( ooc: taking place directly after the events of this thread. )
( the returning stone finally activates, space shifts and turns around him, once more temporarily throwing him into the crushing void before depositing him unceremoniously on the floor of the lodestone chamber in achamoth. he is not in a good way. he had left the stone floor of the shrine of the sovereign stained in blood, and now he seems fast on his way to do much the same here.
it's not to say he hasn't put forth his best efforts to keep that from happening — his shirt is in bloody tatters where he's torn it apart at the seams to get at the horrible wound that the blade of a lance leaves when piercing through the chest just below the ribs, all the way through, before being pulled free. wherever he goes, makoto carries with him a surgical needle and medical sutures (or whatever equivalent he can find here), and so while he'd waited for the returning stone to activate, he'd sewed up the gash. it hadn't been easy, not with loss of blood dimming his vision and that escaping blood welling up and spilling out from around his numb fingers; his body had shook with the effort of even holding his hands up high enough to fumble through the motions of stitching up his abdomen, but he'd managed it. it wasn't pretty, but it would do — sure enough, the bleeding had staunched as soon as he'd finished. in hell, this demonic body of his would cling to life no matter what he did to it, but here... well, so long as he could piece it together, it seems it would slowly drag itself back toward a state of equilibrium.
but that's just the problem. it wasn't the only injury he had — not when the angry laceration on his front had a similarly irate sibling through his back. admittedly, the former had been far more grievous, but the latter still aches and stings and bleeds; the evidence blooms like a crimson flower through the rich fabric of the heavy coat he wears over his shoulders. he tries to stand, but he can't seem to force his legs to cooperate; he's forced to collapse right back to the ground. he shrugs one arm out of the coat, reaching toward the font of pain centered in his back. he hisses a curse underneath his breath. how is he supposed to suture a wound like this? he isn't sure how much longer he can continue to lose blood and remain conscious. had he really endeavored so much to end up slipping away like this regardless?
the ignominy of the thought is almost too much to bear. )
for meteion | at the end of lovaseri | cw blood
( the returning stone finally activates, space shifts and turns around him, once more temporarily throwing him into the crushing void before depositing him unceremoniously on the floor of the lodestone chamber in achamoth. he is not in a good way. he had left the stone floor of the shrine of the sovereign stained in blood, and now he seems fast on his way to do much the same here.
it's not to say he hasn't put forth his best efforts to keep that from happening — his shirt is in bloody tatters where he's torn it apart at the seams to get at the horrible wound that the blade of a lance leaves when piercing through the chest just below the ribs, all the way through, before being pulled free. wherever he goes, makoto carries with him a surgical needle and medical sutures (or whatever equivalent he can find here), and so while he'd waited for the returning stone to activate, he'd sewed up the gash. it hadn't been easy, not with loss of blood dimming his vision and that escaping blood welling up and spilling out from around his numb fingers; his body had shook with the effort of even holding his hands up high enough to fumble through the motions of stitching up his abdomen, but he'd managed it. it wasn't pretty, but it would do — sure enough, the bleeding had staunched as soon as he'd finished. in hell, this demonic body of his would cling to life no matter what he did to it, but here... well, so long as he could piece it together, it seems it would slowly drag itself back toward a state of equilibrium.
but that's just the problem. it wasn't the only injury he had — not when the angry laceration on his front had a similarly irate sibling through his back. admittedly, the former had been far more grievous, but the latter still aches and stings and bleeds; the evidence blooms like a crimson flower through the rich fabric of the heavy coat he wears over his shoulders. he tries to stand, but he can't seem to force his legs to cooperate; he's forced to collapse right back to the ground. he shrugs one arm out of the coat, reaching toward the font of pain centered in his back. he hisses a curse underneath his breath. how is he supposed to suture a wound like this? he isn't sure how much longer he can continue to lose blood and remain conscious. had he really endeavored so much to end up slipping away like this regardless?
the ignominy of the thought is almost too much to bear. )