02-07-2020, 02:18 AM
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Rosemary despises crowds. Her skin crawls when too many cluster around her. Yet nobody else displays such social anxiety in the Typhoon, and she stews in self-inflicted isolation. Medics do not confide. Especially medics that left the Typhoon for a group that picked up radical religious practices.
With a sigh, the ocelot picks her way through the crowd, tips of her forked tail flicking sporadically. The dragon appears injured, with gashes she smells from meters away. She thinks of the dragons she’s known, Lucifer and Bai Shi, but she wonders if this one is also a gentle giant. For Rosemary is a skittish woman, afraid of plenty and always lost drowning in memories. Hardship, she knows too much hardship, but the emotionless mask she wears prevents others from seeing the obvious.
Her paws drag sluggishly, sand parting for her. The satchel at her side, a lightweight fabric obtained from a Sunhaven merchant before the group merged and lost themselves, smells like herbs and alcohol. Rosemary’s own scent, her namesake and black tea, never stinks of alcohol. Catnip, occasionally, but never alcohol.
“No need, I have bandages and moonshine with me,” Rosemary says to Keona, one pair of her eyes drifting to each member of the pirate crew. The other remains fixed on the dragon, and she wonders about him.
He is impassive. Too impassive. As someone that cannot express emotion properly, she recognizes a sort of kindred spirit in him. She wonders, as she sits down near him, whether he feels emotion and laments at how they squirm, always locked away. She could empathize with that. This is her life, after all, she knows it far too well.
“Moonshine will sting on your wounds, but it’ll be fine for a field dressing. You’ll want to swing by and see one a healer at the temple later, though. Probably repeatedly, multiple times a week, until the infection stench goes away,” she tells him, matter of factly. If she could speak with warmth, she would, but she does not.
Rummaging around her bag, she pulls out a few tiny glasses of bottled moonshine. Setting them by her side, she frowns up at the tall dragon. She cannot sniff out all of his various cuts and scraps by smell. “Roxie, could you take one of these and fly around him? I want to make sure we get at least some disinfectant on all his wounds, that we don’t miss anything,” she asks, knowing her sister is a damn good flier.
“Do you need water or food? One of us could get you some,” she asks, ears twitching as she turns her four eyes to the purple dragon. Most injured joiners – or, even, most joiners – suffer from dehydration in her experience. They come washed up on shore or labor to cross the bridge, panting in the heat. “And your name? It seems rude to call you you or the dragon all the time.”
The healer would then set to work on disinfecting that nasty bite wound and bandaging it up. The rest of his wounds look fine enough to simply wait for him to get to the temple, but… this one worries her. Bite marks make for the worst infections.
With a sigh, the ocelot picks her way through the crowd, tips of her forked tail flicking sporadically. The dragon appears injured, with gashes she smells from meters away. She thinks of the dragons she’s known, Lucifer and Bai Shi, but she wonders if this one is also a gentle giant. For Rosemary is a skittish woman, afraid of plenty and always lost drowning in memories. Hardship, she knows too much hardship, but the emotionless mask she wears prevents others from seeing the obvious.
Her paws drag sluggishly, sand parting for her. The satchel at her side, a lightweight fabric obtained from a Sunhaven merchant before the group merged and lost themselves, smells like herbs and alcohol. Rosemary’s own scent, her namesake and black tea, never stinks of alcohol. Catnip, occasionally, but never alcohol.
“No need, I have bandages and moonshine with me,” Rosemary says to Keona, one pair of her eyes drifting to each member of the pirate crew. The other remains fixed on the dragon, and she wonders about him.
He is impassive. Too impassive. As someone that cannot express emotion properly, she recognizes a sort of kindred spirit in him. She wonders, as she sits down near him, whether he feels emotion and laments at how they squirm, always locked away. She could empathize with that. This is her life, after all, she knows it far too well.
“Moonshine will sting on your wounds, but it’ll be fine for a field dressing. You’ll want to swing by and see one a healer at the temple later, though. Probably repeatedly, multiple times a week, until the infection stench goes away,” she tells him, matter of factly. If she could speak with warmth, she would, but she does not.
Rummaging around her bag, she pulls out a few tiny glasses of bottled moonshine. Setting them by her side, she frowns up at the tall dragon. She cannot sniff out all of his various cuts and scraps by smell. “Roxie, could you take one of these and fly around him? I want to make sure we get at least some disinfectant on all his wounds, that we don’t miss anything,” she asks, knowing her sister is a damn good flier.
“Do you need water or food? One of us could get you some,” she asks, ears twitching as she turns her four eyes to the purple dragon. Most injured joiners – or, even, most joiners – suffer from dehydration in her experience. They come washed up on shore or labor to cross the bridge, panting in the heat. “And your name? It seems rude to call you you or the dragon all the time.”
The healer would then set to work on disinfecting that nasty bite wound and bandaging it up. The rest of his wounds look fine enough to simply wait for him to get to the temple, but… this one worries her. Bite marks make for the worst infections.
waded through the spirits like a flood on the floor
SHE PUSHED THE WATER INSIDE
I FEEL SO HUNGRY —
— Dear diary, I don't know what's going on, but something's up / The dog won't stop barking, and I think my TV is bust / Every channel is the same, it's sending me insane / And earlier somebody bit me, what a fucking day / The sky is falling / It's fucking boring / I'm going braindead, isolated / God is a shithead / And we're his rejects / Traumatized for breakfast / I can't stomach any more survival horror / Dear diary, I feel itchy like there's bugs under my skin / The dog's gone rabid (shut the fuck up) / Doing my head in —— WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?