The Tourney at Ashford

He clutched his right hand, it had a steady flow of blood trickling down it from the puncture wound. His face was beet red in anger, and a steady brook of profanities was pouring out of his mouth, as he stumbled into the common hall of the compound.
"Bloody fecking eejit, fecker got lucky... Shite this hurts..." His mouth clasped shut rather swiftly once he noticed Lady Terrick and her other bastard in the hall. He bowed and through gritted teeth greeted them. "M'lady... I did not know you were here..."

"I didn't expect to find myself here either...? Walder?" Wylla frowned a moment, as Gouren bore something of a dark grin, moving to look at the giant of a man, and shaking his head a bit here and there, pointing off to the chair nearby.

"Lose the shirt lad, and don't stifle yourself. This is education as much as anything else. You see, my Lady. This is part of your actions as well. Consequences, not only... and perhaps even rarely felt by your loveliness. Your right hand took injury to secure your safety, as you brazenly prance into situations full of that confidence. I don't question or fault your acts, but you've never known this side of your victories either, I felt you should experience it at least once before this place goes alight."

Walder took off his shirt with a grunt, and took a seat. "Tis nothing really... Just a fleshwound."

Gouren would take a look at the wound, grunting a bit, and shaking his head, mostly ignoring the light bruising that Walder gained with it. He'd take a parcel from his belongings, carefully applying some wrap around the wound, making it tight, but skillfully fitted, as he'd press on it hard, enough to send a message to the older man.

"Thrice damned child of a man. What did you pull the blade out yourself?"

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Diagnosing a Knife Wound | TN 9: 8d6k4+3 20

Converting 4 Miracle Worker Bonus dice and totally forgetting the natural bonus dice the roll has~

Treating a Knife Wound | TN 6, Miracle Worker: 10d6k9+3 39

Walder grimaces. "Was in the middle of a fecking fight, what was I s'posed to do? Fight with a knife in me arm?"

"One would suggest you not get stabbed in the first place. This is equally as educationally for you, lad. You got a wound, and I know it wouldn't slow you down, but it becomes a distraction, such a distraction that could endanger the very thing you are supposed to be protecting."

In a separate part of the compound, enjoying time beside a large but not monstrous fire, Reynard and Roycelyn heard only a rumble of the other conversation. Every so often, Roycelyn would glare at her brother and make sure he walked around a bit, keeping his injured knee mobile.

"You know, I really don't need you pestering me like this," Reynard grumbled as he walked--a little unevenly.

"I've always said you need someone to watch out for you and I've always been right." The younger Goodbrook raised both eyebrows as she gave her brother a pointed look, daring him to argue.

He glared at her for a moment, but he quickly changed his approach. In a happier voice he said, "You know, some wine might help me and this knee rest easier tonight and heal..."

Roycelyn rolled her eyes dramatically, but she was off in search of low quality wine before Reynard could sit back down. "No way we're wasting good wine on a bad bruise," he half-heard her whispering as she moved away.

For a few quiet moments, Reynard started into the fire thoughtfully.

"Don't patronize me." He grunted, annoyed. "And the bastard got lucky, that's all. Any other day I'd 'ave dodged that, you believe me."