Gen has truly resigned himself to seeing this through, hasn't he? the violence glittering in his dark eyes is immensely unnerving, and it might be easy enough to believe this bloodlust came easy to him. it's subtle, the signs of distress; the faint tremble of Gen's fingers as he flexes the muscles in a damaged hand. the slight hoarseness in his voice that betrays how difficult it is to maintain the ruse, the facade, of being unaffected and distant from the sick pit in Gen's stomach. the paleness of his pallor despite the dry twist of a smile at his lips.
as the priest tenses further, preparing to rise to his feet and stop Gen's approach -- there is the uncomfortable sound of Dokja coughing wetly, and Abel's gaze flickers back down to the man prone and trembling as he upends his stomach. his brow knits as that nervous knot in his chest winds tighter; definitely concussed, and if he's vomiting...
bad. this is incredibly bad.
Abel is shrugging the cloak off his shoulders, cautiously draping it around the poor man's body in some meager effort to offer some kind of comfort-- but there is no more time to waste. if he doesn't get medical attention, and soon... this will no longer be a man to comfort. he will sincerely die, and that...
the priest pulls upright, positioning himself plainly between Gen and Dokja in a gesture that cannot be misunderstood as anything but firm opposition. there is a sharpness in his eyes that hadn't been there before; as much as it pangs, aches - there are firm lines in the sand, and Abel cannot let them be crossed. not by him, and not by Gen. ]
I'm taking him out of here. [ it isn't a question, nor is it a request. ] ...There's no more time to waste, so please. Please, turn around-- tend your wounds, go back to Achamoth. I'm begging you!
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Gen has truly resigned himself to seeing this through, hasn't he? the violence glittering in his dark eyes is immensely unnerving, and it might be easy enough to believe this bloodlust came easy to him. it's subtle, the signs of distress; the faint tremble of Gen's fingers as he flexes the muscles in a damaged hand. the slight hoarseness in his voice that betrays how difficult it is to maintain the ruse, the facade, of being unaffected and distant from the sick pit in Gen's stomach. the paleness of his pallor despite the dry twist of a smile at his lips.
as the priest tenses further, preparing to rise to his feet and stop Gen's approach -- there is the uncomfortable sound of Dokja coughing wetly, and Abel's gaze flickers back down to the man prone and trembling as he upends his stomach. his brow knits as that nervous knot in his chest winds tighter; definitely concussed, and if he's vomiting...
bad. this is incredibly bad.
Abel is shrugging the cloak off his shoulders, cautiously draping it around the poor man's body in some meager effort to offer some kind of comfort-- but there is no more time to waste. if he doesn't get medical attention, and soon... this will no longer be a man to comfort. he will sincerely die, and that...
the priest pulls upright, positioning himself plainly between Gen and Dokja in a gesture that cannot be misunderstood as anything but firm opposition. there is a sharpness in his eyes that hadn't been there before; as much as it pangs, aches - there are firm lines in the sand, and Abel cannot let them be crossed. not by him, and not by Gen. ]
I'm taking him out of here. [ it isn't a question, nor is it a request. ] ...There's no more time to waste, so please. Please, turn around-- tend your wounds, go back to Achamoth. I'm begging you!