Given clothes of a decent sort, Valen felt more well than he'd been at any point in the last twelvemonth. Amazing what proper dress could do for the spirits, it was astonishing at how recovered he seemed to be and for the moment naught could wipe away the grin that split his face. "I give alms to all gods," he said, "until wise men can sort the issue of one or another." And because he was determined to confound his parents and the doom they laid upon his head that said he'd die in a cesspool, full of water, blood and ice. If by praying to any god that doom could be diverted he'd give donation every Sunday. Or at least some Sundays. Sometimes. It wasn't even the doom itself that bothered him--doom was just the hind end of living. It was to see his parents furious and confused.
"I think sir," he began, "it would be best to see the monks of the church. I'm dreadful tired and my head's full of news so steep I might get dizzy and pass out on the streets from the stress of it." And because Cuthbert had already noted the wound, Valen felt no point in hiding it. "And truth be told, a physician would be mighty welcome. I fear they'll take the leg if the rot gets too deep.. so long as I can lift a glass I won't mind, but a man needs work and a proper invalid can't do that."
Valen was a fast healer, always had been and the leg was on the mend but he'd not deny any excuse to bed down in a pile of lovely blankets with a bowl of soup to fill his stomach.