I am afraid
WHO: Zevran (niceassassin) and Terra (speedofnaked)
WHERE: The MAC because we are creative
WHEN: Earlier this afternoon!
WARNINGS: References to violence, probably. Zevran being Zevran, definitely.
SUMMARY: Elf needs healing. Half-esper provides.
FORMAT: Words.
Back in the City after his very first trip by dragonclaw, Zevran spends the morning sleeping--for once, in his own bed in the MAC. This is not the usual state of affairs. He wakes around noon from a dim and half-familiar combination of nightmare and fantasy, jumbled pieces of his training and the results of that training mixed in with the strangeness of the City. The sword he wields speaks to him in Khisanth's voice, trying to command him even from her bones, and he wakes remembering that the sword, though dragonbone, had nothing to do with Khisanth at all but with the Warden, and that he's lost it. He wallows briefly in shame, not at the loss itself but at the intensity of his own feelings about it. It's an object. It shouldn't matter who gave it to him or what she did to get it. Attaching any sentiment to the thing goes against everything he's been taught.
So he stretches a little too far getting out of bed and rips two stitches on his leg, then pretends he didn't do it on purpose. The pain distracts him, gives him something concrete to focus on. And as he leans against the wall applying new bandages, he remembers with a fresh wave of (fortunately more manageable) embarrassment that he does know a mage here. Maybe she knows healing magic.
Once the bandages are in place and he has pants and a half-buttoned shirt on, he sends a private message to Terra with the number of his fourth-floor apartment and a request for help. "If it isn't too far, of course. And if you have healing magic. It would be a rather unfortunate mixup if you turned out to be a shapeshifter instead, as I do not need a bear in my room right now."
WHERE: The MAC because we are creative
WHEN: Earlier this afternoon!
WARNINGS: References to violence, probably. Zevran being Zevran, definitely.
SUMMARY: Elf needs healing. Half-esper provides.
FORMAT: Words.
Back in the City after his very first trip by dragonclaw, Zevran spends the morning sleeping--for once, in his own bed in the MAC. This is not the usual state of affairs. He wakes around noon from a dim and half-familiar combination of nightmare and fantasy, jumbled pieces of his training and the results of that training mixed in with the strangeness of the City. The sword he wields speaks to him in Khisanth's voice, trying to command him even from her bones, and he wakes remembering that the sword, though dragonbone, had nothing to do with Khisanth at all but with the Warden, and that he's lost it. He wallows briefly in shame, not at the loss itself but at the intensity of his own feelings about it. It's an object. It shouldn't matter who gave it to him or what she did to get it. Attaching any sentiment to the thing goes against everything he's been taught.
So he stretches a little too far getting out of bed and rips two stitches on his leg, then pretends he didn't do it on purpose. The pain distracts him, gives him something concrete to focus on. And as he leans against the wall applying new bandages, he remembers with a fresh wave of (fortunately more manageable) embarrassment that he does know a mage here. Maybe she knows healing magic.
Once the bandages are in place and he has pants and a half-buttoned shirt on, he sends a private message to Terra with the number of his fourth-floor apartment and a request for help. "If it isn't too far, of course. And if you have healing magic. It would be a rather unfortunate mixup if you turned out to be a shapeshifter instead, as I do not need a bear in my room right now."