( all makoto can muster at that is an undignified snort. )
Yes, I learned that first-hand. ( he pauses, a small sound of pain catching in the back of his throat; it's not that meteion is doing a bad job, it's just that he never developed much of a tolerance for this sort of thing, even though he's had to do this sort of thing to himself several times. ) I apparently had the misfortune of coming across one of those friends before he interrupted.
( how was he to know that the pale-haired young man he'd greeted after hatching out of his crystal in the shrine of the sovereign would end up being one of the dragoon's closest companions? he's trying not to make any assumptions about all pale-faced, white-haired, elven-eared strangers that end up finding their way here, but perhaps he should loosen that personal forbearance.
what's strange is that he can feel it when the wound is finally stitched up tight. it's certainly not an instantaneous and miraculous recovery, but some of the pressure and shearing pain in his chest alleviates by precious degrees. his breathing sounds less labored and haggard. meteion will see some of this strangeness as well: as soon as it's closed, the wound oozes a few last drops of blood and then staunches. the angry red of the wound improves visibly, fading to a still-inflamed pink, but it already looks days recovered rather than a few short seconds.
still, it will probably take a few days of rest before he's recovered to the point of any strenuous activity. makoto cautiously shifts into a sitting position, reaching out for his discarded coat. even pierced and bloodied as it is, he pulls it across his shoulders once more, slowing his breathing and looking up to meteion.
she wouldn't have been out of place in hell, he thinks. it's not an insult — hell was oddly idyllic, and not at all what he had thought it might be like, and many of the demons that made their home there were elegant-looking creatures. it's the wings and the bird-like feet, really. she would have blended right in. he studies her for a moment, but he comes to realize that he should know better than to search out any shadows of duplicity in her words or her intentions. it's in the way that she speaks. that would have immediately put her at odds back in hell, where maneuvering and manipulation were the name of the game.
but they're not back there. they're here, and he is... grateful. it's a challenging emotion for him. he's always used to it coming with some dreadful caveat; it makes him paranoid, even as he admits to her, ) ...Thank you, Meteion. ( without hers or anyone else's immediate aid, it's very likely he might have bled out here on the floor of the lodestone chamber. he glances up to the waiting retainer. he could call for his, but he'd sent him on an errand so he didn't stand idle while makoto made rounds to the shrines... ) As much as I hate to lean so much on your generosity - I think you're right. It's best I don't make my way back to my room on my own.
( he says it begrudgingly, but he's not going to risk it at this point. but for this moment... he's going to remain seated just a few seconds longer, gathering up the strength it will take to stand, even with the interior of his chest still in a great deal of disarray. )
no subject
Yes, I learned that first-hand. ( he pauses, a small sound of pain catching in the back of his throat; it's not that meteion is doing a bad job, it's just that he never developed much of a tolerance for this sort of thing, even though he's had to do this sort of thing to himself several times. ) I apparently had the misfortune of coming across one of those friends before he interrupted.
( how was he to know that the pale-haired young man he'd greeted after hatching out of his crystal in the shrine of the sovereign would end up being one of the dragoon's closest companions? he's trying not to make any assumptions about all pale-faced, white-haired, elven-eared strangers that end up finding their way here, but perhaps he should loosen that personal forbearance.
what's strange is that he can feel it when the wound is finally stitched up tight. it's certainly not an instantaneous and miraculous recovery, but some of the pressure and shearing pain in his chest alleviates by precious degrees. his breathing sounds less labored and haggard. meteion will see some of this strangeness as well: as soon as it's closed, the wound oozes a few last drops of blood and then staunches. the angry red of the wound improves visibly, fading to a still-inflamed pink, but it already looks days recovered rather than a few short seconds.
still, it will probably take a few days of rest before he's recovered to the point of any strenuous activity. makoto cautiously shifts into a sitting position, reaching out for his discarded coat. even pierced and bloodied as it is, he pulls it across his shoulders once more, slowing his breathing and looking up to meteion.
she wouldn't have been out of place in hell, he thinks. it's not an insult — hell was oddly idyllic, and not at all what he had thought it might be like, and many of the demons that made their home there were elegant-looking creatures. it's the wings and the bird-like feet, really. she would have blended right in. he studies her for a moment, but he comes to realize that he should know better than to search out any shadows of duplicity in her words or her intentions. it's in the way that she speaks. that would have immediately put her at odds back in hell, where maneuvering and manipulation were the name of the game.
but they're not back there. they're here, and he is... grateful. it's a challenging emotion for him. he's always used to it coming with some dreadful caveat; it makes him paranoid, even as he admits to her, ) ...Thank you, Meteion. ( without hers or anyone else's immediate aid, it's very likely he might have bled out here on the floor of the lodestone chamber. he glances up to the waiting retainer. he could call for his, but he'd sent him on an errand so he didn't stand idle while makoto made rounds to the shrines... ) As much as I hate to lean so much on your generosity - I think you're right. It's best I don't make my way back to my room on my own.
( he says it begrudgingly, but he's not going to risk it at this point. but for this moment... he's going to remain seated just a few seconds longer, gathering up the strength it will take to stand, even with the interior of his chest still in a great deal of disarray. )