Speedy rolled over, exposing a series of battle wounds, caked in blood and dirt. The plasmic blue tentecles braced him down until Swifthawk drew out a dagger and tore the wraps away. Speedy vaguely recognized his friend, croutching down beside him. He seemed concious but wouldn't speak. Swifthawk lifted Speedy upon his shoulders and strode away towards his camp.

Awoken by Swift yet again, Speedy lain in a crude but comfortable bed of leaves and grass. The only light came from a glowing, orange lamp under the tent's shadow and the dim evening's shade. Looking around, Speedy saw two shelves, one with various pieces or armor and weaponry, another with curious bottled potions and remedies, such as Sourdew, for stabs and slashes, or Goldroot, for bruises and concussions. Speedy gestured towards the shelves. "It's all yours. You might need it."

Speedy replied, "I'm not a warrior, you should 'ave known that."

Swifthawk turned away from Speedy. "You wanted to fight back, you know, when you were in the forest. But you couldn't." Speedy defencivly responded, "No, I'm too slow, and, well, too weak. I don't know how to fight."

"I'll train you.." Swifthawk offered, "if you'd like."

Speedy, overwhelmed by the offer, accepted. After several days in bed, he had recovered, all but his pride. His pride would soon be won, he thought firmly as he slipped into his armor. A newfound warrior spirit filled him, within him rest a fierce desire for battle.