[It will take time— Fenris is right about that. But for now, at the very least, there's a rare (and much-needed) comfort in the unexpected sanctuary of this moment. Forged mostly by the little things, like the subtle shred of fabric under his fingertips, or the fact that once he's pulled the lamp closer he can at least relax at the sight of a wound that's not as bad as he'd expected when he found it. And like being left alone together, too (even if it means knowing he'll have to put up with the opposite: waking up without anyone beside him later, which is a real damned shame considering he'd just started getting used to the idea of not having to be on his own anymore), at least until this whole nightmare gets resolved.
It was nice, while it lasted.
Click go his nails against each other, the little makeup kit left behind by the servant that normally stays here doing better work than his manicure at plucking out shards of abrading glass— but he still has to make sure the pieces don't pop off into space after he's finished catching them, so it's turned into a nominally joined effort on two fronts: picking the fragments free and then carefully maneuvering them onto the nightstand's edge. Clack go the pieces when they finally drop onto the wood, a few of them looking gruesomely big for how deeply they'd been embedded.
After that, comes the scissors, and a freshly uncapped bottle of alcohol for cleaning makeup (the very same kit again) saves the day, using a few cotton eyeshadow pads as gauze through the wrap of disinfected sleeve cloth.
One good soak, and he sets in on cleaning.]
Dalyria. [Astarion almost laughs when he admits it, though he's still fairly grim-faced on principle thanks to the task of daubing up blood. All tight lip lines and an angled stoop across his folded ankle, leaning forward. His eyes aren't as good as they used to be (if they ever were that good when he was a kid, he hasn't any idea, really)— but they're not that bad, either.
And frankly: fuck getting glasses. He refuses.]
She and I— well, mm. [All right, all right:] Mostly her, got him back up on his feet and vomiting using charcoal from the nearby fire. There wasn't much that much poison in his system, so once she mixed it with cold water and forced him to drink it, a handful or so seconds later: out came the rest.
He was lucky he lived at all, but then I suppose that's the way of Petras in general.
[A beat, and then.]
After that, I was mostly just curious. She wasn't terrible to listen prattle on about blood and gauze and whatnot. Kept me from losing my mind from all the usual bleak mundanity, anyway.
no subject
It was nice, while it lasted.
Click go his nails against each other, the little makeup kit left behind by the servant that normally stays here doing better work than his manicure at plucking out shards of abrading glass— but he still has to make sure the pieces don't pop off into space after he's finished catching them, so it's turned into a nominally joined effort on two fronts: picking the fragments free and then carefully maneuvering them onto the nightstand's edge. Clack go the pieces when they finally drop onto the wood, a few of them looking gruesomely big for how deeply they'd been embedded.
After that, comes the scissors, and a freshly uncapped bottle of alcohol for cleaning makeup (the very same kit again) saves the day, using a few cotton eyeshadow pads as gauze through the wrap of disinfected sleeve cloth.
One good soak, and he sets in on cleaning.]
Dalyria. [Astarion almost laughs when he admits it, though he's still fairly grim-faced on principle thanks to the task of daubing up blood. All tight lip lines and an angled stoop across his folded ankle, leaning forward. His eyes aren't as good as they used to be (if they ever were that good when he was a kid, he hasn't any idea, really)— but they're not that bad, either.
And frankly: fuck getting glasses. He refuses.]
She and I— well, mm. [All right, all right:] Mostly her, got him back up on his feet and vomiting using charcoal from the nearby fire. There wasn't much that much poison in his system, so once she mixed it with cold water and forced him to drink it, a handful or so seconds later: out came the rest.
He was lucky he lived at all, but then I suppose that's the way of Petras in general.
[A beat, and then.]
After that, I was mostly just curious. She wasn't terrible to listen prattle on about blood and gauze and whatnot. Kept me from losing my mind from all the usual bleak mundanity, anyway.