Tristain felt odd. Comfortable and warm in a way that he was not familiar with. The last thing he clearly remembered was Aynur, and trying to comfort her and calm her back down from her mild panic attack. After that it was a blur. The bed beneath him felt - oddly soft, and supple in a way that was quite frankly weird, yet pleasant to the touch. He blinked once as he realized that his nose was filled with the scent of linen, and a slight hint of floral undertone, and he shot up quickly, utterly mortified.

And then bit back a strangled cry of pain, choking the noise in the back of his throat, as his sudden and harsh motion stretched the injury on his back. He felt a fresh wave of heat, and pain, ripple through him, and an odd pulsating warmth as the edges of the torn flesh throbbed in protest. Tristain took a few shallow, ragged breaths, and his dark brown eyes searched through the darkness to confirm what he thought was the case.

Sure enough, Aynur was laying there, on his blood. The both of them were covered in dried blood - his blood - and she was wearing one of his shirts. He blinked a few times, and watched blankly as she blindly groped in his direction, murmuring sleepily. With the weight off her chest she rolled onto her side giving a soft sigh. He watched her for a moment, an odd feeling in the back of his throat and his chest, then he shook his head sharply and stood up.

The world swayed around him as he stood up, and he winced. The steps he took were gentle and tentative as he tried to keep from aggravating his injury any more. Blood loss had left him light headed, and however long he had been passed out had certainly not been enough for him to make a recovery. The house around him was still dark, but by now he had figured his way around well enough to not need to fumble for one of the lanterns to find his way through.

When he made it through the hall to one of the rooms with a window, he looked outside. The moon was still high in the sky, the inky dark of the night dotted with scintillating points of starlight. He leaned against the windowsill and stared outside as he caught his breath. The mercenary knew he was extremely lucky that Aynur had still been here. She was slowly recovering from what had been done to her - very, very slowly, her trauma had not been a light one. He was still half afraid every time he came back that she would have left, either because she had - just left, out of belief she didn't deserve something good happening to her; or worse.

He let out a slow breath, and made his way to the bathroom. Along the way, he finally picked up one of the lanterns and lit it, the flickering warm light brightening the dark interior of the building. In the bathroom he stopped in front of the mirror and looked at himself in it. A short, bitter laugh escaped trembling lips.

Tristain looked a bit like a gruesome nightmare. Dried, crusted blood clung to his body in random patches, thick and dark in some places, in others light and smeared. The bandages wrapped around his waist were poorly tied - and he did remember doing that, vaguely. They were also ruined with blood at this point, heavy and damp with blood. Tristain set the lantern down on the counter, and slowly, gingerly, peeled the bandages free, hissing in pain as the fabric tugged on the blood that had dried between it and his skin.

Twisting his body carefully, Tristain tried to look at his injury. He could see part of it - red and raw, with blood trickling from the edges. It was a good thing that Aynur couldn't see - even to him, who had seen his share of injuries while working and training with the Danse, this looked nasty. Barbed arrows were brutal weapons. Tristain let out a shallow breath, and dropped the bandages into the sink, and began running water over them. Those would soak and rinse, and he turned to where he had the other bandages. There were some sitting on a low, open shelf - for Aynur, in case she needed some.

He ignored those, instead stumbling to cabinet. He opened it and pulled out other rolls of bandages, along with bundles of cotton. With shaking fingers, he found the anti-septic, and dipped one of the bundles of cotton in it. The mercenary gritted his teeth, and swabbed his wound with it. Despite his attempt to stay quiet, the sharp, stinging pain drew a loud groan of discomfort from him as the burning of the anti-septic hit him. Biting his tongue, he pressed on, cleaning the wound and trying to rebandage it.