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Rubbing the dog's ears, she gave him the bone with a smile, filing the hitch of his master's breath away for later. She returned to him, watching him from under half-lidded eyes. When he admitted that he could not share, she saw an old terror in his gaze and did not push him any further. At his request, she began to tell her own tale as she lifted his torn and bloodied shirt out of her way.

"Tha' demon bird is wha's known as a kingshawk, a bird reserved fer the nobility. I was ridin' through a small stand o' woods south o' Palisade when I came upon him, screechin' an' hissin' like a damn kettle." She worked competently as she spoke, wiping the blood away from the wound with a soft cloth. Dressing wounds had been one of the first things her father Belenos had taught her, had taught all of his warriors. Sometimes even the dressing of a minor wound was the matter of life and death, as infection could kill from the smallest cut.

"There musta been a storm the night afore. Either his former owner was a fool an' sent him out in it, or the silly git go' free himself." At that, the hawk clacked his beak together sharply and almost looked as if he were glaring at the woman. She only smiled at him and unwrapped a long roll of thin, white cloth. As she began to wrap it around his torso with gentle fingers, she continued, "I found his royalty stuck up a tall arse tree, sproutin' branches out his wings. He'd broken 'em both an' couldna get down."

She made sure the binding was tight, to keep the edges of the wound close to each other, but not so tight that he would have any more difficulty moving than was necessary. The man was well built and she smiled appreciatively as she worked, a small but loud part of her wanting to take his shirt off entirely.

Bad Soi, no molestin' the injured.

She laughed and it was a warm sound, like whiskey made into noise. "Prolly no! He's a surly bugger an' I doona see tha' changin'." Her fingers finished tying the wraps, and though she wasn't seeking them out, she felt the scars on his back and wondered if they had anything to do with his fears. Before she let her touch turn less innocent, the gaelic woman stepped back and proclaimed her task finished.

"The only thing tha' bird actually likes is a wee fox named Vexation."

She began gathering up the supplies and returning them to the little box. The sound of the wind outside became a constant thing, snowflakes battering the windows in earnest. There would be no sending him off tonight. Besides, there was no where to send him to, and she found that she much enjoyed him company. There was just something about fighting back to back and having to fall into an immediate form of trust, that the person behind you would keep you safe, that lent itself to fast friendships.

"Now. We're all fixed up an' a wee less bloody. Care fer a drink? Or would ye like me te get the spare bedroll an' blankets out?"

"Less bought an' more borrowed fer a short time. I've missed havin' dogs around. Got a bunch o' big wolf hounds back home." Her tone had grown wistful; it wasn't often she felt homesick, but for some reason, she felt it keenly now as she took down two short glasses and an unlabeled bottle of rich, amber liquid. "Good hunters they are, but better pillows an' bed warmers."

She set the glasses on the table with a sharp tap and poured without preamble. "As fer the fox an' the fool hawk, aye. Weirdest pair I've ever seen. When the two o' them go at it, the racket they make could wake the dead." Though she'd set the cups on the table, she took hers over to one of two large, comfortable looking wing chairs beside a cold fireplace and began stoking the fire to combat the chill pervading the air. "An'! Let me ask ye this, so I have some backup. Isn't Vexation an awful name fer somethin' as cute as a fox?"

Visibly brightening, Soibhan set the fire poker aside and all but collapsed into the chair, snuggling down into it like a hen into her nest. "She's adorable. A wee thing. Has some nasty scaring down the left side o' her face that's made her blind in tha' eye. I found her too, but gave her te m'friend instead o' keepin' her. Ye see, his left eye..." She wrinkled her nose and seemed to decide against sharing that part of the story. "Well, le's just say they're amusin' te watch." Taking a sip of her whiskey, she grinned. "Vex is a righ' lil terror, but she keeps him on his toes."

And the little fox had kept her from killing the foolish man the morning after...She still didn't want to think about it because as of yet, she wasn't even sure how she felt about the whole situation. But, as cunning as a fox could be, the little furry vixen had warmed her up enough to leave without throttling Desmond right then and there.

She gestured at his bloody shirt, pointedly ignoring her own. "Ye'll need a new shirt anyway. Mayhaps I'll introduce ye an' swipe ye a shirt from Desmond."

"Tch, damnit. No one's on my side," she grumbled, but laughed when he pointed out the meaning of Beau's name. "Aye, yer righ', yer no' the best person to ask. Bu' I like the humor in it. An' if ye dislike the thought o' permanently borrowin' Des' shirt, well, I can make ye one."

Her golden eyes glittered as they caught the firelight, but there was a bit of excitement there too. One of her best kept secrets was that she was an extremely skilled seamstress, having learned from her grandmother for many years as she grew older. Granted, the clothing styles of Sunderland were far different than Gaels, and Gallia different still...But as she eyed his torn shirt, she felt confident that she could replicate it. She'd even stashed some fabric somewhere one day when she'd seen a street merchant selling bolts of it in a variety of colors.

"An' I promise it willna look awful, or girly. I'm pretty good at sewing."

She blamed the whiskey for the blush she felt on her cheeks just then and laid her hand on Beau's soft head, fingers lightly scratching. "An' a woman tha's likin' these compliments." She tilted her head back and downed the rest of her drink, eyes closing as she smiled at the burn down her throat. Then she gently moved Beau's head and rose to her feet, swaying only a little.

"Ye'll have te give me tha' bloody thing, though. Off with it! I need te see some o' the stitchin'," she said as she disappeared into the back room again, which was presumably her sleeping quarters. He heard the sound of things being moved here and shoved there and her voice coming a little muffled, "I've go' similar fabric, though it's a wee bit darker. Better, uh, te hide any bloodstains..."

Finally gathering her supplies and finding the right fabric, she turned and nearly ran into Beau, but the dog was more than agile enough to evade her drunken stumbles. Patting him on the head affectionately, she stepped through the doorway, but as soon as she looked up, she stopped. Her touch hadn't been enough to uncover the severity of the scars across his back. A latticework of healed torment, they made her heart ache and an anger for his sake start to build within her. But there was nothing she could do now; they were long healed, and if they had anything to do with whatever he hadn't felt like sharing, than she would not press him for information on them.

Brushing past him, she set her supplies on the table before whirling and snatching his torn shirt from his grasp. Fingering the fabric, she held it up and inspected it, though things were a bit...blurry. And her hair, still too long since Desmond had refused to cut it, had fallen into her face. Blowing the errant strand from her eyes, she said, "Mmmhmm, this shouldna' be a problem." Should she wait until morning, when she was sober? Scrunching her nose, she almost immediately decided against it. Her hands never shook or wavered when drunk, but hungover...? That was a different story altogether. She peeked surreptitiously at the rest of him over the top of the shirt, glad that her guess had been right. He was a fine creature to look at.

"Now," she blurted, blinking away her own distractions, "tell me a tale, any kind, of yer travels while I work." With that, she took scissors to fabric and began cutting.