It was all he could do to contain his fury when the knife-eared whelp shot Trevor, his dismissive 'whoops' as reddening as any curse the jackal could have offered. Brethor thought nothing of the fallen comrades and enemies, nor the Knights glinting off of to his side. His outburst flew from his lips, before he could temper the reaction "Are you planning on carrying Trevor back to Denerim, you little bastard?" His cheeks shook, trembling red masses behind a thick beard. "How is he supposed to walk when he gets there?"
Brethor had been doing as the knight ordered, after only a moment's hesitation. He whirled around to the silver knight, disbelief clearly steeping his tone. "He's one of yours? Or can I assume bandit?" And cleave that little head from his body.
The elf trotted over, careless to the unnecessary carnage he had wrought, and it was all Brethor could do not to push passed him as they intersected paths. He wanted so much to throw his shoulder low, send the small body spinning to the ground.
He didn't, and even as he shook, he guided his feet around the boy, rushing toward his fallen friend. It was dangerous leaving Davin unattended, his voice already pleading toward the knight. There was no telling what the little shit Davin would say, but there was little he could do to help the situation until he was asked. If he interjected too early, his guilt would surely be assumed. A bunch of humans fighting with elves, surely they already appeared guilty? His stomach pitched low, and wracked with the violent grip of nerves.
He nodded, stumbling over to where Marianna lay, clutching her split forehead with her palm. Thick, deep red poured between her thin fingers, trying fruitlessly to seal the blunt blow that tore at her hairline. She was a only eighteen, on her first real trip out of Denerim, and it was certainly her first homecoming. Brethor tore at her blue apron, gripping the fabric solidly between two meaty fists, pulling a large portion of it free. Even though her eyes were dazed, he knew that she'd recover. He bunched up the cloth, pressing it over the gaping wound.
A few feet away, Trevor was pulling at the arrow lodged in his foot howling. Brethor swore, stepping over Marianna once she took the rag with shaking fingers. "Trevor! Stop... you great idiot, stop!" He dropped to his knees with a thud, gripping the booted foot with his hand, lest he inflict more damage. "I'm going to break off the arrowhead, otherwise you'll never get this blasted thing out, you hear me?"
Tears were streaming down the Trevor's face even as he gnashed his teeth, face red with pain and spitting anger. Brethor palmed the arrowhead, his fingers clenching quickly around it and breaking it off from the shaft. With it there was a deafening howl as the long wooden shaft shifted inside of Trevor's foot. Likely the boot was filling with blood, and there was no telling how much damage had been done. He granted his friend a moment before gripping the feathers of the fletching, tearing the the arrow quickly away.