Damsel and the last berserker: Soulstone

Damsel's folly

2. Damsel’s folly.

“Wake up, snore box.”

Krut instinctively rolled over at Damsel’s urging, pulling the covers over his head.

“Time. To. Get. Up,” she said, prodding him viciously with every word as beneath his blanket Krut’s shapeless bulk bent away from her jabbing finger.

A wordless growl was her only reply. It almost sounded like words, as though he were saying ‘go away’, but could just as easily have been the phrase ‘wash me’. Damsel, taking the meaning of the grunt to be the latter, poured a jug of cold water across the sleeping Krut, who bounced out of bed with several choice curses against the Fates and any god that came to mind, fists curled and shivering.

His bleary eyes came to rest on Damsel’s giggling form and he cursed her also, along with his wet bed, his aching body and every god he had forgotten the first time round.

“Stop whining and go wash under the pump,” Damsel commanded.

“I’ve just had my annual bath,” Krut growled, the trews he’d fallen asleep in now damp, but thankfully heavy leather.

“I mean with soap. You smell,” she told him, poking his softening belly as he slapped her hands away, sucking in the excess. “You’re getting flabby too.”

“Sign of good living,” Krut defended himself, patting his small belly.

“Sign of too much ale, more like. Go wash and meet me in the taproom. I’ll leave your pillow and mattress in the sun to dry,” she promised, already tugging at his bedding.

Grumbling Krut grabbed a bar of soap from their gear and lumbered downstairs, garnering several questioning, and some admiring, looks from the kitchen staff as he stepped out through a back door and towards the pump. Stripping, he swiftly rubbed the soap across his body and washed in the freezing water, having to awkwardly pump the handle himself when required.

When he was done he scraped the water off himself with the edge of his hand and shook vigorously like a large dog, stopping to look down at his body self-consciously.

She was right, he was getting a bit of a belly, he thought ruefully. Soft southern living had done this to him. He and Damsel were supposed to be treasure hunters. He was used to clambering across ruins and through dark tunnels, fighting the occasional murderous beast while dragging away some priceless bauble. Work had been quiet, though, their good name no longer enough to secure them employment.

Work, he scoffed mentally. As if Damsel needed to work. Her family was nobility of the richest ilk. She’d been tutored in every subject she desired by some of the finest minds in all the Heartland. Unfortunately, even at a young age, her curiosities had always been geography, history, languages of all kinds and fencing. Not proper etiquette for an up-and-coming young noblewoman, apparently. When her parents had tried to marry her off to strengthen their name and estate, Damsel had left to seek her own fortune in the wide world she had only read about in her studies.

He let the wind and bright, early afternoon weather dry him, unashamed of being seen naked as he enjoyed the feeling of the sun’s warmth soaking into his aching body. The chill breeze bothered him little. In his Northern homeland of Norska the snows were knee deep almost year round. Just the thought of home brought a sense of deep melancholy to him and his hand strayed to one of the two braids at his temples. Cursing the memories away he stretched slowly and winced as several muscles voiced protest. He was stiff and sore but he’d had worse. When he’d first met Damsel he’d suffered worse. He smirked at the memory.