The woman was, indeed, some sort of inhuman creature, the likes of which he’d never seen before. Perhaps it was enough to make lesser, more gullible people believe in higher powers or sorcery, but Garsiv was determined to keep his head on straight despite anything. She could not hurt him, he reasoned, and he still was not convinced he was not being duped. She could not possibly be a witch, despite his former misgivings. A dream was out of the question; he felt far too awake and alert for that nonsense. It must be a trick then, but a trick he did not understand and one he intended to figure out, one way or another.
He hadn’t paid any real attention to the lacerations all over her smooth, pale legs, at least not until right in that moment. They’d hurt her, which came as no surprise to him. To them, she was nothing but a sideshow, a source of money that had to be dealt with if it misbehaved. To Garsiv and his men, she did not represent much more. She would more than certainly impress his father and likely his brothers as well, and he would receive all the credit for finding such an exquisite oddity. If the wounds upon her told him one thing, it was that she managed to keep a fighting spirit despite adversity and, more importantly, pain. That did not bode particularly well for his nerves for the way home. She would likely prove difficult to control and contain, and although he knew he would easily manage it, he did not take kindly to inconveniences.
Sharp, dark eyes flickered down to her as she spoke to him with more than a little venom behind her tone. His mouth drew into itself tightly. Did she not understand how unwise it was to dig herself an even deeper hole? He released her arm rather roughly with a ‘humph,’ wrinkling his nose just slightly as he looked down at her.
“I’d prefer not to dirty my hands again anyway,” he hissed in response as he crossed his broad arms over his armored chest.
The shop keep emerged at that moment, holding an armful of clothing that made Garsiv nearly roll his eyes. How many options did the woman need, after all? He, for one, did not particularly care what she wore, just so long as she could ride astride a horse and not burn in the sun. He had no desire to deal with that. The man with the clothes looked confused, and perhaps a little frightened, when Garsiv approached him and seized the wares, flipping through them briefly. He picked out something plain, but logical: a light cotton shirt and a pair of pants he knew would not give way easily to terrible riding sores.
“Take these,” he commanded, tossing them at her, “and change. We need to be moving. And you—” His attention turned back to the shop keep. “—shoes as well. Now.”
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