RP:Push and Pull
Frostmaw's market is quiet at this time of day, when the morning light is only beginning to peek over the tops of the mountains, bathing the mostly-empty stalls in pallid gold. But the relaxed atmosphere of the trading centre is interrupted by a crackle of arcane energy near the centre of the road, as a spark becomes an orb, and quickly a void, an empty ring of writhing dark magic spitting and roaring just a foot off the ground. The mess it vomits out is mostly blood and a foul black ichor — and half a drow arm; one should know better than to reach into a portal after a mage — but soon enough Lyros' body is tumbling out of it as well. Just as fast as it appeared, the portal vanishes with a snap!, leaving the drow shivering on the streets. He looks up, eyes wild, face bloody, and is met with silence from the few market-goers present - he takes this chance to stumble to his feet and flee, racing into the narrower, quieter streets away from all the hustle and bustle of the city. Lyros knows this land, although he has never been here, but the City of Frostmaw is a place he has heard spoken of many a time. A city of ice and snow and bitter winds, frost giants, exiled elves, and a general populace all dedicated to hating drow. It is a dangerous place to be even on his better days; but injured, and so badly, Lyros knows he will not last long either way. Either he will succumb to blood loss, or happen upon a giant willing to end his suffering in the most gruesome manner he can think of. But then...a light in the dark, in a sense - he catches sight of a massive tent and the sign, and although his comprehension of the common alphabet is fuzzy he understands the place to be some sort of medicine shop. The drow heads toward the entrance, walking quickly, too quickly, his head swimming and his legs threatening to give out beneath him. He bursts into the tent, slumps against the nearest solid object, then falls to his knees just inside the doorway.
Ansel is sitting behind a curtain with the same girl who had come in a week ago with burn marks on her arm. Eyes are strained to stay awake. Eleenin had him working some long shifts lately, but he had just had another mug of coffee to stay awake. After taking off the burnt tissue, it was nothing but to wait for the flesh to mold into a scar. Day by day, Ansel would provide a little light magic, saving his energy for other patients and then rubbing tamanu oil on her arms gently ever so often. “How are you feeling, Keira?” His voice was like cool silk, with an awkward tone to this. A socially awkward man at times. He was learning to interact with patients more. Small talk here and there, soothing words, making patients feel better. After applying the daily oil for her pain, he would then move up, pick up the papers that were with him and come out from behind the curtain, only to hear stumbling steps within the building and then a collapsing sound. “Eleenin!” He would holler, his head tilted almost over his shoulder to look behind, but he could not help but stare at the drow that was covered in blood. He would then move quickly over to him, dropping the papers to the ground behind him. He knew that he should treat the drow like the others, no matter how chaotic Frostmaw was lately. “Err…” He would analyze the man, “Sir, sir… Stay awake,” he would wave his hand in front of the man’s face, and behind came Eleenin, lowering down near Ansel’s side to suspect what was going on with the injured man.
Lyros coughs, the sound uncomfortably wet, tasting blood on his tongue and in his throat - a taste he is all too familiar with, unfortunately. He tries, though to no avail, to regain his balance and get back on his feet but his legs are no longer cooperating, the drow's strength draining rapidly. He is losing blood far too fast, even for someone used to situations like this. A visible flinch causes his body to jerk back when the stranger approaches from the back of the shop, shouting and then speaking to him, and Lyros instinctively leans away, almost falling over backwards in the process. There's a hiss of pain, the drow's blood-covered body tense with apprehension, like a wounded predator that has been cornered by its aggressors. With one hand, he clutches to the side of the tent; the other is pressed to his abdomen. Amber-red eyes find the man's face, though his vision is blurry and unfocused. "Tend to my wounds. I'll pay, double if necessary, double for having to deal with me. I can't—" His own knowledge and resources are not enough to fix this, but Lyros cannot admit it. "I won't last," he manages, his voice weakening. Even covered by his cloak and hands, liquid is seeping through from his midsection, and his neck is drenched with his own lifeblood, a cut there looking frighteningly close to an artery and oozing freely, at a rate quick enough that he may not last long at all. Judging by the mess he's in, there are likely to be further wounds, but these two in particular look the most life-threatening. Though he is clearly in dire need of medical attention, and soon, the drow does not seem able to shake off his pride entirely; the last word is torn, kicking and screaming, from his lips. "Please." He is at the mercy of this stranger in an enemy city teeming with elves...but this is where fate has brought him.
Eleenin is focused on the wound, while Ansel is focused on the words of the drow. The wolf was not taking sides, in fact, he was only being selfish and doing the whole clinic healing thing for himself, so when the drow begs, Ansel has no problem with helping him, though Eleenin is skeptical and is now looking at Ansel intensely, almost looking for someone to agree and/or disagree with him. Ansel then speaks, “We need to help him, it’s our obligation,” he was stern, and Eleenin nods - the wolf is right. Eleenin points to the midsection that was covered in blood, showing Ansel where to tend to. Ansel was like an apprentice, not the best healer, but Eleenin was here to teach him. The leading man, Eleenin, then moves his head towards the back. “We need to get him into the back room with the others,” Ansel agrees and looks at the drow. He did not speak about the doubling in payment – that was not a problem. The man was only here for his job. Ansel then begins talking to the drow. “Stay awake…” he then moves to attempt to place hands over the oozing wound that was at his midsection. The clothes that were around him would have to wait. “I need to apply pressure, and try to slow down the bleeding. Eleenin will worry about getting you somewhere a little more stable,” while the man was rambling, the head man was beginning to help lift the drow to move him into the back room with the others and resting him down behind a curtain. Prepare for staring eyes.
Lyros almost sags with relief upon hearing the words. While he may find himself this badly injured more frequently than most and thus is used to it, it is never a pleasant or relaxing experience, not knowing whether he might make it out alive - so he spares the younger man a brief look that is almost thankful. His threatening, unapproachable aura seems to lessen a touch as he calms; enough that, when Ansel makes to touch him and apply pressure to the gash across his stomach, Lyros only makes a vague noise of discomfort instead of snapping at him. He allows himself to be practically picked up and carried through to the back room, not that he is in a position to resist, his feet half dragging on the floor and a sticky trail of blood smears left behind him. Feeling more eyes on him, the drow manages to lift his head to survey his new surroundings and grimaces at the sight of more people...just what he needs. There is much about Lyros to stare at, though. He is, of course, incredibly handsome— no but really, the sheer amount of blood is enough to draw the eye alone, but clearly visible beneath all the red is the patchiness of his skin, the streaks of white where it lacks any pigment at all, most noticeable across the right side of his face and neck. He is a rather curious drow, indeed. Lyros snarls at the others, though he is too weak to put any real effort into it and it lacks its regular potency, coming out rather half-hearted.
Ansel keeps his hands that are now covered with blood on the gash. Hopefully the custodian would clean that blood up later dragging cross the floor. The man is more focused on the drow than the staring nurses and helping healers, which were rare during graveyard shift. Patients that were moving around slowly came to a halt to stare, but then quickly gazed away as the drow would look at them. The wolf could tell Lyros was not a people person, which was understandable. Eleenin now helps rest the drow on a cot behind a curtain, the curtain is between Keira, the burnt victim, only to see the outline shadow of the younger girl behind the curtain. Hands are still on the wound, and Eleenin is now moving about Lyros before moving to one of the trays full of medical supplies. Scissors. Ansel would look over to Eleenin before staring at Lyros. “We need to get those layers off,” meaning the cloak or any other clothing over the gash. “Eleenin,” he would nod towards the man. If Eleenin would cut off any cloth, he would then begin to try to tear the clothing over his torso for a more visible area of the wound, so Ansel could get a clear focused look. The blood was oozing, not spurting, and if the blood was dark, that would mean there was a vein not getting enough oxygen. The man would then hold pressure. “I need a little elevation to stop the bleeding faster,” Eleenin would praise with an approving nod before assisting the wolf and helping find an elevation of some sort to stick under the man.
Lyros continues to glower weakly at anyone still staring until they either look away or he is concealed behind curtains. He has every reason to distrust surface-dwellers, and all the more so in a city widely known for its stance against his kind in this war...whatever his personal opinion and involvement with it may be. Though he's calm enough as he's laid down on the cot, a sliver of the drow's tension resurfaces at the sight of Eleenin brandishing a pair of scissors in his direction. Lyros' brows draw together in a dark frown, the ferocity of his gaze speaking of untold amounts of pain should the healers attempt anything - though the likelihood of him being able to actually hurt them at this point is questionable. Perhaps he should be more polite. Perhaps he would be, were he not who he is. "My neck..." he manages, his breathing shallow. It is unclear which of the two is a nastier wound, but any neck injury is worrisome, especially when it's bleeding the way this one is. He appears to have a wounded shoulder, too, though this one is smaller - from an arrow, likely. A cut runs along his jaw but it is quite shallow, and does not seem to be bleeding any more, and there are numerous cuts and scrapes on his arms and legs, most of which look superficial. His gear is in such a state that Lyros does not bother to complain about Eleenin ripping it up - with his torso bared, the same patchiness of his skin is found to be present there, streaks of white that look almost like he's been on the wrong end of a wet paintbrush. "..Do not laugh," the mage hisses out with a pained breath; obviously he's rather self-conscious about the state of his skin, even in this situation.
Ansel ’s narrator forgets about the neck for a split second, though Ansel becomes aware when the drow breathes out unevenly. “Eleenin, I need you to add pressure to the neck,” realizing this is probably a worst situation than the midsection. Eleenin does as told and ignores the insecure comment of the drow. Odd that the pigment is off, but everyone had their distinguishing features. He was now grasping gauze from the tray of instruments, he is now pressing his fingers against the wound on his neck. This is obviously a vein as well, as the neck is also oozing more freely than the midsection. Eleenin holds the gauze for minutes, waiting for the gash to stop gushing, or at least ooze a little less enough to see the wound clearer, this is clear that the gash starts to slow down and Eleenin begins to wipe away the blood around the slit. Ansel for the meantime, is hollering for a nurse to hold the stomach so he can attend Eleenin and Lyros’ neck. Once this is done, he looks at the pigment of the skin of the drow, “Relax,” meaning, do not speak. Then again, he had never seen white pigment on a drow before, and well, he could understand why Lyros would say something like that. Anyway, he moved to get a good look at the almost torn artery in the drow’s neck. “It’s hard to see – still blood, keep dabbing, and apply pressure on this side, no, this side,” Ansel was pointing about and Eleenin does so. Getting an even clearer look, Ansel begins to force his energy within his core, through his arms, and to his fingertips – a shining blue light would glow from the tips of his fingers. “Hold still, this… may be a little painful,” there was no time for numbing solutions. Ansel was on a mission, and he would reach out to place the warm fingertips on the drow’s wounded skin, and without too much lingering, he would start to mend the veins within the drow’s neck.
Lyros continues to glare between the two doing their best to aid him, but when the sneering insults about his skin don't come as he expected, his gaze soon drops off to the side. The drow's head tilts back against the pillow, as his weakened body finally gives into its wounds and he goes almost entirely limp with exhaustion, a leg dangling off the edge of the bed at the knee, his eyes clouding over in a daze, blood staining the clean sheets beneath him. He is entirely in their hands, now. There is little reaction from Lyros to the press of gauze to his neck, although the pressure does its job and the flow gradually decreases - he coughs, the sound wet and awful, his chest barely lifting with each shaky inhale. When magic is brought into play, however, he instinctively attempts to defend himself, raising an arm to grasp at Ansel's hand with claw-tipped fingers that have no strength in them, the drow's amber eyes flicking to find the healer's through the haze clouding his vision. Though the rest of him is weak, his spirit is still strong, those eyes hard and steely as he stares at the man's half-blurred face. But all he can do is trust him, right now, and there is little he could do anyway. Lyros knows he's toeing the line with death here. He feels, dimly, the warmth of healing magic on his skin as Ansel begins to mend the injury to his neck, eyes fluttering shut for a few seconds in an expression of relief, just before the pain hits. His face twists into more of a grimace but Lyros barely makes a sound, though his grip on Ansel's wrist tightens just slightly. The healer, meanwhile, would find that the amount of energy he'd have to expend is more than normal, closer to double, as if the drow's body somehow repels and rejects the effects of restorative magic.
Ansel pauses and holds his breath as the drow holds his wrist in pushing Ansel away. So the drow was not trustworthy, made sense to him. “Cool it, I’m going to try to—“ though, he was weak enough to continue, moving at least one hand forward to continue while the drow held the other. As he began to weave the muscles and tendons together, there was a strain. Like something was forcing Ansel two steps back and the wolf would then pull back for a moment of thought. A brief moment to stare forward, he was trying to come into contact with his inner self. He needed a muse. That was it, the woman… So beautiful, so friendly… He would close his eyes and in his mind a colorful circle would surround him. A dark forest green color, and he was focusing on his ‘third’ eye that was in the middle of his head. Where the magic and energy was stored. Lanara had taught him a thing or two about inner magic, concentration. Ansel is grunting every now and then, but then his grunts turn into a small hymn for focus. This was a protective circle that gave him a little more energy to push forward. The tingles were strong. The light would shine a little brighter and he would trace fingers along the man’s neck. He would have got something for the pain, but there was no time. Soon enough, the tendons would begin to mend as well as pink tissue over the ripped artery and muscles. This was a little more of a struggle due to the extra force he was using, I mean, Ansel was now sweating, which was not normal for him. This meant this was taking an extra toll and Eleenin had to move over to keep an eye on the boy so he would not pass out from weakness. Let’s just see what would happen.
Lyros feels...unnatural. There is something off about him, detectable in his magic, in that unseen force trying to repel Ansel's aid even as the drow's breathing gets shallower by the second; something dark, like necromancy but worse, twisted and awful. As Ansel delves inward, his patient shudders faintly under him and exhales a shaky breath, back to watching the man with those sharp eyes. Only when the magic changes and the healer finds his focus does something strange occur, prompting a muted gasp and then a snarl from the drow. His body trembles, wracked with sudden spasms of pain, limbs twitching— the fingers around Ansel's wrist squeeze tighter, almost crushing, with a strength that Lyros should not possess in his current state. It's in his injuries where the most unnerving effects are found, however. Through gauze and bandage, blood seems to bubble upward like liquid mercury, almost seeming to boil in a sickening display as Lyros writhes weakly, clutching at any semblance of steadfastness he can find, desperate for an anchor. The atmosphere of the room drops to a chilling temperature of unease - the other patients can sense that something is not right. Amber eyes now almost burning stay locked on the man's face as Lyros hisses, "Ignore it. Don't— stop." With the added energy, however, the healing process is going faster, and soon Lyros' magic, which appears to have reacted to Ansel's, begins to abate almost as quickly as it began; the horrible sensation around the drow begins to clear as his blood returns beneath the surface of his skin and his breathing evens out, becoming strongest as the wound in his neck is mended.
Ansel almost pulls back at the bubbling blood. What was happening? The air felt cooler and thicker, almost haunting. Though, the drow nags him on to continue, which Ansel would shake his head unsure. “Eleenin, close the curtain, please,” Eleenin would do just that before continuing to assist Ansel with whatever he needed, watching the apprentice do his job, pointing out certain things here and there. Ansel would proceed, it would be bad to stop now. Fight it. Light against, dark, made sense why the other magic wanted to reject Ansel’s assistance. The process was slower, though, taking minutes upon minutes to mend this wound together. The pink tissue was covering the muscles though, so that was a good sign, and soon this would be complete. Though, by the end, Ansel was coughing, like something thick was in his lungs. The sounds of phlegm, but not quite. “Alright, clean around the wound, do what you need – stitch him up, oils, whatever,” as much as the man would want to break, he would look at the other wound that was sitting on his stomach gushing blood as well. Eleenin however was now grabbing needles, suture, more gauze, eucalyptus, all the good stuff to care for the drow before him. For Ansel, he was going to approach another hell wound, but first he would have to find out the problem…
Lyros had glared at him for that shake of the head, but there was little he could do to stop him except hold on and hope he would stay. Luckily, he does, and with his neck healed the mage has a much easier time breathing. The amount of blood he is currently losing from his stomach still poses a massive problem, though - Lyros attempts to look down at it but cannot quite angle his neck properly, and is quickly distracted by Ansel's coughing fit, which sounds about as healthy as his own wet breathing. Distant curiosity has him slanting the man a questioning look while Eleenin busies himself grabbing various utensils and salves from around the room, soon returning to patch up some of the drow's lighter wounds; the gashes on his legs and arms that need a quick stitching and a mostly-healed arrow wound on his shoulder that only needs a bandage. Lyros is too fixated on Ansel to pay much attention to all that — stitches are nothing to the mage — his free hand resting on his stomach just above the injury that may have gutted him were it only a little deeper. It is worst on the left side, presumably where he was stabbed, the blade thereafter drawn along to the right as if to try and open him up and spill his innards - there are torn muscles but his intestines appear mostly intact, and the cut is too low to have sliced through any vital organs. Inside the gaping wound, though, the blood pooling around his guts seems to be wibbling strangely, as it did just a moment ago, like some living thing. Lyros makes a vague noise of discomfort. He hasn't let go yet, either. "Why couldn't you have been a paladin," he remarks, apparently trying to make a joke, though his laugh comes out as more of a sickly cough.
Eleenin is wandering about, starting from the neck, smoothing a warm oil over the drow’s tissue. “Don’t move,” the lead healer mutters as he begins pricking needle through the drow’s skin, sewing the two open flaps together. The oil was for the muscles to relax, a little pain free solution. This would be useful so the needle would not sting and pinch as much. Ansel on the other hand is now hovering over the drow, trying to hold back the coughs. This was as if he just ran a few miles… So much breath. As the drow makes a joke, the healer looks towards him. Ansel understood dry humor, mostly because Ansel had the same type. He was too calm of a guy to crack a joke, but he would smirk along with the drow. “Aye, wouldn’t of that been better,” not. Anyway, the man brushes the weakness off, moving to the stomach. Thank the lord there were no organs affected because this drow would have been screwed with Ansel, but Eleenin would have taken over quickly. There was no dying today! The man is cautious of the man’s injuries, and the blood is thick around the wound, so he applies pressure just above the wound, pushing against it with another patch of gauze. “Come on… clear up, dammit,” this was going to be a little difficult due to the size. So Ansel reaches for some sort of liquid to clear the area of the wound. Sterile water. Hopefully finding a way to move around the wound. The man then begins to form that protection again… what if he tried something new? He was a noob with elements, though Lanara was teaching him water magic. Blood, water? Still a liquid. The man would push air through his nostrils. Water was about a flow of emotions and the man would think of something that would split him into two. The good in Ansel, sweet, calm, collected… The bad in Ansel wolf, angry, alcoholic… A straight path through the middle, a clear path. The two streams of blood would push in opposite directions, he was trying to find a clear option to heal, using one hand to direct the stream. “Don’t reject, don’t reject,” he would whisper, and soon he would have to use the other hand to do the whole other magic thing, which involved more energy. Well, poop.
Lyros is far too relaxed for one getting his neck stitched, oiled up or otherwise - he barely bats an eyelid as Eleenin deftly works the needle through his patchy skin. "It really would," he huffs, voice quiet and slightly strained but a faint smirk curving the edges of his bloodied lips all the same. "It has...no problem with divine healing..." Presumably, the 'it' the drow is referring to is his blood and that horrific reaction it had to Ansel's magic, but he is quickly hushed by the more experienced healer for talking and returns to his silence, frowning. His eyes follow Ansel's hands with a detached sort of interest as the man works, likely to keep himself focused in an attempt to fight off drowsiness. It's when water becomes involved and he detects a familiar magic that Lyros grows more interested, however, watching the man's hands move in slow, fluid motions across his torso - his insides begin tingling and he squirms a touch, wincing. A strange feeling, indeed, like being split in two, right down the middle. While the liquid separates as Ansel intended, his blood is clearly resisting again; rather than rejecting outright, its movements are sluggish and reluctant, which draws a snort from Lyros. "What are you doing?" the mage laughs, sounding slightly breathless. "Don't— don't let it touch you.." he manages in a weaker tone, his gaze shifting to the unnaturally shifting blood drawn from within him. He does not elaborate on any potential dangers of what might happen through contact with the blood, but it is obviously messed up in some way, especially as it seems even to cause its owner pain against his will.
Ansel stresses as the blood is trying to reject the magic again, and Ansel would pull back. “I’m trying to.. save your life…” he was breathy. The magic was gone. ‘Don’t let it touch you…’. What was that supposed to mean? Ansel would then look to Eleenin. “I need your help,” Eleenin would firmly nod, finishing the last stitch before moving over to Ansel to take a look at the man before him. Eleenin mutters a few things, mostly talking about him holding pressure while Ansel attempts it again, he explains how this is good practice for him, and should push through no matter how much resistance. So now, Eleenin is pushing down on one side of the wound, slowing the bleeding down on the other side of the stomach. Let’s try this again Ansel, shall we? This was a puzzle, Ansel was trying to solve. He did not quite understand the resistance from the drow… Though, perhaps light magic worked before, it would work again? Slowly but surely?
Lyros winces, tries not to cry out— or laugh, maybe. "I know that." There is understanding in his voice and he doesn't glare this time, at least - judging by the drow's reactions to his own blood, he is not exactly comfortable with the situation either. While the two hover over him, one pushing and the other pulling, drawing out, Lyros attempts to align his own focus on his internal energy, that awful twisted mess inside him that is causing all their problems. He is weak, dangerously so, but that will not stop the mage from trying to calm the writhing energy trying to push Ansel out and away; were it any stronger, he knows it might try to attack the man. Gradually, the flow begins to slow as the strange effects of the blood lessen, until it begins to conform to Ansel's will as it should and moves to where he'd like it, while Lyros exhales a heavy, strained breath.
Ansel is pleased to see the blood actually doing what he needs it to do. The pressure Eleenin is adding slows down the bleeding and it is just enough to see what was really going on. More ripped muscles and tendons, like his neck, but less. Ansel sucks in a breath, the light forming again around his hands, and his hands slowly glide over the drow’s ripped stomach. The muscles would begin to stretch, more pain, hurray! Hopefully Lyros would be able to focus with all this pain and him focusing on energy. Ansel was literally dripping sweat now, the man looking more pallid than usual. He was not use to saving anyone near death yet, and this was his first time attempting such a thing. Eleenin was pushing him to his limits. The lead healer praising him ever-so-often, cheering him on in a stern reassuring way, not in a peppy way. “I… don’t know…” Ansel was fading slowly, but he would blink a little, his vision a little blurry than usual. The tendons were connecting together again, slowly. Though, this was something, and he was at the half-way point. “Move… your hands… Eleeni—“ He was muffled towards the end. Eleenin was now getting a little worried. “I’m fine! Just a little tired…”
Lyros is no stranger to pain. Sensation is somewhat dulled in his current state, the fuzz of near-unconsciousness making it difficult to feel much at all except disorientation and tiredness, so when the magic begins to mend his torn stomach he responds with only a few twitches and a tense huff; barely a whisper of discomfort is heard in his voice as his brows draw together in a frown. Though focused on controlling and calming his own magic, the drow continues watching the two healers intently, specifically Ansel, who appears to be the less skilled of the pair and under the giant's tutelage - Lyros makes a vague noise that might be a laugh and reaches as if to grab hold of his wrist again, but he cannot quite find the strength to lift his arm. "Not bad." He is slipping, his voice hardly loud enough to be heard. "...Going through so much..." Perhaps this is an attempt at encouragement from the drow, or an apology for all the effort Ansel has had to expend to save him - all Lyros knows is he definitely owes these two a great debt, and that is one of the last thoughts in his mind as his consciousness begins to drift away. Briefly, the blood in his stomach wound writhes in some futile endeavour to fight the effects of Ansel's magic, before returning to a normal state as Lyros all but passes out, finally claimed by exhaustion.
Eleenin is trying to convince Ansel to stop, but halts abruptly when Ansel flashes him a glare of ‘I can do this – back off betch!’. The giant sort of turns moody at this moment, and almost wants to demand Ansel, but knows that the wolf is a little fighter, so the apprentice continues. Eleenin moves to the side letting Ansel finish intertwining cords to muscles and layering over it all with pink squishy flesh. The skin would layer over it later on, though a scar would obviously be where the wound was once it was all healed. Fighting the effects of the magic was the most difficult part, this was like a battle, and Ansel was kicking butt, but the dark effects were relentless until Lyros passes out. Ansel begins to tighten his eyes for a moment, his head felt like it was pounding, focusing on his third eye was putting strain on his noggin, though the practice made perfect for the magic to last longer. There was a cramp in his core, pushing the energy was well… making him too fit. Just kidding, but his core did ache. A few more minutes and the wound would be mended and the only thing left would be for Eleenin to stitch the drow up. Five, four, three, two, one… Stop. Ansel falls back with a crash. Thank gosh he was in a clinic as well. This was fantastic.
Some hours later, Lyros' awareness begins to bleed back in slowly, like water, soaking through and washing away the heavy sludge of sleep that coats his mind. The world is far too bright when he opens his eyes and even from behind the curtain around his bed, the sunlight streaming into the clinic is more than his sensitive vision can take and the drow groans, turning his face into the pillow in an attempt to escape it. A familiar ache winds through his body - his limbs feel leaden, his head full of cotton fluff and dizzy, and as he lies there breathing unevenly against the white sheets, Lyros starts to recall the events that led him to this room. He jerks upright after a couple of seconds, suddenly, when the realisation hits him that he is in a strange and potentially dangerous situation— oh gods, his stomach. Tender muscles protest the abrupt movement, the shifting and compressing of his newly-healed flesh, and the mage doubles over with a wince and tries not to vomit up whatever might be left inside him. He breathes carefully, controlled, feeling light-headed as he glances warily around his surroundings.
Ansel wakes up in a bed as well, though earlier than the drow, and as soon as he manages to slowly shift up, Eleenin is popping into the curtain with anger. There is bickering back and forth from the two. The giant grumbling about how Ansel could have hurt himself and the patient and how did not need to be a show off and how he is still is an apprentice and has no right to disobey orders. Nag, nag, nag. Ansel takes the heat, tries making excuses, but halts himself. Eleenin was right. Also, by the stitch on his forehead, he could understand why Eleenin was so mad. The wolf apologizes, talks about how much he is studying new things and wants to explore his magic, but Eleenin has had enough and he storms out. Ansel comes out of the curtain, dizzy, but fine. The man moving for water, and water for the drow that was in the other curtain. He would move inside the curtain and place the water on a nearby table for when the drow would awaken, and Ansel would sit in the chair next to him. When the drow begins to stir, Ansel is like stone, watching to see if any stitching comes loose. “Easy now, you have to be careful with those stitches…” He trailed. He would then move to the water that he had set on the table, grasped it, and offered the drow some, wondering if the drow could take it or not, depending on how weak he was. Though, the drow did need fluids. Lots of them.
Lyros likely awakens due to the argument between the two healers, the drow stirring instinctively to the sound of raised voices and anger, although by the time he sits up, the harsh words have died down. Uncurling a touch, he finally takes note of the presence by his side and suppresses a flinch - his senses are still far too muddled to have picked up on him sitting there until he moved, his focus caught on his own body's aches and pains. Ansel's gentle remark earns him an incomprehensible grumble as Lyros sits back and leans against his pillow with a sigh, dimly taking note of the fact that his torso is almost entirely bare. There is not much he can do about it, so he resolves not to focus on it at all, frowning sidelong at the healer when he offers the water. Wordlessly, drow accepts it and drinks, his grip shaky and his arms trembling with the effort, but managing, at least for now. He studies Ansel from over the rim of the glass as he lowers it, surprisingly alert and sharp-eyed but obviously apprehensive, clearly aware of his vulnerability, almost looking as if he expects the man to turn him over to the guard. His gaze lingers on the recently-stitched wound on the healer's forehead and after a short silence, Lyros snorts. "I don't remember you having that when I came in here." His voice is raspy, prompting the drow to cough to try and clear his throat.
Ansel watches the actions of the drow. Shaky, normal. The man would breathe out gently. Now settling back down in the seat within the curtain. As the drow makes the comment, Ansel smirks. “Hardy har har, very funny,” he shakes his head. He would then touch his forehead gently, wincing a little. Ansel was a light-hearted sort of guy, did not matter if they were drow or not, well unless they were awful. Though, Ansel was a healer, that was his job, and this was his job to make the drow feel safer. Safer than the outside. “You were in a bit more trouble than I thought,” he would pause. “Now, you should rest, you lost a lot of blood. You need lots of fluids,” he would nod in his awkward tone. Sure he was patient, but he was never good at communication. Yikes.
Lyros manages a half-smile, though he returns to frowning at Ansel's following comment, all traces of some lighter mood evaporating. "More trouble than I thought, too..." he murmurs, trailing off just as awkwardly. Most drow are not made for genuine conversation - many can play the part of a social butterfly purely to move the pieces into place for their plots and their lies, but Lyros is not a particularly talkative guy in general, especially among strangers, especially when suspicious. Though...his concerns about Ansel's trustworthiness are easing somewhat as he reinforces the fact that he is only here to help, and does not appear bothered by who Lyros is. He sits very still in this awkward atmosphere for a little bit, sipping occasionally at the water, before he continues in a soft voice, "You seem like an apprentice— I mean no offence, but..." A slight shake of the head follows as he pauses, hesitant, his grip on the glass tightening somewhat. "You did well, given I'm still alive. I am not...easy to heal; there are often complications.." Again, he does not seem able to finish the sentence, his words dying off into quiet.
“I’ve had a bit of a break… getting stronger. Currently practicing with elements, Eleenin has been kind enough to let me practice and watch techniques.” So, yes, he was an apprentice. “I tried my best, sloppy towards the end, but you’re here,” he would smile-ish before rubbing the back of his neck idly. “Doesn’t matter about the complications, you’re okay.” He would then become hesitant. “I s’pose I should let you rest, you’ve had enough troubles... Name’s Ansel by the way, if you need anything, err, you know who to ask for,” he would nod before attempting to back out of the curtain.
Lyros takes another sip of water, soon finding his glass empty. He leans to carefully set it to one side on the bedside table, his free hand brushing over his stomach and the bandaged wound there - it will need redressed soon enough, he thinks, but for now it seems to be fine and he did not pull the stitching too much with his moving around. Though he clearly listens to Ansel's words, the drow is quiet and offers little in response save for some nodding, perhaps too shy to say much— something he would deny vehemently. When Ansel stands to leave, however, and gives his name, Lyros fidgets a bit with his bed sheets before he speaks up just before the man is beyond the curtain. "My name is Lyros. And...thank you." It's a bit of a strain to say such unfamiliar words of gratitude but he manages it, and even the ghost of a smile to accompany them. He would not be here were it not for Ansel, after all.
Ansel stares at the off-pigmented drow for a moment or two before squinting and nodding. “Lyros, I’ll check on you soon,” he would then back slowly out of the curtain, closing the drapes behind him leaving the drow to himself. As he would exit the curtain, there was a crowd of nosy nurses and healers. “Get outta here, don’t you have something better to do?” He was almost disgusted before he began to move onto other things. Like papers and other patients for checkups.