heirranier:
Reemerging from unconsciousness was never fun, but perhaps the worst way to re-enter the realm of the alive and sprightly was following the consumption of ( what his healer liked to refer to as ) ‘corrupted blood’. Which he thought was a pretty bold statement, coming from a witch.
It was always warm here, too, with a sickeningly pleasant view off of the coast of Italy. He’d never paid the exact location much attention, only that Palermo was not too far from the upper highlands that Althea occupied. Curse this place - he just wanted to be back in Paris.
Shifting so that he was now upright, he was overwhelmed overwhelmed with nausea, an alleged side-effect of whatever concoction she forced down his throat; he could swear that she made sure he felt worse every time he ended up back here, perhaps a ploy to discourage his disruptive behaviour. Well, he thought, she’d better try harder.
His gaze scanned the room - if such a humble shack could be afforded that title - and they found something else familiar: a face. “ When is she planning on allowing me home? ”
orga wished it was this boy’s brother that often wound up under althea’s care. but that would require baltasar to be an insufferable brat who couldn’t stop doing himself avoidable harm and, unfortunately, that simply wasn’t the case, much to the giant’s disapproval.
he was a professional, though, a man that didn’t allow his negative thoughts and emotions to get a hold of his behaviour or expression. instead, he cast a painfully passive look in the other man’s direction, broad arms folded over his even broader chest.
“I don’t know, kid, you’ll have to go speak to her - like a polite guest.” after all, if there was one thing that orga didn’t tolerate, it was people being rude to the woman he owed his new-found life to. “she’ll have a better idea than I do.”
