(1866-09-16) Blame it on the Concussion
Blame it on the Concussion
Summary: Back in the healers tent again, Evelyn and Lucas share an awkward moment.
Date: 1866-09-16
Related: Happens after Pacitta Tourney : Bareknuckle
Evelyn  Lucas  

Healer's Tent, Tourney Grounds - Pacitta
See scene…
Septembre 16th, 1866

Making her way down to the fighters, Evelyn moves along until she comes over to where Lucas is being treated for the pounding he took. Luckily, such are not as grevious as others he's taken that she's aware of. She tsks, as she comes within hearing distance, shaking her head, and asking him, "Didn't you teach me to fight better than that?" There is a warm sense of banter in her light accusation.

Lucas manages to open his eyes when Evelyn speaks, despite how battered he is, he doesn't seem in terrible spirits. "I think so, but I am having a bit of a problem remembering right now," he says. "Also, we really need to stop having you come visit me in healer's tents. It's getting to be a habit," he says.

Evelyn gives a quiet laugh, "Perhaps. Or, maybe you're just trying to turn me into a healer, save my life from all those swords?" Evelyn quips back, good-naturedly. She frowns, concentrating as she looks over Lucas' injuries, and bruises that are starting to darken, now. She shakes her head, "You'll be fine. I'm just glad he wasn't an ice bear."

"I don't know, that last guy hit as hard as one at the end there," Lucas says with a pained smile. "Jonathan too," he adds after a moment. "Who was that last knight, I don't think I caught his name before the fight began." True it had been announced a couple times before then, but Lucas hadn't been able to pull his eyes, or brain, away from the fights.

Evelyn says, "Sir Raimond. I've little clue what to make of him. I've not seen him at any of the Tourney's before, but I do know his family has a rather poor reputation. You probably saw him lead the parade? And, he was first to get knocked out of the Melee event," Evelyn tells Lucas, calmly, moving to sit at his side. She takes a poltice, and begins dabbing it against where the bruising looks the worst with a professional, healer's courtesy and nothing more. They are, afterall, in public. "Your sister, likely, found it amusing enough. Not me. I lost a sack of coins on you, Lord."

"Raimond," he says. "No style to speak of when it comes to fists," he sucks in a bit of breath when the poultice is applied. "But hits well enough," he says. "Why does he have a bad reputation?" he asks, curiously before he rolls his eyes about the coins, "And what am I going to have to do to make that up?" he asks with a bit of a smile.

"I was thinking," Evelyn says casually, "You buying a round of drinks, and a game of dice. For higher stakes." She continues to dab a little at the wound, with a measure of confidence, and certainly having done this before. "I'm not certain. I haven't had time to look into it. I just heard a few things about how the Tourney is a little less honorable with the likes of him in it by some passing noblewomen." She shrugs, unconcerned with it. "Don't go betting on me to win the Melee, or the Joust, though." She grins just a bit. "I'll be happy if I place. Or even just have a good showing. I've some ways to go yet before I equal the ranks of the Red Knight, or the Queen's Champion.

Lucas takes the price of his losing with good grace. "I think I can manage that," he says still smiling. He seems to note the words about Sir Raimond. "A shame, he seemed an alright sort when he was punching me but I suppose there are a lot of sons of bitches who can fight," he remarks with a single, painful, shrug, "Ow," he mutters. "And fine, no betting, but I will be on hand to cheer for you, and…" he looks around carefully, then seizing an as yet unbloodied bandage he hands it to her, "My favour," he says with a smile, "Fitting one for me don't you think, as many times as I've been here under your care?" It was a violation of the dance of these sorts of things to just give a favour, but Lucas didn't know or care, also he'd been punched in the head. Twice!

"Good. I need all the cheering that I can get," ventures Evelyn, good-naturedly. Yet, when the favor comes out, she pauses, and her cheeks pinken slightly in a rare show of uncomfortable silence. She says quietly, "Lucas …," she clears her throat, and sets the bandage down, "I think that you might've got hit a bit more hard than was intended." While he might not care, presently, for that violation she appears to. And, perhaps even thinks he will later on. But she smiles, to lessen the blow of her gentle, and quiet refusal to take it. "Perhaps we should spar some, get you back in shape, then." Out of sight, out of mind, right? She prefers the quiet dance, it would seem, to something more brazen. Perhaps because she also knows there is almost no chance that she and Lucas would ever be bethrothed.

Lucas blinks when the favour is refused. If he fully understood, it's unclear, but he nods. "Fine, fine," he says. "I can find something better," he says. "But yes, a spar would be good. I miss that, and camp, it was more honest there-" he trails off almost letting sleep claim him. He forces his eyes open, "Anyhow, the healers will be coming soon to take me to the manse, you can come with if you want, I need to stay up, we can talk like we did back at Avondil…"

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