[Mini Event] hands off your fate, child

Wessex sighs. A big, heaping sigh-growl that betrays her frustration only to the unconscious Are, the mewling Maea, and Edy - who she plans on taking her frustrations out on later. But then the older sister thing kicks in, and the survivalist thing is hot on its heels. She can feel the toxicity coming off them, but her first thought is of Rory. Rummaging through the cobbler’s bag, she finds a waterskin and opens it, finding it mostly full. It’s a luxury she doesn’t need to carry anymore, thank goodness. But there, in the dark of night, she plays fucking nursemaid and lives to see another day rather than dying in the Spire. A logical, perfectly acceptable trade-off, but one she’ll question in the aftermath of whatever comes next. She whips off her cloak and places it over Rory, telling him, “Tilt your head back and open your mouth,” to pour a bit of the water in. “Swish. Spit.” Waiting until he hopefully can, and repeating. Then she moves on, squatting down beside him and reaching out with her other hand to help with her next set of instructions, which he will hopefully also comply with.  “Good. Keep it tilted and your eyes open.” And then she tries to pour a stream of water into his bloodshot baby blues, in a thoughtful, but perhaps less than effective attempt to treat the gas symptoms. At least he isn’t dead. Those blows will come soon enough. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm