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[Josette]

Josette's mind had already swelled with questions as she watched the stranger sleep; now that he was awake, it somehow allowed more still. Though it was far from the most important, the one that most consumed her had to do with the man's speech. How could a man speak so much while saying so little? He rambled on as he stared out the window, as directionless as if he still wandered amid the white storm. Was it the illness, fogging his mind, and making it difficult for him to speak coherently? Or was it perhaps a custom wherever this man came from? Though he spoke tradespeak fluently, there was something in the cadence that suggested he was from neither from Salvar, nor Corone, her birthplace. They were both vast nations, of course, and it was entirely possible he hailed from some small unknown corner. Yet she still did not think so, and Josette had learned to trust her gut instinct. She had also learned never to squander her words, as anything uttered without complete control and thought might give away more than intended.

Despite his verbosity, which she found as intriguing as it was vexing, she had to admire the man's resilience. Half a day ago, she had assumed he was not long for this world. Now, with the exception of his limp, he appeared to be entirely healed. What was it that had led to such a drastic change? Was the warmth she had felt when she touched his skin some sort of healing magic? It was yet another question that she would be unable to answer without his help, as she was unable to detect any magic on her own. That was yet another ability that her mentors had tried, and failed, to teach her.

The wooden chair creaked beneath her mass as Josette leaned forward, her breastplate hovering over the crystal sword still balanced across her legs. The room was only dimly lit, considering the few candles, and the raging storm that blocked any moon or stars that might be present. As such, it was difficult to make out the man's expression as he stood at the window. What she was able to see resembled mild curiosity, and what might even be amusement, both of which were a surprise to her. In a similar situation, any other person would be all sharp lines and frayed nerves. He, on the other hand, merely looked as if he could not quite remember whose bed he woke in.

"I don't know you," came her abrupt answer. She said no more on the matter, providing no other excuse as to her defensive behavior. Truthfully, the knight felt there was nothing else that needed explaining - he was a stranger, and until she knew more about him, she would remain on her guard. "I found you in the snow. You were sick, and I brought you here."

She felt the man's gaze sweep over her, and when he spoke, he did not bother to mask his skepticism. "You? You were able to carry me here, without the aid of anyone else? How were you possibly able to manage that? You must be, what, even a few inches shorter than I am? And why would you move me in the first place?"

There was no answer offered for the final question, as Josette was not entirely sure why herself. Instead, she nodded. "Yes, I carried you. You are large, but I am strong. No, I was not without help. My horse carried you the three miles to town, and the cook helped me navigate the stairs."

It was this that finally surprised the man, and his eyebrows rose as he regarded her with a new appreciation. "You managed to talk the cook into carrying me up to bed? Did you pay him?"

Without sharing her fears of being discovered in Ressin, Josette could not explain how careful she had been while smuggling her charge upstairs. She had known immediately that she would not be able to move his bulk herself, but asking for help was dangerous, for it would mean exposing herself to the tavern's patrons. In order to circumnavigate the issue, she had woven an elaborate lie to wrap them both in before knocking on the back door. After hearing her tale of woe, the bulky cook had agreed to help, and even ushered them through the kitchen to avoid the prying eyes of the lunch-time crowd.

Josette loosed a shrug of nonchalance that was largely lost beneath her armor. "I told him you were my husband, and that you did not hold your alcohol well."