1 Damn day !

Hawk's piercing cry startled the scout out of his daze, earning a swear word in Sarmatian. Another threat was the last thing he needed right now! A good bath, plenty of rest and loads of bandages upon the multiple injuries he had sustained being on top of the list. The price of dispatching a band of scouting Woads. Bruised and lacerated in too many places to count, Tristan kept his exhaustion at bay by gritting his teeth. Soon enough, he'd be at the wall, make his report to Arthur and pass out in the infirmary while the healers patched him up properly. Then he would sleep for three days in a row. Four, maybe…

Unfortunately, the Gods had decided to deny him the rest and drop a new ordeal in his lap. Another screech came from above, Hawk soaring so high that he nearly couldn't spot her. Nearly. Tristan urged his horse to a gallop; if another group assaulted him, he might very well succumb this time. Exhaustion, blood loss and bruises had greatly impaired his ability to fight. A few bandits he might be able to handle, but warriors would have his skin if they attacked in numbers. Especially those blue painted devils.

Grinding his jaw to tolerate the pain and handle the gallop's movement, Tristan distinguished the cries of a woman covering the pounding of hooves. A turn on the road later, he was rather shocked to stumble upon a scuffle. At once, he pulled the reins of his mare who neighed in protest, barely avoiding running over the little group of men on the ground. Cries arose, covering the desperate feminine pleas.

Four men. One woman, thrown upon the ground, her dress torn at the collar and face smeared with tears and dirt. Reddish strands were strewn over her face, partially hiding her eyes and the bruises at her throat. One of her legs, long and elegant, exposed white flesh that seemed peachy soft. Her hands were held by a man; her claws had dug creases over his arm and face if the red lines were an indication.

This was not what Tristan was expecting.

His appearance caused all present people to pause for a suspended moment. The young woman used it to her advantage, backing away furiously and throwing her foot into one of the men's face. Her attacker roared in pain, backhanding her with so much force that she fell upon the road, stunned.

Jumping down his mare, Tristan unsheathed his sword with a purposeful move, all aches forgotten. Rage flew through his veins; the scout was no stranger to violence. He relished in extinguishing life efficiently, drank in the thrill of battle like nectar, washing his blade in the blood of his enemies. Men or women made no difference; any warrior that measured up to him met his end by his blade. But there was no duplicity in his heart. Despite rumours, Tristan wasn't cruel, nor sadistic. He killed, as quickly and efficiently as possible, whomever accepted to attack him. A warrior's honour, in which the assailant bowed to the skill of his opponent. May the best win.

Rape and unfair advantage would never come close to the acceptable. Even when he took a wench in his bed, sometimes a tad roughly, Tristan didn't press his greater strength to subdue. His honour was to kill in battle, not to dominate a poor woman. Four against one… Four grown men over a young, weaker one. The scout spat his disgust on the ground.

Despicable.

Unacceptable.

Not that he cared about the young woman. But this show of cowardice couldn't remain unpunished.

— "Release her at once, or meet your death," he ground out.

Two of the men lifted their head from their amusement; the stunned woman spread on the muddy ground. Their eyes widened in astonishment. Covered in blood as he was, jaw clenched and eyes burning from the offence, Tristan marched upon them like an angel of death. The leader, though, still tangled against white, inviting flesh, sneered at him without even looking.

— "Leave, 'tis none of yer business."

— "Aye", another said. "We found her first"

Tristan's eyes flashed. So be it, let the weak and stupid return to the ground. He was bone weary, too tired for any setback to last too long. He wanted a bath, and some rest, not to wrestle in the mud with obvious bandits. His blade lifted swiftly, dispatching the leader with a neat slice to his throat. The man collapsed upon his victim, a crimson fountain splashing her dress.

He was surprised not to hear a cry.

The others reacted to the aggression by springing to their feet. One fell before he could even stand. The second had the gall to attack him; Tristan send him down with a mighty dash across his chest. The fourth one, more intelligent than the others, attempted to flee, his eyes widened in fear. A dagger caught his back neatly. The man had ample time to contemplate Tristan's boots as the scout retrieved the blade embedded in his upper back before the world went black.

The scout wiped his blade on his victim, his movements stiffer now the battle was over. Somewhere above his head, Hawk screeched again in reassurance. Tristan sheathed his beloved weapon before turning around, wondering if he should leave the young woman to fend for herself now that the threat had been eliminated. This was the plan. What he should have done. Perhaps he could send his brothers to retrieve her afterwards if she resumed her walk on the road. What care did he have for stupid women who travelled alone anyway? She would probably be out for some time anyway after the blow she received, or spend hours crying her fright away. Enough for Lancelot to find her and display his many charms. Woo her … maybe. Then break her heart. Who cared?

Tristan turned around, intent of walking back to his mare. His steps heavy, muscles aching from the exertion of the past days.

'Leave her here,' his exhaustion exhorted him.

Tristan nodded to his conscience. And albeit he knew he shouldn't have, he couldn't resist the pull that caused him to look back. A pair of terrified eyes met his intense gaze. Wide greenish pools upon a trembling face who refused to back down. Shock caused her whole frame to shake, her lower lip wavering, its rosy hue marred with blood. Her trembling hands clutched the tattered dress over her body, her legs still exposed as the woollen garment creased at the waist. The woman was so frightened that he expected her to faint. But she didn't, and she wouldn't release him from her intense scrutiny.

Tristan sighed, and slowly stepped closer. By then, he clearly saw the lines of her face harden as she took in his dreadful state. Old blood encrusted on his skin and clothes. Fresh crimson, the same that covered her chest, marred upon his clothes. His eyes barely visible under the unruly hair and braids that kept it out of his face, the hard lines of his features. She should have retreated away from him. In her state of shock, he expected her to cry out in fear or yell at him to back off.

She didn't.