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Injury and reappraisal
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 "I can't see a thing through all those layers," the healer said,
sitting back on his heels. Fox still leaned heavily on Myrlight's
shoulder, her lips white, and shook her head.

Somehow, Myrlight understood. She knew Fox couldn't slide back
into the booth and let the healer look at her; the space was too cramped.
She ducked out to grab a chair, noting the healer had to steady Fox as she
did so. 

A small crowd had formed, watching as Fox painfully extricated her
arm from the depths of her coat. Her left hand was gloveless and slick
with blood. She swayed on her feet and nearly fell into the chair Myrlight
just barely managed to get under her. 

She helped Fox unbutton the wool coat, noting that the fat elf's
fingers were unsteady and weak. Together, they peeled back the thick black
coat. A fine leather doublet came next, a large, ragged hole ripped
through the left side.

Myrlight frowned. Something was just _wrong_.

"By all the gods," the healer murmured, as they pulled off the
scarlet blouse which covered her mail. "That must have been one hell of a 
blow to get through all this."

Fox's mail was fine, six-on-one riveted links -- finer than any
elven chain that Myrlight had ever seen. More curiously, each individual
link was bright red -- not from blood, but from some unusual lacquering
process that somehow did not interfere with the individual links. No --
not lacquer. It was as if the steel itself had been dyed scarlet. She 
knew she had seen this somewhere before, but she could not place it. 
Blood pumped through the hole in the mail. Ragged lines of links 
disappeared into the wound.

With a great deal of effort, tugging and pulling, the kender and
one of the barkeep's boys managed to get the mail shirt over her head,
leaving her with a thin padded gambeson.

"One more layer," Fox whispered.

Quickly, Myrlight unlaced the front of the gambeson and peeled it back.

And quickly realized her error.

In her thin, short-sleeved linen shirt, it was clear that Fox was
not fat.

Plates of muscle ran across FoxUs upper chest and shoulders. Her
upper arms were as large around as Myrlight's waist, and the thick cords
running up the girl's forearms would have made any fighting man weep with 
envy. It made Myrlight instantly reappraise the thickness of the girl's 
legs, but it made her wonder all the more at the girl's heritage. Whatever she 
was, Fox was not elven.

The wound was clearly visible now, and the healer held a clean
linen towel to it that the barmaid Helen had brought from the kitchen.
With a careful touch, the healer dabbed the too-dark blood welling from
the ragged wound and touched it to his tongue.

"Tagric," he said. "We don't have much time."

At about the same time, the healer's young apprentice appeared
with the healer's bag, and Wes hurried up to say he had a room ready.

"Can you walk?" Myrlight asked.

When Fox looked at Myrlight, the kender knew the answer was no.
But stubbornly, the girl levered on Myrlight's shoulder to try to stand,
and tumbled to the floor before Myrlight could slow her fall.

A burly warrior came forward to lift Fox in his arms to take her
to the room Wes had prepared. It was clear she was more of a burden than
he had expected, but he led the small entourage which accompanied Fox to
the back of the inn.