The Sister Apothecary clucks to herself and returns to writing, the line between her eyebrows deepening as she forms the letters. Her desk lamp is the brightest light in the now dimmed infirmary, casting deep shadows against the wall.
The flavor profile of the soup is one Guts has got to be familiar with by now. An elusive chicken taste from broth boiled with bones and scraps, the sweetness of the carrots, aromatic fennel, salt that's mostly from pickled eggs, butter, the various herbs the Sisters grow. The egg in the noodles makes them richer than noodles made with just flour. They're a bit overcooked and gluey but still much more filling than the vegetables. The red tisane tastes remarkably close to how it smells, sharp and assertive in a fragrant way. Even when there's just a swallow's worth in the mug, it's quite red.
The shortsword with the Healing charm is still stashed under his bed, and it's made with more refinement than the quick and dirty version on Lashan's longsword. Between it and the little cup of bitter potion, the pain blunts and fades into a general ache except when Guts puts pressure or any strain on his bruised flesh. Rather than an itch, there's a sort of heaviness. But that could just be an effect of slowly winding down and taking in food and warmth.
Lashan's striker has sat next to her, thigh-to-thigh, and laid her head on the older woman's shoulder. She's one of the handful of Sisters who work with Lashan in her forge; all but Vena are stout or bandy and extremely familiar with her. Lashan herself has looped a long arm carelessly around her striker's shoulder and is drinking broth right from the bowl. She looks a little older, a little smaller, than she had earlier in the day. Having closed off her Mindspeech for once, she doesn't notice Guts looking.
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The flavor profile of the soup is one Guts has got to be familiar with by now. An elusive chicken taste from broth boiled with bones and scraps, the sweetness of the carrots, aromatic fennel, salt that's mostly from pickled eggs, butter, the various herbs the Sisters grow. The egg in the noodles makes them richer than noodles made with just flour. They're a bit overcooked and gluey but still much more filling than the vegetables. The red tisane tastes remarkably close to how it smells, sharp and assertive in a fragrant way. Even when there's just a swallow's worth in the mug, it's quite red.
The shortsword with the Healing charm is still stashed under his bed, and it's made with more refinement than the quick and dirty version on Lashan's longsword. Between it and the little cup of bitter potion, the pain blunts and fades into a general ache except when Guts puts pressure or any strain on his bruised flesh. Rather than an itch, there's a sort of heaviness. But that could just be an effect of slowly winding down and taking in food and warmth.
Lashan's striker has sat next to her, thigh-to-thigh, and laid her head on the older woman's shoulder. She's one of the handful of Sisters who work with Lashan in her forge; all but Vena are stout or bandy and extremely familiar with her. Lashan herself has looped a long arm carelessly around her striker's shoulder and is drinking broth right from the bowl. She looks a little older, a little smaller, than she had earlier in the day. Having closed off her Mindspeech for once, she doesn't notice Guts looking.