Common Vani Nari
91st of Summer, 513 AV; Evening
Infirmary
As it seems, when something bad happens, it can always get to worse. Worse can go to even worse. Even worse can go to even more worse. Even more worse can go to the worst. Why it must be this way, Gale didn't know, though he wished he could curse the gods for it. But knowing them, it would more than likely just piss them off and he'll be smited once more, just like all the other times in this season. Just like all the other times just two days ago. Was this the worst? Or can the gods go even lower?
There wasn't much action today, as to be expected. Zeltiva was a fairly calm city. There weren't many fights beyond a typical bar fight with drunken sailors and there wasn't many disasters or crimes. As a result, there weren't many others around besides the nurses who occasionally scolded him for trying to stand and stretch or even 'shouting profanity'. One, Gale didn't remember ever yelling anything. Secondly... Well, there was no second thing.
In attempts to stay still according to the nurse's demands, the Zeltivan has managed to snatch his sketchbook from his backpack, which was placed beside his stone slab of a bed. After the discovery of his missing fingers, the man couldn't let go the fact that his career as an artist may possibly end here. Or at least postponed until his right hand was taught the same techniques as he left hand was. Who knows how long that would take. As a result of this denial, Gale was sketching, more like attempting to sketch away in his book. However, there was just a tiny problem.
The charcoal kept slipping out of his grip, it shifted when he applied pressure to the paper, the lines were too light due to the pressure complications, the transitions between positions was a pain, (meaning both being physical and an annoyance) the charcoal was getting all over his bandages and-
"What do you think you are doing?" A angered nurse frowned sternly at the blonde.
"Drawing." Sarcasm dripped from his statement and was even added the touch of an eye roll.
"The charcoal is getting all over your bandages!" Her anger turned to rage.
Without another word she briskly walked to his bed side and grabbed the book, throwing it to the end of the bed. In defiance, the murderer gave a loud,"Hey!" and attempted to grab it out of her hands. Instead, she was able to take the charcoal as well and placed it on top of the old sketchbook. "Hey! What are yo- Ah!" The nurse then grabbed his wrist firmly holding it still until she started to unwrap the bandage. It wasn't the most pleasant unraveling, which could be heard through Gale's gasps and yelps as the lady angrily took the soiled cloth off what was left of Gale's hand.
The Zeltivan watched with furrowed eyebrows as she slowly took the bandage off, revealing more and more skin, until all was left was the last few strips covering the wound. At this point, Gale looked away. He saw it once, he didn't want to see it a second time. Seems these days all you need is one look to understand. The blue eyes skimmed the ceiling as the last few strips were removed and the woman placed new cloth on. There was a few more grunts and gasps as she did so, but once her job was complete, she looked at the patient with a firm stare,"No more drawing."
The man gave no response, which apparently meant 'alright', for she went on her way to do whatever nurses do when they aren't tending to patients. A glare followed after her but a forlorn frown replaced it once the gaze of the widower's green eyes fell upon his newly wrapped hand. A elongated sigh went through the air as it passed his lips. Gale's eyes lifted up once more to the book at the end of his bed.
Despite his afflictions, the plebeian leaned forward in obvious, and fairly awkward, attempts to regain his treasure. His left hands lunged first, but repining at the commotion and forced the man to wince. His right hand then took over, reaching indefatigably towards the leather bound book. But the artist's weak reach proved to be too short and Gale decided to scoot forward, unaware of the protest that his body would undertake, for as soon as his hand was placed on the bed and pushed him down the bed, pins and needles stabbed his leg and hammers pounded his muscles. The gritted teeth and recognizable look of pain on his face could show how it felt, but to his observations, no one was watching. It must have been the gods way of showing mercy, concerned for any reputation he had for being strong. But it didn't matter at this point, for the day before he was nothing but a ball of blood and tears.
His hand was placed likely over his thigh, almost as if he was trying to mollify the wrath of his leg before reaching towards the book once more. His pale finger tips grazed the corner of the book, but nothing more. Another lunge proved worthwhile, because his fingers slapped the cover, dragging the folded and dirty sketchbook towards him, along with the black charcoal. Having finally regained his precious heirloom, Gale finally sat back, and reopened the book to the page he had been working on.
It was nothing more than what looked liked scribbles, but scribbles was how everyone started drawing. And it looks like scribbles was where he would have to start again.
There wasn't much action today, as to be expected. Zeltiva was a fairly calm city. There weren't many fights beyond a typical bar fight with drunken sailors and there wasn't many disasters or crimes. As a result, there weren't many others around besides the nurses who occasionally scolded him for trying to stand and stretch or even 'shouting profanity'. One, Gale didn't remember ever yelling anything. Secondly... Well, there was no second thing.
In attempts to stay still according to the nurse's demands, the Zeltivan has managed to snatch his sketchbook from his backpack, which was placed beside his stone slab of a bed. After the discovery of his missing fingers, the man couldn't let go the fact that his career as an artist may possibly end here. Or at least postponed until his right hand was taught the same techniques as he left hand was. Who knows how long that would take. As a result of this denial, Gale was sketching, more like attempting to sketch away in his book. However, there was just a tiny problem.
The charcoal kept slipping out of his grip, it shifted when he applied pressure to the paper, the lines were too light due to the pressure complications, the transitions between positions was a pain, (meaning both being physical and an annoyance) the charcoal was getting all over his bandages and-
"What do you think you are doing?" A angered nurse frowned sternly at the blonde.
"Drawing." Sarcasm dripped from his statement and was even added the touch of an eye roll.
"The charcoal is getting all over your bandages!" Her anger turned to rage.
Without another word she briskly walked to his bed side and grabbed the book, throwing it to the end of the bed. In defiance, the murderer gave a loud,"Hey!" and attempted to grab it out of her hands. Instead, she was able to take the charcoal as well and placed it on top of the old sketchbook. "Hey! What are yo- Ah!" The nurse then grabbed his wrist firmly holding it still until she started to unwrap the bandage. It wasn't the most pleasant unraveling, which could be heard through Gale's gasps and yelps as the lady angrily took the soiled cloth off what was left of Gale's hand.
The Zeltivan watched with furrowed eyebrows as she slowly took the bandage off, revealing more and more skin, until all was left was the last few strips covering the wound. At this point, Gale looked away. He saw it once, he didn't want to see it a second time. Seems these days all you need is one look to understand. The blue eyes skimmed the ceiling as the last few strips were removed and the woman placed new cloth on. There was a few more grunts and gasps as she did so, but once her job was complete, she looked at the patient with a firm stare,"No more drawing."
The man gave no response, which apparently meant 'alright', for she went on her way to do whatever nurses do when they aren't tending to patients. A glare followed after her but a forlorn frown replaced it once the gaze of the widower's green eyes fell upon his newly wrapped hand. A elongated sigh went through the air as it passed his lips. Gale's eyes lifted up once more to the book at the end of his bed.
Despite his afflictions, the plebeian leaned forward in obvious, and fairly awkward, attempts to regain his treasure. His left hands lunged first, but repining at the commotion and forced the man to wince. His right hand then took over, reaching indefatigably towards the leather bound book. But the artist's weak reach proved to be too short and Gale decided to scoot forward, unaware of the protest that his body would undertake, for as soon as his hand was placed on the bed and pushed him down the bed, pins and needles stabbed his leg and hammers pounded his muscles. The gritted teeth and recognizable look of pain on his face could show how it felt, but to his observations, no one was watching. It must have been the gods way of showing mercy, concerned for any reputation he had for being strong. But it didn't matter at this point, for the day before he was nothing but a ball of blood and tears.
His hand was placed likely over his thigh, almost as if he was trying to mollify the wrath of his leg before reaching towards the book once more. His pale finger tips grazed the corner of the book, but nothing more. Another lunge proved worthwhile, because his fingers slapped the cover, dragging the folded and dirty sketchbook towards him, along with the black charcoal. Having finally regained his precious heirloom, Gale finally sat back, and reopened the book to the page he had been working on.
It was nothing more than what looked liked scribbles, but scribbles was how everyone started drawing. And it looks like scribbles was where he would have to start again.
