WHO: Sister Sara Sawbones, Jenny Lou, Sol Noon AND YOU
WHAT: Catch All
WHEN: Post Satinalia and forwards
WHERE: the Gallows and Kirkwall
NOTES: Sawbones is having a bad time post murderhaus, Jenny Lou is up to some wildly stupid meme shit, Noon's just chilling.
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1
He’s gone a little tatty, for a snake, sharp clothes and fine trimming given way to leather armor and road-weary scruff. But his eyes are still clear blue, and he’s taken time to wash his hands before he reaches for her shoulder with the one that isn’t broken.
“Have you seen anyone for this?”
no subject
"Not since that shrieking nug-" As fond an address as Edgard's going to get for a while, "Cauterized it for me. Reckon it's a mess by now."
Shoulder wounds having taken a backseat to the two different gaping abdominal wounds others in their party had suffered. "Someone look at your hand?"
no subject
He secures his grip at her shoulder, confident enough in her fortitude (or fugue) to pry his thumb lightly at the wound’s edge to give himself some scope of the depth. There’s no accompanying grimace of sympathy. He’s just looking.
“Why don’t we take a walk to the chantry, and I'll see to it that you don't rot from the inside."
no subject
"Bit early for rot," she says, tone mild despite the way her jaw tightens. Her eyes sweep over their surroundings, lighting on any of their companions in sight and pausing on them briefly. Once she's done that catalogue, she nods to Richard. "All right, let's go."
no subject
Elbows boosted off his knees, he pushes back upright, tired joints popping against the shift of his weight. A gesture encourages her to lead the way -- or at least to walk in time with him, as well as she can when she has to take two or three steps for each of his.
“Have you been able to sleep?”
He waits to ask until they’re well on their way, far from prying eyes and ears.
no subject
"Not much," she tells him, "Don't have to deal with dreams, but I still got plenty of things to remember. New shit layered up on top of old shit. You had any luck?" With dreams or sleeping or both. Or shitting, frankly it'd be an interesting diversion.
no subject
The chantry within is dark and empty, little-used in her absence.
“Also,” he continues, deadpan as he holds the door, “the irrational but inevitable anxiety that another egomaniacal human could infiltrate Riftwatch and drag me into their underground torture chamber at any time.”
no subject
"They do go in for that kind of thing," she says, with a humorless laugh, "At least the ones we got already aren't inclined in that direction."
She leads them back to the little office stuffed full of books and smelling strongly of herbs. Her docotr's bag gets hauled out of it's corner and plopped heavily on a tiny (though not dwarf sized) desk. "Think I got some Royal Elfweed left. Has a stronger kick to it than the regular strain."
no subject
Where there is a desk, surely there must be chairs. Richard invites himself down into one, already reaching to produce a tobacco box from one of a dozen pockets hidden in and around his rogue’s leathers.
Contained therein are matches; he parts one out and sets it down on the desk for her to make use of.
“I’m only going to get the healing process started,” he says, as he tucks the rest of the box away. “It should push out any contaminants that have found their way in.”