Lavorra in the outlaw camp

Generic Generator What it does: [6C] Harm (physical) How it looks: [5C] New (physical) How significant: [2] Less than expected

Hours later, Lavorra sits in the bandits camp, conscious, but terribly sore. Her chest has picked up a truly horrific bruise, black and creeping, and to make things worse, her tits ache like a bitch.

While the survivors of the camp gather by the fire, passing around meagre helpings of grog, she has taken up a position some way off.

The mood is not one of celebration, with so many of the their gang dead. She is a little taken aback at the complete lack of attention she has received, not one of the survivors has attempted to have her, by **** or by seduction.

Small mercies.

They have taken a heavy-looking chest of dark wood from the cart, which they seem to have entirely failed to crack into, and currently it serves only as a seat for Blond. Lavorra assumes that the sealed chest, and no gold, is contributing to their bad mood.

She is in no shape to leave currently, physically or emotionally. Though exhausted, the thought of trying to sleep, and waking to a half dozen blades - or members - pointed at her face, does not appeal. She has stripped to the waist, even having to take off her tunic to inspect her wounds, and her heavy, ample chest is covered with a simple linen wrap, and a few bandages. Try as she might, she has been unable to arrange her cleavage in anyway that is even remotely innocent. But again, though she attracts the occasional leering glance, no one has tried anything.

Yet.

Inside, she feels hollow, numbed. Her role in the ambush gnaws at her, the **** of the travellers’ champion - however accidental - has left its mark on her, and she stares straight ahead, unfeeling.

She looks down at her Holy Amulet, the bronze clasp around the verdant scared stone laying dull and inert against her breasts. Her oath, and faith feel very far away. She has heard dreadful tales of oath-breakers.

Is she one now?

She dips her head, her scarlet hair, already falling loose from its messy bun, tumbling around her as she sobs quietly. Drawing in her legs, clad in a simple leather half-skirt, and stirrup leggings, she clutches one half-bared foot, beginning to ball herself up.

She starts a moment later, as a shadow, backlit by the fire, falls across her.