The aftermath of battle was inevitably the sense of fatigue that poured in layers of sediment over the bones, weighing the joints, piercing holes through the lungs that made each breath sting. Rhocanth could practically hear his old tutor now as they stood amongst the spindly-fingered stalagmites in the courtyard: “Pace yourself, boy!” His sense of urgency was too strong, and it bade him burn through his energy like a lit oil rag.
The last of it drained from him quickly, focused fury trickling away and letting his eyes clear. He stood calmer and slaked his sword off on the grass, gaze steady upon the steel. He would not look up at what they had just done, though he had been aware and in control through his berserker haze. Men and women face down in the grass, their limbs at unnatural angles, bodies spreading a blush over the scenery... It was better to ignore it, cast the image away and gloss it over with the best understanding he had in his vocabulary. Despite his efforts, a sharp bubble of sudden anxiety rose in his chest. Rhocanth leaned on his sword and prayed for Lythe's voice to call to him.
It was not the sergeant, but the healer whom he heard first. Immediately he wished to face her and the woman they had saved, engage himself in both. As Beth drew nearer, Rhocanth took it upon himself to pour a little more remaining stamina into his shield arm. As the closest warrior in proximity for the moment, it fell upon him to stand between the mage and the stranger should their conversation turn sour. He welcomed the duty openly. Thought of the red-peppered battlefield faded away.
Rhocanth lifted his chin as Beth paused beside them, chainmail from his helm trembling with the movement. He watched with interest as the stranger sheathed her sword, and in respect for the gesture did the same with his, though he kept his gauntlet close by. It took him by surprise when she also reached for her helm and removed it, loosening a head of blonde hair. It was not her hair that interested him, however; it was her ears. Long, pointed ears. A telling shape. He quickly began to put together the elements of her person in his mind: an elven woman, by no means wearing the armor and armaments of a slouch, and who fought in a style he recognized... at first it had not registered, as he had been so used to everyone fighting in a relatively similar way below ground, but now that he had a moment of breath he realized that what he had seen was quite striking to him. She was trained in berserker style! How remarkable!
A brisk rash of bewitching by the entire notion called his gauntlet away from the hilt of his sword, and before he had thought completely he had pulled his helm back as well, tucking it beneath his elbow. His own hair fell over his brow, sticking there in slightly damp waves. He considered wiping it away, but that would have only spread gore from his gauntlet onto his face. Rhocanth spared a glance at Beth before speaking, so as not to interrupt her.
“You fight with an impressive sense for the berserker style. I am quite honored to have seen such, and I am glad you seem well.” With that he tipped his head respectfully, but quickly returned to business. “Ambush, you say? From which direction had you been traveling?”
That gave him pause to frown. As they said in the bowels of the darkest pantries of Orzammar, 'For every tezpadam you see, there are fifty you don't.' Once again, he cast his eyes to Bethen gravely. “There could be more of these brigands nearby,” he murmured.