RP:Scar Tissue

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.

Part of the Township Troopers Arc

Part of the The Day I Tried To Live Arc

Summary: The Warrior's Guild returns from their unforgettable battle beneath the Southern Sage. Healers, including Sabrina and Finn, offer their services -- but some wounds run deeper than salves can mend.

Frostmaw: Snowless Training Yard

Dominic || Adrenaline is one hell of a drug. Until he’d been sure the Warrior’s Guild had made it out of those collapsing tunnels -- alive, if not unscathed -- and the last of them had escaped to their wyverns, Brand had not noticed the fire in his lungs. He’d not noticed the lactic acid built up in his muscles or the blood spilling down one of his legs. Seven hells, he’d sprinted -- sprinted! -- out of those gorram bug-infested tunnels and never even noticed the gash across one thigh until now. Until they’d arrived back at the headquarters, Brand’s mind had been too focused on Khitti, on her guildmates, on everyone but himself. Heh, maybe he -did- have an altruistic bone in his body, even if it was only one. It was probably the same one in his arm that was screaming in protest as he deposited Khitti onto a bed. Perhaps it wasn’t quite a fracture, but certainly something down there had pummelled him something fierce.

Khitti was dead. She was sure of it. She had to be. Brand’s voice, it must’ve been something Amarrah created. Wasn’t it? She had heard his words of comfort, but he felt so very far away. In the pitch black of her mind, Khitti ran about, a thin pool of water beneath her feet. Hopefully the lightning wouldn’t come back; it was sure to kill her then with the help of all that water. “Brand?!” Splash, splash, splash. Which direction should she even be running in? “Brand!” Her voice echoed, returned to her by the void that surrounded her. In the real world, she continued to murmur his name as she was dumped onto the bed, stirring in her sleep, but not yet awakening. She was surely lost to this darkness, it seemed for now to the vampiress as she remained locked away in her mind--Amarrah had won.

Lionel is quiet for the return trip. His worries multiply as he is given time to consider what they’ve found. Their mission was a success, but if the man’s theories hold water, there are more of these insects out there waiting to strike. And what of those ancient journal entries? What could they possibly have meant? Under normal conditions, he’d dismiss them as mere curiosity, but Lionel owns one of the most voluminous libraries in the realm and he’s never heard of ‘Haath’ or ‘Zevus’. He reckons they may be the names of far-off countries, far from Lithrydel, but Lionel himself is not of Lithrydel. He is from Catal, and he has crossed many other lands in this world, and his library carries whole shelves worth of books on a choice few of those lands. And still, the names ring unfamiliar. What troubles him most, however, are his allies’ wounds. Of his own right arm, there is a deep gash, but a quick bandage has stemmed the worst of it. Upon his mount, though, Emrith lay sprawled, beaten, tired. Valen -- or Maldor, or however one may wish to approach that one -- is in similar condition on a separate wyvern. Rorin is beyond exhausted, having stretched himself to his brink. Manasa is half-carved in several key points. Eirik is injured, Ameno is injured, Oline is ghastly injured. And Khitti. Lionel’s dear friend Khitti. Amarrah had risen in her, and Lionel will blame himself. He’ll blame himself for insisting it would be all right. How could he be so naive? His arm throbs in quiet defiance. When they land, back again in the snowless training yard, guild medics and Frostmawian field doctors are quick on their feet to greet them. Lionel assists with transporting the unconscious, and guides the team into the infirmary, refusing to rest until the others are looked-after.

Oline was lagging considerably behind. She'd almost certainly be among the last to arrive, likely, having made several trips from her wyvern Valkr back down into the tunnels, and back out again. First she'd claimed several of the surviving hideously malformed limbs from the Queen Bug, strapped them onto the saddle opposite where he club would hang. Then she went back a second time, collecting scythes and horns and digging out poison-sacs and various other organs she figured were responsible either for noxious gasses or acidic spittle or whatever other things they might have done... filled up an entire bag of those. Lastly she went back DEEP into the tunnels seeking out that gargantuan beetle what she'd seen near the beginning. She slid a long, crude stone knife from her boot and carved the enormous bug into pieces. Filled a whole bag up with meat, too, she did. Then... at last... she departed, hobbling her way back to Valkr and mounting the wyvern with an affectionate pat of the head before taking up the reigns and giving him a kick in the side. She flew back the entire trip half-awake... fortunately coherent enough to tie her wrists to the reigns before the first spat of unconsciousness took her. She'd woken up somewhere around Xalious then, course-corrected her flight path northward and promptly blacked out again. This time when she woke it was over the Academy training grounds... and much to her satisfaction Valkr was presently swooping down toward a large open plot of land. Oline was not nearly so quick to dismount this time, and it was all she could do to stay on her feet once she had. Sheer force of will had been keeping her going this long, but now that she'd completed her own personal objectives and made good on her promise not to die... she slumped down on the ground next to Valkr and let her eyes close. "Ah sed... a thowsuhnd yeeuhs... enn'Ah mennit..."

Sabrina was headed back toward the center of town. With her is a Guilded tutor, Finn, and she was most appreciative for that with what she walks in on. As they make their way across the snowless training yard the group is gathered and looking worse for wear. Both healers are dressed in black; matching captain’s style coats with Mongolian collars, simple black pants tucked into militaristic boots, and the guild crests embroidered in gold shimmer along the biceps of their right sleeves. Sabrina is slight, coming in at about fifteen hands, especially compared to her companion who stood just under six foot. She has dark hair, the male pristinely white but he does not look aged in the slightest. All the doctors here were in a scramble as the company that files in. Finn rests a hand on the crook of her elbow and she bows softly, granting him the freedom to engage. The Elfess makes a slower trek, far less distressed than those around her in the approach to Lionel. She regards his arm, for a moment, and then his eyes. She inhales shortly and exhales with a shake of her head. With arms folded behind her back, masking gloved hands in good posture she heads into the nearest suit to offer her own services. She didn’t look pleased or panicked, just taking to the nearest patient like business as usual. She happens across the woman that Dominic had plopped unceremoniously on the bed. She is mumbling, which earns a tilt of head. She turns to exit, being stopped by a Frostmawian doctor. “You didn’t even do anything.” He is directing her back into the room and she does not move. Mismatched gaze of minty green and grayish white shift so the good eye stares at him in an inky abyss. “She’s a bloody Vampire…” A look over her shoulder. “Feed her.” And she steps on to the next room. Priorities should be flagged to gather the Master Healer’s immediate attention.

Emrith rides through the night in a haze of half-sleep. After collapsing in the cavern, he had come to some soupy sort of self-awareness a few minutes later, as he was being slung onto the back of a wyvern. Only able to murmur thickly in his throat, and unable to protest in any meaningful way, he simply remained still through the journey. His mind, troubled by images half-dream and half-fear, would not let him sink back into oblivion, teasing him with thoughts of slaughter in the dark, with brief glimpses of a huge, insectile horror with a thousand eyes and an enormous, gaping maw from which a river of shadow poured like fetid molasses. He is fully at the mercy of another such vision - this one of an enormous batallion of scorpions marching in lock-step across a sun--blasted, dying landscape - when the wyvern comes to rest. He jerks fully awake, and something very close to a whimper passes between his lips. He tries to sit up, and can't. "Tell Talyara they sting," he mutters. "Tell me did she make it?" He is delirious, clearly; Talyara was not at the battle. "Why is it so cold? So cold." He subsides into near-witless murmuring again.

Dominic || All around them, it is a controlled chaos. Most have made their way into the infirmary by now, or are carried if unconscious. Khitti murmurs, still half in her dream, and Brand settles upon the cot nearest her, leaning forward, hands clasped between his knees. Someone is fussing about the gash on his thigh, but he barely notices it -- to him, it’s just another part of the noise surrounding them. Why has Khitti not awoken yet? Does Amarrah still have her trapped, somehow? He attempts, once again, to call to her through their link. He’s still trying to awaken her when someone approaches the vampiress’ side with a bottle of blood.

Khitti kept running until she heard Brand’s voice again, stopping only to listen. No, it had to be him. She’d start that running again, and soon the darkness gave way to light...and she opened her eyes. The vampiress’ vision focused ever so slowly on the figure hovering over her with the bottled blood, and once she woke up completely, she was quick to roll away. The cot tipped over as her weight shifted atop it, sending both her and it to the floor with a clatter. She manages to pull herself out from underneath of it, and almost attacks the healer, much like last time she was injured. That is, until she saw Brand. Those green eyes of hers get all wide, and maybe a little misty, as she just sits there with shock written all over her features. Oh great. He’s hurt. This...is not good. What the hell did Amarrah do?!

Lionel blinks when Emrith names Talyara, and his face is immediately sadness and some form of reminiscent sojourn. He chuckles despite himself. “She made it,” he tells Emrith. “She made it. And it’ll be warm soon. I promise.” It’s the least he can do. Everyone’s hurt because of him. This goes beyond the burdens of command; he won’t see reason enough to recognize he had no control over whether Amarrah could turn the tide and very nearly kill them all. He sees things starkly, this Lionel, and in his stark vision, blame is his entirely. LIonel ensures Emrith is delivered to the infirmary posthaste, and he’s surprised when Finn walks right past him. “Hey,” the Catalian calls out, and the half-elf turns, nodding. “How’s Penelope…? Thank you again, sir, and I’m sorry for…” The words trail and Lionel catches himself in a grimace. He was going to apologize for the battle at Northern Sage. Now, months later, the Warrior’s Guild is returning from another, even more harrowing battle -- and it took place, as the fates would have it, in the -Southern Sage.- Lionel feels the fool. Finn, sensing the Knight-Commander’s apprehension, lets out a huff but he’s quick to close the distance between the two men, and he’s smiling. “Please, my fellow. You’ve no need to apologize. The lady and I yet live. That’s what counts.” He huffs again, lights his pipe, and begins to tend the wounded -- beginning with Lionel. As his arm is mended, Lionel stares off into the rest of his group and the healers making their rounds to assist. He is captivated by the unintentional deeper meanings in the response Finn has provided. ‘That’s what counts,’ Lionel thinks, sniffing. “This will hurt,” Finn warns him, but he barely feels it, he’s so consumed. And then it’s done, and the half-elf announces it as such, and Lionel thanks him absentmindedly, pats him on the shoulder, and approaches the ward Khitti is being treated in. He lingers by the doorway, leaning, and offers a silent, solemn tilt of the chin to Brand.

Oline woke again after what must have been her third or fourth blackout... she was losing count now. Her head pounded and her muscles ached, and she'd be damned if she would ever admit it but she didn't quite have the strength to get up from whatever the hell piece of furniture she'd been strapped down to. Blinking her eyes open, the giantess found herself alone in a sterile-looking room. Infirmary? Morgue? Whatever the hell this place was, Oline wanted nothing to do with it. Unfortunately, those aforementioned straps were surprisingly sturdy. Pulling against them only served to make her wrists and ankles ache. Who the hell had done this, anyway? "Rorin?!" she shouted, irritably. "Mistuh Boss-Knight Honcho?! Ennehbuddy?! Th... c'mawn... lemme oudda here... Ah... Ah godda... sh'waff m... m'trophies... wh... whilla... bragginzgooooood... zZz..." and she was out again.

Sabrina was walking through the controlled chaos checking make-shift sheets hung on the doors of the infirmary. Brand’s injury is assessed after she leaves and there is a chubby nurse exiting the room in a huff that the patient was being uncooperative. A feisty patient was hardly an immediate cause for alarm and Emrith is wheeled past her with a small team to an empty room all his own. She presses her form against the wall to allow them to pass and the name on his lips draws her attention but only until he disappears behind a closed door. Her attention is to Lionel standing in that doorway and she can’t help but go to him. She stands against the wall so those inside can’t see her and speaks hushed. “And my Liaison?” She didn’t see him here, and the way she inquired might have been read into with ease. Her posture is formal, but if she caught the warrior’s gaze he would note a deeper concern than for just some random half-guilded nobody. “Is he safe.” Her voice cracks a little, covered quickly with a clearing of her throat and a distraction for her eyes. She’d wait for his answer, and as soon a it is shed, good or bad, she was off in the adjacent room tending to an unnamed recruit fighting demon’s that did not exist. The Ardent has one glove off, in hand with the opposing appendage when she reaches thin bare fingers at the bit of skin over his collar and brings him to his knees. Just that one touch crumples him but he is not in pain. Instead he looks semi-euphoric as he sways at his place on the floor. She drops the glove, using her teeth to remove the other. Her body might shield what she is doing, which really was no more than a solid contact to convey her gift accordingly. She transferred some of herself into him, forcing his body to attack poisons in his body. She kneels, swirling her body around to cradle his head in her lap as a bluish-tinted venom secretes from his eyes, mouth, nose, and ears. Finn is there at the ready, clean cloths and a pan of water procured to clean the filth from his face. Sabrina is looking at Lionel, a questions rising in her features. “What did this?”

Emrith comes awake and fully to himself in a small room with a closed door. He stares at that slab of wood for a moment, craning his neck, sending twinges of pain through the melted flesh on his back. He hisses in a breath, then lets it out in a shivery little sigh. Eyes on the door. A steady thudding misery washes up from his leg, and he knows there will be no quick flight. Still, the door compels him. Emrith may be fully awake, but the evidence of his not-quite-stable mental state can be heard a moment later. There is absolutely nothing wrong with his voice. "How dare you!" he shouts in elvish. "How dare you! Put me in a box, will you? Put me in a box?" And Emrith raises one arm, points at the door. Nothing happens. He snarls, tries harder. A puff of smoke drifts lazily from his fingertips. "Gods damn you! Open the door! Open the door!" Apparently he is taking serious objection to being shut away, and his attention is so focused on that portal barring sight to the passage beyond that almost nothing else matters to him. The gods only know why Emrith is so fixated on this seemingly minor detail.

Dominic || Brand doesn’t meet Khitti’s eyes. Perhaps it’s intentional, or perhaps it’s because he’s now too busy directing the healer that’s attending to him. “No, you can gorram leave my leg be. Gimme what you’re usin’ and I’ll bandage it up myself in a bit.” It seems that, similar to Khitti, Brand has no great love of healers. “Jus’, like… you got somethin’ for a bone bruise?” He holds up his left arm. Just below the edge of his rolled-up sleeve, a nasty contusion marks the skin, and surely the muscle and bone below. Brand’s been banged up enough times to know more or less what he suffers, now that he’s aware of himself enough to notice it. Meanwhile, Lionel makes his appearance, and only now does Brand shift his gaze to Khitti, fleetingly. While he watches her, a moment is spared to listen to Emrith’s shouting -- long enough to confirm he does not know the language -- before Brand returns his fellow Catalian’s head tilt. “We’re alive,” he tells the man, unknowingly echoing Finn’s earlier statement. And now, to Khitti: “Your friend’s a little too caught up in that whole murderin’ thing to be any good as an actress.” It’s a weak attempt at a joke, but for once in his life he’s not smirking or even scowling. There’s worry weighing heavy on his mind, and he’s too fatigued to hide it. How many more times will Amarrah cause havok before they can end her? Every time, it seems, she gets stronger -- and she was hardly weak to begin with. What if, next time -- and he can’t lie to himself on this one, there almost certainly -will- be a next time -- the wretched shadow creature actually succeeds?

Khitti manages to tear her gaze away from the first blonde Catalian, only to settle on the one that just appeared, before shifting her attention to the floor. ‘We’re alive.’ That was no comfort for her to hear. Guilt washed over her like an ocean, especially after noting Brand’s weariness and worry. What should she say? Was there anything for her to say? She didn’t even feel like she deserved the luxury of crying at this point. Guilt shifted to fear as the woman rose from her spot on the floor and righted the cot she’d tipped over. The fear that Amarrah would do it again. The fear that Brand or Lionel wouldn’t be able to stop her. The fear that Amarrah would see the world burn if it meant Khitti would suffer. Fear soon gave way to anger. There was a fire in her chest now as she waved dismissively at the bottle of blood, a silent stare given to the healer, as if to say ‘get out’ and so they do just that. The fire burned ever hotter in her heart as she avoided the gazes of the two Catalians. The anger turned to hatred. Hatred for that shadow creature that inhabited her body. Hatred for the way she manipulated her dreams. For hurting her friends and family. Every single bit of the things Amarrah had done was unforgivable...and she was going to pay. “Ve’re going to the shadow plane and ve’re going to go zhere very, very soon.” Her words oozed with venom, her anger apparent and absolute. She resist the urge to punch the wall beside her--she’d already wrecked one room in Frostmaw, probably shouldn’t make it two--and Emrith’s screams go unheard, the vampiress’ thoughts clouded with that seething hatred.

Lionel’s lean against the door flinches very slightly when Brand unwittingly breaks the fragile hold on his composure. He swallows, exhaling, and forces a quick smirk to reduce the majority of the surprise. “That’s what counts.” Lionel turns to Khitti, taking a single step into the room -- and then he’s interrupted, for all the best intentions, by Sabrina’s hushed whisper. In that heartbeat, should either Brand or Khitti see him, they’ll see his ever-expressive azure eyes wracked with grief and utterly fixated on Khitti. There can be no mistaking it; the man is extremely concerned for his friend. But leadership means focus. A question has been asked. Lionel must focus, and answer it. “Eirik is alright,” he tells Sabrina, shifting on his feet and addressing her directly. In that quick shift, his gaze is changed. It’s calmer. “His wounds aren’t as serious as some.” And then she’s gone, returning to her healer’s duties, scrambling about saving lives. Emrith’s shouts from a nearby room draw a quizzical stare from the Catalian, as do Oline’s from the other direction. He offers Brand and Khitti the briefest head-tilt. “Khitti,” he announces suddenly and with a sort of poise she may remember from their time at Lake Frysta. “I told you we’d do this no matter what it takes, and I stand by that.” He pauses. “I promise.” When he leaves, determination and vigor in his countenance, he opens the door to Emrith’s room and lofts a brow. “You’re badly hurt, but you’re going to be fine,” he attempts to relieve him. “I promise.” It seems promises are the order of the evening. When a medic brushes Lionel aside to further tend to the elf’s wounds, Lionel doesn’t break his glance, maintaining an aura of assurance in a difficult time.

Oline woke again several minutes later, from a nightmare so intense that by some fluke she now found herself lying upon the floor with the shredded bits of leather strapping that had held her down scattered about in a plume of debris. Slowly rising to her feet, Oline found her knees trembling and her legs only just barely able to hold up her weight. Unwilling to sit still a moment longer, the wounded giantess moved to the door and yanked it open. Of course, what she didn't know was that the door was supposed to open outward... and so she'd simply wrenched it out of the frame like a big dumb brute. Blame it on the pain. Oline found herself making her way slowly through down the hall, small steps at a time carrying her ever towards the entrance and victory prize. A nurse or... some unfortunate soul that looked like one attempted to dissuade the giantess from her course of action, but Oline simply brushed them aside quite literally with her hand and continued on without concern for her physical state. "Outt'mway" she grumbled to another... nameless face she'd never met before, though this time she was the one to step aside and move around. Finally she found herself at the front of the campus, stalking back out onto the training field towards her wyvern with an intensity few could match. "Bettuh b'worth it, " she grumbled... dragging two of her captured Queen Bug legs down off the Valkr's back and slinging them over her shoulder before turning back to head inside and find Lionel. She might have been hallucinating it, but she thought maybe she'd heard the Knight-Commander prior to tearing her door off the hinges. Maybe he was still down that way?

Sabrina tries to peer down the hall as Emrith’s screams and rants finally force one member of the small team, sent to tend to him, to open the door. She is on the floor cradling a younger cadet and it would seem that Frostmaw’s clinicians decided this be the room for the daft and unranked. She somewhat frowned at that. Six beds, six unnamed recruits, those awake were suffering delusions. Finn helps her get the boy on a bed while she directs those bound to the region to file out the door. “I’ll handle these, take care of them.” She would tend these on her own. Mistmatched eyes give one last glance to the pair in the opposite room and the Catalian making his way down the short hall. The door is shut, leaving a ranting elf to match wits with his commander and the echoes of his own voice. She can hear Oline’s voice, but the words were as crazed as all the others flooding the busy walls.

Emrith :: Lionel's voice cuts through the haze of pain and fear and turmoil in Emrith's head. He locks his gaze on Lionel's face, then makes a concerted effort to school himself to stillness. "Thank...thank you. For bringing me back. My dragon...she is going to heal, I think. And so am I. It is my back I worry about most." He grimaces. "Scar tissue, muscles less supple." Then, out of nowhere, "I do not understand what this place's obsession with closed doors is. Am I a wounded man or a leper?" He casts a dismissive over Lionel's shoulder, tries to shift his weight on his cot, then winces and subsides. "I guess I will be here a bit, so whatever is practised here, I had better get used to." Bland speech coming from between parched lips. Easy words when the mind which gave them presence is still reeling. In a much lower voice, he says, "I move through shadows now. Shadows." He lets his head slump, overcome by the worry that thought engenders. Thoughts of Larewen come to mind, of her gift to him. It is said that most gifts from old lovers have hooks in them; this seems to be no different. Emrith is likely to get a lot of time to be alone with his thoughts, and he settles in.

Dominic || Lionel has departed from Khitti’s room and its vicinity, and so too have the healers attending to both her and Brand. Brand’s been left with a small pile of gauze, medical tape, some sort of herbal disinfectant, and more herbs to dull the pain of the bruise. Other than that, Khitti and Brand are left alone with each other -- as alone as they ever can be, anyway, what with Amarrah and Dominic still existing within each of them respectively. Now that it’s just them, Khitti earns a long, green-eyed stare from the Catalian. Like he’s sizing her up against every obstacle she’ll have to face. “Y’know, kiwi,” Brand begins, half words, half sigh, “I’ve been thinkin’, ever since I realized Amarrah took you over. You remember what I told you the first time you brought all this up? ‘Both hands on the rails, unless you’ve grown gills.’ Don’t dwell on problems you don’t have the means an’ the will to solve.” There’s a pause, and in it he’s trying to read her expression. Whatever it is he finds there, it’s apparently satisfactory, for he continues. “All this, and you’re still fightin’. She should’ve had you there. Should’ve had us all, really. So I’m thinkin’... I’m thinkin’, maybe you’re growin’ those gills after all.”

Khitti watched Lionel leave out of her peripheral, saying nothing to stop him. His words of assurance fell on deaf ears as she stared at the floor, glowered at it. Both of them were worried, sure, but did they truly understand? Did they comprehend how angry she was? The little battle in Raiez’s cave paled in comparison to this; it had been an attack, but nothing of this magnitude--no one had been sent to the brink of death because of it. This was a betrayal of the worst kind and by none other than the one that she had once called ‘sister’. She listened to the remaining blonde, finally returning his stare. Her own was cold, but wasn’t without a hint of that fire inside her, and certainly wasn’t directed at him, “You have no idea.” There’s a hint of a smirk, but there’s something different...something off about it--it’s almost reminiscent of one of Amarrah’s grins. “Let’s go, “ was all that was said next as she crossed the room to the door. She wasn’t entirely without her heart though, as she waited for him and would even aid him in returning back to the city. Khitti wanted to go home; she had things to do, shadow creatures to annihilate.

Lionel casts an easy smile Emrith’s way when he’s thanked. He keeps that smile, pleasant enough, even when the elf asks after the cause of all these closed doors. He’s quiet for a moment before replying; he’s considering which words should be said, and why. That’s the thing about Lionel. He’s a quick, slick talker most of the time, but times of concern, times of reflection and recollection, grant him a certain more archetypally heroic stoicism. “I’ll keep the door open,” and then Lionel waits and ponders further. “...and the light on,” he continues, dwelling on Emrith’s talk of shadows. Frostmaw has shadows. Larket has shadows. Khitti has shadows. Valen has shadows. They’ve come all this way, all the guild’s men and women, and Lionel thinks it’s high time he brought more light in. After a bit more time has passed, Lionel steps through the hall. Medics pass him hastily, comparing notes and barking orders toward one-another. Finn stands nearby, smoking his pipe, issuing further commands to interns. The Catalian turns around, nearly stumbling straight into Oline and her prizes. “What the…?” Looking the girl up and down, he widens his jaw and scoffs. “You… you really shouldn’t be out of bed yet. Look at you, you’re --” He tosses aside the rest of that sentence, shakes his head, and offers his hands. “Well at least let me help you haul the load, would you? And thanks.” He doesn’t bother explaining the gratitude. Oline fought as hard as any of the rest of them, new as she is, and proven her mettle splendidly. And that’s how the night continues, and concludes, and as the sun’s first rays touch the land, a new day will afford fresh perspective on the map mosaic, and the journal entries, and Amarrah, and all these questions without answers. Focus will ensure the Warrior’s Guild finds those answers, and the steadfast resolve of its eclectic and valiant membership may save them, yet.

Oline was fading in and out a bit. She'd... lost some steps back there somewhere... couldn't quite recall making her way back towards the infirmary rooms or even spotting Lionel, and yet she found herself before him now. Had he come to her? Those two mutated Queen Bug appendages were proffered with a slightly woozy smile, followed by the giantess holding them in a 'X' shape for the man to see. "Ah... Ah wuz... thenkin' thes'd... look priddee... good lahk tha'... innit?" She smiled sheepishly and handed them over as he offered to 'haul the load'. Her gaze began to wander off of Lionel, to the doors and walls and eventually up to the ceiling... the confusion etching itself into her face like a chisel to stone. "... d'you know whurruh Rorin ennided up. Ah... Ah... thenk... Ah'd fillalawt bedduh... if... if Ah kin... go thurruh'stead." A passing medic happened to overhear her final question and point her in the right direction. She'd disperse from whatever path Lionel was on shortly after, leaving the limbs in his care and slowly wobbling her way towards the only place she felt confident she could sleep without having another nightmare about bugs.