Iorveth doesn't know that he's ever heard Astarion scream like this before, and it jolts him into an immediate sense of ice-cold urgency, uncaring of whether Astarion breaks his fingers in an attempt to vent pain. Not even the hag inspired this sort of visceral reaction, and Iorveth turns to Reginald with his teeth bared, fury staining his one eye. ]
Stop, he said.
[ Despite the dramatics, the cleric remains unfazed. Unrelenting, even. His calm is the calm of a healer who has seen every permutation of physical atrocity that the world can offer, and finds it a little ridiculous that these elves are kicking up a fuss over a broken leg (albeit a very badly broken leg, Reginald will give them that).
"Must keep going if he ever wants to walk again," the halfling replies without skipping a beat. His fingers dig harder into Astarion's bruise, finding the worst of the fracture to grind it (the only word for what the process must feel like) into submission.
Iorveth, meanwhile, hisses a very genuine: ] Stop, before I take your head, [ to which Gale appears from the doorway, looking rumpled and flustered and very, very concerned as he tries to hold Iorveth back from literal murder.
"Iorveth! I understand how you must feel, but you must let him work." ]
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Iorveth doesn't know that he's ever heard Astarion scream like this before, and it jolts him into an immediate sense of ice-cold urgency, uncaring of whether Astarion breaks his fingers in an attempt to vent pain. Not even the hag inspired this sort of visceral reaction, and Iorveth turns to Reginald with his teeth bared, fury staining his one eye. ]
Stop, he said.
[ Despite the dramatics, the cleric remains unfazed. Unrelenting, even. His calm is the calm of a healer who has seen every permutation of physical atrocity that the world can offer, and finds it a little ridiculous that these elves are kicking up a fuss over a broken leg (albeit a very badly broken leg, Reginald will give them that).
"Must keep going if he ever wants to walk again," the halfling replies without skipping a beat. His fingers dig harder into Astarion's bruise, finding the worst of the fracture to grind it (the only word for what the process must feel like) into submission.
Iorveth, meanwhile, hisses a very genuine: ] Stop, before I take your head, [ to which Gale appears from the doorway, looking rumpled and flustered and very, very concerned as he tries to hold Iorveth back from literal murder.
"Iorveth! I understand how you must feel, but you must let him work." ]