Forest East of Amon Obel
The Brethil Forest continues here as its beauty and silence amaze you. The trees here are very large and they crowd each other for the light. You can hear some animals scurrying off in the distance as they make their way through the forest. You can see that paths lead off to the northwest, southwest, east, and southeast.

The late afternoon light is softened by the filtering boughs of oak trees, and casts a green-tinged light upon the grassy clearing near the humble lodge that is sequestered here. Birches sway and their light green leaves shiver with the growing breezes of the day, and a sudden chorus of song is beckoned by one of the avian dwellers of the arboreal, oaken giants nearby. The front door of the dwelling opens, and Aldawin steps out into the cool afternoon. A wooden bucket held of her right hand, she looks about for any that may be outside.

Beneath the cool shade cast by the lush, outspread boughs of a great oak tree walks Istadris, his shoulders and lean frame free of the warm green cloak usually worn. The wounded woodsman carries several sturdy, broken tree limbs beneath the crook of his unharmed arm, and he strolls easily across the soft, grassy ground and towards the clearing where his cousin's wooden lodge stands. His cool grey eyes narrow slightly as he steps out from beneath the forest's eaves and into the emerald-tinged light of the small clearing. "Aldawin..." He greets simply, his gaze lifting to watch the healer as she steps out from within the cottage. "Going to the stream?" He asks, noting the bucket in hand.

"Aye, Istadris," Aldawin answers, nodding her head in answer as well as a greeting. Something that might have passed for a smile is offered, but there is a tenseness about the expression. "I thought while Corrin sat in attendance with Lia I should be tending to other things about the house. She looks to the wood the former ranger carries in his arm and quirks a brow. "Firewood?" she wonders aloud with steps that bring her apace with the woodsman, and glances overhead as a cacophony of chirrups are roused from the melody of one of the birds in the great oak nearby.

Istadris' unhurried steps bring him towards the lodge's entryway, though he veers suddenly and stoops, leaving the dry, broken branches in a small stack against the wall. "Aye, I thought we may have need of it come evening." He answers, while brushing woodchips and splinters off his shirt with several quick sweeps of his right hand. Turning, the injured Beorian quickly moves to join the healer, gesturing with a nod of his head towards the shady trees leading deeper into the forest, and to the gurgling stream. "I shall walk with you." He offers, his sharp-eyed gaze drawn towards the trees. "How is Lia today?" He questions as the two make their way past the same great oak, and down a narrow, almost undiscernible trail leading through the press of greenery.

Walking alongside Istadris after he has deposited the stack of wood near the lodge and joined her, Aldawin glances to the woodsman quickly but does not answer right away. The large bucket swings forward and back, and every now and then the healer must maneuver it away from the outreaching branches and undergrowth. "She is not well, Istadris." Realising that this hardly answers his question, she glances to him with a sober look. "Her condition is grave, indeed. The Lady left me with instructions on what to do, but if Lia does not improve from this treatment, there is little else to be done."

The lean adan strolls casually along the narrow path, showing little sign of the dull soreness in his right thigh, and no longer favouring the wounded leg. The soft, murmured gurgle of the rushing waters drifts softly from beyond the trees ahead, and Istadris' pace hastens almost involuntarily as he first sees a hint of the clear waters. His thin lips purse toughtfully at Aldawin's answering words, and his cool grey eyes lower regretfully, though he volunteers no response at first. "Does Corrin know how grave it is?" He asks at last, as he reaches out to sweep a low-hanging branch from their path and moves aside then, to let the healer reach the creek's dipping banks.

The ground softens underfoot slightly as they near the banks of the stream's crystalline waters, and Aldawin all but stops in her pace as Istadris utters the last, her gaze resting upon him as he moves the hindering branch aside for her to access the stream. "That was what I was going to say next," she says, pressing her lips together as her brows lower. "I have not told him this, for I wanted to be certain before I bore ill tidings to him. T'would not do him good to worry needlessly, and yet.." She takes a step forward and halts yet again, gazing down before meeting the woodsman's grey gaze again. "I wondered what your thoughts were of this. Though you know him not well, perhaps, he is your cousin." She steps forward now, dipping down a little to clear the branch and finding steady footing of the stream's banks before plunging the bucket into the water.

The woodsman's booted left foot finds purchase upon a rugged, flat stone that lies half-buried in the soft soil near the creek's grassy bank. He rests much of his weight upon it and turns on the path to watch Aldawin as she passes by his side. His brow furrows deeply at her words, and he is quick to shake his head in reply. "No, I do not know him well, at all." He states, finally releasing the leafy branch as Aldawin plunges the wooden bucket into the cool, clear waters. "Aldawin, if you and the Lady are certain this is a grave matter..." He starts, drawing a step nearer and easing himself down to a crouch by the edge of the narrow stream, "Corrin should at least know that. He can not be left uknowing, with such uncertainty. You believe there is nothing to be done for Lia?"

The bucket fills quickly of the bubbling, icy waters, and with a steady pull, Aldawin lifts the container from where is is submerged of the coursing stream and hefts it to the bank, setting it down a moment as she turns to answer the woodsman. "I know I must tell him," she says quietly, looking down to the bucket, wherein the water slowly calms of its surface. "It is the manner in which I must tell him," Aldawin now admits. "I am more used to binding stalwart men of their wounds rather than telling fathers they may soon be bereft of wife and child. I know I must tell him," she repeats, softer this time. Returning her gaze to the woodsman, she answers, "There is hope this treatment may work, aye. But if it does not, it is almost certain both will be lost, for the baby is too young to survive even if it were birthed now."

Istadris' grey-eyed gaze is drawn by the creek's cold, gurgling waters, though he offers Aldawin an acknowledging dip of his head as she speaks. "I understand." He utters quietly, before rising up to stand upon his booted feet. The wounded Beorian's shoulders hunch as he folds his arms across his chest, and he turns slowly on one heel to survey the surrounding trees and the gently sloping banks between which the stream rushes. "I would tell him, if you wish." He offers, his back to the young healer, "He is my cousin, though I hardly know him now."

A moment's silence follows the woodsman's offer, and while Aldawin speaks not at first, her thoughts are engaged upon the dilemma. The bucket still sits upon the ground where moments before it was set, and the healer steps around it now, coming to stand next to Istadris opposite the stream. "Your offer is kind," she says, raising her gaze to his steadily. "And while you could tell him the worst of it, as well as offer hope, there are only questions that I as a healer could answer, and so it should fall upon me." She places her right hand gently upon the woodsman's injured arm. "But if you would stay here at the lodge until I may speak to Corrin, and perhaps be near at the time I must give him this news.... I will stay for as long as I must here, be it days or weeks. But it would ease my worries were you there to console your cousin at the first if needs be."

The woodsman considers Aldawin's response in silence for a brief moment, and his right hand rises up to scratch lightly at the left side of his bearded chin. His head is stooped forward and shoulders hunched uneasily, and he stares steadily down at the muddy soil by the stream's waters with listless, unfocused eyes. "Aye, I will be here when you tell him." He utters at last, lifting his gaze and turning to meet the other's. His right hand drops lightly to briefly cover Aldawin's over his own injured left shoulder, and he nods with more certainty. "I would not know what to say to him." He admits, before drawing a step away and stooping to take the bucket in his grasp. "Let us go." He suggests, dipping his head towards the trees hiding Corrin's lodge.

"Aye," the healer answers, her voice a whisper and barely heard. Leaving the banks of the bubbling stream, Aldawin retraces her steps through the tall grasses and delicate ferns, weaving among the narrow trail recently made of the two on their way to the waters. Leaves still whisper overhead as the light grows muted in its waning, and Aldawin's thoughtful gaze rests upon the bucket and the clear water within that gently sloshes with the tall woodsman's longer strides. The lodge is soon seen in the parting of the white birches ahead, and the grand oak stands before all other trees in the clearing, closest to the lodge.

The woodsman gazes vacantly into the wavering crystal waters held within the wooden bucket he carries before him. His lengthy strides are slow and deliberate, and he seems to pay little heed to the leafy branches and prickly brush crowding in upon the faint path he and Aldawin tread back to the lodge. Wordless for the entirety of the short trek, Istadris draws to a halt as the two near the massive oak's tangled roots and rough-skinned trunk. "Here..." He offers, stepping before the healer and handing the full bucket to her, "I wish to find some more loose firewood." His clear grey eyes lift to meet hers, for a moment betraying doubt and fear. "Please let me know when you are decided." He says in hushed tones, "I will be with you."

"Thank you," Aldawin voices, her tone hushed as the woodsman's in return. She grips the handle of the bucket solidly, though uncertainty is hinted of the grey gaze. "I will let you know. T'will be soon," she adds, her glance straying past Istadris to the forest's sheltering depths. Finding contemplation only for a moment, Aldawin then turns to look back to the lodge. "I must be about my work as well." The grey gaze settles upon the wood gathered by the former ranger. "The wood will be needed, for the fire was burned to embers this morn, and none other was found to rekindle it." Turning to meet the woodsman's gaze, Aldawin offers a faint, forced smile with the utterance, "Thank you," once more before she turns quickly to return to the lodge, the wooden bucket glistening as water spills lightly over the sides and drips to the ground from the bottom edges, falling like rain.