Adebar only scantly remembered how he’d gotten from the inn to the keep of Gostahof. The impression of cold biting wind dragging at his form came to mind, stiff fingers clinging to one of the riders. Arms, already burning with effort, further strained to keep from simply dropping onto the dirt street and being crushed underhoof.

He knew he’d exchanged a few words with a man in fiery, red armour, only half aware of his survival, and somehow made it to this chamber, where he’d been stripped of his ragged, tattered, bloodsoaked clothes. He’d been bathed too, and given a simple night gown, but he couldn’t recall what order any of these things had happened in, whether he’d fallen asleep in between or not.

He lay in a large, comfortable bed now, in a comfortable bedchamber. The decor was surely rich, but much different from the visions of luxury he’d enjoyed back in Altdorf. Whereas the capital’s nobility usually chose griffons, skulls and laurels, or coiling wine to adorn their wooden furniture, and even went so far as to usually have such details gilded. Here he was surrounded by little sparkling and shining metal. The bed, the cabinet, the large chest he could see if he craned his head, were adorned with naturalistic motifs, dogs and their masters, proud stags and wild boars.

Whereas most deserving families of Altdorf covered their walls and ceiling in stucco, in the Tilean fashion, his surroundings here showed bare stone and aged wood, paintings were replaced by a tapestry hanging from the wall, as well as a stuffed fox, staring at him with hollow eyes. Still, the bed was comfortable, the down bedding warm and soothing.

Adebar stretched and drew a deep breath, giving a small yelp when he felt a stabbing pain in his side.

He pulled away the two blankets that covered him neck to toe, noting the slight chill of the air. Gazing down at himself, into his nightshirt he found that the wound running across his left seemed to have been stitched, not that he understood much of these things. His hands were wrapped in white linen, partly stained, where they had soaked up the bleeding of minor cuts.

New scars. With some uncertainty whether this was a good thing or a bad one, he swung his legs out of bed, finding a simple rug there, to keep his bare feet from touching the wooden floor. Much to his surprise, he felt little pain trying to rise, not in his legs anyway.

His feet were headed for the door when the dark, wooden obstacle receded, spitting out a man that towered over him considerably. The man was built like a mighty oak, clad in clearly well-made but utterly undecorated clothes of wool and leather, with some fur linings. His face was hard, wild, short hair and a large unkempt beard filled in the picture of a savage forced into civilization.

“Ah, I see our guest’s out of bed already!” The voice was firm but warm, and carried the same, pleasant, slurred speech Adebar had learned to recognise as innately Talabeclander.

“I don’t think you should be, but I am not my wife.”

Surprisingly good teeth blinked from between a reddish moustache and the full beard.

Von Bolstedt decided that it would be best to politely smile, before attempting a slight bow. Sharp pain cut his show of reference short, he nearly staggered to the ground as something in his torso shifted and ground against something else.

Damnations! Had the damnable beast broken his ribs?!

Strong hands made sure he reached his bed again.

“She did say you’d better rest for a good while. I don’t reckon you recall any of that, however.” The pain subsided soon, and his host remained by his side, seemingly waiting for something.

“I must thank you for your help, Herr. I do not think I would still have the luxury of pain had you and your men not arriv-”

Before von Bolstedt could even fully express his gratitude, the wood-lord had raised a hand, fending him off like a pesky relative.

“It was our duty. We do it gladly, and others depend on us. Cracking some beastmen heads is an added bonus.”

The man spoke honestly and held enough eye-contact to make the moment feel earnest. If the humility was feigned it was well hidden.

“Far too many of the things around ‘ere.”

The door opened again, a woman in her late thirties joined the man, looking quite concerned, especially at seeing her husband standing by his bed.

“Berchthold, I thought I told you to leave the poor soul alone until he’d recovered! He’s in no shape for your little social events!”

The giant called Berchthold rolled his eyes, taking a few steps back.

“That charming old griffon there is my wife, Mildred.”

Mildred herself gasped audibly, a wet rag hit Berchthold’s head with gusto.

“You’re a warty old boar! Now get out, this is all a bit easier without you standing around here and stealing the light. Go look for Mauritz, I haven’t seen the boy since morning!”

The wildman grimaced dramatically, making for the door markedly ponderously, giving his wife a kiss on the forehead in passing, coaxing a small, embarrassed smile out of her.

Hadn’t Adebar been quite so surprised, he may have gotten a hint of amusement from the scene. As things were, however, he had a few questions.

“I believe I owe you my thanks, my Lady.”

The woman shrugged, before pulling up a stool and motioning for him to pull up his gown. Slightly flummoxed, and after ensuring his decency with one of the blankets, he obeyed, watching her going to work on inspecting his torso.

“I do not know if I can ever repay the debt I owe you and your husband, I must admit. I have little of worth, and my family’s treasury is barred to me.”

The woman said nothing for a while, inspecting the stitched, long wound.

“There is no debt, von Bolstedt. We know they don’t have much over in Hermdorf.”

She gave him a small smile, before moving on to his side.

“I believe you are mistaken, my Lady. I am of the ancestral house of von Bolstedt, of Altdorf. If my father is to believed, the Hermdorf-line is barely related.”

Mildred’s eyebrows raised a hint, but she did not look up from her studies, deft fingers pressing into his ribs, forcing him to fight down the slight discomfort.

“I see. It explains your high and mighty speech too.”

The woman of the house let out a few muttered remarks.

“Still, do not worry. You owe us nothing. We care for travellers on our land here, despite what they may teach in the Reikland.”

Before he could think of a response or retort, Mildred rose again.

“You should rest for a while, Herr von Bolstedt. One of your ribs is cracked, dislocating it now could be quite painful. Pray to Rhya and rest, that is all we can do now.”