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sixthiterationlogs2017-02-12 11:59 am
warriorborn) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-02-12 11:59 am
(no subject)
WHO: Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster
WHERE: The Inn kitchen
WHEN: February 12, evening
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: lightning-related injury, specifically burns/scalds from the stove
STATUS: ongoing
ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛ
WHERE: The Inn kitchen
WHEN: February 12, evening
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: lightning-related injury, specifically burns/scalds from the stove
STATUS: ongoing
ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛ
The lightning storms have been worrisome. At the beginning, they had been fascinating in their novelty; to someone like Benedict, who's lived his whole life in the controlled environment of a Spire, not accounting for the brief sojourns taken in transport ships, even the most mild of weather patterns are fascinating. That fascination wore off quickly, though, when the lightning started to strike their habble. The storms had gone from a distant, perplexing thing, to something immediate and dangerous. He'd been woken up by a frankly terrifying amount of noise, some nights, and found scorched earth the next morning, clearly indicating a lightning strike.ᴛʜᴇ ᴀғᴛᴇʀᴍᴀᴛʜ
Then that house had been hit, and Kylo Ren had been killed. Then the redhead Benedict didn't know very well had been injured, followed by at least three others. And then even Ivan had been hit, and Benedict couldn't even feel self-satisfied about it, because injuries like that are not something he'd wish on anyone. Even someone as eminently punchable as Ivan Vorpatril.
He'd been quietly herding Kate inside as often as possible, not wanting her to be the next victim of the lightning strikes, doing his best to make sure that she was safe indoors and not out wandering.
He's in the kitchen when it happens, wholly unprepared.
The kettle is heavy at the best of times, but filled with boiling water, fresh from the stove, Benedict usually takes it upon himself to be the one to move it. He's far stronger than Kate, with a longer reach, too, which means that, using a bit of cloth to protect his palms, he has an easier time hauling it around to where it needs to go.
He's just lifting the thing off the stove when a sudden ball of light materializes before his eyes, blindingly bright and so hot he feels like he's just opened the furnace. Yelping in surprise, he jerks back as quickly as possible, the sharp movement toppling the kettle and opening the lid so the boiling water spills like a waterfall all over his hand. The red-hot pain is immediate, prompting another instinctive yell, and Benedict snatches his arm back out of the way, but it's too late. The arcing water from the falling kettle cascades down his arm, narrowly missing his trousers as well, and splashes onto the tile beneath his feet mere seconds before the heavy kettle follows, cracking the tiles it lands on.
Cradling his burned arm to his chest, Benedict curses. Loudly.
The last time Benedict had burned his hands, the adrenaline of the moment had blocked most of the pain, and he'd been able to power through the worst of it until he'd been able to retreat to safety. He'd also been poisoned by Silkweaver venom at the time, but that's not relevant to this situation. He doesn't remember much of the healing, having been in a coma at the time, but if the pain he'd missed out on was anything like this pain, he's glad he had been unconscious for the worst of it.
The flesh on his left hand, as well as a good chunk of his forearm, is one giant blister. The skin is swollen and tender, and the blister is an alarming yellow, ballooning up his skin and demanding all of his attention. Even after submerging his arm in cold water in the sink on and off for most of the evening and the next day, the skin feels like it's burning, and he's afraid his temper is rather short as a result.
He feels useless with only one arm in commission, the other wrapped loosely in strips of cold, wet cloth, carefully cradled in a sling that drives him absolutely crazy. He can barely even sit and read like this, unable to hold the book open and turn the pages with any sort of grace using only one hand, and the constant burning pain that isn't receding nearly quickly enough isn't making his life any easier. He feels churlish, snapping at people, feeling sorry for himself the way he is, especially when he knows that there have been others similarly affected by lightning who were injured worse than he. Especially since it was really his own stupidity that injured his arm. He didn't even have the decency to be hit by actual lightning, like the rest of the invalids in the habble. No, he had to pull a hot kettle down on himself like a fool child who didn't listen to the warnings from their cook, and now he's paying the price and he's miserable because of it.
aftermath
Too much to ask for hiking boots with rubber soles, he guesses, but at least his own injury had him prepared. If Benedict required Ravi's attention, Kira assumes someone has already fetched it for him--now he'll just need to find a way to deal with the pain.
All Kira has is some mango beer, separated out of the food stores he'd moved from Ren's home to the inn's own stores, and a combination of his mother's home remedies and the suggestions of his books on scavenging. Reading was far from his favorite hobby, but Casey needed practice, and he needed to know what to do with the plants they'd start finding in the Spring. "Here," he says to the very large, rather fussy man on the inn's first floor: "You can drink this, it might help the pain."
He hadn't only kept it for himself--he'd started to notice the slip of Kate's hands, sometimes, or maybe he was only seeing echoes of times they'd slipped and shook, and thought it better if the alcohol not fall into her care. Whether she preferred it or not likely wouldn't matter when her own bottles ran dry. Tipping the weight of it into Benedict's good hand, he carries on to the kitchen, looking for what else they might have: black tea was something his mother had used for other small hurts, and honey had been in the books.
no subject
His concerns needed to have been voiced, he knows that. He just wishes he had been a little less idiotic about voicing them.
Kira appearing beside him startles him, enough that Benedict jumps uncharacteristically. The bottle being pressed into his hand is met with mild confusion, but then he shakes his head and sets it down.
"No thank you," he mutters sullenly. He's not feeling especially charitable towards alcohol right now, and he's too embarrassed to admit he probably won't be able to open the bottle without help, even if he did want to drink.
no subject
He's been good since he got here. There weren't many vices or distractions to be had, but he hasn't gone seeking them either. He could have downed the vodka the first night he found it, instead of saving it for the pain of his hand. He could be asking Kate about her stash or supplier, halve her access and solve two problems with one stone.
But it isn't his problem to solve. Benedict's arm is, at least, one he can try to contribute to. He's had to walk out of earshot, sort through the pantry to find what's left of the honey--not enough to change bandages every few hours, but maybe enough for the blisters on the man's hand. He can try the tea later, when it has to be washed off.
"It's just to ease some of the pain," he continues, coming back into the room with the small jar and a spoon. "Do we have any bandages in the building? I can put this on your hand, for now, it should help the blisters."
no subject
Undoubtedly, the alcohol would numb at least some of the pain. But Benedict remembers from his studies that alcohol thins the blood, and that probably won't be good for his healing. They already have such limited materials to work with as it is, even the first aid kits that many people were given on the Gift Day didn't have that much that was helpful for burns, and Benedict had been reluctant to claim what was helpful because there were so many others who were hurt worse than he. So far, he's allowed himself a thin spread of honey last night and wrapping his burns loosely with a wet piece of cloth, but that's about it. He can't even go stick his arm into a snow drift, as they've all melted away to almost nothing.
Suffice to say, he's annoyed.
"Kira, it's—" he breaks off, his lips thinning as he rolls them together, and shakes his head, holding his arm carefully still against his chest. "It's fine. I will heal soon enough."
He's always healed quickly, thanks to his warriorborn blood. He should be back to normal in no time. At least, his arm should be. The self-inflicted wounds to his soul will take much longer to heal, he thinks, especially without the balm of Kate's steady presence at his side.
no subject
He hadn't known about the honey at the time, and had torn the yellow scab to bleeding a few times in private, needing the pain to focus, and disturbed by the strangeness of his growing skin. Benedict's blisters are wider, drawn over more of his arm, and it seems wrong to let him sulk with them, untended and aching.
He lifts the honey to rest the lid against his chin: "So you're saying you'd rather I just eat this, right now?"
no subject
Actually, Benedict isn't sure how quickly he'll heal. Apart from a few bruises, he hasn't injured himself since he arrived in this habble, which means he doesn't know whether his body's relatively rapid regeneration has been affected the same way the more obvious physical traits of his bloodline have been. Life has been much easier for him without his sharp, obvious teeth — he's not even lisping anymore, having grown used to the lack of them by now — and his cat-like eyes, but he'd be lying if he said he wouldn't miss some parts of being warriorborn.
Kira's threat gets an unamused glance.
"If you eat the last of the honey," he threatens mildly, his eyes narrowing. "I'll be quite happy to let you be the one to fetch more from the hives."
Never mind that there's no honey to fetch, at the moment, as the bees haven't exactly been busy over the winter months, and he'd been careful not to cull too much of their stores so they wouldn't starve before Spring came. Once the weather turns properly and the plants come out again, they'll be able to do things like replenish their stores.
no subject
"I'm even less afraid of you," he adds, perching on the arm of Benedict's chair, sparing a glance down at the arm literally slung across his chest. Dipping his pinky into the jar, he scrapes the tip through the shallow layer oozing up the side, and lifts it to his mouth, a brow arched as if to pose the question a second time.
no subject
He doesn't need the honey. It should be saved in case anyone else might need it, for food, or for medicine.
Kira's honey threat gets a disappointed sigh from Benedict, and he shifts a little in his chair to look up at the other young man perched on the arm, his good arm folding across his chest under the one in his sling since he can't cross them properly. "Well that's just hurtful, frankly," he retorts. "And if you're going to eat the honey, just eat it. You're making a mess," he adds, lifting his chin a little to indicate the way the golden liquid has started to ooze down the length of Kira's finger.
no subject
Looking at his finger, then the sleeve of Benedict's good arm by his hip, he reaches down to wipe it on the fabric, at odds with his own words--pushing, poking the figurative bee's nest, even as he tries to talk it out of stinging. "Plenty of people helped me anyway, but I don't know if I'm as nice as they are."
Retracting his hand, he sets the lid back onto the jar, holding it in his lap. "If you don't want help though, that's fine, maybe you want to discuss the noise from last night."
no subject
Wiping his hand on Benedict's sleeve.
Immediately, Benedict shifts to use the arm so ignobly used as a napkin to shove Kira off the arm of his chair. Gently, though. He doesn't want to hurt him, just to scold him for being a huge asshole.
Bringing up the fight he had with Kate sends the amused irritation on Benedict's face melting quickly into a guilty sort of petulant anger, and he withdraws as far as he can in his seat, his eyebrows beetling over his golden eyes as he turns his head away. "I'd really rather not discuss any of it, if it's all the same to you."
no subject
It isn't worth much of a reaction, and he finds rolling his eyes the kind he can manage while finding his feet. "Well if you don't want help, and you don't want company, I'll take myself out of range of your shitty mood."
Contradicting it but a moment, he sets the honey within reach, his look to Benedict more disappointed than irritated, and starts back toward the kitchen.
such a late girlfriendperson
She's not used to Benedict swearing, but she knows the note of pain.
And, well, she is also familiar with the sound of something heavy falling, and so she rushes up the stairs from the stores below.
"Ben! Are you-"
Kate's eyes go from him, cradling his arm, to the kettle, and she looks appalled. "How much got on you?"
no subject
Except for today, apparently.
"The whole bloody thing, obviously!" His arm, clutched to his chest, has turned an alarming shade of scarlet, and it's only by the grace of God in Heaven that he was wearing his short sleeves and not one of the proper shirts Kate has sewed for him so that he doesn't have to contend with sodden fabric clinging to his skin and exacerbating the problem.
He kicks the offending kettle as he stomps past it, heading straight for the sink with the intention of plunging his arm into the cold water from the tap, a low litany of curses spilling from his lips as he fumbles with the tap that always sticks. It never seemed to bother him much before, but now that his hands are trembling from pain and adrenalin, he can't seem to get a good enough grip on the stupid thing to turn it. Borrowing a curse he's learned in his time down here, he kicks the cupboard beneath the sink. "Jesus fucking Christ!"