice still speaks in a language foreign. perhaps a problem, but the brute was being a pleasant patient. obedient, unable to pester or whine. it made the job all the easier, all the more enjoyable. 

the corner of cicero's lips twitched, nearly pulling into an amused smile, as norsemen's face twisted with disgust. he would have warned the man, if there wasn't the language barrier. but—and cicero lets his eyes wander—the man is strong enough and has been through enough to not fuss over a bitter taste. 

cicero isn't able to make out the words, but there's a look on the brute's face; one that spoke of gratitude. he brushed it off—it was his duty. he did not heal for praise. "do not thank me yet," he spoke, accent thick. "not until it is healed." 

it meant that cicero would find his mountain of a patient again, after they depart. for the sake of checking on his work and to see if the root had done its job.

"raedwulf." he tests the name on his tongue. it is strong and heavy. he mimics the man's movement, and introduces himself. "cicero. i do not speak your tongue...norse?" perhaps solharr would be able to understand...

cicero does not move away yet, and instead returns his focus to the golden rod at his feet. making quick work to turn it into a poultice. he grabs the man's rugged face again, pulling him closer, and slathers the salve on the wound. 

"it will help heal faster, raedwulf."

the man leers at him, gaze unreadable but heavy. eyes of silver flicker to meet deep brown. an acknowledgment, a silent kinship. and then he was pulling away, standing to his meager height. "forneskja could use a man like you."