open: "accidents" will happen.

[aberratic]

WHO: Ness Tavane (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.

Comments

[aberratic]

They heave. Ness stays dutifully still—aside from the scream as their efforts jolt her arm.

The bookcase moves slowly, the heavy wood fighting them every step of the way as they attempt to shove it back. It scrapes and catches on grooves in the floor, resists their strength and threatens to slip from their fingers, splinters angrily in their hands—and finally drops heavily again, flat on the floor, with a resentful thud. The floor shakes, and the other shelves with it, but nothing else falls. Only their laboured breathing remains to fill the silence in the office.

Ness still isn't allowed to move. Her eyes lock on Stephen's, and she can only imagine what she looks like—hair frizzed from sweat, eyes wild with pain, skin drawn paler than a moon elf, to say nothing of her arm. She hasn't looked at it to see the damage for herself. Oghma willing, she won't have to.

"I would," she says, voice thready with the effort of maintaining coherence, volume, sanity, "very much like the cuff, please, Doctor."

[portalling]

The Head Healer wipes real sweat from his forehead, already somewhat tired from the effort, already knowing there’s a much longer morning awaiting them without a motorised bone saw to speed things up. If they were worried about the veracity of the accident, at least they’re making it look real as hell.

“The cuff’s in the infirmary,” he says, looking steadily and unblinking at the injury, sizing it up. Crushed bone, shattered from the weight, not the kind of clean fracture which could be splinted and easily healed. Good. That’s what they wanted.

“Which is where we’re headed, immediately. Averesch, can you carry her?”

The girl’s pint-sized, another thing in their favour —