R U [ I ] N E D

The Sweaty Fuchsia-Faced Goth of Gwyrholm

"Will he be okay?" Phoena stared wide eyed at Callan as he hoisted Brady up to lay him against the reception desk.

Callan shot a look at the girl with a terse expression and sighed. "I haven't even looked at his wound yet," he grumbled, carefully pulling up Brady's shirt, which was plastered to his skin by blood. The cut was about three inches long as if the small shard of light had expanded upon contact with the telepath's skin, and it was in no way a clean cut. Better than a bullet though, Callan knew that. With a bullet, he'd have to fish the hunk of compressed metal from the other boy's side, and he didn't have the talent for that.

"It was magic light." Brady grimaced as Callan put light pressure on the wound. "Why does it matter how it happened or how bad it is? Just don't let it get worse."

Callan's shoulders stiffened, and he shook his head softly. "For a healing type you aren't too inquisitive." He scanned the crowd for Phoena, who was pacing amongst the few people who still remained in the inn. Most had left once they'd been freed from their crystal prisons, but a few seemed unsure where to go now that they weren't trapped. "Phoena. Bring me the bag. I need our supplies... and some help wouldn't kill you."

The blonde walked over timidly. "I thought you wouldn't want me hovering..."

"Hover all you want. I don't care. I need the first aid kit."

She rummaged through the back she'd been carrying, pulling out a small pouch containing their limited medical supplies. "Will this be enough?" she asked.

"I hope so." Callan took it, grabbing out a roll of gauze, a needle, and some thread to stitch Brady up. He pulled a clear glass bottle from his own bag, and Phoena lifted a brow at him.

"What's that?" Callan twisted off the cap and took a quick swig before passing it off to Phoena. She lifted it to her nose, sniffing the contents. "Vodka... seriously?"

"If I don't disinfect these tools, who knows what could happen?" He cleaned away most of the blood seeping out with a cloth before using the alcohol to clean the needle. He gazed down at Brady, his own lips pressed into a fine line. "This is going to burn like hell."

"Just damn do it." Brady hissed, sweat gleaming against his brow, his fists clenched, and his nails digging into his pale skin. Callan nodded, dousing the wound with a splash, and Brady whimpered slightly, writhing against the table.

Callan grabbed a fresh cloth and passed it to Phoena. "Put pressure on the wound." He moved carefully, threading the needle and cleaning it. Supplies in hand, he tapped Phoena's shoulder, and she moved to the side.

"Don't worry, Brady," she whispered. You'll be just fine."

"Who said I was worried?" Brady cracked a pained smile. "As I can tell, you're more worried than me."
The corners of her lips twitched up in a sort of smile, and Callan took his place at Brady's side, needle poised between his fingers. "Sorry that we don't have any pain killers..."

He offered the bottle of vodka to Brady, who shook his head. "I'm not a fan of drugs of any sort. They cloud the mind."

"Of course," Callan muttered under his breath, carefully staring the first stitch. Brady winced, but said nothing more.

Twelve stitches later, Phoena was wrapping gauze bandages around Brady's waist to protect the wound and keep the boy from losing anymore blood. "How are you feeling?" She helped him stand, resting his arm over her shoulders.

"I'm alright. Just a bit fuzzy." Considering the blood loss, Phoena was surprised that he hadn't passed out at all, and he still seemed as chipper as ever. His skin was slightly gray, and his movements were a bit slow and lethargic. Despite all this, he removed himself from Phoena's side and nodded to Callan, who was helping Raita's victims as best he could. At the gesture, Callan finished up a conversation with one of the men and walked back to his companions. "I suppose I should thank you for receiving me, Sir Prince." Brady grinned, dipping his head in a bow.