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?
"Yeah, I know. You have one. Pretty bad, but I've seen worse too. That's what happens when you let your guard down. Grabbing and holding ain't the same, dumbass." The plank or perhaps Chulane's crisis seemed to have made the lock on Korbin's tongue come undone. He had a lot to say about the sorry attempt to restrain him, and saw no reason to hold back as he hauled the man onto his feet.
"M'head is fine," he replied, when the idiot kept worrying about it. "It's just a bit of blood. Weaver has done far worse in training -" but he cut himself off, choking on the words. On the reminder. For a moment, he had forgotten.
But now it rushed back in, and he didn't say anything else while they walked.
The whole thing would have been a lot easier if Korbin had been sober. Able to think clearly, see properly - though it was still better than for Chuy - and most importantly, walk in a straight line.
But that was not happening, so the two boys wound up staggering in the general direction of that door. By now, their approach and the general ruckus outside had been noticed, and a startled woman opened to let them inside. By the time the door closed behind him, Korbin was pale and shivering, lips blue from the cold. The shop was warm, braziers heating the air; he was guided back into a curtained off area where a table and chairs sat before a roaring fire.
Carefully, Korbin eased Chulane down to sit in on of the chairs. The shop keeper brought a medical kit - of of Loren's, he noted absently - and after thanking her, Korbin sent her out to find a healer.
"Stay awake," he told Chulane, as he cleaned off his numb, trembling hands as best he could. "I need to look at that wound. Might need stitches."
Whatever glimmer of normalcy that had appeared was gone again, and his tone was clipped, tight between the clattering teeth.
"M'head is fine," he replied, when the idiot kept worrying about it. "It's just a bit of blood. Weaver has done far worse in training -" but he cut himself off, choking on the words. On the reminder. For a moment, he had forgotten.
But now it rushed back in, and he didn't say anything else while they walked.
The whole thing would have been a lot easier if Korbin had been sober. Able to think clearly, see properly - though it was still better than for Chuy - and most importantly, walk in a straight line.
But that was not happening, so the two boys wound up staggering in the general direction of that door. By now, their approach and the general ruckus outside had been noticed, and a startled woman opened to let them inside. By the time the door closed behind him, Korbin was pale and shivering, lips blue from the cold. The shop was warm, braziers heating the air; he was guided back into a curtained off area where a table and chairs sat before a roaring fire.
Carefully, Korbin eased Chulane down to sit in on of the chairs. The shop keeper brought a medical kit - of of Loren's, he noted absently - and after thanking her, Korbin sent her out to find a healer.
"Stay awake," he told Chulane, as he cleaned off his numb, trembling hands as best he could. "I need to look at that wound. Might need stitches."
Whatever glimmer of normalcy that had appeared was gone again, and his tone was clipped, tight between the clattering teeth.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Nothing makes you turn around
