KORBIN
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
To make you bow and spit it out?
Breathing; shallow but existent. Pulse; strong. The blood in the snow was a bad sign, but Korbin told himself that it was better than no bleeding. Hidden injuries were more dangerous. His gaze fell down to Chulane's hands, and there was a twitch in the fingers in response to his command. A bit delayed, but it did not repeat, so Korbin concluded that it was an actual response. Chuy was alive and he was conscious, if barely, and the neck was not snapped.
Very gently, Korbin pried open one eyelid, then the other, and checked the pupils. They were dialated, uneven and did not respond when he moved the free hand to shield the light. Alright, a concussion for sure... question was, had the skull cracked? His instructions had stressed not to move someone with trauma to the head and neck unless absolutely necessary, but the cold would soon do far more damage if he didn't get Chulane inside. That was a priority. Unless the skull was fractured; then he would have to find a healer. One who actually had magic, unlike himself.
With sensitive fingers he examined the temple where the first blow had fallen. Then, as steadily as he could, Korbin lifted the man's head and peered at the pool of blood in the snow. No brain matter, no bone pieces, and though it was hard to tell from feeling alone, all his searching fingers found was a cut in the scalp. The skull did not yield under the minute pressure of his fingers. No crushed skull. Fractures was a possibility, but there was nothing he could do about that.
A small wave of relief made him light headed. Reaching for the handkerchief meant for his own head - it was still bleeding but slower now, and he didn't have time for the pain - he held it against the cut in Chulane's head. With the other, he scooped up a handful of snow and held it lightly to the temple.
"Chulane, can you hear me? You hit your head. Nothing appears to be broken, but you are bleeding. Can you speak? I need to know how you are feeling."
His speech came out clearer than before. His head was a jumbled mess, the alcohol in his system making everything take longer to process. No doubt he was doing things wrong, and in the wrong order, but it couldn't be helped. This was the best he could manage. More than he'd thought himself still capable of.
It was a fucked up mess, but there was no time to process that now. Not yet. He could fall to pieces later.
Very gently, Korbin pried open one eyelid, then the other, and checked the pupils. They were dialated, uneven and did not respond when he moved the free hand to shield the light. Alright, a concussion for sure... question was, had the skull cracked? His instructions had stressed not to move someone with trauma to the head and neck unless absolutely necessary, but the cold would soon do far more damage if he didn't get Chulane inside. That was a priority. Unless the skull was fractured; then he would have to find a healer. One who actually had magic, unlike himself.
With sensitive fingers he examined the temple where the first blow had fallen. Then, as steadily as he could, Korbin lifted the man's head and peered at the pool of blood in the snow. No brain matter, no bone pieces, and though it was hard to tell from feeling alone, all his searching fingers found was a cut in the scalp. The skull did not yield under the minute pressure of his fingers. No crushed skull. Fractures was a possibility, but there was nothing he could do about that.
A small wave of relief made him light headed. Reaching for the handkerchief meant for his own head - it was still bleeding but slower now, and he didn't have time for the pain - he held it against the cut in Chulane's head. With the other, he scooped up a handful of snow and held it lightly to the temple.
"Chulane, can you hear me? You hit your head. Nothing appears to be broken, but you are bleeding. Can you speak? I need to know how you are feeling."
His speech came out clearer than before. His head was a jumbled mess, the alcohol in his system making everything take longer to process. No doubt he was doing things wrong, and in the wrong order, but it couldn't be helped. This was the best he could manage. More than he'd thought himself still capable of.
It was a fucked up mess, but there was no time to process that now. Not yet. He could fall to pieces later.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Nothing makes you turn around
