[ During the time the Disciple had carried her back to the town, cool, clammy sweat had appeared upon her forehead, her skin pale becoming enough to be practically translucent. She had been completely out of it, only flashes of the village-- blurs, more like, as shapeless as the blots that inhabited the streets-- coming into her vision only never to be remembered. Moving had definitely been the worst part...
It's the balm that eases her pain, and it's that same soothing of her pain that has her eyes flutter half-open, blinking, squinting, her lips parting as if to-- breathe, oh but breathing still hurts.
A startled gasp escapes her, and her hands will instinctively reach for her side like a wounded animal in pain, not knowing what is good or bad for her, clutching at the splint there. It will be with this single breath that gives away to the diagnosis of the flail portion of her chest: shattered and caved and paradoxical in its movement to the rest of her rib cage. When she inhales the segment is sucked inward, infringing on the rights of air to move freely throughout the lung; when she exhales it puckers against the splint like a bow drawn too tight.
But the splint holds, helping. It just... hurts, badly, badly enough that her body quivers and her hand scratches uselessly at the splint at her side, her knuckles white. Yet between the pain and her wheezing she hears their voices. The Disciple-- he's there, she recognizes him, and most importantly he's back to who he truly. ] Y--you've... [ She croaks, voice hoarse and hurting from the hideous bruises along her neck. ] You've returned-- ah--
[ Wheezing, she struggles to keep her focus. The Disciple is not the only man she hears over her, and when she recognizes the second voice, her body nearly gives out, tears staining the corner of her eyes. Either from pain or relief, she is not sure; but she knows that she's been brought to the right person. ]
A--....Alfyn? [ Alfyn would know, that when she's injured she usually apologizes for being injured. This time, however, is different. This time it is an actual plead for help. ]
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It's the balm that eases her pain, and it's that same soothing of her pain that has her eyes flutter half-open, blinking, squinting, her lips parting as if to-- breathe, oh but breathing still hurts.
A startled gasp escapes her, and her hands will instinctively reach for her side like a wounded animal in pain, not knowing what is good or bad for her, clutching at the splint there. It will be with this single breath that gives away to the diagnosis of the flail portion of her chest: shattered and caved and paradoxical in its movement to the rest of her rib cage. When she inhales the segment is sucked inward, infringing on the rights of air to move freely throughout the lung; when she exhales it puckers against the splint like a bow drawn too tight.
But the splint holds, helping. It just... hurts, badly, badly enough that her body quivers and her hand scratches uselessly at the splint at her side, her knuckles white. Yet between the pain and her wheezing she hears their voices. The Disciple-- he's there, she recognizes him, and most importantly he's back to who he truly. ] Y--you've... [ She croaks, voice hoarse and hurting from the hideous bruises along her neck. ] You've returned-- ah--
[ Wheezing, she struggles to keep her focus. The Disciple is not the only man she hears over her, and when she recognizes the second voice, her body nearly gives out, tears staining the corner of her eyes. Either from pain or relief, she is not sure; but she knows that she's been brought to the right person. ]
A--....Alfyn? [ Alfyn would know, that when she's injured she usually apologizes for being injured. This time, however, is different. This time it is an actual plead for help. ]