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Entry tags:
open: "accidents" will happen.
WHO: Ness Tavane (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
aberratic)
WHAT: An "accident" and an amputation
WHEN: Backdated-ish to mid-March
WHERE: The Gallows/Infirmary
NOTES: CW for amputation of a limb, illness from infection in said limb, confusion and disorientation as a result of fever. Lmk if you need any other cws and I'll add them!
aberratic)WHAT: An "accident" and an amputation
WHEN: Backdated-ish to mid-March
WHERE: The Gallows/Infirmary
NOTES: CW for amputation of a limb, illness from infection in said limb, confusion and disorientation as a result of fever. Lmk if you need any other cws and I'll add them!
It's early morning one balmy day in the middle of Drakonis, and the central tower of the Gallows is quiet. A few early risers have already made their ways to their offices, not to mention those who fell asleep in their offices—or those who never slept in the first place—but most of Riftwatch is still asleep, or at least milling about the dining hall. Coffee and tea are still brewing, breakfast is still being served, the work of the day is still at least an hour away for most.
This is purposeful; it means there's no one near the Quartermaster's office to see what happens. There is only silence, and then a sudden cacophonous crash to break it, and a high, sharp scream.
This is purposeful; it means there's no one near the Quartermaster's office to see what happens. There is only silence, and then a sudden cacophonous crash to break it, and a high, sharp scream.
no subject
Water laced with the familiar taste of magebane. He props the cup at her lips, fishes a rag for the spill.
He waits until it's done. Fingers lift — here I am, look and see — before lowering to forehead. Air tenses. The strings of something almost real wrap about spindled hand, and he reaches to draw the Veil over her eyes.
It's a little like sleeping. To Stephen's eye, it's nearer torpor. Consciousness recedes. Awareness does, gone heavy beneath the blanketing weight of stasis. Breath slows. Vessels narrow. The sparks between nerve and neuron jump less, ask less, demand less.
Maybe she finds the Fade, maybe she doesn't.
It finds her. Isaac's gaze drifts, searching a sense without proper name. This first part is the easiest. He doesn't own the words: Homeostasis, hypothalamus, pyrogen; can't describe the place where defense curls about to bite. Spells are shaped by understanding, and his is this — she's too warm. Flesh cuts a smothering weave, drawn too tight, without room to breathe. Without room to work. He digs a nail into the invisible space between. He pulls.
As he sets toward the infection, her temperature begins to drop.