[Gale looks more and more worried as each wound is revealed, especially in knowing that he can't even provide Astarion with the sustenance he needs to heal. He hands Astarion some of the bandages from the shelf, silently insisting he should take care of those before worrying about anything else, before he unfastens his robes.
His wounds, by comparison, are almost ceremonial, reverent in their placement: lines along his ribs cut into his skin, trailing their curvature around his chest; more haphazard slices along his forearms and thighs, as though longing to dig farther, deeper; a single cut that trails the violet tendrils on the side of his throat, long and a little deeper than the others, as though he were lovingly caressed with the edge of Orin's knife.
He sighs, trying to mitigate his worry with levity.]
I do hope whomever moved our camp brought all my clothes. I'm out another set, it seems.
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His wounds, by comparison, are almost ceremonial, reverent in their placement: lines along his ribs cut into his skin, trailing their curvature around his chest; more haphazard slices along his forearms and thighs, as though longing to dig farther, deeper; a single cut that trails the violet tendrils on the side of his throat, long and a little deeper than the others, as though he were lovingly caressed with the edge of Orin's knife.
He sighs, trying to mitigate his worry with levity.]
I do hope whomever moved our camp brought all my clothes. I'm out another set, it seems.