In Rest

Soldier's Defense, Early evening

The sun setting in the west spreads sparkling rainbows filtered through western facing windows. One of the many rooms recently occupied, the healers on hand having stepped out to collect medicines and bandages for the injured.

An eldanar man sets an arming helmet down on the bedside table, him rubbing his face, still sticky from wine. "Going to be a pain getting all this out..." he grumbles, setting his crossbow down to lean against the wall.

Gramarye's dress is stained. Probably ruined by the metric of some nobility. But the war golem most certainly does not care about that. Her obsidian eyes are trained on the man who lies in the bed that she sits next to in a chair that she makes look almost comically small.

Her eyes blink to life with her words, but her head does not pivot to Warrick's direction. "The TarRaCe provides useful cleaning services to creatures of flesh, fur, and feather," she states. "I cannot partake in bathhouses without risking frivolous and unnecessary damage to my mainframe. My dress will be cleaned by a professional in the Market."

And yet her vigil is trained entirely on Aragos. Waiting for those purple eyes to open again.

The paladin had been entirely unresponsive on the trip over, and even during the cursory examination of the healers, but now he begins to stir a little, a muffled groan the first warning sign that he's about to awaken and then those purple eyes do indeed open. He looks around the room briefly before offering the pair who remain in it with him a slightly self-conscious look. "Good punch Gramarye."

He offers a quiet nod to Warrick.

That gets a little chuckle to escape Warrick. "The TarRaCe is excellent for all those, but my issue lies more in metal, like you," he says, gesturing to his wine stained scale mail. He gets to unbuckling straps, starting with his gauntlets.

He looks over as Aragos starts to stir, his shoulders laxing slightly. "Agreed," he hums, nodding in return towards the paladin as the gauntlets are set down on a chair.

"I am not intended for hand-to-hand combat," Gramarye replies to Warrick and Aragos, "but I am sufficient with light martial maneuvers in an emergency."

Then she adds, with a blink of her eyes in the pause between sentiments, "Gratitude protocol: Thank you for your offered compliments. I appreciate them greatly."

Her hand--the one that'd knocked out Aragos--reaches out to take the paladin's hand. "Repeating request. Father. Please present me with an assessment of your physical, mental, and emotional wellbeing."

Aragos eyes Warrick a moment, but Gramarye has his attention for the most part. Her metal hand clinks against the metal of his gauntlets and he awkwardly grasps it. It's clear from his expression and his body language that he isn't much used to this sort of thing. Her words wipe what little expression is there on his face, though his purple eyes begin to burn with an inner anger that his momentary 'nap' had not managed to fully extinguish. "Nothing that a little time and drink can't fix I'm sure."

Gruffly he shrugs and looks at her. "What about you? Did you get hurt?" Realizing then that they aren't really alone he looks at Warrick last. "Or you? I've some of Vardama's... healing left to me if they did."

Warrick replies, "You're welcome." More buckles come undone. Arm guards joins the gauntlets, as well as some plates from his left arm. He pauses to watch the interaction, his visage softening. "Time, drink, and dressing," he adds onto the list.

He taps his side, wincing slightly. "Hurt mildly, but you took the worst of it. Treat yourself first. Appreciate the offer though," he lightly smiles.

"I sustained no structural damage in the ordeal," Gramarye replies to Aragos's question. "Only a stained dress. That can be cleaned. I agree with Warrick's assessment."

Her hand's still around Aragos's. It's an oddly human gesture, really, coming from the war golem. "However, you are the one with Vardama's healing. It is yours to do with as you see fit."

Then she adds, "I cannot drink, but I will accompany anyone who wishes to do so."

Aragos fixes his eyes on Warrick, his purple gaze a solid thing. Wincing slightly, he rolled his legs off the cot he'd been laying in and motioned to Warrick with his free hand. "Don't be stubborn man. I'll heal myself after you are seen to if that'll satisfy." He motions with his hand that Warrick should come closer. "I promise I'm just as stubborn as you are."

A flash of teeth. "Then we can shirk these healers and go get something to drink." He hardly looks like a man that should be talking about getting a drink, but then... Maybe he has the ability to heal both of them sufficiently to not require healers at all.

Warrick watches on further, his gaze a bit unfocused on the held hands before he realizes Aragos's gaze is locked on. "Heh, what do you think I'm doing right now?" he says, rattling his loosened armor as he ducks out of the scale mail, only to toss to the side as he steps closer. His gambeson is soak with wine. "I'll get seen, no worries, Aragos."

Tired slate eyes rest on purple. "I've gotten the stubborn beaten out of me a long time ago, Harpist. But I won't turn down a drink after we're tended to. The company is what makes it, Gramarye," he says to her.

In an odd show of impatience--or perhaps eagerness--Gramarye rises from her seat, letting go of Aragos's hand. "Will it be faster to go drinking if I find healers to attend to the two of you?" she asks. "I have no healing capabilities of my own. I am primarily a artificer's assistant."

There's a blink in her eyes.

"With arcane defense capabilities as needed." Says the war golem that blasted two wine-fiends with her magic.

Aragos lets out a gruff half-laugh at Warrick's words and nods. "As you will." He replies easily, then looks down at his own armor and winces. "If we don't get the wine out there will be wine in every joint."

He hesitates and then once Gramarye releases his hand begins the process of undoing his own armor. There's a strict professionalism about it, an ease of long practice that tells that he's been wearing the armor for a very long time. "Go ahead Gramarye, see if you can't hurry those healers along a little." He hasn't stood yet.

Warrick nods to Gramarye, a faint chuckle leaving him. "Yes, you displayed that quite resolutely earlier today," he points out. "That sounds to be a well idea."

A sigh escapes him as the gambeson is unbuttoned and tossed aside. All that was underneath was a brown shirt, as well as a tattoo of Serriel's holy symbol on his left arm that's cut through with claw scars.

"Want a hand out of that?" he offers. It's clear he's has his own rigid professionalism as well. Well, mostly, he chuckles afterwards, "Since you're wanting to be so speedy."

Gramarye's reply is short and simple as she goes to walk out of the room in search of a healer. It's also one that really does sink in for Aragos that something is different now between himself and the war golem.

Because it's said with none of the hesitation a flesh-and-blood person would have in this instance. "Yes, Father."

And out she goes for a little while.

Aragos blinks at Warrick's offer, then slowly rises to his feet. It's notable that he doesn't try until Gramarye is out of the room, and even leans on the bed a bit for support in standing. "You don't need to do that." He answers, the words are not harsh really, but there's a bit of gruffness in them. He is clearly in more pain than he was letting on, having taken his fair share of blows, but he doesn't seem inclined at the moment to heal himself.

It takes a moment before he manages to shirk out of the heaviest piece of his armor which gets set carefully on the bed and then is followed by the padding between it and his body. Under his armor he's wearing a simple shirt not unlike Warrick, but his is black and has Vardama's holy symbol on it like his armor does.

His body is toned and muscular under his armor, particularly through the shoulders and chest which makes sense given the huge sword he wields. He has no visible markings or scars, but he notes Warrick's with some interest. "Looks like something nasty got you there." He nods to the mark. He takes a breath then. "I'd appreciate it if you don't question Gramarye too much. She's ah..."

He hesitates. "She's a good girl."

Warrick watches Gramarye go with a quiet laugh. "... she reminds me of my daughter," he comments, amused. But his attention drifts to Aragos, him waving a hand off. "I don't need to, no. But still will."

Should Aragos accept the aid, Warrick is rote in his assistance with doffing the armor. Otherwise he leans on his back foot, noting the symbols on the paladin. His gaze flicks to his scarred arm. "... something did, yes," he murmurs. "Wight," is all he explains about it.

He looks back to the door at the mention of the golem. "She does seem to be a good gal, wasn't really going to prod too much into something I don't have all the information about. Buuut I know a thing or two about taking care of girls," he lightly smiles.

Thankfully, Gramarye's not gone for long. A healer woman comes into the room, a small and plump woman with auburn hair that's beginning to gray, and wrinkles set into her face. She wears a symbol of Althea around her neck. Gramarye, who is much taller than her, follows in after her.

"Alright you two, I hear that one of you has a daddy-daughter date with the nice young lady," the Althean cleric exclaims, clapping her hands together. "Let me patch the two of you up."

"It is a recreational trip with Father and Warrick to a tavern," Gramarye corrects. But that doesn't seem to stop the woman from going about her business in her entirely-too-cheerful way.

-End