Just a Scratch

Just a Scratch
Summary: After being awake the night previous, Lady Claire is summoned to the Prince’s tent to treat what should be a small injury.
Date: 05/11/1329
Related: Anything related to Brenton on or around the date of: 04/11/1329
Samwell Claire 

TP Room 2
The camp just outside of Brenton in the aftermath of getting rid of the bandits.
Nov 05, 1329

In the aftermath of the attack in Brenton, there's far too many dead and wounded for Claire's tastes. Within the camp, there's the lingering smoke of campfires that have been burning for the entire evening. Either for light or warmth and in many times - both. Seated on a stool near the flap of what should be her tent, the healer in question is sitting but under the watchful eye of her maid with both hands curled about a cup. Untouched. The latter of the two woman is composed of a look that may or may not keep people away for this moment's quiet. It may not matter, given the measure of supplies already used and what remains.

Samwell was no longer a royal prince of the blood, merely an exhausted, dirty man among many others. As the morning dawns, one of his Blue Guards appears near Claire's healing area and clears her throat. "Lady Claire? Could I have a moment?", she asks while looking around at the wounded.

It may be Janelle whose head turns towards the speaker, lips already parting with a firm response until Claire's hand lifts with a dismissive wave. "It's alright," she says, standing with one hand passing along the cup before passing both hands along the dark green of her gown. In the morning light, it might betray some smudges here and there in her attempts to save men and women alike. "And of course." Spoken to the Blue Guard, she stands and gestures towards the tent inquisitively. "What did you wish to speak to me about?"

The Blue Guard looks actually apologetic and clears her throat. "I know you've been up all night, Lady Claire. I would not disturb you normally, but it's about the Prince… he has a wound that needs looking after." She pauses for a moment, then adds with a smirk: "Even if he claims it is not so." She pauses again, then looks towards Bethany and back to Claire and Janelle: "how's she? She'll pull through, yes?"

"How bad is it?" Spoken with a turn for the tent where the fresh supplies are still kept, Claire turns towards the guard to reply with a comforting smile. "She will live, though I still hold some concern for her wrist. The bones are in place but the finer sections.. I truly will have to recheck the healing progress."

"I don't know how bad, but I figure you should take a look.", the Blue Guard mentions. She can't resist adding: "The Queen will have your head if the prince dies of infection here. Glad to hear the girl's well though.", she adds with a look towards Bethany, "She's too damn young to come to permanent harm here."

Something about the guard's demeanor draws Claire's gaze cooly upon the woman, things gathered the healer's forward steps pause briefly at the guard's shoulder. "I believe that I understand the situation quite well. I also believe that House Sollinger has quite a vested interest in His Highness' well being as with any of the royal family. Surely, you have no reason to doubt such," she asks, not waiting for an answer before moving forward in the direction of the last known location of Samwell's tent.

The Blue Guard just sniffs and stalks after Claire towards the princely tent, easily recognizable by its fine blue Taniford canvas. Samwell is inside, on simple bedding like his men and wearing nothing but baggy long underpants and a wrinkled knee-long tunic. Not exactly Mr Sexy. Especially since both garments were probably white once and are now on the greyish side. Plus a few blood drops on the tunic. The prince is doing his best to appear composed and happy, drinking something that should be tea with a drop of whisky but is more whisky with a drop of tea.

Truthfully, Claire probably wouldn't care less either way about the prince's appearance. No one's winning any pretty contests in the near future. Dark eyes take a one over of the young man's appearance before pressing her lips together, searching for exactly what the injury might be before dipping into a slight curtsey. "Your Highness." At least there's no flippant comments or pleasantries for that matter.

"Ah, the Lady Claire, a sight for sore eyes.", Samwell greets her with a rather unfocused smile, before his eyes find the Blue Guard and he frowns. "I told you not to bother her!" "Sorry for wanting to keep you alive, Your Highness!", the young woman mutters and flounces off to leave them alone. "I shouldn't let them get away with that.", Samwell confesses to Claire then sighs. If she draws nearer, she'll not only detect the odour of whiskey on him but also see a grubby bandage underneath the baggy tunic, blood stains showing through the white material.

"I suppose her thoughts are in the right place, if not her demeanor." Spoken in response, there may be no immediate need or opportunity for anything else on the matter as Claire approaches with a growing firmness to her lips. "And if that is what I think it is.." It may be a menacing tone, but with a wave towards the shirt she may have enough familiarity to simply state, "Will you remove your shirt? Or do I have to before asking all of the questions which you know I will ask. Mostly, -when- did this happen?"

"It's nothing… I know you were needed with keeping Bethany alive and frankly, that's what mattered.", Samwell replies and smirks weakly. "I wish you would ask me to remove my shirt under slightly different circumstances, Mylady." He does finally shift though, making an effort to sit straight and remove the shirt to reveal the bloodied bandage underneath. "I have no idea when it happened.", he admits, "Sometime during the battle for the inner keep? I didn't notice till afterwards and had Sir Deidra bandage me."

Ruefully pressing her lips together, Claire stares at Samwell for a few moments before giving her head the slowest of shakes before setting her hastily assembled back on the nearest table. "Though, those circumstances are not likely to happen," she says, setting out fresh bandages among her items with a glance towards the prince once more. "And I suspected an answer like that. It looks worse than it actually is, I suspect. Otherwise, Sir Deidra would have been running for me earlier."

"They are not? What a pity.", Samwell blabs out. He will, of course, later blame his loose tongue on the whiskey and pretend to not remember anything. "It's just a little scratch." He tugs at the old bandage so it comes lose and reveals a graze on the princely side that didn't penetrate beyond the deeper layers of the skin into the actual flesh. So it's mostly just a bloody mess that has congealed in various shades of red and brown with a garnish of yellowish pus on top.

"Hm?" Spoken as Claire pulls out a bottle to rinse away the mess that has come of the wound, she does accord the prince a smile as she explains, "We barely know each other, Your Highness. Furthermore, most times I have spent tending to your wounds and I doubt that your mother would like to hear the name of yet another Sollinger." In such a manner as to make gossip insufferable. If he really is that inebriated, then the conversation will not matter. Idle chatter is what the noblewoman sees it as, approaching with a clean cloth already doused with water. At least for now, before reaching for the second bottle - astringent. "Next time," she notes sternly. "Come and see me rather than letting this wound set like this. I will tell Sir Deidra the same, if I must."

"Ah yes, too many Sollingers.", Samwell sighs and quotes some random long-forgotten poet: "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet." He does fall silent though when she starts puttering on his wound, bracing himself for the stinging sensation and the pain. But at least he only yelps very softly. "I… uh… well, you had your hands full, Lady Claire. I didn't want to bother you with a little scratch lieke this."

Stinging will happen. There's no getting around that with the appearance of the wound, even though it seems to be the sort that will heal without stitches and looks worse than it is. "I believe.. the woman who came to collect me rather had an apt saying that your mother would have my head if anything should happen to you." Spoken dryly, she continues in a gentle hand.

Samwell chuckles at that. "Ah, yes, my mother is rather fond of me, I suppose. But do forgive my Blue Guards, I expect they were simply a little worried about me and rather frustrated that I refused to disturb you earlier. It's not bad, is it?", he asks, trying to get a look in while she fusses around the wound, "I told you it was merely a scratch and didn't warrant any excitement."

"It would have been worse should you have neglected to tell me," Claire lectures, satisfied that the blood and pus no longer is present or in danger of returning once the antiseptic is applied. "Infection and illness would settle in. Then, we truly -would- have a problem. But I think that it may be good for your guard to know that we are not that easily intimidated."

Samwell smiles thinly at the lecturing and nods. "I will have a word with them.", he promises, watching her bind the wound, "Thank you, Lady Claire. I'm sure I'll be fine. Please have some rest and take care of Bethany, will you? You are welcome at my breakfast table within the hour." Because princes get scrambled eggs and bacon.

"No need. Besides, I mean to say that if you fail to tell me of these injuries and let them sit like this…" There may be problems, goes unsaid. Still. With the bandages applied and wrapped, Claire seems satisfied enough that at least one patient will not die on her and the invitation is actually met with a smile as she turns to pack her things. "I plan to. She has at least two minders in the form of her father and Sir Jaren. My maid, Janelle is also keeping an eye on her as well. She would also be the same to insist that I join you for breakfast." Before curling up on her bed for much needed sleep.

"Excellent. My man will let you know when it's ready.", Sam promises and looks down his front. Now that the whiskey fog is slowly fading, he realizes that he's talking to a lady in nothing but baggy long johns and a bandage. Time to get dressed. "I'll see you in a bit, Mylady.", he verbally nudges her out.

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