Completed Head Problems (Kechaiya)

[Vaylen Stroud]

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Fall 2, 514 AV

It had been nearly three and a half years since he had murdered his parents. He had survived on his own thus far, and while struggles had not been nonexistent, he thrived through them. Vaylen, while lacking skills and knowledge of experience, considered himself a creature of the night. He knew he wouldn’t hesitate to put the edge of his blades to someone’s throat. If his enemies did hesitate, they would find no mercy in the eyes of the Wraith. Vaylen was beyond the cold-heartedness of his father and mother. He was a new instrument of death on the streets of Sunberth, but only in emotion. He did not have the skills, nor the fame yet.

The autumn season had just begun in Sunberth and Vaylen, more than anything else, needed his name to be thrown through the rumor mill of the city. He wanted to be known. He wanted to be feared. That is how he met Irith Baughn of the Storage Houses. He was frail beyond comparison, all skin and bones. To Vaylen’s steel-gray eyes, Irith would like nothing more than a common slave if it weren’t for his embroidered apparel. The withered man stood no higher than five feet and five inches, leaving him largely below the average height of a human male. The fragile muscles of his petite form almost wailed defenseless—and that is why he required Vaylen Stroud’s help.

While the beginning mercenary was nothing more than a novice fighter in practice, Vaylen’s demeanor often scared off any unwanted customers for Irith. His death grip of a stare was unavoidable and terrifying to many. On this particular day, however, trouble was brewing in the twisted streets of the Storage Houses.

Irith Baughn shouted his normal identifiers akin to his displayed stall. “Jewelry, trinkets, baubles, clothing! Everything you need, Sir Baughn has!” The incessant calling of the trivial man’s voice annoyed Vaylen more than anything else, but the weak man did have coin that he wanted, and a way to spread his name throughout the city.

The afternoon was fairly temperate, not too hot or cold. Vaylen was comfortable to say at least, but two thugs approaching Irith Baughn’s stall were not. Vaylen had picked them out from the crowd, their eyes determined and narrowed as they flowed through the throng of people. They were clad in leather armor, brandishing longswords at their waists. “Today’s not your lucky day, trader,” one of the thugs proclaimed, a grin stretching across his rugged countenance. It was a frequent happening in the Storage Houses. It was expected for at least one merchant stall to get raided and robbed throughout the course of a single day. It just so happened to be Irith’s stall—Vaylen’s stall.

“Today will be your last if you do not leave immediately,” came a voice from the thug’s right-hand side. The grisly man scanned his eyes horizontally until they met with the unblinking glare of Vaylen Stroud through the Mask of the Wraith. While the thug stood half a head higher than the mercenary, the stare and visage of the mask brought discomfort to the man. But he had pride on his shoulders and a need to satisfy his own small gang.

“Oh yeah?” The thug said, elongating the syllables as he came toe-to-toe with the hired mercenary. The outlaw stared down at Vaylen, that idiotic smirk still stamped across his face. “And you’re going to be the one to make it my last I’ll bet. Right, short shit?”

Just as Vaylen had promised, it would be the thug’s last day. In an instant, two kukris were at the man’s throat. The curved dagger in Vaylen’s right hand had already pierced through the bottom of the thug’s jaw, tearing apart his skin, his tongue, and breaking some of his teeth. Blood spewed forth from the thug’s mouth as the left kukri cut a straight line across the thug’s neck, forcing his gore to spill out over his leather breastplate without relent.

Gurgling through blood, the petty criminal tried to search for air, but there was none to be found. Twisting the kukri within the thug’s mouth and then tearing it out, Vaylen brought a leather boot to the thug’s abdomen, blasting him to the cobblestone lifeless. Of course, at this point, the thug’s partner had already drawn his longsword and was charging Vaylen. It wasn’t really unexpected, but Vaylen wasn’t near as experienced as his father with fighting techniques yet.

The mercenary stepped slightly to the left, evading the downward diagonal slice of the second thug’s blade, but a muscled, leather-padded shoulder drove Vaylen’s lithe form into the stone wall behind him. His bones groaned in protest as they cracked against the wall, but they were not severely harmed. The most injured area of his body was the back of his head, for it had bashed directly into the stone behind him, rattling the mask upon his face. Vaylen’s eyes dizzied, but he had been trained by his father. He could battle through injuries.

Gritting through his teeth, the second thug grabbed Vaylen by his neck and hoisted his small form higher upon the wall. Taking a step back with his left foot, the criminal went to slice open Vaylen’s belly with a horizontal slash, but the mercenary was the quicker. With both of his arms still free from the thug that had so foolishly hoisted him upward, Vaylen brought both kukris down on the back of the hand that gripped his throat so tightly. The curved daggers tore through the man’s hand, splitting apart his fingers and allowing a river of blood to pour onto the stone beneath them.

There was no better sound to Vaylen’s ears—the sound of a man’s scream due to his attacks. Obviously, the thug released Vaylen and the vicious fighter was upon him in an instant. Vaylen knocked the longsword from the thug’s left hand (yes, he was a lefty) and brought both kukris up through his leather armor. He felt them pierce through flesh, split through the man’s ribs, and then poke at something oh so soft. It was his heart, and the masked Vaylen watched with sheer pleasure as the life faded from the thug’s eyes.

With that, Vaylen unsheathed his kukris from the poor man’s body and let his limp configuration collapse. Wiping the blood off of his curved daggers on the first thug’s boot, he then returned his prized weapons to their scabbards. Vaylen hadn’t even had to use his throwing daggers, and that influenced a small smirk beneath his mask. His steel-gray eyes eventually found their way back to Irith Baughn.

The pale man stood, shocked. While death was a common occurrence on the streets of Sunberth, brutal deaths were not as much. Clean throat cuts were frequent, but men with destroyed jaws and hands were less seen. A crowd of observers had gathered by this time, and they whispered amongst one another. “I would pick up sales tomorrow if I were you. Two dead bodies might not bring customers,” Vaylen said with a chuckle, though his eyes were beginning to blink slowly. A pounding headache was creeping into his mind as well. The second thug had bashed his head fairly well into the stone wall, and he would probably need medical assistance soon.

Finally able to focus on his employer once again, Vaylen watched him nod at his statement. “I… I will return tomorrow,” Vaylen said, blinking his eyes apathetically once more before nearly falling down, but catching himself roughly on the side of Irith’s stall. The frail man went to help him, but the mercenary only growled and pushed him away. “I’m fine,” Vaylen muttered through gritted teeth as he blinked again and again, slowly standing back to his feet.

The fighter forced his way through the crowd, his peculiar mask and weapons causing some eyes to be casted upon him. The trek from the Castle Commons to the Sunset Quarter slums was horrible. He held back vomit around every turn, and his eyes struggled to focus on anything and everything. He felt like he was in an unbreakable daze. It was terrifying.

Vaylen, despite his medical condition, knew he was too unknown to acquire any medical assistance outside of the Sunset Quarters. From his year of stay on the streets of Sunberth, a few names of talented healers had reached his name. One was Kechaiya, and he found her performing some less than significant duties on an orphaned child, in Vaylen’s opinion at least. Though force probably wasn’t the best option, Vaylen did not care at that moment in time. Gripping Kechaiya’s arm tenaciously and pulling her attention away from the child, his steel-gray orbs of vision stared into the black vortexes of the mysterious Chaktawe descendent. “I… I need y-your help,” Vaylen mumbled through his mask.

This was the first time he had ever experienced a concussion.

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[Kechaiya]

Kechaiya was doing her normal daily rounds through the orphanages, now at the largest of them where Jillene worked. All of the children that were around seemed to be fine, and Jillene had nothing to tell her. She was out the door when one of the younger children ran up, "Kechy, I'm itchy." Kech crouched down next to the small boy, her eyes scanning his arms that he was scratching vigorously. She gently grabbed his scratching hand and pulled it away, "No do that."

He had some sort of rash, that much was for sure, broken open by the constant scratching. There could be many causes for rashes, everything from plants to food to literally anything else. "You playing in woods last few days?" He nodded, making her think that it was likely plant caused. "You bathe recently?" Kechaiya shook her head disapprovingly. "Have other clothes?" Again, he shook his head. She sighed, knowing that it was a probably the oil of some plant or other. Reaching into her coin purse, she grabbed three golds, and handed them to the child. "Listen me. Go get new clothes. Then take bath. No scratch. I give you medicine when you do this. You can keep extra money, don't tell other children, yes?" The boy nodded vigorously.

Then a strong hand gripped her arm tight, from behind, she felt herself being pulled. Immediately her mind went to the assumption she was under attack. Her hand first flew to her dagger, but in the struggle of being pulled she missed. So she just brought her hand forward in a poorly held fist, trying to strike anything, her eyes now able to see that her fist was at groin level on a strange man. She'd been attacked enough in Sunberth to know that you had to fight back, and immediately, or you risked everything. He was wearing a mask, making him all the more suspicious, but mumbled that he needed help. She yanked her arm free of his steely grip, glaring daggers at the foolish man, still considering the possibility of him being an attacker.

His eyes looked a little panicked in her opinion, making her think he might be genuine. And it was very stupid for anyone to start trouble near the main orphanage. Doing something like that usually ended up in very strong individuals protecting the orphanages and the people associated with them. Most people had a soft spot for the orphans. She then saw blood dripping off the back of his head onto his shoulder. He was injured. Her eyes narrowed, still keeping her tiny fists in front of her. "You hurt. You bleed." She lowered her fists a bit, a gesture that she wasn't seeking further violence. "No grab people like crazy person. You get stabbed doing that. I look at wound for one gold, then I tell treatment, price. You pay, I fix. No pay, no fix. Understand?"

[Vaylen Stroud]

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When Kechaiya struggled against his grip, Vaylen may have laughed if he weren’t so overwhelmed with nausea. The word “crazy” did poke at an easily-angered area of Vaylen’s inner self however, but with the physical atrocities he was feeling at the moment, he decided to shrug it off. “The gold… the gold is not a problem. And do not threaten me, d-demon,” Vaylen said, his eyes behind the mask narrowing. Like many of the Sunberth’s population, he wasn’t over-fond with foreigners, especially ones with black eyes.

Vaylen’s eyes wandered around, the people throughout the slums indistinguishable through his lack of focus. Finally, his gray orbs returned to Kechaiya. “Where… Where would you like to do the examination?” He didn’t exactly enjoy the idea of being poked and prodded out in public, and he’d rather return to the darkness of some secluded apartment in the Sunset Quarters if at all possible. The sunlight was beginning to torture his spheres of vision.

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[Kechaiya]

Kechaiya's brows furrowed and her lips pursed at the mention of the word demon. She'd gotten used to the hate of her being a foreigner. But the word demon was never one she'd let slide. Kechaiya was not a violent person, but she was tempted. "Want see what these demon eyes do? I should let you wander off, die in alley, take you coin when dead."

But she let it slide, for now. "Come inside orphanage. Home too far." Jillene was at the door now, and Kech knew she wouldn't normally approve of her using her building for her own personal business. The doctor reached into her coin pouch, grabbed a gold, and slipped it into Jillene's hand. "You know my language Kech." Kech made a mental note to add the price onto the cost of the treatment. Moving through the door, she made her way to the back, entering the kitchen, noting the man children's eyes watching her and the crazy man. She set her pack on the table, wondering where the cook was today. Hand gesturing for the man to sit at one of the chairs, she began pulling out her equipment. She set her herbalism kit, her healer's kit, and her sewing kit all side by side. Following that was her various waterskins, one with fresh water, one with salt water, and one with wine.

Before she started her examination, she had a few questions for him, already assuming he would like most patients. "How hurt head? How long ago? Have other injuries?" Like most people, he probably got it from fighting. He didn't look like a victim, rather the aggressor. She stuck out her hand, waiting for his one gold for her examination. Kechaiya had learned long ago to get paid first before doing anything, otherwise, what was the point? She never cared about the reasons that people got hurt. An injury was an injury, and a fix was a fix. They had no motives. Her motive was money. Once he sat down, and payment was accepted, she could begin.

[Vaylen Stroud]

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The trained killer cocked his head sideways at yet another threat that spilled forth from the Chaktawe-eyed foreigner. He smirked beneath the Mask of the Wraith, but he didn’t shoot out a rebuttal just then. He was far too out of it for any type of fight in all actuality. If there was one thing that was laughable about the entire situation though, it was the doctor’s dialect. Her uneasy grasp of Common language was hilarious to Vaylen. It almost made her threats nonexistent, but they were still threats, and the murderer answered threats with death promises of his own.

Following Kechaiya into the orphanage, Vaylen couldn’t help but scowl behind his mask. Everyone caught him in their dagger-sharp stares. No one wanted him here. No one respected him. No one feared him. No one knew him. It was a truth that stung the deep abyss of Vaylen’s tainted core. While these thoughts swirled through his headache-inflicted mind, he almost fell over right then and there, but he caught himself on the door frame as Kechaiya entered the kitchen of the orphanage.

Once he regained balance and both he and the doctor were comfortably within the confinements of the kitchen, Vaylen took a seat on the chair that Kechaiya indicated. She asked him about his injuries; how badly injured was his head, how long had it been since it had been acquired, and were there any other injuries that were not visible beneath his attire. Vaylen blinked a few times and decided it was a good a time as any to remove his mask. Placing his hands on either side of the countenance-concealing piece of apparel, he pulled off the mask to reveal his decently handsome face.

Gray, piercing but unfocused, eyes looked at Kechaiya. His face was drooping, thoroughly exhausted from the symptoms of the concussion. “I… I got the injury killing two men. O-One knocked… knocked me into a wall behind me in the middle of all of it. My head is pounding, my vision is blurry, I… I feel dizzy constantly, and puking is something that sounds very… very nice right now. Other than that though… I think the rest of my body is fine,” Vaylen stammered, his eyes blinking apathetically through the whole ordeal. “Please just do something,” he finished, reaching into his belt pouch and displaying two gold-rimmed mizas in his open palm.

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[Kechaiya]

She watched him remove his ridiculous mask, seeing an unsurprisingly standard Sunberthian face beneath. Of course he was, after the way he had spoken to her, it was to be expected. Kech's ebony eyes could see the exhaustion in his face, as she listened to his tale. It actually sounded honest, a rarity, and a surprise from him. The way he spoke, he was clearly capable, significantly more so than her at least. Considering their first impression of each other, she knew she'd have to tread a little more carefully. She took the coins from him, one more than he owed, but she wasn't going to correct him. Being reasonable, she considered the extra as payment to cover her bribe to Jillene.

Moving around behind him, she crouched down a bit so that her eyes were behind his head. "This hurt." Tiny, agile fingers moved into his hair, moving the blood soaked strands aside to get a look at the wound. It was bulged out a bit, the knot forming from the blow with the wall, and there was shallow laceration that was a few inches long, and not real wide. There seemed to be small particles, probably stone or dirt in the wound. The laceration wasn't large enough to warrant sutures, but would need cleaned and covered to prevent infection.

She moved back around to in front of the man, to explain to him what she was about to do. "It not real bad, on outside. No need stitches. I cut away hair around wound, clean, put medicine on, and bandage. I give medicine after, help with headache, dizziness. Put two golds on table." She moved across the kitchen and grabbed the cooking pot, and poured her freshwater into it, and put on the fire, then repeated the process for a kettle.

She pulled out four small pouches from her kits. The first contained Belltor leaves, which she poured out on the table, and separated into two piles. The second had Jile berries, and she carried those over to the cooking pot that was already boiling. Deft fingers grasp each berry one by one, squeezed it so the innards popped into the water, and then tossed the skin into the fire. Wiping her hands on her skirt after finishing, she moved back to the table, and grabbed a mortar and pestle from her kit. Picking up the third pouch, she dumped it in the Jile bark in the bowl. Working quickly, she crushed it, twisted the pestle, crushed it some more, until it was a fine powder. She dumped this into the pot with the berries. The last pouch was Vyfox leaves, and she opened it up at the edge of the table, and scooped one pile of the Belltor leaves within. Moving back to the fire one last time, she dumped the contents within. Back at the table, she pulled out a pair of snips she used for collecting herbs. Holding them up for him to see, "Ready for haircut?"

[Vaylen Stroud]

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When Kechaiya prodded the back of his head, which had knotted significantly and had a fair-sized laceration, Vaylen couldn’t help but wince. “Damn well it hurts,” Vaylen muttered, his eyes narrowing again, but nothing was in front of him other than a table. He had nothing to aim his irritation toward, and so it eventually slipped away.

As the black-orbed doctor returned to Vaylen’s vision and told him the basic details of his wound along with some orders, the mercenary simply nodded as she went back to work. Closing his hand around the two gold-rimmed mizas, he leaned forward in the chair and roughly set them on the surface of the table. He let his body snap back into its normal position in the chair, and a hefty sigh came out of the inner dwellings of the Wraith’s chest.

Vaylen, driven by curiosity, would have looked over his shoulder and watched the ebony-eyed doctor work, but the nausea of the concussion was growing worse by the second. He truly thought he would garner whip-lash if he even attempted to turn his body at this moment. There was one thing though, at least it wasn’t so bright in the room as it was outside.

Kechaiya finally returned, standing in front of Vaylen with a pair of clippers. She asked a simple question in her foreign dialect, and even if it had been rhetoric, Vaylen did not care. “Yes. Please, just carry on,” the Wraith said impatiently, attempting to roll his gray eyes, but only ending up worsening his headache. He leaned forward into his hands, groaning.

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[Kechaiya]

Payment received, Kechaiya went back to work. This man seemed to have little patience, but she couldn't blame him. She'd had her shares of knocks to the head, and they were never pleasant. Snips in hand, she began cutting away the hair directly around the wound. It wasn't a large swatch, but it would certainly be noticeable for many days, but it was the price one paid for good health. Or bad choices, however you'd like to look at it. She snipped, tossed the bloodied hair to the floor, snipped, repeated. When she had a nice exposed area to work with, she left him, placing the snips back on the table.

Moving over to the cooking pot, she peered inside to see how it was coming along. Much of the water had boiled off, but still had a fair bit to go. She needed a nice paste, not an herbal broth. Reaching into her pack, she pulled a jar of clear liquid and a clean rag. Opening the jar, she dipped the rag within, moving back behind the man. The liquid was grain alcohol, and was going to burn like fire on the wound. "Try not move. This sting. Cleans wound" She pressed the rag against the laceration, firmly, and then pulling it in a downward motion. Knowing she couldn't be gentle, she scrubbed the little bits of stone and dirt out of the wound, as well as the new and old blood. When she was satisfied, she grabbed the jar and poured some on the wound for good measure, to let her get a better view.

The wound certainly appeared quite clean now, and she was able to confirm that it definitely didn't need stitches. She set the jar and rag on the table, moving back to the pot. Peering in, she could see that it was nearly done. Grabbing a nearby wooden spoon, she stirred and stirred, to get the the consistency to where she wanted. When it was a nice green goop, she pulled it off the fire and set it on the table. She pulled out a dollop on the spoon, moving back behind him once more. Using a finger, she scooped the medicine from the spoon, and spread it rather healthily in and all around the wound. When she had a healthy layer, she wiped her hand off on her skirt.

She grabbed two bandages from her kit. The first she folded several times into a nice, neat little square. She pressed it against the wound, holding with one hand as she took the other bandage and placed one end against it. "Hold here." She then slowly began wrapping the bandage around his head, crossing the forehead and staying above his ears. She kept it a little tighter than she normally would, for she wasn't going to cut off circulation to anything, in theory at least. Tucking the bandage in on itself, this portion of the job was complete.

Now she needed to make the head pain medicine. This was a very simple process. She grabbed a kettle and filled it with water, and put the rest of her Belltor leaves within it. It was just a simple tea, but would help to relieve the pain. She then remembered she had a few other things that would help the tea work, as well as taste better. Belltor was fairly bitter after all. She pulled out a small pouch of Feverfew leaves, tossing them into the kettle as well. The final ingredient was a rare one and she didn't have a lot of it. It was a small jar of golden honey. She poured it into the kettle, then put the kettle on the fire. She had several chimes to wait, so she sat down at the table, to explain a few things to her patient.

"Wound will be fine. Biggest danger is dizzy. You need drink more water. Most helpful. When dizzy get bad, close eyes, take big breath in nose, out mouth. Avoid light several days. Keep movement slow. Most important, no sleep tonight. Sometimes men with head pain go sleep, no wake up again, but no die. Sleep night after fine. Be careful for... five days, at least."

She waited for any questions he might have, until the kettle whistled. She took it off the fire and poured it into a wooden cup, which she set in front of him. "This tea of Belltor, Feverfew, and honey, help with head pains. Is last of supply, but I restock later. If need more, find me and I sell you more. Ginger help too, but hard find."

[Vaylen Stroud]

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Once again, the black-eyed doctor went back to work with payment fulfilled and Vaylen’s impatient command. She clipped away at hair on the back of the mercenary’s head, making him wince slightly, but not overmuch. Much of the torture he was experiencing was mental and not at all physical. That was, until Kechaiya came up behind him and pressed a damp rag firmly against the laceration.

Knots in the Wraith’s back formed as he arched forward, deeper into the darkness of the palms of his hands. He did not make a sound however—his body spoke for him, not his vocal chords. The dragging of the rag down the cut pained him more than the pressure, certainly. But after a few more seconds of not so agonizing touches, Kechaiya began applying a cold ointment to the wound. It felt good, but stung as well. Everything she did to him seemed to sting.

After that, the bandaging commenced, with Vaylen having to hold the beginning of the thick strand in place. How wonderful. He was going to look injured and vulnerable for several days. But he probably would be held up in his private room in the Sunset Quarters, so it didn’t bother him too much. Sleeping sounded wonderful at that very moment, and Vaylen’s eyes grew heavy just thinking about it.

Thinking provoked the nausea, which caused the mercenary to groan and open his eyes wider. Like earlier, the black-eyed doctor began to spew forth information and commands, though since he had been the one who had asked for help, he didn’t find it overly offensive. The one thing he did pick out between her choppy sentences was her declaration that he could not sleep tonight. It angered him, but the slight rage just caused him to get another pounding migraine. He groaned again, looking up at Kechaiya through squinted gray eyes. “Sounds wonderful,” he fumed, wanting to narrow his eyes but already squinting. Not to mention everything about this head injury just made his intimidation techniques impossible. He felt so weak and so unfocused concerning everything. It was horrible.

A few seconds passed before any more words arose from Vaylen. He finally had thought about his employer, Irith Baughn, and what he might think of him being held up for five days. “Looks like I’ll be available for five days. Feel free to stop by my room on Cheap Side,” Vaylen remarked, feigning a smirk as he closed his eyes again momentarily, breathing slowly as the headache thundered against his temples.

The apathetic breathing did help, actually. It was almost beleaguering that advice from a doctor concerning medicinal practices was actually valuable. Weird. At that very moment though, he remembered something. “If you ever need something done… feel free to contact me. Name’s Vaylen Stroud,” the Wraith murmured, opening his eyes steel-gray eyes slightly. When his eyes were ajar, the first sight he saw was a wooden cup of tea that Kechaiya had set in front of him. She began explaining something about needing more, but he ignored most of it. One cup would do.

Leaning forward, Vaylen snatched the wooden cup from the table and sipped it slowly. Usually he would have downed the thing, but the head motion was just too much. Too much. “Mind escortin’ a wounded mercenary to his private quarters?” Vaylen inquired, grinning slightly between sips.

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[Kechaiya]

Kech half-listened to his comments as she began cleaning up. She started by pouring some water into the cooking pot. Grabbing another rag, she started scrubbing hard at the insides. Jillene would not be amused if her stews tasted like bitter herbs and berries. The man mentioned something about him being useful if she needed him. She made a mental note to remember his name, Vaylen Stroud, the mercenary. One never knew when they'd need a sellsword. But for now, Kech just scrubbed and scrubbed. When she was satisfied, she poured it along the wall of the hearth, watching as it steamed up, but not putting out the blaze. She hung the pot from its proper hook, then retrieved the kettle. She dumped the mushy contents into the fire, and gave it a quick scrub as well.

Kettle now hanging from its hook, she moved back to the table and began cleaning up her equipment. The patient tried to get her to walk him home, to which she shook her head. "More work here need do. Walk slow, you be fine, Vaylen Stroud. I Kechaiya. Be safe."

She tossed the bloodied bandages in the fire, and had most of her things put away, waiting for Vaylen to leave, pocketing the last two coins he'd given as payment. She was not about to leave a stranger in the orphanage. She knew the young boy would be back from his errand soon, and she'd have to repeat the entire process of treating him. Kech knew that she needed to open her own place to treat people one day, but she just didn't have the coin to warrant it. But she had a feeling that this season would be quite profitable. Her prices seemed fair, she just needed to become more well known, and get more paying patients.