TRIG SH / SI — Chapter 3 & onwards have injury & healing scenes based on my knowledge of SH / SI
The burden of his journey weighs heavily on Stendahl; he is one of the old band who had used to serve Lord Devereux. They'd stayed on in service to the castle when it'd changed hands but had had very little to do since then. All of the action went to the new henchmen, who had half the skill of the senior guards, and yet got every plum post. He could see how someone like Snakelaw couldn't be comfortable with any kind of competent crew who had a conscience; it still rankled to be relegated to the sidelines ... except when something of exceptional importance had to be undertaken. Sir John wasn't quite so stupid as not to know which were the best weapons in his armoury; which was what made it clear that Snakelaw would do anything to ensure that at least one of his coaches came through clear and safe.
That was why the coach had come this way; the driver deciding to take the more difficult route, the longer and less obvious one; in hopes of outflanking the outlaws. Stendahl had been suspicious of the scuffling in the shrubs that he'd seen as he'd been about to head up the hill and had kept his morning-star to hand, to make a few heads roll if need be; but nothing had come of it. Eyeing the overgrowth ahead, now, he isn't happy at how close it comes to the road but at least the branches overhead haven't grown back; so there is a safe headway and too long a drop for any outlaw hoping to ambush him from above. Keeping a close eye to either side he eases forward — then the greenery geysers into his face, rushes at him as he rises from his seat. He's been smashed into from behind: sending his body soaring; till it smashes into the soil, sorely.
.
By the time the blackness has cleared: he's up against the coach-side; with a swordpoint at his jugular and an ache in his back, from the boots that have brought him low. Rolling his eyes up he enquires: « You be Swiftnick? Nobody else would be lunatic enough to jump from up there! » That earns him a bloodletting in his neck and the retort « As if! He's too busy to be here. Do I look like him! » From down on the ground it's hard to discern much detail; he can only gather a general impression as his gaze runs up the footpad's body ... and over two outstanding items that indicate, all too plainly, that this is not a man-at-arms.
This is too much: he objects; protests; dissents and demands a duel — instead of this indignity. To Stendahl's utter amazement he's actually amused the outlaw into agreeing and she steps back; so that he can stand and settle himself for the stand-off. By now Stendahl's scattered wits have returned enough for him to see how stupid he's been: as a captive he might have lived; as the challenger to a desperado he's likely to die. He's lived on his wits long enough to know he has to even the odds. Even as he stands, he strives to make himself seem as ancient as can be and says: « Go ahead, run me through now. Happen I've got no chance against you, not at my age. Let be that I have a buckler or call it murder. » Her response scares him more than anything so far, she has to be entirely insane, and yet it gives him hope: she lets him lash one of her hands behind her back.