“With good reason. Death is practically baked into the walls of this place. Torment, too. Not that I need to tell you that.” He follows in Fenris' footsteps, ghosting after its weary pace for the sake of doing meager work: pulling aside sheets, unfastening those robes (yes, he knows he just fit them in place, but there's dignity in ritual) to map out the worst of those injuries by sight— he needs to know what he's dealing with, if he's aiming to put it right. Just how deep the wounds run.
“Funny that after two hundred years of unwilling song and dance, it almost feels more like home than the one I had when I was alive.”
Time outweighs time, or something like that. With the place gutted of vermin of every tier, it's not anything remotely like a comfort, just...familiar. A den made of broken glass is still a den, after all. Hollowed earth yearning for a master. He sets the robe aside, murmurs a low promise of 'wait here', and then draws himself out with effort. Gone no more than a few minutes.
When he returns, he’s carrying bottles filled with vivid liquid, the same color as his eyes— though rather than blood, the fluid seems almost translucent on further inspection, shimmering with enchantments or magic or a mixture of the two.
“Consider this a compromise, my dear: I’ll tend to your wounds so you can sleep sweet as a newborn owlbear cub wrapped in its mother’s talons, we’ll stay here a day or two for the sake of your recovery, and then we can do whatever will set your heart most at ease— which by then no doubt will be whatever it is I want.”
no subject
“Funny that after two hundred years of unwilling song and dance, it almost feels more like home than the one I had when I was alive.”
Time outweighs time, or something like that. With the place gutted of vermin of every tier, it's not anything remotely like a comfort, just...familiar. A den made of broken glass is still a den, after all. Hollowed earth yearning for a master. He sets the robe aside, murmurs a low promise of 'wait here', and then draws himself out with effort. Gone no more than a few minutes.
When he returns, he’s carrying bottles filled with vivid liquid, the same color as his eyes— though rather than blood, the fluid seems almost translucent on further inspection, shimmering with enchantments or magic or a mixture of the two.
“Consider this a compromise, my dear: I’ll tend to your wounds so you can sleep sweet as a newborn owlbear cub wrapped in its mother’s talons, we’ll stay here a day or two for the sake of your recovery, and then we can do whatever will set your heart most at ease— which by then no doubt will be whatever it is I want.”