With a sharp wince and a heavy, ragged exhale of held breath, Rodry finally managed to take his seat. His cracked ribs violently protested the slight motion, the bone grinding just enough to send a flash of white-hot agony across his chest. He clenched his jaw so tight his teeth ground together, doing his absolute best not to howl like a wounded dog right in front of the master maker of Yarzat.
It was damn hard, too.
He had already swallowed a bitter dose of willow bark hours ago, but the dull magic of the root had completely worn off. He only possessed one single ration of the bark left in his pouch, and he was stubbornly saving it for bedtime. Gods knew he needed to catch at least a few hours of quiet sleep before tomorrow; only the heavens knew what kind of misery the next dawn would bring. They had not packed much pain-killer, stupid perhaps looking back, but none had expected so much resistance.
