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sidony venaras. ([personal profile] indissection) wrote2011-09-29 09:20 pm

inbox,


crystal • notes • drop in • etc!
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[personal profile] esquive 2019-04-09 07:33 pm (UTC)(link)
He's aware of movement alongside him, but his face is turned far enough away that the shift of her hands don't register in his peripheral vision. It's all reduced to the rustle of cloth, the soft clink of small sharp things, and the strange phantom feeling of pressure in the parts of his hand that still have feeling. It will hurt soon, he thinks, but for the moment--

"Not that I know of. I'm meant to mind the gate to the Inquisition docks in the morning, but someone else is doing the work for me. Most of my duties can be avoided for a day or two, or they don't need a second hand to mind them." Ask him tomorrow. Or the next day. Maybe things will have changed then, word handed down from the Forces office on tightly rolled scrolls.
esquive: ([ 007 ])

[personal profile] esquive 2019-04-09 08:14 pm (UTC)(link)
"Fair enough. That's more or less what I've been doing, so it should be easy." The slip of her accent is escusable - it's not like he's being particularly clear either, one Orlesian word wandering blithely into the next.

There. The edge of something cutting. Hot pain courses through his arm and the surprise of it makes him forearm twitch hard against the strap binding it down. He goes very sharp, teeth snapping as a surge of adrenaline penetrates the fog of...everything else, only to slip through his fingers once on the other side. For a split second, he can hear blood in his ears, sense some flash of fear and the urge to look at what she's doing. Instead, Marcoulf takes another drink from the bottle wrapped tightly in his good hand. He counts the bolts in the door.
esquive: ([ 011 ])

[personal profile] esquive 2019-04-09 08:30 pm (UTC)(link)
That makes him laugh, a sawing wheezing noise exhaled through his teeth. The tension in the line of his shoulder doesn't abate and there's a muscle in his neck that's flexing, but surely the survival of his humor is a good sign. Does he look like the kind of man who fights for pleasure? Probably. He'd brought his sword with him today. The silvered rapier is leaned against the table, it's very fine pommel and the elegant twisting lines of its basket hilt hooked just there to keep it from slipping. There's the wickedly long knife in his belt too, though it's been some time since he drew it.

"I'll do my best to avoid it," he says, before downing the concoction she'd passed to him. The wood too he sets between his teeth, pressing his tongue hard at the edge. It's fine. It doesn't hurt. It's fine.
esquive: ([ 013 ])

[personal profile] esquive 2019-04-09 08:44 pm (UTC)(link)
Another huff, this one muffled by the piece of wood set between his teeth. It hamstrings him as a conversational partner, but that's probably for the best as she gets to the-- meat of the matter, little ticks and scrapes and grinding that feel like she must be twisting the delicate interior parts of his hand like a thread about its spool. He's remains steadfast about not looking, trying instead to ignore the strange sensations as they crawl up the length of his arm and gnaw at his elbow, his shoulder. Eventually, he just sets his face in his good hand and stares at some abstract portion of the tabletop and sweats under his shirt.
esquive: ([ 015 ])

mobile dw, pls

[personal profile] esquive 2019-04-09 09:05 pm (UTC)(link)
There's a low answering noise, but he gets no farther. Minutes ago, when he'd first made himself comfortable in the clinic, his mind had wandered relatively freely, untethered by a sick uncertainty for the first time in weeks thanks to some combination of the smoke and the drink and the fact that he had finally had no option but to do something. What had he been thinking of then instead of hurting? He tries to remember it now. That the weather had been good. That either way, this would decide something. That after this he might go and sleep and wake up again and he might find himself in a good mood after all. That Anna will laugh at him after all this. That--

But the immediacy of the pain despite the thick taste of the potion in his mouth keeps him here in this room. But it's fine. The hurt is a good sign, he thinks with all the vicious determination of a dog's jaws clamped shut on a bone. It's fine. It's fine. It's fine.
esquive: ([ 011 ])

[personal profile] esquive 2019-04-09 09:20 pm (UTC)(link)
For a moment, it's like he doesn't hear her. He's not still - there's a faintly shifting quality to the line of his shoulder, to the set of his fingers against his face and unseen, his heel is jumping against the stone at jerking intervals. He's going to vomit, he thinks. He's sweating through his shirt as if fevered and soon it'll make him sick. (It's fine. It's fine. It's--)

A croak. He straightens by a few degrees and for the first time glances toward her work.
esquive: ([ 015 ])

[personal profile] esquive 2019-04-09 09:28 pm (UTC)(link)
It's an ugly, fleshy thing - strange shapes that don't seem like they belong to anyone much less at the end of his own arm. He looks for a while, pale under the shade of his hand, turns his face away again. A low noise. No further protest. It's fine. He's fine. Just get it over with.
esquive: ([ 013 ])

[personal profile] esquive 2019-04-09 09:47 pm (UTC)(link)
And that's how it goes: a girl (because she is one - young and small and fierce in a way youth describes) with her metal tools and her sharp mending needle and her sturdy waxed thread leaning low over the flayed open hand as Marcoulf, pale and sweating and stupid in turns either from the pain of the work or from the thrumming insulation of the heady herbal sludge he'd drunk down, breathing low deliberate breaths. Time passes. The light in the clinic window must shift, but the change is incremental enough that he doesn't register it. His jaw aches. His thigh is stiff from the anxious bouncing of his heel and knee. Eventually, his teeth are sore enough that Marcoulf discards the piece of wood.

Lightheaded. Distant. Feels like he should be farther from this point, but his boot soles are bound to the floor. After some time, he says, "I'm tired," like some exhausted complaining child might.
esquive: ([ 012 ])

[personal profile] esquive 2019-04-09 09:59 pm (UTC)(link)
Yes. Stop it.

"I'd rather be done." Said plainly, before segueing into some rambling nonsense sentence: "This is worse than the Fade."
esquive: ([ 015 ])

[personal profile] esquive 2019-04-09 10:09 pm (UTC)(link)
The end.

Wrapped so, it's as if nothing at all has been done and he has merely been sitting here for hours and sweat through his shirt for nothing. Marcoulf reaches immediately to ease the strap about his arm. Despite everything, his left hand remains shocking dexterous. The buckle comes open easily. He draws his arm free with a halting noise.

"Good. That's fine." Like saying it makes it true. "Thank you."
esquive: ([ 008 ])

[personal profile] esquive 2019-04-09 10:21 pm (UTC)(link)
He's fantastically inert as she collects the bottles, the sling - just sits there with his arm set stiffly against his chest and takes measure of himself. His feet on the ground. The wavering, ill feeling high in the back of his head. She's giving him instructions. Fine. They sound fine. The little bag is accepted without question, then he rouses with a sharp jerk of the shoulders. Dark eyes briefly gain some razor sharp focus.

"Did I pay you already?" This is broad, heavily accented Trade. Forgetting the discussion they had on this point. "I don't have it with me. I'll bring it tomorrow."
esquive: ([ 001 ])

[personal profile] esquive 2019-04-09 10:34 pm (UTC)(link)
For a split second, it's like he might argue with her. He goes sharp and bristling, some shifting behind the curl of his beard indicating the suspicious set of his jaw. Then he gives, the cotton-wrapped quality of the pain-and-liquor-and-Andraste-knows-what-else smothering his protests.

"If you say so." This still in Trade, sound clipped and brusque in a way the Orlesian doesn't. One handed, he reaches for his sword where it's leaned against the table. Stands abruptly and bangs the table edge with the beautiful hilt of the lovely sword as he tries to grab both it and keep his balance.

A moment. He forces himself to steady.

There. It's fine.

"Will you need to see it again?"
esquive: ([ 001 ])

[personal profile] esquive 2019-04-09 10:51 pm (UTC)(link)
"Easily done." More easily done than hooking the rapier back at his belt is presently, so he doesn't both with that one. Just tucks it clumsily under his arm, then gathers the little packet she's prepared for him and takes that too. He stays there for a few seconds longer, hip set firmly against the table's edge like the hard line of it will do some good to ground him more firmly. Then--

"Thank you. I'm sure it will be fine."

And then, with a great fumbling and jangling of small metal pieces and the thump of his sheathed sword against the clinic's door frame, he's gone. Seems that much - breezing in and out, gone almost as instantly in the way he'd first stumbled into the clinic, bottle in hand - remains habitual.