[ Just in case she was starting to feel that his conviction's a one-way road.
And he leaves the conversation at that, for the moment. He settles into work without being asked; as she's already observed, he's ready for it, both by training and abundance of physical endurance. Godfrey shoulders the work himself of gathering wood, preparing their fire, and pitching both tents, with not a word of complaint and all of the precision of a soldier out of training. He asks her for nothing - not because of any fear or lacking trust, but simply because of the stark differences in their physicalities. Godfrey is strong, and taller, and hardly winded by the road they've walked - not so for her.
Besides... whatever she's doing has some import, maybe.
He isn't sure. He knows little about this worship; they're a secretive group. Godfrey has tried always to bear in mind his own lack of knowledge whilst dealing with Samarie, but-- well, it would be a lie to say that he has not felt himself hold his breath a little in her presence, and he swore an Oath.
For the time being, Godfrey - free of his heavy plate - squats by the fire. He cuts carrots from his pack into a hot iron pot, currently perched over the flame, driving the blade through the root and against his thumb.
Godfrey doesn't disturb her - but he watches her, as he might any idle curiosity. ]
[ His solitary attendance to the physical labours of establishing a camp would be par for the course were she a woman of status in the company of her knight, but from Samarie's standpoint, she is no different from the spawn of "cow shit," to use the verbiage of the gentry in reference to peasants, and therefore she ought to contribute like a dirty little peasant girl should. Well, she'd probably fumble the pitching of the tent and his pre-emptive intervention in the matter spares her the indignity of asking, but she is in fact playing her part in securing their sleep. The seemingly aimless scribble the dark priest etches into the dirt is in service of thwarting an ambush, a necessary precaution in enemy territory.
Godfrey is cutting carrots when, apropos of nothing, Samarie suddenly explodes: ]
Kaa! Do you think I'm some feckless rube? I studied sorcery at Fiend Petr's Basilica!
[ Before he can so much as part his lips, the young woman whips out a blade and opens her outstretched forearm with the end of the knife. Blood runs hot from the gash and speckles the grass and soil at her feet. A burst of flame casts shadows upon the their faces as fire travels the circumference of their camp like the lit fuse of a dynamite before vanishing into the darkness from which it came, leaving a ring of evaporating smoke about the camp. The tell-tale signature of blood magic: self-mutilation. ]
N-no need to trade shifts... Gro-goroth will protect us.
[ Samarie sits on an incline and stares pointedly into the heart of the fire. The blood on her arm has yet to clot and slithers from the cut. It's not fatal, but there. The worked up sorcerer pays no heed to the wound. ]
[ If Godfrey thinks she ought contribute to the making of their camp, he doesn't let it on.
Just as he doesn't let on if he knew to expect this sudden eruption from her. His knife stops, mid-rasp, on its way through this most recent round.
Godfrey witnesses it all in silence - the blade driving into her arm, the flash of fire carving through the grass, penning them in with a sharp, bright burning. The brief, black deafness that falls across them, as though the air grew too full for sound for a slim moment. The deathly exhalation. The overbearing heat.
The campfire stirs. Godfrey remains seated, and his knife travels no further through the vegetable in his hand.
The moment eases. The arcing fire dies to cinders, forming around them a black perimeter. The air smells hot, as Godfrey suspects it will for the night's remainder - beyond, perhaps. He is no expert on these teachings, but he knows enough to recognize what he's seen here; and though he can appreciate her effort, the livid pain she still appears blind to, he would have happily stood vigil instead of invited His presence to their campfire.
He lets the knife pass the rest of the way. The orange round drops into the pot. Godfrey thinks on her - her teachings, her age. She's young - no child, Gods willing. But she is no older than he, or so Godfrey feels assured. What must her life be comprised by, to come into such knowledge; worse, to take not even a moment to resort to it?
He cuts to the carrot's stem and drops it to the soil. Godfrey climbs to his feet and steps away in silence. He cleans his hands.
Shoulders a bag from his tent and walks toward Samarie's incline, lowering himself on one knee next to her, her wounded arm between them. ]
I don't know that you'll wish me to close the wound - though you need only ask if you do. But we ought at least see it cleaned and covered.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ Just in case she was starting to feel that his conviction's a one-way road.
And he leaves the conversation at that, for the moment. He settles into work without being asked; as she's already observed, he's ready for it, both by training and abundance of physical endurance. Godfrey shoulders the work himself of gathering wood, preparing their fire, and pitching both tents, with not a word of complaint and all of the precision of a soldier out of training. He asks her for nothing - not because of any fear or lacking trust, but simply because of the stark differences in their physicalities. Godfrey is strong, and taller, and hardly winded by the road they've walked - not so for her.
Besides... whatever she's doing has some import, maybe.
He isn't sure. He knows little about this worship; they're a secretive group. Godfrey has tried always to bear in mind his own lack of knowledge whilst dealing with Samarie, but-- well, it would be a lie to say that he has not felt himself hold his breath a little in her presence, and he swore an Oath.
For the time being, Godfrey - free of his heavy plate - squats by the fire. He cuts carrots from his pack into a hot iron pot, currently perched over the flame, driving the blade through the root and against his thumb.
Godfrey doesn't disturb her - but he watches her, as he might any idle curiosity. ]
no subject
Godfrey is cutting carrots when, apropos of nothing, Samarie suddenly explodes: ]
Kaa! Do you think I'm some feckless rube? I studied sorcery at Fiend Petr's Basilica!
[ Before he can so much as part his lips, the young woman whips out a blade and opens her outstretched forearm with the end of the knife. Blood runs hot from the gash and speckles the grass and soil at her feet. A burst of flame casts shadows upon the their faces as fire travels the circumference of their camp like the lit fuse of a dynamite before vanishing into the darkness from which it came, leaving a ring of evaporating smoke about the camp. The tell-tale signature of blood magic: self-mutilation. ]
N-no need to trade shifts... Gro-goroth will protect us.
[ Samarie sits on an incline and stares pointedly into the heart of the fire. The blood on her arm has yet to clot and slithers from the cut. It's not fatal, but there. The worked up sorcerer pays no heed to the wound. ]
meant to get to this way earlier, apologies....
Just as he doesn't let on if he knew to expect this sudden eruption from her. His knife stops, mid-rasp, on its way through this most recent round.
Godfrey witnesses it all in silence - the blade driving into her arm, the flash of fire carving through the grass, penning them in with a sharp, bright burning. The brief, black deafness that falls across them, as though the air grew too full for sound for a slim moment. The deathly exhalation. The overbearing heat.
The campfire stirs. Godfrey remains seated, and his knife travels no further through the vegetable in his hand.
The moment eases. The arcing fire dies to cinders, forming around them a black perimeter. The air smells hot, as Godfrey suspects it will for the night's remainder - beyond, perhaps. He is no expert on these teachings, but he knows enough to recognize what he's seen here; and though he can appreciate her effort, the livid pain she still appears blind to, he would have happily stood vigil instead of invited His presence to their campfire.
He lets the knife pass the rest of the way. The orange round drops into the pot. Godfrey thinks on her - her teachings, her age. She's young - no child, Gods willing. But she is no older than he, or so Godfrey feels assured. What must her life be comprised by, to come into such knowledge; worse, to take not even a moment to resort to it?
He cuts to the carrot's stem and drops it to the soil. Godfrey climbs to his feet and steps away in silence. He cleans his hands.
Shoulders a bag from his tent and walks toward Samarie's incline, lowering himself on one knee next to her, her wounded arm between them. ]
I don't know that you'll wish me to close the wound - though you need only ask if you do. But we ought at least see it cleaned and covered.