[The instructions are precise and numerous, but Gale has always been an attentive student, and in this critical moment, he does not allow a single word to escape him. He feels almost numb as he draws the knife from Godfrey's boot, tossing the leather sheath aside with abandon before he carefully takes hold of the padding beneath the paladin's armor and pulls it taut so that it can be cut free. They can only benefit from his having a better view of the injury, and to be able to work without the padding hindering his progress.
He exhales, steeling himself, and even he is surprised by how steady his hands are. They had proven to be so under very different circumstances— cooking, alchemy, various experiments— but never anything like this.
If he slipped even the slightest bit, it could cost Godfrey dearly. His heart is in his stomach as just for a moment, he thinks of the little girl waiting for Godfrey back home.
No— he must focus on the here and now.]
Cut the shafts with a steady hand.
[He repeats the instruction, carefully taking hold of the arrow on the left and holding it still, taking great pains not to jostle it.]
Hold still, my friend.
[He draws in a sharp breath, clenches his jaw, and begins to cut, the flat of the blade against the paladin's skin, the blood beneath it black in the dark of the Shadow-Cursed Lands.]
Edited (my formatting was not dramatique enough) 2024-07-24 00:04 (UTC)
[ Godfrey imparts his instructions - the very essence of too many months of dogged soldiery training and drills - as he feels ice settle beneath his skin. Gale takes each word in attentive, studious silence, commits them to an internal list of priorities. Sorts the words effortlessly.
At least, that is how it feels.
There's little else to be done about it now. He had never known how he might feel, to use what he'd been taught; he'd never liked to indulge the thought very much, and foolishly, he had always imagined that it would be he administering aid whenever it pushed across his thoughts anyway. He'd thought that it would be him in Gale's position - kneeling over a mass of rapidly cooling muscle and blood made suddenly impossibly fragile, trying to school his hands still and regulate the press of his lungs. He thought that he would know how he would feel - rocketing between forcibly imposed calm and numbness, and some panic just below the surface, like a river rushing beneath a thin sheet of ice.
How does he feel now? Hollow.
A cold emptiness spreads beneath his skin. He's done all that he can for now. All he can do is lie there, helpless, and try to stamp out the pain and the panic. It wouldn't do to take in a drowning gasp and thrust his chest into the arrow while Gale held it still.
He's chosen a point to stare at, in the swirling morass of thick shadow. He focuses his every sense to it. Godfrey seeks out his Lord beyond it, but feels too buried in cold darkness to reach Him. He doesn't need to look to know that the arrow is in Gale's hands.
The arrow stills in his grasp, and Godfrey feels the wound come alive as its raw and bloody edges rub against the still object. His throat strains with sound repressed, sweat beading bright on his dirty skin. A slow writhe works through him, heels driving into the blighted dirt, that Godfrey tries to repress as the knife begins to work agonizingly through the shaft. The pain rumbles between his ears. His voice sounds low in his throat, a choking grunt, as a deep breath rushes from him. ]
[Every twitch, every sound, every breath sets Gale on edge; the consequences of fumbling this task are unthinkable, something he does not want to entertain for even a moment. For all the subjects that he has studied over the years, for every book he had read on medicine while following his alchemical pursuits, he had never thought about what it would be like to actually be in such a situation. It was easy to remain disconnected when it was but words on a page, easy to be matter-of-fact and decide that one understood the procedure, but the reality of it was not so neatly resolved. Far from it.
He exhales and remains steady, even as Godfrey's efforts to repress any show of pain beneath him make his stomach turn in on itself, twisted, and though it seems to take near an eternity, at last his blade makes it through to the other side and the shaft comes free.
Mystra's tits. He doesn't allow himself to feel even a moment of relief. Pull the arrowhead out only if you cut an artery. Blessedly, they had not, though he hates the idea of leaving them in place— he knows in practice, that may well save Godfrey's life.]
Splinting next.
[He works quickly, unable to ignore how pale the man beneath him appears, the wax-like pallor he has taken on as he bleeds.
No. No you don't, not tonight.
Gritting his teeth, he presses some of the cut padding to the open wound to stem the bleeding before he sets to immobilizing Godfrey's shoulders. Would that he had even a single healing spell at his disposal. After this, when the man was stable, he could take the time to brew something— but right now, they have minutes, at best. Perhaps even less than that.]
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dusts this off, dusts Gale off, dusts myself off
He exhales, steeling himself, and even he is surprised by how steady his hands are. They had proven to be so under very different circumstances— cooking, alchemy, various experiments— but never anything like this.
If he slipped even the slightest bit, it could cost Godfrey dearly. His heart is in his stomach as just for a moment, he thinks of the little girl waiting for Godfrey back home.
No— he must focus on the here and now.]
Cut the shafts with a steady hand.
[He repeats the instruction, carefully taking hold of the arrow on the left and holding it still, taking great pains not to jostle it.]
Hold still, my friend.
[He draws in a sharp breath, clenches his jaw, and begins to cut, the flat of the blade against the paladin's skin, the blood beneath it black in the dark of the Shadow-Cursed Lands.]
is it finally my turn to do the same for real
At least, that is how it feels.
There's little else to be done about it now. He had never known how he might feel, to use what he'd been taught; he'd never liked to indulge the thought very much, and foolishly, he had always imagined that it would be he administering aid whenever it pushed across his thoughts anyway. He'd thought that it would be him in Gale's position - kneeling over a mass of rapidly cooling muscle and blood made suddenly impossibly fragile, trying to school his hands still and regulate the press of his lungs. He thought that he would know how he would feel - rocketing between forcibly imposed calm and numbness, and some panic just below the surface, like a river rushing beneath a thin sheet of ice.
How does he feel now? Hollow.
A cold emptiness spreads beneath his skin. He's done all that he can for now. All he can do is lie there, helpless, and try to stamp out the pain and the panic. It wouldn't do to take in a drowning gasp and thrust his chest into the arrow while Gale held it still.
He's chosen a point to stare at, in the swirling morass of thick shadow. He focuses his every sense to it. Godfrey seeks out his Lord beyond it, but feels too buried in cold darkness to reach Him. He doesn't need to look to know that the arrow is in Gale's hands.
The arrow stills in his grasp, and Godfrey feels the wound come alive as its raw and bloody edges rub against the still object. His throat strains with sound repressed, sweat beading bright on his dirty skin. A slow writhe works through him, heels driving into the blighted dirt, that Godfrey tries to repress as the knife begins to work agonizingly through the shaft. The pain rumbles between his ears. His voice sounds low in his throat, a choking grunt, as a deep breath rushes from him. ]
no subject
He exhales and remains steady, even as Godfrey's efforts to repress any show of pain beneath him make his stomach turn in on itself, twisted, and though it seems to take near an eternity, at last his blade makes it through to the other side and the shaft comes free.
Mystra's tits. He doesn't allow himself to feel even a moment of relief. Pull the arrowhead out only if you cut an artery. Blessedly, they had not, though he hates the idea of leaving them in place— he knows in practice, that may well save Godfrey's life.]
Splinting next.
[He works quickly, unable to ignore how pale the man beneath him appears, the wax-like pallor he has taken on as he bleeds.
No. No you don't, not tonight.
Gritting his teeth, he presses some of the cut padding to the open wound to stem the bleeding before he sets to immobilizing Godfrey's shoulders. Would that he had even a single healing spell at his disposal. After this, when the man was stable, he could take the time to brew something— but right now, they have minutes, at best. Perhaps even less than that.]
Speak to let me know that you remain with me.