Once knowledge Dav had finished reorganizing the now-understaffed household, he turned to Lem with a dangerous gleam in his eye. "Now then," he said, "let's get you patched up and presentable."
Lem shrugged one shoulder. That sounded like a good idea to him. It was never wise to spend too much time wandering around a Noble Blood's house with an open wound. "Lead the way," he said, dipping at the waist into a sweeping bow.
Dav sniffed disapprovingly, but did as Lem had asked, scuttling out of the parlor and into one of the servants' corridors. He took Lem to the upper weapons' room, pointing out a wardrobe full of dead men's clothes, and said, "I'm sure you can find something there that fits."
It was so morbid, so callous, that Lem almost protested. But fancy clothes weren't cheap, and he knew there wouldn't be any other clothes lying around unused. He couldn't meet his new master with the rags he'd worn stumbling to bed, and Lem didn't own anything but the sorts of clothes one wore to duel another hapless weapon for the amusement of important guests. Wearing the clothes of the weapons who had failed to protect Lord Nassau might be poor taste, but he had no other choice. He could only endure this, and a million more indignities. Such was the life of a thrall.
Sighing, he thanked Dav, his voice strangled with distaste.
Dav nodded in understanding, the smallest hint of compassion crossing his normally severe features as he backed from the room and eased the door closed, leaving Lem alone in a room haunted with the memory of those who were lost.
Slowly, Lem picked his way across the weapons' room, having no eye for the various swords, daggers, flails, and other treasures adorning the walls. He avoided the table, too, where familiar jackets forever parted from their wearers lay slung over the backs of well-worn chairs. There were scabbards, quivers, belts and straps hanging from hooks near the back, and the large wardrobe stood imposingly in the back corner of the room.
Gritting his teeth, Lem stepped up to the wardrobe and pulled it open. It was filled near to bursting with a variety of clothes. Thick leathers, the sort that reeked of heavy enchantments as much as they did sweat and blood. Heavily brocaded overcoats, glinting with amulets and stones of protection. They were huge and heavy, the sorts of clothes clearly tailored for the weapons who had been assigned to the upper manor. The sorts of weapons with heavily muscled bodies and broad shoulders, not slim, starved urchins that refused to die. Lem would find himself swimming in these clothes.
Sighing under his breath, Lem shoved his way towards the back of the wardrobe, looking for anything that might fit. He eventually found a light leather piece, more jacket than true armor. It was studded the shoulders, at least. It looked to have a space where bracers could be tied to it. The jacket itself was lightweight and seemed intended for someone of a slimmer build. He shrugged it on over his roughspun tunic. It was a little big, but not like the more fancy clothes towards the middle of the wardrobe. It would do. He shrugged it off again, setting it to the side before continuing his hunt for something wearable.
Next, he sought a light tunic to wear under the jacket. The advantage of tunics was they could be belted at the waist, so at least he didn't need something quite as tailored. Eventually he found a pale earth-toned tunic, soft with age, that crackled lightly at his fingertips when he brushed his hand against it. There was magic woven into it somewhere. Lem couldn't see any runes or stones of protection, but he knew the feel of magic, especially the sort that sank into the joints and buzzed the bones like this tunic did.
He tossed it next to the jacket, and continued his search, eventually finding a pair of breeches with leather-reinforced knees for combat. It didn't feel like it was imbued with anything like the magic in the tunic, but his stomach lurched oddly when he handled it. He would have written it off as mere distaste, except that his guts seemed to react that way every time he touched the breeches. Finally, he selected a thick cloth belt to wrap around his tunic. It was the only thing that could truly be considered decorative - there were stones of protection studded along the edge, their shine catching the moonlight that drifted in through the room's only glass window (such luxury! Lem's window downstairs had no glass, and was often covered with wood in the cold months to prevent the lower thralls from catching a chill).
Finding a sturdy pair of boots that were only one or two sizes too large, Lem's next step was to wash off any lingering blood and heal his scraped hand. It wouldn't do to go meeting one of The Blood smelling like an open wound.
He spotted a wash basin at the table, and felt an odd mixture of disgust and relief. He didn't want to use it, but he didn't see that he had an alternative. Dav wanted him to ready himself using this room, so he wouldn't see the point in taking Lem to the thrall bathhouse. But at least there was something to wash up with. He'd half-feared he wouldn't be able to clean up at all, and would be forced to walk among The Blood of the castle still smelling like a survivor of mortal combat.
Lem found a scrap of cloth lying near the basin. The water was still fresh, and he wondered if Dav had asked someone to bring it here, or if the previous weapons had planned on refreshing themselves before their shift change. It didn't matter, in the long run. At least the water was clean.
Stripping down, Lem thoroughly cleaned himself of sweat and blood, taking far more care than he had earlier. Then, he'd thought he was going to bed for a long rest. Now, he didn't know when he'd get the chance to sleep again.
Once clean, he fumbled around a small cabinet in the corner nearest the door, finding a healing potion. A quick glance at the label didn't immediately tell him whether it was intended to be drank or poured over the wound. Sighing, he continued to search the shelves, eventually finding a jar labeled 'scrape paste'. That sounded like a topical ointment, so he scooped up a generous amount, smearing it over his knuckles. The sting was almost as sharp as the bite of a red-backed ant, but it faded quickly. With the sting, so too did his injury fade, eventually sinking into the skin as though it had never been there at all.
That done, Lem quickly dressed himself in the borrowed clothes and turned reluctantly to the wall of treasures. He plucked a few daggers from the display, checking their heft and balance, eventually choosing four that he liked. He found a suitable sheath for each one before sliding them onto a weapons belt, which he tightened around his hips, settling it just below the tunic's decorative sash.
Then, steeling himself, Lem poked his head out of the door. To his surprise, Dav was standing just outside, waiting for him. Somehow, he'd thought the knowledge thrall would have left him alone.
"Are you presentable?" Dav asked, sounding impatient.
"Yeah, I found some new clothes," Lem said, joining him in the hallway. "Now what?"
"Now," Dav said, looking vaguely nervous, "I shall introduce you to Lady Nassau."
Lem had never met her before, though he had seen her at a distance, once or twice. He hoped she was not as cruel as her father, but he did not expect it. "All right," he said, once more sweeping in to his mockery of a bow. "Lead the way."