(no subject)
The next time Kris wakes in the Infirmary, he's not sure how long it's been, only that it's been more than a few hours.
He sits up, and it's painful but not as bad as it "should" be. The shoulder's been bandaged and the arm bones seem set into place. Breathing's not a struggle, though there's soreness where the arrowhead pierced the chest.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed. Dizzy only momentarily. He feels weak. Gripping the bedpost, he makes an attempt to stand. Done if a little unsteadily. That's better.
There's a low beeping noise from a metal panel attached to the bed he'd been lying on. He studies it, puzzled. Not an alarm, or he doesn't think so. It's not that loud nor dissonant.
He notices a pile of familiar white clothing that's covered by some odd clear material. Kris can't quite repress a shudder. The uniform he'd worn was a lost cause. Those red smears visible on the fabric brought up a fair number of memories.
The people here, for whatever reason, had kept him alive. He recalls his brief conversation with "Simon Tam." He's grateful. However, too many unanswered questions are piling up.
If he's recovered enough to walk, he needs to figure out if he's also recovered enough to travel. Whether he's free to do so, as well. Heralds honor debts, but his first obligation was to the people who were not here.
Wherever the devil here is!
If.
No. He couldn't let himself think too far ahead. The only bearable way to face all this was to assume that yes, his partner and friends were still alive.
Time to move. Safe or not.
He catches sight of himself in a mirror mounted on a wall. Agh. Could be worse, could be better.
His weapons had been in his saddlebags. He's dressed in something that bears more resemblance to a lady's nightdress than any outfit he's ever worn. Kris regards the ruined Whites. No.
A search of the little room turns up a plain blue shirt, and a pair of drawstring trousers. Not the best fit, the shirt was snug across the shoulders. It'd have to do.
He pushes the door open cautiously and listened.
Voices were audible coming from the end of a long hallway. He started in that direction, one hand against the wall.
He sits up, and it's painful but not as bad as it "should" be. The shoulder's been bandaged and the arm bones seem set into place. Breathing's not a struggle, though there's soreness where the arrowhead pierced the chest.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed. Dizzy only momentarily. He feels weak. Gripping the bedpost, he makes an attempt to stand. Done if a little unsteadily. That's better.
There's a low beeping noise from a metal panel attached to the bed he'd been lying on. He studies it, puzzled. Not an alarm, or he doesn't think so. It's not that loud nor dissonant.
He notices a pile of familiar white clothing that's covered by some odd clear material. Kris can't quite repress a shudder. The uniform he'd worn was a lost cause. Those red smears visible on the fabric brought up a fair number of memories.
The people here, for whatever reason, had kept him alive. He recalls his brief conversation with "Simon Tam." He's grateful. However, too many unanswered questions are piling up.
If he's recovered enough to walk, he needs to figure out if he's also recovered enough to travel. Whether he's free to do so, as well. Heralds honor debts, but his first obligation was to the people who were not here.
Wherever the devil here is!
If.
No. He couldn't let himself think too far ahead. The only bearable way to face all this was to assume that yes, his partner and friends were still alive.
Time to move. Safe or not.
He catches sight of himself in a mirror mounted on a wall. Agh. Could be worse, could be better.
His weapons had been in his saddlebags. He's dressed in something that bears more resemblance to a lady's nightdress than any outfit he's ever worn. Kris regards the ruined Whites. No.
A search of the little room turns up a plain blue shirt, and a pair of drawstring trousers. Not the best fit, the shirt was snug across the shoulders. It'd have to do.
He pushes the door open cautiously and listened.
Voices were audible coming from the end of a long hallway. He started in that direction, one hand against the wall.