hadriel_logs | Event Log: Assassin

Entry tags:

Event Log: Assassin

Who: Everyone!
What: The Assassin event
Where: Throughout the city
When: April 15th-23rd
Warnings: Inevitable character death, potential horror and gore and unpleasantness. Please remember to tag for warnings in the header if it things get too bad!

The morning of April 15th in Hadriel is cheerful, with artificial light streaming through your window. Your blankets are warm, jabberjays are shrieking, and you're probably going to experience a murder attempt today.

Maybe it'll be from a stranger, maybe it'll be from a friend, but the bottom line is that everybody is after somebody and nobody is safe (...okay, twelve people are safe, but that's beside the point). Time will only tell when you'll be overcome by that murderous rage and try to kill someone else. The best thing you can probably do at this point is stay calm, keep your head high, and try not to die for the next eight days.

Helpfully, Rage will have restocked her armory for the event, for those of you have yet to arm themselves. Additionally, for a limited time only, the armory will be stocked with bear traps, tripwire (in both 'general wire' and 'barbed wire' flavor), and voice recorders. Use all of them, use none of them, just get on out there and kill each other!

Oh, and one last thing...

► This log covers April 15th-23rd.
► Feel free to make your own logs as well!
► Please tag headers of threads with content warnings where they apply
► Please put your character's name and open/closed in the subject line of your starters!
► Did your assassin catch up to you? Please remember to hit up our death post!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Thus far, the city has proven a headache for Carlisle. There'd been monsters when he'd arrived, and there are possibly murderers in the streets now; the man he owes amends has no idea who Carlisle is or why he is owed said amends in the first place. Worst was when his arm was mangled by a killer box -- while the injury wasn't a problem for a trained healer such as himself (excruciatingly painful, yes, but not a problem), clothing is another matter.

There's not much he can do about the gaping holes in his right glove. His gloves are attached to his undershirt, and are meant to cover his arms all the way into the sleeves of his jacket; the garment is common wear for channellers like himself. However, with all the tears from the mimic's massive fangs, it hardly covers much skin on his right arm anymore, the rips exacerbated by the stretch of the fabric every time he puts it on. He's covered the majority of his arm in a bandage for the time being, intact parts of the glove peeking out from the top and bottom. It'll have to do until he can find a suitable replacement.

The blood from the wound that ruined his glove has been problematic, as well. While the stains came out of his jacket easily enough, the tabard has taken more work to scour clean. The work has, thankfully, kept him occupied: with the news on the network of killers on the loose, he's holed himself up in his apartment, as per Miriam's warning. He's always glad to stay out of sight when dangers are afoot. He can't help his curiosity though, that nagging at the back of his mind that he could be doing more, especially for those who had already helped him. His goddess favors those who repay their debts, after all.

Living at the top of one of the Spires, he's taken up the old habit of people-watching, spotting passersby far below his vantage high above the streets as they go about their business. The window in his apartment is sizable, making for a nice spot to sit, scrub, and appreciate the fact that he's back in some form of civilization. It's certainly not home, but it's a far cry from the jungle, and he's grateful for that.

He's in the middle of washing his tabard for the fourth time, his hands idly scrubbing away at that stubborn stain, when Carlisle spots him: that sharp, blond hair and pale, bare chest stands out against the darker streets. It's Mr. Shirtless himself.

"Hm. Guess parading about on the communicators wasn't enough for you, was it?" Carlisle asks with a sneer, rolling his eyes before bringing them back to the stained tabard in his hands. He dips it into the bucket at his feet and scrubs a little harder, taking out his annoyance on the blood tarnishing his precious vestment. "Look at me, a shameless example of just why this cit—"

And then he hears the first gunshot. Even from his apartment, it's loud and dissonant enough to startle him: he stiffens reflexively, dropping his tabard and the bar of soap he'd been scrubbing it with into the wash pail. Did he hear that? Did he just hear what he thought he heard?

Wiping his hands on his jacket, he creeps to the window, staying below the sill, unsure if he's in danger or not. He peers into the streets, trying to stay low enough to not be seen, but hoping to figure out exactly what the commotion is so he can determine whether or not he needs to be hiding in the closet. There's Mr. Shirtless, now poised at the end of an alley, and—

Oh. Oh that is a gun in his arm, isn't it?

Carlisle's eyes follow the direction he's aiming, but he can't see the target of Mr. Shirtless' malice. The point is that while Carlisle himself is in no danger, someone else undoubtedly is. Or worse, they're dead. He dips below the sill again, covering his mouth with his hand.

"I should stay here," he says immediately, verbalizing his initial thought. "He's not after me. It's not my business."

He lets out a whine from the back of his throat as he inwardly rebuts his own statement. "It isn't. I mean, I could go down there and, perhaps once he's gone, find whomever it is he's shooting at. Heal them up, bring him to justice. This place must have some kind of..." He flexes his fingers as he gestures vaguely into the air, literally grasping for words as though they were dangling before him. "Law enforcement. A constable, police, anything. Do those 'gods' care that murders are being committed?"

He knows the answer to that the moment he asks it: one of them is likely causing these murders, perhaps getting people to work for them. He had been told they fed on emotions, after all. Murders cause fear, much like he is experiencing himself right that moment. With his terrible indecision, he realizes belatedly, he is indirectly helping the false gods.

Carlisle kicks himself, determination welling in his gut at that thought. "Well, now I have to go down there. I can't sit up here and be afraid. I serve the Camisou and no one else, and... and..."

He trails off, his hands shaking as he pushes himself off the floor; the second gunshot rings out behind him, echoing all the way to his window. "I can do this," he says in a feeble attempt at encouragement; it fails, as usual, and he puts a hand to this holy symbol for comfort instead, as though the talisman would protect him from harm. "Just... just stay low and... try not to get shot."

Leaving his tabard to soak, he heads out the door, starting the long run down the spiral steps as the third gunshot rings through the air.

Edited 2016-04-22 13:01 (UTC)

Do the gods care? That is a very good question. From Rey's personal experience with them, they seem to express an astounding lack of empathy towards those that they've kept prisoners here. Not that she is much better right now -- she doesn't feel much empathy for anyone, or anything at all. There is no anger or hatred over what has happened to her, or towards the man responsible. Not everyone is equipped to contain their rage like she can.

No, feelings aren't the primary concern here. What's a concern is the fact that she's bleeding in the head. The shot still stings her upper forehead where the bullet grazed, but otherwise doesn't prove to be fatal. One could thank having a metal skull for that.

It is a shame that she's used up what little spark was left of Hope's blessing the other week, because it sure as hell would have been helpful to still have. She wouldn't be staggering into the most recently renovated spire to try and scrounge up a first aid or something.

They have first aid in the apartments, don't they?

Ugh.

"All right. Have this under control," she mutters under her breath, leaning against the door to the spire entrance. She takes a step forward and stumbles, catching herself on the stair railing.

Turns out, she doesn't really have this under control. Much as she'd like to think otherwise, she doesn't have much of anything under control...

If there's one thing Carlisle has discovered in his short time living at the very top of Spire Four, it's that going up the stairs to his apartment is far more taxing than going down them. Though his gut would rather him stay inside, safe and sound, his long legs barrel down the stairwell step by step, urging him to move faster, lest he change his mind on the whole "braving the streets for the good of someone else" thing.

Fortunately that someone else has already found her way into the tower, saving him the trip into the streets; unfortunately, she's in the way as he finally makes his way to the bottom, and he's going entirely too fast to stop himself.

Not that he doesn't try. The instant he rounds the edge of the spiral stairs and sees someone there, he grabs the railing -- he stumbles and nearly rams himself into the wall, but he stops inches short of her.

And then he just stares with his mouth hanging open, because that's what he does when he sees someone else he recognizes -- someone he's on fair terms with, no less -- and she's bleeding from the head.

Blood is pouring down the side of Rey's face, over her eye that's squeezed shut. Because getting blood in your eye is just gross.

She stops as well when Carlisle halts in front of her. It's easy enough to interpret his expression as having something to do with her current state. It's not every day you find someone walking away from a headshot, but here is Rey in all of her metal skeleton glory, somehow still on her feet. Sad to say, this isn't the worst hit she's ever taken.

"Unless you're a doctor, would suggest moving so this--" Rey points to the gash in her skull. "--can get taken care of."

Why she's taking refuge in the spires and not rushing straight to the clinic? Well, the spire was closer and more convenient. If nothing else she could find someplace to clean out the wounds.

Carlisle is frozen solid for another two seconds, then his mind catches up with the rest of him, as it had apparently been left somewhere near the top of the stairwell and didn't follow as closely as it should have. What this means, unfortunately, is that his thoughts jumble together all at once, dumped into a pile like an entire box of puzzle pieces that should fit together into a cohesive picture, but likely won't, as some bits from an entirely different puzzle got shoved in with the rest at some point and no one quite knows where they should go.

"I'm- Miss- no—" He pries one of his hands off the railing and tries again, holding it up as though to give her pause. "I mean, what I'm- it's me- I can help you!"

Yes, that was indeed a beautiful, coherent statement he put together out of all those pieces. He can save the rest of those thoughts for later, when she's not bleeding from her head and possibly about to die. Good fortune has brought him one of the other people to whom he owes amends -- and even better is that there's something he can actually do for her.

Once again, it's easy enough to chalk up Carlisle's stammering to possible surprise. Not over the fact that he already knows her (Rey has no idea), but her possible injuries. That's enough to make almost anyone balk.

"Fine. Let's get out of here."

She doesn't know if she's been followed here, but she'd rather get out of sight and hopefully out of a certain someone's mind sooner rather than later. For someone who just walked away from a gunshot wound, she doesn't appear to be in any state of urgency.

Despite her condition, she brushes past Carlisle easily enough and makes her way to the lower apartment, her shoulder dragging across the wall. She checks to see if it's open first, and then helps herself inside. If he isn't just blowing smoke out of his ass and is telling the truth, she trusts that Carlisle will follow.

And follow he does, grateful she didn't ask him to clarify any more than that, and even more grateful she didn't ask they go to his apartment. Thankfully, the one on the ground floor is completely empty when she pushes the door open.

He steps inside after her, closing the door once he's through, hoping all the while that whomever did this to her isn't somewhere close behind. Bullet hole, her proximity to the Spire -- he has an educated guess ready to go.

"Take a seat," he says, gesturing to the couch in the room; it's entirely too tall for a normal human being, with the cushions coming up to his chest, but it will do. "This should only take a moment, though I'll admit you're moving... surprisingly well for someone with a wound like, um. Yours. Like that one right there in your head. There."

He's definitely off to a good start at not making himself look like a fool while he makes these amends, isn't he? He bites his lip as he pulls his hands free of his gloves, trying to look less bothered by all the blood than he truly is. He's not doing a great job so far, and he knows it. "You know how this works, right? Did I ever tell you?"

Rrright. That's normal. This is totally normal. There is nothing off at all about this entire situation. But whatever, it isn't like Rey cares. All she wants is for the stinging to stop and perhaps get this damned ringing out of her head.

She's already on her way to the couch before Carlisle even says anything, almost reeling sideways when she does but fights to sit upright. Can't just pass out in front of a total stranger. Who knows if she can even trust him to heal her?

Rey shrugs at his initial assessment just then. For someone who's used to taking damage, the injuries she has now are nothing. Still, it would be nice not to have to deal with it.

Much to Carlisle's fortune, she is too out of it to bother questioning his demeanor. But he does catch her off guard at that last question.

"What do you mean? Are you a doctor or not?"

"I'm—" He cuts himself off with a frustrated sigh, one that accompanies a wounded look. "You don't remember me, either."

Firo hadn't, after all. Why would she? Of course, he only knew Firo in passing, had only spoken to him a handful of times; he'd talked to Rey far more, had casual discussions about her pyromancy by the acidic waterfall and considered the possibilities of mastering what skills the ship had granted them -- skills that had seemingly disappeared since his arrival in this strange, new world. Perhaps it hurt more with her because she knew a little more about him. They weren't friends -- more like people with a common interest, but that was often more than he got with most people.

With his being brought to Hadriel, all of that has been stripped away, leaving him surrounded by people he wants to help, but now has to justify why. He's stricken with guilt and a desire to make right what he did, but for all they know, he never wronged them in the first place.

He never did favor the spotlight his uncles and father got from their work, but to be forgotten entirely is a wound he doesn't know how to heal. While a less religious man might just say that absolved him of the responsibility, Carlisle can't do that. The sin might exist only in his memory now... but it still exists, still plagues his soul.

He scowls, his fingers curling against his palms as his eyes hit the floor. His hand strays to the holy symbol hanging from his neck, the talisman visible without his tabard to hide it. "Fine," he utters under his breath. "I see how those false gods would have it."

And then he brings his gaze back to her, ire fueling him far more than piety. "I'm a healer, magical. I'll have to put my hands on you to heal you, if that's all right, but I can do it."

Memory is an important thing to Rey. For one thing, she isn't supposed to forget things. She's not built that way anymore. All the memories that had been taken from her have been restored.

So when Carlisle implies that that may have been tampered with, it would be cause for some concern. It isn't the first time she's had someone recognize her and she have no memory of them. But that's not how it's supposed to be anymore.

Perhaps he just knows her some other way?

As it is, Rey lacks the feeling to care about whether or not there is has been a glitch in her system. She already knows that there's something wrong with her head, and it has nothing to do with whether or not she remembers this man. There is a startling absence of fear or alarm; she's locked that ability away and, the more she considers it, the less worried she is capable of. She doesn't have to fret about being hurt in the same way that other people hurt. She doesn't have to deal with the agonies of human emotion.

The more she thinks about it, the more she comes to realize that it's so much better this way.

As Carlisle speaks, Rey finds herself more adverse to the idea that he has to touch her than the fact that she can't remember who he is.

The corner of her lip twitches. She brings a hand up to the bloody scratch in her forehead. "If that is what you have to do, then do it."

He has her reluctant permission.

Carlisle nods, swallowing down his vexation, sending it to boil in his gut rather than cloud his head. He can mull over his ineptitude later. There's work to be done.

"Good," he says, sensing she's not all that keen on being touched. He can relate to that better than most. "I'll make this as quick and as painless as possible." Quick he can definitely do; painless is another subject, but he gets the feeling that after being shot in the head, a little bit of burning as energy surges through her will be trifling to Rey at the absolute worst.

He places his bared hands at her temples and starts channeling, trying to focus on his magic rather than his doubts; they soon consume him anyway. If she knew him, he ponders, surely she'd have said something? She'd have had recognition cross her, a word of relief to see someone of his trade when she was so wounded -- yet, she'd asked if he was a doctor. The Rey he knows knew better.

His fingers curl again, this time against her skin as he screws his eyes shut tighter. This is a punishment, isn't it? These false gods can't possibly know what would torture him the most, could they? They could so easily prey upon his fears -- he had lots of them, so it wasn't that difficult -- but to reinforce his guilt so thoroughly, so... specifically? It was as if they could read his mind, look into his heart and see what it was that would torment him most of all.

Behind his lips, Carlisle's teeth grind together as he forces out more energy, channelling far more than is probably required to heal Rey's injuries, but too distracted by his own distress to notice. He used his curse against others -- he is a miserable failure as a cleric. He has to atone for his sins, but he's been forgotten by those he owes reparations. No one would consider someone so inadequate to be a proper heir to the Longinmouths. His lineage might as well have died with his uncles.

The tension in his muscles has mounted in his arms and shoulders; his face holds an expression of pure, unbridled loathing before he finally feels something, something that draws him from his inward revulsion to the world around him. He releases her and steps back, coughing heavily as ink comes up through his teeth from his gut, the boiling there too hot to contain it.

He utters a reflexive apology as he wipes his mouth on the bandages that now cover his right arm. "Sorry, ah. Sorry. That's better, isn't it?" He asks that flatly without so much as a glance at Rey, his mind still wrapped up in the poor control he has over his own emotions. If he's going to be trapped in a city where a set of false deities feed on such things, he's going to have to learn to manage them better -- not just his fear, but all the others, too.

Pain happens to be the least of Rey's troubles. Her head already stings like a bitch and the blood streaming down her closed eye is pretty annoying. What's a little more going to bother her? She feels that hint of burning and it doesn't even register that it's coming from Carlisle -- it could also be her.

Either way, she is a compliant and quiet 'patient'. Suddenly the whole implications that this man knows more about her than she knows him is just an echo in the back of her mind, as the relief from the pain fades away. Sure, it wasn't a crippling injury by any means, but it'll be much easier to walk around without a hole in her head. (It'd probably raise less worries from certain nagging people that are in her life here, too.)

"Why are you apologizing?" Rey asks once it's all done and over with, touching her bloody forehead where the wounds have closed up. He seems to be the one evidently puking black bile now. "Are you okay?"

Her tones lack any hint of humanity that would normally accompany those words. She is mostly just pointing out a simple fact that is right in front of her.

Another nod, another apology. "Fine. Sorry, I- I'm fine." His eyes finally flick to her, specifically to her wounds: they're closed up now, the only evidence they'd ever existed being the blood still clinging to her skin. She is a pyromancer of some sort, he reminds himself -- she might not have even noticed the fact he'd pushed more energy into her than was necessary. While the sensation could be as unpleasant as the initial injury for someone with no magical abilities at all, she was likely tempered toward such events.

Still, he needs to get a handle on it, lest he accidentally hurt someone while trying to help them. Magical surges are not to be toyed with; he's a trained healer for a reason, not some magician who felt he could take on the world with no formal education.

That thought has to wait -- he holds up a hand and makes for the sink, spitting out more ink as it comes up. He answers her before she can question it again: "Still perfectly fine, Miss Prochainezo. This happens. How are you feeling over there? Better? Less, er..." He stifles a cough before spitting out the last bit of bile. "Less injured, right?"

The pain is gone, so that's good. Rey can take care of the blood herself, and with her injuries healed she can at least rely on her own abilities to get up and wash off the blood once Carlisle is done spitting into the sink.

She touches her head, feeling the opening where the bullet had nicked her skull now closed as though it never existed. Her eye squints through the bloody flow over the side of her face, but is otherwise functional.

"Yes, am fi--" She stops and snaps her head towards him. "Wait. What did you say just now?"

Did he call her 'Prochainezo'? But that's Firo's name, not hers. What gives and who the hell is this guy?

Setting aside his glasses, Carlisle is grateful that the faucet comes on when he turns the handle -- such commodities he missed in the jungle -- and he takes takes the opportunity to stick his head under it and wash his mouth out, freeing him from that sickening taste of the ink that seems to cling to every crevice in his teeth. He emerges from the sink, wiping his face with his glove and replacing his glasses, just in time to hear Rey's question.

"Oh. Ah, oh!" That'd be him remembering that she probably has no clue who he is, if his earlier assessment was right. "Right. It's a long and complicated story, but the short version is that we used to know each other in some other world that clearly isn't this one, but wasn't where we originally came from, either. And we weren't friends, but we did know one another and you'd have known I wasn't a doctor right away if you did remember, which I assume you don't, but hello, my name is Carlisle Longinmouth and you're Rey Prochainezo and now that introductions are over, we can perhaps go back to being acquaintances of some sort because I am glad to see you, admittedly, although I'd have preferred it if you'd been in one piece or had less holes in you, but there're apparently killers on the—

"Wait!" He interrupts his verbal torrent suddenly. "Wait wait wait, that's right! Did that shirtless guy do this to you?"

Edited 2016-04-24 02:33 (UTC)

As Carlisle speaks, Rey's brow couldn't possibly go any higher that it almost disappeared behind her still-growing bangs. A piece of her is actually grateful that she's numbed to all of this right now, otherwise the man would be receiving a much different response.

"Yes, but that doesn't matter. What the hell is all about this some other world?" Considering what had happened to most of the city's populace as of late, she couldn't care less about what that 'shitless man' had done to her. It's over and she's still alive. She doesn't have the effort to feel enraged by any of it, or feel anything about it at all.

And seriously, you don't go into those details and then try to change the subject. That shit is more important.

Now that she's been relieved of the pain and injuries she had sustained, she pushes herself onto her feet and turns to Carlisle. She looks him up and down, studying him and mulling over his story. He knows her first name, but there is still something definitely weird here. Weirder than being told that there is apparently another version of herself in some other world that this man is acquainted with.

"Have never gone by that family name before." She folds her arms, leaning her weight to one side. "Are you sure you've got the right person?"

Because she knows Firo and he's all right (at least, she assumes that it's Firo. It's not exactly a common name). He isn't a bad guy. But are they close enough that she would take on his name?

Yup, that's the strangeness she's focusing on here.

Carlisle looks incredulous, though it's less from the fact she doesn't remember him either and more because of what she's choosing to focus on out of all that he said.

"Well, you told me you weren't married to Mr. Prochainezo -- that's important -- so I assumed you were siblings. And aside from that, you're not exactly easy to mix up with someone else, now are you? What with the pyromancy and the scars everywhere and the fact I don't think I've seen you yet in a shirt with sleeves."

And he hardly even takes a breath before continuing. "You know, I don't think you seem to understand what's important right now, which is that there's a criminal out there we can identify and take to the police. Get him off the streets for the time being, and maybe find him something to wear so he's not completely indecent."

Good to know that they aren't married in some alternate universe or anything. That would make certain things about Rey's personal life... awkward.

"First of all, we're not related. At least... not here." Who knows? Perhaps things are different for the other Rey from some bizarro alternate universe? She hasn't known Firo for very long here, but she just can't see herself having any of it. "Secondly--"

She raises a finger, opens her mouth. But he's right -- the fact that she's so distinguishable from most people makes her stick out like a sore thumb in some people's memories. Not to mention he even knows about her Brísingamen (suppose it's close enough to pyromancy -- Rey can figure that much out on her own) and her chronic aversion to sleeves.

Eventually, she lowers her hand, closes her mouth, and then shrugs. "...Fair point. Don't know how you know all of that, but -- fair point."

All of this shit is the complete opposite of normal.

"Lastly, you should know by now that there are no police here to send him to. Even if there were, people are not in their right minds to know any better. Can assure you that he is hardly the first and last person to attempt murder on someone this week."

As for the indecency, well... Like she cares. Rey is having a hard time caring about much of anything right now, let alone some weirdo's choice in attire.

Of course he's right about the fact that she and sleeves are never seen in each other's company; however, while he's not right about her relation to Firo (not a problem, as calling her 'Rey' is far less of a mouthful than 'Miss Prochainezo' anyway), that's not the part that has him cringing.

"So the streets are brimming with murderers and there's no one doing a thing about it," he cuts back. "Fantastic. And here I thought for a minute that this place might be an improvement over the jungle. Are you as worked up about this as I am? Because you don't even seem the least bit perturbed about the fact a man just shot a few holes in you."

He's apparently noticed along the way how distinctly flat her tone sounds, and while he knows he's easily riled by comparison, he thinks it odd that Rey doesn't seem the least bit concerned about what just happened to her.

That's right. Her name alone sounds a lot less like a sneeze.

...And there he goes again on another tangent. At the end of it all, Rey just shrugs.

"Wouldn't necessarily say no one's doing anything. Am pretty sure there are some people trying to help each other not get killed out there. As for being shot..." She waves a dismissive hand. "It happens. Nothing to get worked up about, really."

Well, it isn't when you're Rey. Like she cares.

"N- nothing to get worked up about!?" Carlisle comes out from around the sink, the front of his jacket drenched, darkening it to almost the same hue as the blood stain he has yet to get out of the sleeve.

"You could have died!" he states, waving his hand for emphasis. "You could have been killed! Why am I the only one who seems to get worked up over this? Algidus and you and everyone else seems fine and dandy with what might be waiting them after death, while I'm here trying to keep people alive as you all go about your business of nearly dying all the time!"

Edited 2016-04-24 10:08 (UTC)

Probably, Carlisle, because you care more about staying alive than some people do. People like Rey, for instance, who has had too many grazes with death to even be phased by one more close shave with it. Her habits wouldn't have changed even if there wasn't the factor that one apparently doesn't stay dead in this place.

All of this would also require having the heart in her to give a damn. As it is, all her damns have been defenestration. Gone. Goodbye.

"Didn't die, though. Have too hard of a head to be killed by that bullet."

Not that it isn't possible. But usually it helps with the right gun and distance to shoot her at point blank. That rifle didn't even hit its target straight on. She got lucky, and that's a rarity. Rejoice.

He sighs, wondering if this lackadaisical mindset toward death is more common than he'd thought. While he's aware that not everyone is as terrified of their end as he is, Carlisle can't help but wonder why it is that so many seem to throw caution to the wind in their everyday lives. His father had been so foolhardy, and look what happened to him.

"Right, so a bullet won't kill you, but something else will." Carlisle scratches at the bandages covering his right arm, his nerves wound another turn as he is reminded of his own near-death experience only a week or so prior. He pulls at his gloves, covering his hands once more. "Tell me, are there other healers here? People who can help should you find something that can pose a threat to you?"

Rey has died plenty of times to know what death is like for her -- a whole lot of nothing. It isn't that she's fearless in the face of death, though.

"Am hard to kill. Never claimed to be indomitable."

As for other healers...

"There is a doctor. Don't know anyone that can heal. Not like you can." Which, admittedly, is impressive even by Rey's standards. Her father's blood had healing properties to it due to cellular regeneration, but nothing like... magic.

Carlisle's eyes go from his arm to Rey, surprise knitting in his brow. "Really." He's considered a skilled healer in his world -- it's perhaps his curse that made him that way, though it has brought him enough misfortune that he'd readily trade it to be rid of his condition. However, while talented in the healing arts, he is far from the only healer. Even aboard the Tranquility, there were other magical healers, ones who could soothe wounds without spitting up black bile. To find he might be the only one in the city is intimidating... and a little exciting, as it means he can immediately make himself useful. And he does desperately want that.

"I... suppose, in good news, that means I have a job to do. Something to occupy my time."

Event Log: Assassin

April 23rd AHOY FRIEND

HEY PAL c:

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