essea: (8.)
ɪᴏʀᴠᴇᴛʜ. ([personal profile] essea) wrote 2025-01-17 12:59 pm (UTC)

[ Gods, Astarion really is bad at pitching tents. Iorveth watches the clumsy attempt at stretching the tarp across the crooked tent poles, and intervenes for a few minutes before giving up on the task altogether. His wrists are starting to protest the extra movement, and it's not like they need their sleeping space to be beautiful as long as it does its job, which is to block the sun.

Tossing an extra layer of fabric over the top as a cautionary measure, Iorveth rummages inside their other supply pack for a tin of ointment (for blisters, not acid burns) and bandages, and burrows into their shelter to assess his wounds. They look ugly― patches of raw, bloody skin coiled around his wrists, almost like poorly-molted snakeskin― but the burns haven't sunk too deep. If they find a healer within the next few days, he's sure the marks won't scar.

He's lifting the hem of his shirt to check the foot-shaped bruise spreading against his side when Astarion inevitably joins him inside the tent; a hum, and he smooths the fabric back over his torso.
]

Took you long enough, [ is a tired tease. He beckons for Astarion to nest next to him in their small space, and offers Astarion his hands. ] A pity you're here to bandage me, and not to bind me.

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