Torrn sat, groaning as Darra wiped the burn with a salve. “He…he punched me…”
“Aye. Hold still.”
“He just…reached in, and…and then he punched me.”
“Aye,” Darra said, more forcefully. “Hold still.”
Torrn winced and let out a short yelp as Darra continued treating the injury.
“Ah mean obviously ah’ll…ah’ll have to go to the Vazgrimst aboot it…” Torrn said, trailing off.
“The Vazgrimst isnae going to dae anything. People get punched aw the time.”
“Aye not wi molten iron they don’t!” Torrn winced again, feeling the blistering skin strain as he raised his voice. He was silent for a few moments. “How bad is it?”
“Well,” said Darra, looking at the swollen burn on the dwarf’s face, a misshapen outline of a fist, “ye’ll have a patchy beard there that’s fer sure.”
Morden shut the bedroom door quietly, careful not to disturb anyone else in the house, and crept downstairs to the kitchen. He gathered up his supplies, arranging and rearranging them on the table, trying to distract himself. Satisfied, he dipped the quill.
“Mother,” he began, then stopped. He spent a few moments in thought, staring at the single word on the page, turning over his father’s words in his mind. He narrowed his eyes and scrunched the paper up, starting again.