hadriel_logs | Of Use [closed]

Entry tags:

Of Use [closed]

Who: Maketh Tua (

mismanagement) & Carlisle Longinmouth (

tongueamok)
What: Carlisle is keeping himself busy in the aftermath of Rage's event by helping Maketh get back on her feet.
Where: Maketh's apartment (Spire One, 101)
When: April 26th, evening
Warnings: PGish for injury talk.

If there was one thing Carlisle was beginning to regret about his living situation in Hadriel, it was that he'd chosen an apartment at the top of a spire. It had its advantages: the view was lovely, and meant he could see nearly the entire city from his window; he could keep an eye on the streets below, which was certainly something that had come in handy when it there were killers afoot, courtesy of Rage. If he hadn't been at the top of one of the spires, he might not have seen Rey being attacked, and might not have been able to help her.

Of course, he could have helped her faster if he'd been closer to the ground, as he wouldn't have had to speed down what seemed like a hundred flights of stairs just to get to the bottom floor. Then again, he'd have also been closer to the danger himself, and now that he has seen some of the aftermath of said danger, he wasn't entirely sure that was preferable, either.

First had been Rey -- no wait, first had been his own arm, after a box monster had nearly bitten it off, ruining his right glove and staining his tabard in his own blood. Then had been Rey and the bullet hole in her head. Earlier in the day was Chris and his leg, and now was some complete stranger and a magical wound to her shoulder. While he enjoyed being useful -- enjoyed it immensely, actually -- he couldn't deny that he was getting terribly unnerved at all the injuries sustained by people who were likely far more capable than he was at taking care of themselves. He could try to deny his own anciety all he wanted, but it was easier said than done to not fear for his life, especially when he was already on his last chance at it.

But his woes would have to wait, he thought with a sigh, the fatigue from his first healing of the day having not fully dissipated -- he had work to do, and work meant he could revel in the satisfaction of productivity once more, use it to distract himself from the immediate danger he was probably in just by walking alone in the streets. Whether or not his goddess would notice his handiwork all the way in Hadriel was a good question, but if she did, she'd surely see he was at least trying for redemption. He'd even left his apartment twice in one day to practice his art. That was an achievement if you asked him.

Finally, after his long trek down a thousand steps and over to Spire One, he reached Maketh's door and gave it a knock.

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Maketh did not enjoy being confined to her apartment - especially not when she was meant to be on bed rest as well. It was an order that she had bucked at every opportunity, but even her stubbornness had worn thin in the face of her newest injury. There wasn't much that could be done if she couldn't lift a sword or hold a pen. Her hand trembled and refused to close properly. Maketh had spent a good amount of time staring at the shattered remains of her favorite coffee mug - identical to all the others, but hers - before admitting that Henry and the others had a point. An injury like this could not be ignored and would indeed only get worse over time.

That would not do. She had a duty to these people and it would not be shirked.

Maketh answered the door promptly, though out of uniform. She had done her best with her hair, but the rest remained a lost cause. In the end, she'd pulled a coat over the worst of her shoulder and pretended that it looked professional. Maketh knew very well that it didn't - that she was paler than she ought to be, worn down and tired looking - and that her feet were bare. But it hurt to try the laces of her boots.

So that was just that.

"Hello," she said, stepping back to let Carlisle in. "Thank you for coming at short notice."

That made two of them, as Carlisle was looking a little haggard himself, though at least he was wearing shoes. His vestment had seen better days -- likely before his arrival in Hadriel -- as one side was still sporting a faded bloodstain that had yet to be scoured out. His outfit was uneven, the symmetry broken by his bandaged right arm: linen covered the limb from the glove on his hand all the way into the sleeve of his jacket. The bandage had a few smudges near the wrist -- black, more like ink than blood. There was a reason for that.

"It is my duty and pleasure," he replied, stepping inside at her offer and giving her a polite bow. Despite his words, he was visibly tired, the bags under his eyes visible even with his glasses providing some cover, his gait a little unsteady as he stepped forward. "I'm Carlisle Longinmouth. Don't think I properly introduced myself earlier. Terribly rude of me."

Edited 2016-04-29 08:23 (UTC)

"Maketh Tua. Well met."

Even under the circumstances. Maketh closed the door behind him, moving gingerly. She had already bled through one set of bandages and had no desire to do so again. It was a waste of resources. "I apologize for making you come all the way here. I don't think I would have been able to manage it, though."

Not currently, at least.

Carlisle waved his hand dismissively, that sheepish smile of his apparently a reflex as it crossed his face. "It was no problem at all, I assure you."

Except the stairs. Those had been a problem.

"If you'd take a seat," he continued, getting right to business, as people tended to want to spend less time being wounded rather than more, "I'd like to assess the injury before we begin."

The kitchen table was closest. Maketh unbuttoned her coat and shrugged out of it carefully before taking a seat, careful not to move overly much. She didn't enjoy pain. It was necessary sometimes, but that only meant it had to be endured - not embraced. "Go ahead."

She was curious to see what Carlisle's healing would look like.

While Maketh took a seat, Carlisle kept standing, digging through the badger-pelt bag hanging from his shoulder. He glanced over at her as she removed her coat, his nose wrinkling at the sight of the bandage. Magic hitting that close to someone's core -- terribly dangerous stuff, depending on the type of spell.

"Would you prefer I heal it through the bandage?"

"You can do that?" But perhaps it wasn't so surprising. Thom had been able to heal her just by touching her hand. Maketh hesitated, sitting up straighter. "I will whatever makes it easier."

She didn't like being touched unless it was someone she felt close to, but Maketh could endure a great many things if she had to.

"Er, of course," Carlisle affirmed, clearly confused by the implication that he somehow couldn't heal her through simple cloth. "It would be easier without it in the way, but channeling through a few extra layers won't be the tricky part of this procedure, I assure you."

He continued with his usual steps, including a question he was fairly certain he already knew the answer to. "Now, you mentioned you had some kind of, er... magic in your world, though it went by another name. Are you familiar with healing arts of any sort, or shall I explain this?"

"Knowledge of such things isn't shared among laypeople," Maketh admitted. The only reason that she knew as much as she did about the Force had been the Inquisitor's seeming fondness of her, and the research she'd done on her own - carefully, of course. "Not easily."

It had not been her place to know - until it had become relevant, of course. At the time, Maketh had told herself that she understood. Security reasons. Of course.

Maketh reached up with her good hand and began tugging the bandages free. A clumsy job, but it was the best she could manage. "I -- would like to hear about it, if I may. I'm curious about such things."

"Of course," he repeated, the corner of his mouth pulling upward with the hint of a slightly surprised, but genuine smile. Most people weren't particularly curious as to how he did what he did -- not unless they suspected his abilities to be the result of something more nefarious than talent, like a curse. Even then, most were willing to look the other way, granted he would tend to their injuries.

Whereas a doctor would put on gloves before a procedure, Carlisle did the opposite, pulling the fabric off his fingers and freeing his hands through the holes in the palms. "I will have to put my hands on you to do this, but essentially, I'll be channeling magic into you and manipulating the energy into repairing your wounds. Even noncasters often have some energy of their own coursing through them, and I use mine to find fluctuations in it, disturbances where there would be a natural flow, like blood in your veins."

Realizing most of that might not make any sense at all to someone completely and utterly unfamiliar with magic, he immediately went into a simpler explanation. "Think of a riverbed, with magical energy as the water and injuries being stones dropped into it. The stones redirect the water around it, creating changes in the current. I look for those changes not by sight, but by feeling the water and the direction in which it travels. I then remove the stones and return the flow to normal, using, er... more water, I suppose. Right. Not the best analogy, but that's the basic premise."

"I...think I understand."

It clicked into place with that she knew about the Force. Supposedly the users were able to sense disturbances in the galaxy just by feel - by using their minds to make a path. She assumed it would be the same for healing, but that had apparently been a rare ability even in the days of the Jedi. Maketh nodded slowly. "Should I do anything?

"Aside from sitting still while I work and removing the rest of that bandage, no. My poor explanation aside, I assure you I am skilled in what I do. You are in good hands."

He tried to sound as confident as possible with that statement, given healing was about the only area in which he did feel adept. His only concern was not whether or not he could heal her, but if his own strength would hold out. While he could handle more mending than many in his world, it was a taxing art even at its most basic.

He went back to digging in his bag, finally finding what he was after on the second try -- he removed a jar of inky, black liquid, the bottle half-full already. Hm. "On second thought, there is one thing. Do you have a glass or a jar or a bucket of some sort?"

Maketh nodded again. Despite his nervousness at their introduction - and indeed, most of their conversation - Carlisle was confident in his work. That said something. Despite her conversation with Rey, Maketh didn't think the man was dangerous. Interesting, perhaps, but not dangerous.

Whether or not she'd be proven correct in that remained to be seen.

"There are mugs, in the kitchen." Maketh peered at the jar curiously, wondering at its purpose. Antibiotics of some kind?

"Good! Good good good." He tucked the jar away. "I'll just grab one, if that's fine, and we'll get started."

To the kitchen he went to help himself to a mug; better that than risking an overflowing jar. "Also, probably should warn you, as I forgot to warn the last fellow -- you're going to feel a slight burning through your veins. Probably. Most likely. Perfectly normal, will pass once I'm done, but something you might want to prepare yourself for."

A slight burning. Through her veins. Right then. "I...see," Maketh murmured. Well, she'd just have to endure that. "Proceed, then."

Having picked the most unassuming mug he could find, Carlisle returned to the table, setting the mug down and taking a closer look at her wound. Disgust colored him, knitting its way into his brow.

"Cisth, that is unpleasant. Let's see what we can do for that."

He hesitated -- he always did -- before finding the optimal placement for his hands. His touch on her shoulder was careful, light; he didn't want to aggravate her injury any more than it already was.

"Ready?"

It didn't hurt. Maketh was prepared to flinch anyway, and swallowed down the urge. None of that now. She'd managed to tug most of the bandages out of the way, if not entirely off, exposing the raw surface of the wound. It went deep, looked burned in places. Some of it was weeping. "I am."

As ready as she ever would be.

"Right then. Here we go." Taking in a deep breath, he closed his eyes and got to work.

If he'd had his choice in healing non-magical versus magical wounds, Carlisle would choose the former every time. Each job was a challenge in its own way: healing Algidus had required some guesswork when it came to his alien anatomy, while mending Chris' leg meant expending more time and effort in fixing an older wound that had already healed, albeit incorrectly, and been damaged again. Magical injuries, however, often came with baggage from the spell that caused them.

And that was the case with Maketh's shoulder. The moment Carlisle started channeling energy into her, he could feel the current pushing back against him, returning tainted, dirtied by lingering traces of what he could discern was elemental magic. He couldn't identify the spell, but that was of no consequence; it could, and would, be healed with enough effort on his end.

He forced himself to concentrate, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as he felt a jolt of energy at his fingertips -- he was sure the sensation hadn't been pleasant for Maketh either, as it stung him sharply, causing him to recoil as the muscles in his arms tightened all at once. He willed his hands to stay on her though, keeping the connection intact. He could do this. It was his duty.

The process was slower than most, as was the norm for magical injuries, but after several moments, the wound began to mend, to pull itself together from the inside out as he cleared out what traces of the old spell were still there, washing them away with one of his own. Nearly four minutes in, and he finally pulled away from her, his work done -- it was in good time too, as his legs wobbled beneath him, his hands immediately going from her wound to his throbbing head.

"Th- there," he managed to get out, gritting his teeth at the thundering just behind his eyes. "How's that?"

It felt, at first, like being hit with stun baton that hadn't been properly charged. That low current snapping through her veins - an unpleasant buzz, but not enough to cut. Maketh closed her eyes and breathed through her nose, counting the seconds on the exhale. The pressure built - gaining charge - until she had to grit her teeth and recite mantras in her head to sit still. And then, suddenly, it was done.

Maketh opened her eyes slowly, flexing her left hand.

To her surprise, it opened and closed without hesitation. Maketh laughed, covering her mouth in surprise. "Oh. It doesn't hurt anymore."

She paused. "Are you all right?"

He'd have grinned at her pleased reaction if he hadn't been struggling with his own. "Fine," he answered, his teeth still together as though they'd halt the onslaught of the headache. Beneath the edges of his fingernails were blackened when they hadn't been before, something dark spreading beneath them. "Fine fine fine. Just fine. I simply- I need a moment. It passes."

He put one hand on the table to steady himself, pushing his other beneath his glasses, leaving a black smudge along the bridge of his nose. "Just exhaustion setting in. Normal reaction, I assure you."

It had been like that for Thom as well. Sudden exhaustion after the fact. Maketh pulled her coat on awkwardly, zipping it all the way to her throat, and wished that she'd worn shoes. That she'd bothered to braid her hair. She was out of uniform and now that the worst of the injury had been dealt with, the fact of that hitting her.

Maketh cleared her throat. "Can I get you some water?"

Maybe that would help.

"Ah, no," Carlisle said, attempting to straighten out as he fumbled for the mug on the table. "I assure you, I will be fine. I need but a moment's rest."

And the mug. He needed that, too. He stifled a cough, catching sight of his ink-stained fingers and giving them a narrow-eyed look as he brought his hand to his mouth.

Maketh blinked, watching him curiously. There was some purpose to the mug, then?

The mug's purpose became apparent not ten seconds later as he coughed again, then grabbed it off the table to catch the ink starting to drip from the corners of his mouth.

"Still fine!" he assured, doing his absolute best not to let any fall to the floor -- stains were hard to get out. "I'm aware this isn't reassuring, but it's perfectly fine."

Oh. Oh. That was different. Maketh leaned forward uncertainly, hands braced on the table just in case. "All -- all right..."

Some side effect of the magic? That seemed likely. Though Maketh had never seen anything quite like that before, or at least not with the Inquisitor. Certainly he had seemed winded after particularly large demonstrations of his gifts, but she'd never once seen him bleeding ink from his mouth.

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