He has missed grey. Nothing in Carmilla’s castle was purely functional or less than beautiful. Plain, unornamanted grey stone is more comforting than he ever thought it would be. His brain can’t quite process the warmth, the light of torches, Sypha’s arms around his torso dragging him forward. None of the things that really ought to be of comfort. But grey he can understand. He slips back into unconiousness partway there and wakes again as Sypha struggles to heave him up onto a table.
He should try to help her with that. He does try to help her, but his arms and legs don’t seem to want to move when he tells them to. He can’t quite bring himself to be concerned. Blessedly, for now, he doesn’t quite recall much of anything at all from moment to moment. He’s aware of Sypha’s arms, sometimes, and of the colour grey. And of the smell. ]
-stinks. [ He complains weakly, and then his face falls still and when it moves again he seems to have forgotten that he just spoke.
He’s not wrong. The smell is- not pleasant. He’s rotting. It wasn’t so bad before, in Hector’s vicinity. Without the forgemaster here to control it, though-
One leg, the right, is completely useless from the knee down, wrapped up in the same twine that his arm was - at first to cut off the flow of blood to it and kill the limb, then to keep bad blood from it finding its way back into the body. A start has been made on forging it, judging by how the nails extend into long claws, but not enough of one. It’s likely to need to go. The same is true for the little finger of the left hand from the first knuckle and the ring finger from the second. The rest of that hand is grey and leathery save for the palms and insides of the fingers, which are large open sores.
There are more of those sores along his sides and back, some flanked by knotted grey flesh and some by rot. The cuts they began as are small but deep, little pinpricks in groups of four with a fifth below them. It’s not hard to imagine how they could have been formed by a hand digging into flesh. Less so when one looks at the silhouette of that hand in green and purple and yellow bruises at his neck, thankfully devoid of the smell of rot. Can’t exactly amputate the neck.
The ear and surrounding area are both the worst and the cleanest. The forgery has been finished there, which means that there shouldn’t, at least, be any risk of infection travelling to the brain and eyes. Like a wound cleaned with maggots. It has been left for a while, though, and while infection isn’t a risk from the cut itself, that side of his head is a mess of matted, unwashed hair and chunks of dry flesh and dried blood and pus that’s at a pretty significant risk of causing infection through anything close to it. Even through closed eyelids - and he has sunk into sleep again - the eye on that side can be seen glowing slightly.
The main immediate concerns are the leg and fingers, before they begin to affect the rest of the body, as well as the very real possibility that his body is likely to shut down entirely from shock. ]
no subject
He has missed grey. Nothing in Carmilla’s castle was purely functional or less than beautiful. Plain, unornamanted grey stone is more comforting than he ever thought it would be. His brain can’t quite process the warmth, the light of torches, Sypha’s arms around his torso dragging him forward. None of the things that really ought to be of comfort. But grey he can understand. He slips back into unconiousness partway there and wakes again as Sypha struggles to heave him up onto a table.
He should try to help her with that. He does try to help her, but his arms and legs don’t seem to want to move when he tells them to. He can’t quite bring himself to be concerned. Blessedly, for now, he doesn’t quite recall much of anything at all from moment to moment. He’s aware of Sypha’s arms, sometimes, and of the colour grey. And of the smell. ]
-stinks. [ He complains weakly, and then his face falls still and when it moves again he seems to have forgotten that he just spoke.
He’s not wrong. The smell is- not pleasant. He’s rotting. It wasn’t so bad before, in Hector’s vicinity. Without the forgemaster here to control it, though-
One leg, the right, is completely useless from the knee down, wrapped up in the same twine that his arm was - at first to cut off the flow of blood to it and kill the limb, then to keep bad blood from it finding its way back into the body. A start has been made on forging it, judging by how the nails extend into long claws, but not enough of one. It’s likely to need to go. The same is true for the little finger of the left hand from the first knuckle and the ring finger from the second. The rest of that hand is grey and leathery save for the palms and insides of the fingers, which are large open sores.
There are more of those sores along his sides and back, some flanked by knotted grey flesh and some by rot. The cuts they began as are small but deep, little pinpricks in groups of four with a fifth below them. It’s not hard to imagine how they could have been formed by a hand digging into flesh. Less so when one looks at the silhouette of that hand in green and purple and yellow bruises at his neck, thankfully devoid of the smell of rot. Can’t exactly amputate the neck.
The ear and surrounding area are both the worst and the cleanest. The forgery has been finished there, which means that there shouldn’t, at least, be any risk of infection travelling to the brain and eyes. Like a wound cleaned with maggots. It has been left for a while, though, and while infection isn’t a risk from the cut itself, that side of his head is a mess of matted, unwashed hair and chunks of dry flesh and dried blood and pus that’s at a pretty significant risk of causing infection through anything close to it. Even through closed eyelids - and he has sunk into sleep again - the eye on that side can be seen glowing slightly.
The main immediate concerns are the leg and fingers, before they begin to affect the rest of the body, as well as the very real possibility that his body is likely to shut down entirely from shock. ]