He's been back to the clinic a handful of times since they first spoke - to correct the set of his wrist, to have the scarring minded, to refresh his little supply of salves and so on -, but all of them brief interludes. Today, Marcoulf's arm is lashed down by a tightened strap. The numb curl of his right hand has been flattened and is in the process of having dried salve and dirt and the general grime cleared away in preparation for--
Well, he's thought enough about what's to be done that Marcoulf feels no strong inclination to give it much consideration now. Instead, his attention (made gentle and wandering in part by what he'd smoked before coming along to this appointment) is split between the bottle of alcohol near to his functional hand and the streak of daylight in the clinic's narrow window. It's a keen not-quite-spring morning, all of Kirkwall's gray having cleared briefly away from the sky as if in memory of some still distant summer.
"Will it take long to do?" It's a strangely mild question, divorced entirely from the visceral parts of what Sidony is about to begin and made milder still by the rolling syllables of Orlesian.
action;
Well, he's thought enough about what's to be done that Marcoulf feels no strong inclination to give it much consideration now. Instead, his attention (made gentle and wandering in part by what he'd smoked before coming along to this appointment) is split between the bottle of alcohol near to his functional hand and the streak of daylight in the clinic's narrow window. It's a keen not-quite-spring morning, all of Kirkwall's gray having cleared briefly away from the sky as if in memory of some still distant summer.
"Will it take long to do?" It's a strangely mild question, divorced entirely from the visceral parts of what Sidony is about to begin and made milder still by the rolling syllables of Orlesian.