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*****
It didn't take him long to reach the small clearing that he currently called home. A small longhouse sat in the middle of it, the smoking remains of a fire sitting not too far away. He entered through a crude wooden door, which he had built after a particularly strong storm had blown off the last one. He was no carpenter, but it was enough.
He laid her down her down on the plush furs that functioned as a resting place, careful as he did so. She shifted, offering a groan, but stayed asleep. He knelt by her, his narrow gaze watching her as she slept peacefully. Her skin was fair, but covered in small freckles. Two fingers dragged across her skin, in awe at the softness of her cheeks.
They trailed down to her chin, his thumb brushing over her smooth jawline and down her neck, stopping just short of her breasts. He lingered for a moment, but pulled away. He stood and trotted out of the longhouse, returning a few minutes later with a canister of water, a rag, and a blade in hand. He knelt by her once more, setting down everything but the blade. He dug his fingers under the top of her dress to pull it away from her skin. Carefully, so as not to injure her further, he cut down the length of her front, leaving her exposed.
Her breasts were small, but round and firm. Her waist was thin, nearly small enough to where he could wrap both hands around her waist and his fingertips might meet. While she was a magnificent sight to behold, he bathed her front without malice. It was true that centaurs would often take unsuspecting maidens for themselves, but there was no glory in taking an unconscious woman.
Once he was satisfied her front was clean, he carefully rolled her onto her stomach, only receiving a few whimpers in protest. He froze at the sight of five, bright red and angry looking lashes across her back, accompanied by scars similar in shape. They were ugly, and painful looking.
"What in the gods...?" he murmured to himself, taken aback. What had she done to earn such treatment? It was disgraceful for any centaurian man to lay a hand on a woman in such a way.
Staring at her wounds, his nostrils flared. He stood and retrieved a mortar full of herbs that was stored on the shelf, grounding it down and mixing it into a poultice. Judging by her wounds, he would need to treat them quickly before they worsened.
With the herbs ground into a fine poultice, he worked on cleaning out the wounds as best he could. She gave a few pained groans and whimpers here and there, but she stayed asleep. She must have been exhausted, and by the looks of it, she had every right to be.
With her wounds cleaned of all the dirt and grime that had accumulated, he gently pasted on the poultice, covering it with leaves. He covered her with a fur, leaving her to rest.
A day passed and she did not awaken, much to his agitation. Though he wasn't overly fond of strange humans, he was by no means praying for her death or suffering. She was young, probably just a few years into adulthood. With how puny she was, he highly doubted she had ever done anything harmful enough to deserve death, or the gruesome lashes on her back. The thought made his nostrils flare, not for the first time that day.
Who would harm such a defenseless girl? Her arms were like twigs, her legs not much stronger. Unless she was some sort of master fighter, which he highly doubted, there was little chance she was much a physical threat to anyone.
