Neverwinter Forest mod is þæt þonne mæg

@Cicero Dvořák

it is some days he lives amongst the forneskjan's, hunting with the chieftain, sharing jovial words with the red man. raedwulf had not expected such hospitality, but it was appreciated even more for it. in coming to these lands, he had not expected such kinship.
he commits himself now to bed rest, however. feeling the stiffness in his shoulder that resounds with ache from the encounter with the furious grizzly sow. each movement bringing a more painful wince than the last, as the saxon settles himself amongst a bed of moss and hare hide. he had killed and skinned many for their soft, dense furs that would make his bedding.
his tongue swipes once across his nose, tasting the bitter poultice that still remained like glue upon the first wound he'd garnered coming to these lands. a painful reminder of his time with @Qupirruarjuit. as he lays head down to rest beneath the setting sun, he wanders if her womb yet grows with his offspring.
would she bear him great sons who would come to join him in his longhouse one day? would he give her strong daughters to fight at her side? raedwulf chuckles at the thought, and then snuggles into his hare-fur bed, flopping over onto his side unbound by wounds.
exhaling a relaxed, manful noise.

the spring brought longer days and the slow thaw of the land. a season welcomed; herbs would begin to sprout in plenty. they would offer a bountiful harvest and for caches for medicines and tinctures to be stocked. cicero took it upon himself to ensure the upkeep of it all. often spending early mornings and late dusks tending to sprouts that peaked through softening ground, keeping the cache in order. there would be no chaos or disorganization if he could help it.

the elusive, reticent man kept to himself unless called upon. always slipping away for hours at a time, only to return with whatever bounty he could find. as with spring comes many creature's mating season; predator and prey alike. though he was worried more about the former of the two. word had gotten around about the grizzly attack on solharr. cicero had made haste to visit the man when he returned; cleaning and tending to any and all wounds, while quietly chiding his chief.

he'd also caught wind that the mountain of a man he'd healed just a few days back had joined forneskja. had made himself a home here. cicero followed the man's distinct scent under the guise of checking on his former patient. making sure that wound of his hadn't gotten further infected and was on the mend. within his jaws gentle lay a bundle of supplies, just in case the man was wounded again.

there is a feeling, as he steps towards raedwulf's den, that cicero will be seeing a lot more of the man. either a dauntless warrior, or perhaps a stupid one. something he cannot decipher just yet.

"raedwulf?" he calls for him. not wanting to intrude his den, but insistent enough to not be ignored.

sleep had found the man. it was a wholesome, full sleep that left him completely soundless. features, usually so gruff and hardened, softened by the allure of a full comfort. almost as if he were a boy again, nestled at the underbelly of his mother.
what a dream that would have been, if not disturbed by the crunching of brush underpaw.
he did not startle, however. when he awoke, it was slowly; with the stretching of wide jaws, teeth revealed and tongue rolling forth from the cave of his mouth like a slumbering bear. eyes blinking open, looking drowsily up at the dark-furred silhouette.
was that...? ah! it was! hāl, cicero! he hums.
raedwulf's eyes narrow not in suspicion but in the art of observation once more, looking deftly across the healer-man. he thinks it is silly that he hadn't noticed the scent before. something had been so familiar about the fronds and trees of this neverwinter forest, and now he knew: it was the home of this one. his scent was peppered through out it, vague here and there. just enough to sample.
þū hæfst mē gemēt, lǣċe wer. raedwulf says gravelly, voice still threaded with sleepiness. he moves wrong when he tries to rise and greet the man, resulting in a loud hiss of pain and a grudging wince, once more settling onto his side. se bera hæfde mē wel genumen. swā ġeþincð, þonne mon spēle mid mōdrum, nā? looking with bemused brown eyes to the crippleman.

the man rouses within the heart of the den; cicero does not feel guilt for disrupting his sleep. not when keen eyes notice the wince, the hiss. he is injured...again. eyes narrow as he takes the man's greeting as an unspoken invitation to enter the threshold. sweeping inside the cavern and placing his supplies neatly at his feet. he is glad he brought them; the deep, heavy gashes on the brute's side is concerning.

astonishing, really. cicero bears an expression of a mixture of shock and disappointment. wounds like this should be enough to disable someone, or perhaps be fatal. but raedwulf seems nonchalant. uncaring, even with the discomfort. je to blázen., the cleric thinks to himself. fighting a bear, willingly risking his life...it was stupid, more than it was noble. was it the same grizzly solharr had been injured from, too?

he does not return any ounce of amusement, his expression deadpan. "you men and your fights. going to get yourself killed." he scolds. but without them, his role wouldn't be necessary. a double edged sword, it seemed. with a sigh, he moved closer. sitting beside the larger man, fanning out the herbs he'd brought with him. "you will need, eh...goldenrod." he mutters to himself. the last of the herb in his stash; perhaps when raedwulf was healed, cicero could convince him to forage for more.

the flower is quickly mashed into a poultice. "do not squirm." cicero instruct to deaf ears, as he begins to lather the ugly wounds. dried blood cakes raedwulf's fur, metallic in scent. deep enough gashes from large claws that he hadn't seen in quite some time. hands work with a calculated precision. eyes of silver drifting to the man's face for a moment or two, perhaps gauging any response to pain.

raedwulf endures it in silence, though his jaw tightens under cicero’s hands. not from pain—he’s long learned to swallow that—but from frustration at the body's weakness. still, he does not flinch. does not squirm. he stays.
his eyes flick to the healer’s, catching the look. he does not know the words spoken, but the tone cuts clear. scolding. disapproval. like a mother fussing over a reckless boy.
he snorts—dry, amused. a corner of his mouth lifts into a tired, yet charming smile.
he watches the poultice being worked in, watches the care in it. the dark-furred man has paws that know the weight of life. they are so harshly unlike his own. raedwulf’s hands take. cicero’s give. he frowns momentarily at the thought, turning gaze to the healer. ic ġefeoht. þū hǣlst. þus lybbað wit. and how unfortunate that his words are lost on the ears.
he pauses, studying cicero again—this odd, dark-furred man with the sharp hands and sharp eyes. where does he come from? he does not speak the tongue of the red man. if he had, raedwulf might understand him in even some capacity. he is forced to figure out his intentions with context solely.
suddenly, he moves his paw, to make a grab for his face. to tilt it sideways, to get a better look at him. cicero is forced to stop his pampering of the wound and raedwulf feels his warm breath upon his thick, northern-shaped paw. his eyes drag then to the thin, mangled leg attached to his hip. wǣre þū swā ācenned? gesturing then to the leg with a jerk of his head.

his work is interrupted when calloused hands cup his gaunt face, forcing his head to turn. the healer's eyes wide in astonishment, audacity. a feeling ripples through him then; one even he, a man who prides himself on his intelligence, cannot decipher. he'd always been adverse to touch, a bitter irony as a man who worked with his hands more often than not. for a moment, he tenses, muscles tightening as if he would pull away.

he doesn't. raedwulf motions to his lame leg, and cicero's jaw sets. there was a time once where his leg was his greatest insecurity, his greatest weakness. the cruel comments tossed at him as a child in seros, the way he'd become reclusive to avoid them. memories of many nights he laid ill beside his mother, wondering why he'd been cursed. bitter thoughts that still leave an acrid taste on his tongue. it is manageable now, as he grew to understand his limits. but there were still nights he'd stew in irate, wishing his leg was as sharp and capable as his mind.

it is the dichotomy between them; raedwulf strong and physically capable, cicero weak but blessed with the gift of knowledge. a small huff leaves him, a subtle shift of his leg. perhaps to hide it, to tuck it further against himself to shield it. but there is no judgement in the brute's gaze; only curiosity. it leaves the cleric feeling...unsettled. seen, when he did not wish to be.

"i was born like this." he explained. born a sickly child that overworked himself to overcome, to persevere. perhaps in that way they were alike. cicero guides the man's hands away now, expression troubled as he returned to his work. "no more questions. jsi rozptýlením." crushing blazing star, a medicine to ease any discomfort.

"eat." he mutters.

raedwulf does not resist as his hands are pushed gently away—he could grip tighter, if he wanted, but does not. he simply lets go, as if the motion had only ever been meant for a moment. only ever a question asked without shame. with a huff of his own, he watches the healer's face shift. no anger. no pride. only... something else. the leg is tucked back like a wound, but the eyes do not burn with fury—only weariness. raedwulf hums in thought and then shrugs, as if to push it away himself.
he won't ask again. he lets his head fall back with a soft grunt, not frustration, but acceptance. the conversation ends, and the work continues. still, when the command comes—eat—he glances down at the roots and herbs laid out for him. his nose wrinkles faintly, remembering the bitter taste from days past. he mutters under his breath, mostly for himself. ic et wyrtan swā swīn. nose then flaring.
begrudgingly, he obeys. in time, he leans back, shoulders slackening. the ache still simmers deep, but dulled now by the work of clever hands. he then lets eyes roll back to the man, gesturing with unwounded arm for him to take a seat. to rest a while, if he wanted. it was the least raedwulf could do. þū hǣlst, lǣċe wer. ic þancie þē. a weak smile offered, dulled by the ache in his broken tooth.
moving his head to gaze down the rock path that descends from his cave, down the length of the tunglhjarta. it is a long way back to the heart of the forest, and a long walk for a man in such a condition as cicero. these words are not voiced, even if they wouldn't be understood, and raedwulf instead shifts. limping up to his full weight, then stepping out from the shade of his home. looking to the stars as they begin to dapple the fading night sky. head bows, then, before the expanse. raedwulf fully ignoring the presence of the lingering cicero.
wæcendran heofones hean,
beorhte ēagan goda,
iċ ġesēo ēow þær lyft tobirst,
lēoht myne weg þonne middangeard is dim.
berað naman forslagenra on ēowrum fȳre,
lǣtaþ nǣnne lyge under ēowres ēagan,
nē nānne yrmþling unġesewen.
iċ slǣpe under ēowrum spereum,
healdað mīne cyn þā hwīle iċ swefe,
and wisiað mīnne hand þonne iċ āwace.
words spoken in a hushed uttering.

the cleric sits idle, silently grateful to let his lame leg rest. watching with subtle amusement as the rugged man before him curls his lip to the medicine. "it is not so bad," he mused. there was the slightest uptick to the corner of his mouth; this reminded him of trying to force a pup to eat some root, and how they'd always fight and refuse. 

and then, raedwulf is gone. stepping out of his home to sit beneath the winking stars. cicero lingers for a moment or two, simply watching the man. listening to the deep, soft words he speaks towards the heavens. craving so badly as a man who thirsts to know more, to understand what is being spoken. 

the journey back towards the heart of forneskja is a long one. winding and exhausting for a wolf like cicero. and so, he ambles out of the cavern to sit beside raedwulf. feeling a sense of peace as he does not speak, but only listens. the journey could wait for just a little longer. 
for now, they both rest and enjoy the night sky.

he doesn't look when cicero approaches, but he hears the shift in weight, the soft drag of that bad leg across stone. hears the way the man settles beside him with the quiet care of someone not used to being allowed stillness.
raedwulf does not speak at first. the silence that comes to sit betixt them is comfortable, not cold. it's the kind of silence that needs no tending. and for a long while, he just breathes. watches the stars, how they glitter above the trees like cold gods. then, voice low and tired but honest, he mutters:
ic wæs nānes mannes, brown eyes do not look to the man but remain fixed upon the stars that glitter down upon them, nǣfre hæfde hlāford. a bittersweet smile breaks his monotone complexion. he doesn't expect the words to be understood, but says them anyway.
nū iċ hæbbe folc. hūs. hæl. he glances to cicero—just once. seeing his silver eyes catching moonlight. þū hæfst dǣl ðǣr. it's not gratitude spoken the way cicero might be used to, but it's more than most ever get from the old-tongued warhound. twice now, cicero has come to heal raedwulf's wounds. twice now, raedwulf finds himself indebted.
he was a man who paid his dues.

the language barrier is not a problem when raedwulf speaks—the gratitude is written in his eyes, his tone. cicero grins then, a rare and fleeting thing. "you are welcome. just try and keep yourself out of harms way for now, yes?" he muses with a certain lightness to his voice. 

he doubted the man would obey. warriors like himself do not stop to think about their health before they toss themselves into a battle. the healer will be needed again, in due time, and he would provide his expertise with minimal complaint. 

cicero lingers in the tranquility he often doesn't seek out for just a while longer. something unspoken between them, but something felt. and when he's ready to brave the journey down, he stands. "take care of yourself, raedwulf. have a good night." there is a warmth to his words, and perhaps an inkling of warmth in his gaze as it lingers on the man for a moment. 

and then, he's trudging down the hill, slipping away into the shadows with a newfound sense of kinship.

exit cicero!