Dead Dog on the doorstep...

[dontcallmeser]

Someone is half-laughing, half sobbing from under a tree not far from the doorstep. "Damn you, little wolf bitch," he says, almost amused. "Damn you- ah-" His face spasms with pain, and it's not an attractive thing to see. One side of his face is clenched against pain and sweaty-pale with fever, but the other side...he has no ear, but that's

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[belize_queen]

"I've never killed a fly in my life, and fuck me sideways if I ever do," Belize replies quietly. "Can you walk?"

No-one like a New York registered nurse to take the most horrible sight in stride.

[dontcallmeser]

Sandor rolls his open eye over to look at her. "Are you shitting me?" His voice is comparable to iron on stone. "I can't ride."

[belize_queen]

"Alright. I'm a nurse. I'll check you out. All professional help, I assure you."

She proceeds to examining him, if he lets her.

[dontcallmeser]

He doesn't know the word, but he gets the sense and snorts, but doesn't try to shove her off. "Don't waste your time. It's gone bad; I'd rather die fast than slow."

[sissy_queen]

...."I beg your pardon, sir?" Gwen is completely terrorizes, shaking on her feet.

[dontcallmeser]

He very nearly rolls his eyes at her. "Don't call me ser. I need someone to kill me since the little wolf bitch wandered off." He eyes her. "Doubt it's going to be you."

[sissy_queen]

Her knees buckle. "Kill you, s- my lord? Nay, I could never do such a thing." She shakes a little, convulsing not to vomit.

[dontcallmeser]

"Don't call me that, either. I'm a Dog. A dead dog." His laugh is rasping and mirthless. "Don't have to look if it bothers you. Don't you know anyone with a good blade, then?"

[doctor_pascal]

Well, if Sandor wants medical attention, Pascal will be available to help. He may even stumble into him, figuratively speaking, and let out a curse.

He's already examining the wounded man.

[dontcallmeser]

Sandor doesn't want medical attention other than the very quick and easy kind, but he's getting it anyway. He stares at Pascal, vaguely annoyed. "What're you doing, you idiot?"

[doctor_pascal]

"Examining you," he replies absently. "You will need surgery," he notes also absently. "And possibly new skin. Don't talk."

Typist would like a detailed list of all that's wrong with him.

Caranthir volunteers to kill him off, if need be, by the way. He swears it would be an act of compassion.

[dontcallmeser]

He snorts, a little. "Bit late for that. I'm dead anyway."

Of course, 'surgery' where Sandor comes from generally means a slower and more painful death from infection, so.

He's been pretty sliced up - losing blood from maybe a half-dozen gashes, but the one that's doing for him is the slightly foul smelling wound in his thigh.

[lovingknight]

Lovel, on his way up to the Mansion, crosses himself quickly at the sight. "...no? I mean, you need to see a medic."

[dontcallmeser]

"No, I don't need to see a medic, I need to see someone with a good sword," he rasps, and almost half grins. It's rather grotesque. "Don't worry, I'm not in any shape to kill you just now."

[lovingknight]

"Well, that's...comforting." Lovel is armed, but doesn't reach for his sword. "Still, in all seriousness... is there a way I can assist you, sir?" He's wary, but feels bound to offer.

[dontcallmeser]

"I'm sure it is. Don't call me ser," almost snapped. There's a broadsword next to the Hound too, old and battered and not in good shape, but that doesn't matter as he doesn't look to be wielding it any time soon.

He eyes Lovel. "You any good with that?" With a slight headjerk at the sword.