Quoted By:
Rolled 1, 5, 4 = 10 (3d6)
Zivka unrolls a roll of spare bandage from their belt, ducks low and sprints out into the cross-roads, sliding down next to the woman. Up close, she seems . . . younger than expected; not a child, but not a matronly elder either. She offers a weak smile and her eyes a dilated wide, a yellow cast to her skin. Some poison of some kind working her way through her system. The bandage won't help, but she does have fairly significant bump on her head and a matted bit of blood in her dark hair that Zivka wraps it around. That's not from her fall here. That's . . . well, it's always hard to tell but it seems like a club wound. As if someone battered her over the head. She's been out in the sun here for hours, hasn't touched the food on the table. She's trying to say something but she's parched and dehydrated and sun-scorched besides, so it all comes out in a croaking moan.
Twelve eyes scan the rooftops nearby for any sign of archers. Listen for the soft scrape of footfall on rock, a string being draw, the creak of wood. Was that something? No. Just a banner fluttering . . . Steady. Steady.
No. It's silent. Just the scent of bread, the soft rustle of the fortune-flitters strung out on their string high above and the gently pained moan of a woman that Zivka's bandaging up. Going for the water skin, gives it a shake. The slosh of it makes her focus her green eyes and Zivka can <span class="mu-i">see</span> her marshalling her focus to say . . . something . . .
>???
