Post by Lotty on Nov 12, 2009 1:11:52 GMT -5
Clumsy…or hopeless? It was hard to say with this one. His entrance was announced by a very worried – nearly hysterical brown salamandyr who repeated ad-nauseum the words His had uttered not so long ago. Owwwwie owwwie owwwie! The man hadn’t said a thing beyond that since the initial incident, but Doppelganger just knew that it hurt much more than His was going to admit to. So modest he was…and quiet! But that was all ok, Doppel would make things better and find a fixer for his banged up person, even if he did it in an obnoxious sort of way. Mi’rah didn’t really appreciate the thought though; he didn’t want to go to the infirmary. He didn’t do these kinds of things. In a typical man fashion he would just walk things off…and if it was serious then you just slept it off. Anything beyond that was typically fatal.
It was no surprise then that he had his fair share of scars. Nothing particularly garish, but it was more than obvious that a few of those could have been helped out by maybe a good set of stitches and not makeshift triage. Like the slice on his forearm or the faint, faded knick on his jawline, and the little gashes that resembled pock marks more than scars on the far side of his face. It was no coincidence either that the majority of his bumps and bruises were collected on the left side of his body, his vulnerable side – not that he would ever dare tell anyone this. Instead he kept quiet, because if anyone knew his weaknesses then that would be twice as dangerous as his lack of motor skills.
So his peripherals were a little skewed, and he was about as graceful as a heardbeast bull in a kitchen full of fine pottery…it couldn’t be that bad right? Wrong. The man, for all of his virtues could not avoid running right into it, well fell rather. What was ‘it’ you ask? Well a big sticklebush, that was what, and out of the corner of his left eye he didn’t see it at all. Jogging along he had been trying to not embarrass himself – that is he was putting in some extra cardio so that he wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb at drills – and instead accomplished the exact opposite. He was going to have a very sore thumb, because of all the plants to reach out for as support, he picked one with thorns. Just the luck.
Unfortunately this was an issue that couldn’t be ignored. He wouldn’t be able to sleep this one out. He had to have the thorns pulled, which meant a trip to the infirmary, which elicited more groans from him than whimpers. It did hurt, oh shards yes it did, but it was Doppelganger’s job to announce it. Not his. The brown salamandyr was totally up for the task though; still bouncing around the man’s shoulders and crying out Owwie! Rahmine owwie! Good fixer please! Where was eggbrother’s fixer at? All the while Mi’rah half heartedly tried to calm the little creature down with “shhhh”.
This never seemed to work though. So, the bronzerider resigned himself to waiting on being scolded for his pet’s noises, and could only hope that beyond that maybe he could get some help. With his injured hand…arm…gingerly cradled against his body he waited in utter politeness to be helped – even with the threat of one of those thorns working their way deeper into his flesh he simply didn’t want to seem like he was putting anyone out.
It was no surprise then that he had his fair share of scars. Nothing particularly garish, but it was more than obvious that a few of those could have been helped out by maybe a good set of stitches and not makeshift triage. Like the slice on his forearm or the faint, faded knick on his jawline, and the little gashes that resembled pock marks more than scars on the far side of his face. It was no coincidence either that the majority of his bumps and bruises were collected on the left side of his body, his vulnerable side – not that he would ever dare tell anyone this. Instead he kept quiet, because if anyone knew his weaknesses then that would be twice as dangerous as his lack of motor skills.
So his peripherals were a little skewed, and he was about as graceful as a heardbeast bull in a kitchen full of fine pottery…it couldn’t be that bad right? Wrong. The man, for all of his virtues could not avoid running right into it, well fell rather. What was ‘it’ you ask? Well a big sticklebush, that was what, and out of the corner of his left eye he didn’t see it at all. Jogging along he had been trying to not embarrass himself – that is he was putting in some extra cardio so that he wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb at drills – and instead accomplished the exact opposite. He was going to have a very sore thumb, because of all the plants to reach out for as support, he picked one with thorns. Just the luck.
Unfortunately this was an issue that couldn’t be ignored. He wouldn’t be able to sleep this one out. He had to have the thorns pulled, which meant a trip to the infirmary, which elicited more groans from him than whimpers. It did hurt, oh shards yes it did, but it was Doppelganger’s job to announce it. Not his. The brown salamandyr was totally up for the task though; still bouncing around the man’s shoulders and crying out Owwie! Rahmine owwie! Good fixer please! Where was eggbrother’s fixer at? All the while Mi’rah half heartedly tried to calm the little creature down with “shhhh”.
This never seemed to work though. So, the bronzerider resigned himself to waiting on being scolded for his pet’s noises, and could only hope that beyond that maybe he could get some help. With his injured hand…arm…gingerly cradled against his body he waited in utter politeness to be helped – even with the threat of one of those thorns working their way deeper into his flesh he simply didn’t want to seem like he was putting anyone out.