Slow Recovery (Tural, Nidhel)
The healers had finally let Tural out of the temple. Not that he could he could really blame them for keeping him as long as they did, his state over the last two days hadn’t quite been ideal. Honestly, the Bosmer couldn’t quite remember most of the first day, between intermittently drifting into a restless sleep, and being preoccupied with putting up with the pain in his arm and chest when there was no one around to talk to. He remembered warning the other Companions about the Silver Hand when they arrived in the night, and speaking with a couple others who came to visit him throughout the day, but little else.
It had felt as though today had been the first morning he had woken up with a completely clear head. After a brief conversation with the healers, they had agreed to let him stay elsewhere for the remainder of his recovery. While he had been tempted to return home, he didn’t relish the idea of being mostly incapacitated within what was apparently striking distance of the Silver Hand. So, he had gone to Jorrvaskr, temporarily reoccupying his old room. He had asked Brill and Athis to go gather his armor and weapons, as well as a small box of personal belongings, from his home, and they had willingly agreed.
Currently, Tural sat on the edge of the bed, taking in slow, deep breaths, steady through the stinging pain on his chest as the skin shifted with his breathing, the familiar scent of the mead hall flooding his nostrills. He looked like a mess, he knew: bandages still covering his forearms, his side, his chest, and his arm bound and slung tightly enough that he couldn’t bend it unless he really tried. Still, the familiarity of Jorrvaskr settled him despite his injuries, and he sat in quiet focus, eyes closed, letting the pain of the injuries dull a bit as he became accustomed to it.