Draven Hrolf limped his way through the streets of Ketra, leaving a faint trail of blood behind him. He looked around for any tavern-like building where he could rest, heal, and possibly have a few beers. His rough hands were clamped to his side, where there was a large open wound. He removed his hands for a second to get a good look at the wound and winced in pain as he covered it again. He stopped on the side of the street to take a break, as limping all the way there had tired him out. He considered waiting for someone to come along and help him, but didn't think anyone would care to. He got up slowly and started limping again, hoping he would find somewhere to rest soon. He was tired and hungry from a long fight that happened just hours before.
*clank* *clank* *clank*
A steady rhythm of clanks emanated through the streets, minutes later a large man in armor came clanking down the street. He was caring on his shoulder a great mace and in the other was a shield. His face was aged, with an eyepatch and a finally groomed mustache.
The man was humming to himself, an old march he'd know, until he spotted the injured man.
The clanking rhythm quickened, soon the large man was over him.
"Ya look worse for wear laddy." The big man said, stowing his great mace into his belt next to his sword. "Where's the bleeding from?"
Draven looked up at the man before showing him his leg. He was quite surprised that somebody actually stopped to help him. "You know where the nearest tavern is? I could use some rest and a cold beer." His tongue felt dryer with every word. He attempted to stand up, trying not to put too much weight on his injured leg, whilst also trying not to topple over into the man helping him.
"That ain't the only thing ya need." The man said as he reached for the knapsack on his back, pulling out some loose bandages. "I ain't no surgeon, but we're going need to staunch the flow of ya bleeding. Now tell me, laddy, where ya bleeding from?"