[ Oh. Iorveth blinks, stares, then laughs in a gallows-humor way, like he simply cannot believe that Astarion is worried about aesthetics instead of the fact that his leg is fucking shattered, but also, like. Of course he is. It makes Iorveth want to strangle him a little, but at the same time, the consistency makes Iorveth want to punch Astarion in the mouth with his own mouth. A familiar feeling.
Reginald watches Iorveth laugh, and shakes his head. "Mmmm, this one has been hit in the head." Drag him, grandpa. Still, a deranged elf doesn't flip his established triage priorities, so Reginald hops on over towards the injured leg, leaning in so close that his nose is almost brushing over the inflamed skin.
(It's so swollen that it almost looks like Astarion has cankles............. a true tragedy.)
"Oh no, it won't be hideous forever," the cleric says cheerfully, not bothering to use more delicate phrasing. "It will be hideous for the next few days, however! Perhaps less hideous six days from now. But slightly hideous until then."
Iorveth considers throwing the halfling out the window, but stops once he notes that Reginald is starting to spellcast, fingers glowing yellow-gold again.
"No exercising on the leg until then! Absolutely no running for the next three days, and certainly no jumping, no hopping, no skipping." Cheerfully: "Oh, this will hurt, by the way."
Nimble hands suddenly grip along Astarion's leg, deft fingers kneading into discolored skin as if they can press through the barrier of skin and put the bone back together that way. (Gale, curious, is peeking from a corner, as if he's taking mental notes on technique.) ]
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Reginald watches Iorveth laugh, and shakes his head. "Mmmm, this one has been hit in the head." Drag him, grandpa. Still, a deranged elf doesn't flip his established triage priorities, so Reginald hops on over towards the injured leg, leaning in so close that his nose is almost brushing over the inflamed skin.
(It's so swollen that it almost looks like Astarion has cankles............. a true tragedy.)
"Oh no, it won't be hideous forever," the cleric says cheerfully, not bothering to use more delicate phrasing. "It will be hideous for the next few days, however! Perhaps less hideous six days from now. But slightly hideous until then."
Iorveth considers throwing the halfling out the window, but stops once he notes that Reginald is starting to spellcast, fingers glowing yellow-gold again.
"No exercising on the leg until then! Absolutely no running for the next three days, and certainly no jumping, no hopping, no skipping." Cheerfully: "Oh, this will hurt, by the way."
Nimble hands suddenly grip along Astarion's leg, deft fingers kneading into discolored skin as if they can press through the barrier of skin and put the bone back together that way. (Gale, curious, is peeking from a corner, as if he's taking mental notes on technique.) ]