Time passed so differently when one was acting on instinct alone. Had it been three days or three hundred since they had started fighting? Was it only an hour or a day since the ceasefire? Rowan could not say for certain. All she knew was that without end until called to do otherwise. When others had left to tend their wounds or the dead, she had dropped where she stood, uncaring of the blood and grime as she sat in a field of death, staring unseeing ahead of her. The pain had not come at that point. The Shadow Ranger was still too numb to everything to realize how badly she had been hurt. Time passed.
She could not say what compelled her to stand and leave anymore than she could explain why the sun and moon changed places int he sky. Rowan headed to the Hall of Tasks to sign her name, ignoring the flocking men and women eager to see if their loved ones still yet lived, before moving on her way back to her quarters. There she carefully set her things down in order to busy herself with cleaning each of her weapons before sending them back to their places in the Shadow Barracks.
There was water in her room but it was cold as ice. Any other day she would have groused at needing to heat it before enjoying a relaxing bath, yet not this day. She dumped it into her tub. Some of the warriors who lived in the barracks preferred the communal bathhouse. Rowan liked her privacy and had worked hard over the past three hundred plus years to move up through the ranks to have her own small place and money to buy the things she wanted for herself.
Clothes were dropped to the floor carelessly moments before she stepped into the tub, the water instantly swirling rose then crimson as she sat. Her knees curled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them tightly. Going through the motions of a routine, soap was claimed and rubbed into a towel that was then used to roughly scour every inch of her body. She scrubbed until there was nothing more she could and had to exit the tub to keep from sitting in the filth. Looking at her hands, they were not clean enough to her liking. Rowan could still see the blood there, real or imagined and took up a brush to vigorously scrubbed her already bruised and scratched hands until they were raw and bleeding.
Dressing was a perfunctory action, as was cleaning her home, placing books on shelves and washing dishes. The tub and sullied clothes remained where she had left them. She could not face them now. They reminded her of what she had left behind. With no tasks left to complete, Rowan realized she was beginning to feel the pain she had been ignoring up until that moment. One hand was purple from being crushed and most likely broken. Her leg sounded off its displeasure as it spasmed in pain. The muscle of her calf had been torn and seized. Walking suddenly became difficult.
Aggravated and desiring to return to her former numbness, the woman limped out her door and through the streets, trying to avoid as much of the revelry as well as the mourning as she could while on her persistent trudge to the city's sole tavern.
Once she entered the door, the tinkling of the bell announcing her arrival, Rowan was forced to brace herself slightly against the nearest wall. The pain was quickly becoming too much for her, so as soon as she could she teleported from where she stood to a shadowed spot behind the counter. A quick swipe of a bottle and a mug, was all she needed before she blinked back out of existence and right into the occupied dark corner.
Rowan nearly stumbled as she attempted to stop from falling into Alucard. "You're in my spot," came a grumble as she plopped down opposite him and began pouring herself a drink. First things first she was getting her drink. Whatever happened afterwards could wait. Her head shot back as she downed the entire mug in one go before moving on to pour a second. An angry hiss escaped her lips though as she first pressed a finger to her bottom lip then licked it in realization that the burning alcohol had managed to find another injury, namely a busted lip.
