Hildey frowned in thought, her blue eyes peering vacantly into the shadows of the darkening forest. She stood at the edge of the camp of four Northmen. An old weathered warrior, Rannulfr, was tending the fire while his son, Voldig, squirmed in fever under the warm furs, fighting a war against an infected arrow wound in his chest. These three had left their village few weeks ago to hunt down the bastard called Drisk, who had killed their Jarl’s first son - and already one of them was as good as dead.
There was a fourth man there as well, Vigrim, son of Vigmar. A Man of North from another village, whom they had met on the road. His forehead was dotted with beads of sweat as well, weak in fever, yet conscious. His wounds had been lighter than those of Voldig.
Vigrim’s chances of healing are greater, Hildey thought.
She glanced down at the small jar in her hand. A Dwarf, whom she and Rannulfr had met while scouting the area, had traded it to her. An ointment to treat wounds. There was enough to treat properly one man - yet in her camp there lied two wounded men. She had to decide.
Voldig is of my village. He should be the first priority, she reasoned. The Jarl would not take it kindly if I would use this to treat a stranger.
But Vigrim has a head on his shoulders unlike Rannulfr and Voldig, he can be reasoned with, he can fight with sense. He’ll be of more use than the madman.
Her frown deepened. It was not an easy decision to make. Voldig was indeed a troublesome man, known around the town for being utterly mad and dangerously unpredictable. During their travels he had swung his weapon at his father more than once, Perhaps it is better if he dies. He could be the death of Rannulfr if he lives.
But perhaps Rannulfr deserved to die. It was clear why the madman had little sense left inside his mind. His father had punched it out of there. The violent man sought to correct his son’s every mistake by hitting him. She carried no respect toward Rannulfr, having heard of his vile deeds from her father who used to fight alongside the old man. Besides it was Rannulfr’s fault that the men laid there now wounded. He had walked straight into the camp of the monsters whose blood ran black. Old warrior, blinded by his pride.
One thing was sure, the journey would be dangerous. Vigrim would be a better arm, a better sword, a better head. Less trouble. By all mean I should tend his wounds if I seek to live through this task.
She turned toward the camp and stepped to the man she had decided to treat with the precious and scarce ointment,
Voldig, son of Rannulfr.
((Thanks to Flosli for this moral dilemma! This is something that happened between RP sessions.))
