The heat of the afternoon sun beat down on Tristain as he slowly trudged through the streets of the small town, making his way back to the small building he had rented out for himself and Aynur. His gait was stilted and awkward, stumbling and staggering as his boots scuffed up small clouds of dust with every step. Exhaustion clung to him like a thick cloak - clung to him like the soaked fabric that was crusted onto his skin.

His lower back burned, hotter than the sun could have made it. Every step sent a fresh wave of pain surging along his body, and the brown-haired man had long since started grinding his teeth together, hard, to stem the flow of curses. He cursed himself, for a lack of attention at a crucial moment, he cursed the gap in his armor, he cursed the archer who had made the shot. But most of all, he cursed the arrow that was currently buried in his flesh, at just the right spot that he couldn't reach it properly.

He could have ripped it out, easily. But doing so, with the angles he could get on it, would have torn a large chunk of his flesh free as well, and he probably would have bled out long before he could have gotten help. Because even if he could pull the arrow out, there was no way he could get a bandage in place in time. In the end, all he had done was snap the shaft of the arrow short, to try to make the fact that he was injured less obtrusive - he didn't want to draw any undue attention to himself as he made his way back to safety.

The mercenary had been taking care of a small extermination job, to kill off a group of Goblins that had gotten too close to town. Simple enough for him to handle, and if he hadn't gotten overconfident, he would have gotten out of their nest with barely any scratches. Instead, he had gotten distracted, instead, he now walked with a limp as a barbed arrowhead tore into his flesh.

Blood was leaking from the open wound, running down his back and his hip, coursing down his leg in thin, hot rivulets. His sock was soaked, and he could feel his foot squelching in his boot with every step that he took. He wanted nothing more in that moment to already be back at the house, laying down, and ignoring the world as he tried to recover. But he wouldn't be able to, not with the piss-poor place he had been shot. He could not take care of this injury himself.

Which meant he would have to pray that Aynur hadn't gotten tired of waiting for him - it had been far longer for his journey back than he had told her it would be. The injury had added a considerable amount of time to his trip, slowing him down immensely. He would have to hope she was still there, and hope that she could convince one of their neighbors to find a doctor who could come over to tend him.

A deep sense of relief washed over him, as Tristain looked up and realized he had managed to make it to the front door. He fumbled in a belt pouch for the key to the door, and slowly pushed his way inside, his body screaming at him from the weight of the door. “Ay.. Aynur. Are you… here, girl?” His voice rasped out roughly. He couldn't take the darkness of the building as a sign she had left - blind, the girl rarely if ever lit lanterns without him prompting her to.