Prince Jason Algrave sat in Misthallow's narrow infirmary. He looked down at his naked chest. Blood ran down over his sweat-dampened muscles, beading and drying against his skin. He felt a bit lightheaded, but he somehow felt himself in a good mood. His duel with Garth left him bloody, but Jason couldn't deny the effect that victory in battle had on him. This was why he was a warrior.
His mind swam. He couldn't recall this girl, Renore, that his opponent kept talking about. He supposed it was possible - Jason bedded many women, he had to admit. He couldn't possibly match names to all who've shared his sheets. Regardless, the knight was a fool. Attacking a skilled enemy when your strikes are delivered by anger is a good way to leave yourself open to mistakes.
Then again, Jason had to admit that he only found himself with a knife in his side because he turned to the crowd watching him. That's something he supposed he didn't have when he was on campaign. He noted that it was a good thing that war did not have seating arrangements for spectators. His thoughts shifted to Adam Mullenax, and the pain in his side flared. A quiet grunt escaped his lips.
Sir Beron and Sir Peter Wepple had helped him to the room, and went for help. Jason could only lift his head and stare into the mirror on the other side of the room. It was old, and towered over everything else in the room - the beds, the shelves, and the crates of what remaining medical supplies Misthallow held. Jason didn't know much about medicine, but he figured what was here was not robust.
The man in the mirror looked tired. Jason's dark locks were hanging, slick with sweat, over his brow, just peeking into his line of vision. Blood ran down through the curves and crevices of his muscles, intermingling with the copious amount of sweat that made his chest glow in the dim lighting of the room. Beron had stripped him of his shirt and once Jason had gotten into the room, he'd added his dark riding trousers to the pile as well. He was only clad in silken grey undershorts that clung to his thighs. Also sweaty. Jason wondered how much of the sweat came from his duel, and how much came from his body fighting the wound. Some thin, bloodied, bandages barely hung to his form.
"Jason" Sir Peter's voice came. It was soft and worried, and Peter was usually so severe and businesslike. "I've got someone who can help you out." Peter was of an age with Jason, and had wispy light brown hair. They'd gotten to know each other on the warpath. His family was a knightly house from Broadrock, near the outskirts of the capital. Peter had come up for the party.
"Thanks, Pete." he said, grimacing again. "Whatever works."
The girl that sheepishly entered the room after Peter was tall, with wavy dark hair that hung down dutifully. Jason noted her light brown eyes, astute and curious, darting around the room - yet never leaving his form for long. Her green dress was modest, he noted, quite unlike what women normally seemed to wear around his parties. Around him.
