[ It's not quite the tone of voice he uses when he smokes an intimidation check because durge proficiency calmly informs someone that they'll cooperate or he'll crush their skull, but it's on the same frequency. Aren has learned by now that Godfrey is even worse than Shadowheart when it comes to receiving care— gaining satisfaction suffering in silence, being in denial due to holy magic, he doesn't know, but it's a stubborn thing.
He is a stubborn thing as well. And he may not have a devotee's healing touch, but he has an eye for all things medical. (He says it's because it's what he was researching, as a wizard from a destitute background. No fancy jobs in towers for those without prolific mentors. In truth, he has no idea.) So he stands there in the opening of the paladin's tent, an ominous shadow of an almost-elf.
Less spooky: he's carrying what appears to be warm towels and a tin. It smells like menthol. ]
Your posture and gait have been wrong for days, despite being healed. Is it your ribs?
[ It has little to do with denial, and perhaps less to do with any faith-based numbing agent.
What, then? For anybody else, it's the sheer distaste for the space he might occupy - the permanent, nagging presence of someone else in yet greater need, the threat of having to draw attention to himself. Thoughts which twist his own need into a threat (of inconvenience, of deprivation, of irritation,) are all that Sir Godfrey needs to turn his efforts to numbing himself to that periodic stab accompanying his steps.
Godfrey can't say this is all that holds him back where Aren is concerned, however. He spent enough time leading his congregation to know a man lost when he sees one. He's seen how Aren's gaze lingers over the strewn gore they so often left behind, how he watched the blood soak the soil. As though he would sink his fingers into it.
Medical curiosity - Godfrey tells himself this is the kinder, more reasonable assumption. He had already expressed an affinity for the medicinal sciences. His immediate conclusion feels unfair. Still, there is something about his fascination that Godfrey cannot settle in himself; he cannot make it sit right, no matter where he puts it. Always do his thoughts return to the lurid glee he'd thought he glimpsed in him as those hyenas burst on the road.
It flits behind his eyes now, as Aren cuts a tall shadow in the doorway of his military tent. He clears his throat. ]
Perhaps so. [ If he'd meant to kill him, there were better ways to go about it. This is what he tells himself as he eases down to his bedroll, ginger as his left side begins to shriek again. ] I've an old wound as well, though it's not ached before.
[ Aren is aware that he's not the paladin's favorite person in their shambling gang. That's alright— Aren thinks that's pretty reasonable, given he frightens himself from time to time. But it just makes him more determined to say nothing of the instincts he feels, or the amnesia that's robbed him of his life and identity.
Maybe there will come a time when he decides it's best to just leave, and slip away in the night to find his own resolution with his tadpole (or his own end). He wants to stay, but not at the cost of being a danger to the people who've accepted him and allowed him to stick with them through navigating this disturbing crisis. He'll go if he has to. The option is there, waiting on a shelf for an emergency.
Until then, he'll try to make himself useful. ]
Tell me about it?
[ A more neutral tone now, instead of the bullying. He waits until he can meet the man's eyes for permission to kneel down beside him, though when he does, he doesn't reach out to touch him yet. Assessment first. He thinks he can help, possessing an innate understanding of musculature and the body for reasons unknown to him. All it's done so far is guided him on the quickest way to disable a person. This, he hopes, is a better turn. ]
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no subject
[ It's not quite the tone of voice he uses when he
smokes an intimidation check because durge proficiencycalmly informs someone that they'll cooperate or he'll crush their skull, but it's on the same frequency. Aren has learned by now that Godfrey is even worse than Shadowheart when it comes to receiving care— gaining satisfaction suffering in silence, being in denial due to holy magic, he doesn't know, but it's a stubborn thing.He is a stubborn thing as well. And he may not have a devotee's healing touch, but he has an eye for all things medical. (He says it's because it's what he was researching, as a wizard from a destitute background. No fancy jobs in towers for those without prolific mentors. In truth, he has no idea.) So he stands there in the opening of the paladin's tent, an ominous shadow of an almost-elf.
Less spooky: he's carrying what appears to be warm towels and a tin. It smells like menthol. ]
Your posture and gait have been wrong for days, despite being healed. Is it your ribs?
no subject
What, then? For anybody else, it's the sheer distaste for the space he might occupy - the permanent, nagging presence of someone else in yet greater need, the threat of having to draw attention to himself. Thoughts which twist his own need into a threat (of inconvenience, of deprivation, of irritation,) are all that Sir Godfrey needs to turn his efforts to numbing himself to that periodic stab accompanying his steps.
Godfrey can't say this is all that holds him back where Aren is concerned, however. He spent enough time leading his congregation to know a man lost when he sees one. He's seen how Aren's gaze lingers over the strewn gore they so often left behind, how he watched the blood soak the soil. As though he would sink his fingers into it.
Medical curiosity - Godfrey tells himself this is the kinder, more reasonable assumption. He had already expressed an affinity for the medicinal sciences. His immediate conclusion feels unfair. Still, there is something about his fascination that Godfrey cannot settle in himself; he cannot make it sit right, no matter where he puts it. Always do his thoughts return to the lurid glee he'd thought he glimpsed in him as those hyenas burst on the road.
It flits behind his eyes now, as Aren cuts a tall shadow in the doorway of his military tent. He clears his throat. ]
Perhaps so. [ If he'd meant to kill him, there were better ways to go about it. This is what he tells himself as he eases down to his bedroll, ginger as his left side begins to shriek again. ] I've an old wound as well, though it's not ached before.
no subject
Maybe there will come a time when he decides it's best to just leave, and slip away in the night to find his own resolution with his tadpole (or his own end). He wants to stay, but not at the cost of being a danger to the people who've accepted him and allowed him to stick with them through navigating this disturbing crisis. He'll go if he has to. The option is there, waiting on a shelf for an emergency.
Until then, he'll try to make himself useful. ]
Tell me about it?
[ A more neutral tone now, instead of the bullying. He waits until he can meet the man's eyes for permission to kneel down beside him, though when he does, he doesn't reach out to touch him yet. Assessment first. He thinks he can help, possessing an innate understanding of musculature and the body for reasons unknown to him. All it's done so far is guided him on the quickest way to disable a person. This, he hopes, is a better turn. ]