LOREN
Now, Loren wasn’t that strong, physically. But right now, he was angry enough that it practically flowed off him in cold and palpable waves. It certainly gave him the strength to slip around to the Ascended’s other side and half-carry, half-drag the wounded man to the infirmary. Good thing he didn’t feel any pain.
Frankly, he wanted to chew Bastien out and then find out where the fuck Rexanna was, but the injury came first. Plus there was the strange bartender, who was being oh so helpful and ignoring the summoner’s orders. For now, it was a help, but if the bartender thought the Launceleyn had been authoritative before, well, let’s just say there was a lot more where that came from. Because right now he wasn’t just acting as militia, but also was a healer with a wound in an infirmary. And he would not be disobeyed a second time.
They dumped Bastien on one of the beds. ”Save your breath. We’ll talk about that later.” The summoner’s voice came out crisply, but quietly, only for the wounded man’s ears. Yes, yes, Ascended didn’t breathe but Bastien was still leaking fluid and Loren didn’t want to hear any dumb excuses until after the injury had been treated. Turning a sharp gaze on the bartender, Loren drew upon every ounce of willpower and command and sank it into his next order. ”Give me space.” If he had to, he wasn’t above summoning something to enforce his command, and dealing with the consequences later. With that, he knelt, examining the leg injury, hand glowing a soft-sky blue as he laid it on the Ascended’s wound—assuming the pants had a hole in them—just outside the wounded area.
The light poured into the injury and...nothing happened. The summoner resisted the urge to curse as his eyes narrowed; he’d been afraid of this, but he and Wessex hadn’t had time to test that healing magic was ineffective on Ascended. Still, he had more tricks up his sleeve. All he needed was a bit of time and space to think.
Frankly, he wanted to chew Bastien out and then find out where the fuck Rexanna was, but the injury came first. Plus there was the strange bartender, who was being oh so helpful and ignoring the summoner’s orders. For now, it was a help, but if the bartender thought the Launceleyn had been authoritative before, well, let’s just say there was a lot more where that came from. Because right now he wasn’t just acting as militia, but also was a healer with a wound in an infirmary. And he would not be disobeyed a second time.
They dumped Bastien on one of the beds. ”Save your breath. We’ll talk about that later.” The summoner’s voice came out crisply, but quietly, only for the wounded man’s ears. Yes, yes, Ascended didn’t breathe but Bastien was still leaking fluid and Loren didn’t want to hear any dumb excuses until after the injury had been treated. Turning a sharp gaze on the bartender, Loren drew upon every ounce of willpower and command and sank it into his next order. ”Give me space.” If he had to, he wasn’t above summoning something to enforce his command, and dealing with the consequences later. With that, he knelt, examining the leg injury, hand glowing a soft-sky blue as he laid it on the Ascended’s wound—assuming the pants had a hole in them—just outside the wounded area.
The light poured into the injury and...nothing happened. The summoner resisted the urge to curse as his eyes narrowed; he’d been afraid of this, but he and Wessex hadn’t had time to test that healing magic was ineffective on Ascended. Still, he had more tricks up his sleeve. All he needed was a bit of time and space to think.
But don’t be weary if it’s broken
Families are like that—
they’re split up and always torn.
