[ And thus, there's a strange pile of people holding other people down: Reginald, who works his hands over the broken leg with meticulous (and agonizing) precision, Gale, who has his arms around Iorveth's middle, keeping him from lashing out at Reginald, and Iorveth, snarling at Reginald with every intention to bite his impertinent fucking head off, but also staying put so as not to dislodge Astarion's deathgrip around his now-bleeding hand.
Seconds stretch, turning into minutes; small, shattered bone start to realign where they should, and all the torn sinew and veins revert to their original states, albeit tentatively. Raw, aching.
After a few more beats of pure, white-hot pain, the cleric pulls his now non-glowing hands back. A bead of sweat has formed on his forehead, which he wipes away with a sleeve.
"―There. That was quite bad, wasn't it. Adventurers really should learn to take care of themselves better."
Iorveth really could kill him. He doesn't, obviously, but there's still murder in the glint of his eye, and he spits a rather harsh obscenity in his native language between his teeth before turning to Astarion. ]
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Seconds stretch, turning into minutes; small, shattered bone start to realign where they should, and all the torn sinew and veins revert to their original states, albeit tentatively. Raw, aching.
After a few more beats of pure, white-hot pain, the cleric pulls his now non-glowing hands back. A bead of sweat has formed on his forehead, which he wipes away with a sleeve.
"―There. That was quite bad, wasn't it. Adventurers really should learn to take care of themselves better."
Iorveth really could kill him. He doesn't, obviously, but there's still murder in the glint of his eye, and he spits a rather harsh obscenity in his native language between his teeth before turning to Astarion. ]
Love. It's over.