[ Sleipnir is not immune to a touch of impatience in these matters. Postpone his healing? And in private — why? He very nearly rolls his eyes. It comes out as a slightly impatient flutter of his lashes as his gaze flicks idly from the chirurgeon's staff to his own hand gripping his arm white to staunch the bleeding.
Still, he supposes, if this is not some paltry parlor act of Geralt's, he does at least see the merit in analyzing the wounds left by the beast to determine what it might be, or where it may have gone. He heaves a sigh, waving his hand as if to affect a sense of noble indifference. ]
...Leave me be, Harlan. Let him earn his coin.
[ "But, my lord —" ]
It is nothing I have not previously sustained.
[ The healer grumbles, but he relents after a moment, ceasing his work to take two paces away from Sleipnir's body. Then, seeming to recall that Geralt requested privacy, he turns on his heel. "I will be outside," the man says stiffly. "With the others," he adds after a pause, as if to threaten that he and the maidservants will burst in if they detect any hint of misbehavior.
Sleipnir waves his hand again impatiently, and then the man is gone.
There is — perhaps something of a story to be told here, in the way that Sleipnir seems very much the sort of arrogant lordling who has always been spoiled and doted upon and expected to produce nothing, and yet curiously knows Harlan by his name, and has affected that much loyalty from him and the other servants of their House. Ishgardian loyalties are often bought, yes, but to that degree...?
Regardless, it isn't the story that he needs to linger on in the moment.
The knight's gaze swivels back to Geralt's face as he, unprompted, loosens the collar of his shirt and pulls it apart for the "mercenary" to take a better look. Claw marks and blood; red lines through porcelain skin. No mottled blue or purple or green would suggest immediate signs of a toxin, but then Geralt would, ostensibly, have a better view of these things. ]
no subject
Still, he supposes, if this is not some paltry parlor act of Geralt's, he does at least see the merit in analyzing the wounds left by the beast to determine what it might be, or where it may have gone. He heaves a sigh, waving his hand as if to affect a sense of noble indifference. ]
...Leave me be, Harlan. Let him earn his coin.
[ "But, my lord —" ]
It is nothing I have not previously sustained.
[ The healer grumbles, but he relents after a moment, ceasing his work to take two paces away from Sleipnir's body. Then, seeming to recall that Geralt requested privacy, he turns on his heel. "I will be outside," the man says stiffly. "With the others," he adds after a pause, as if to threaten that he and the maidservants will burst in if they detect any hint of misbehavior.
Sleipnir waves his hand again impatiently, and then the man is gone.
There is — perhaps something of a story to be told here, in the way that Sleipnir seems very much the sort of arrogant lordling who has always been spoiled and doted upon and expected to produce nothing, and yet curiously knows Harlan by his name, and has affected that much loyalty from him and the other servants of their House. Ishgardian loyalties are often bought, yes, but to that degree...?
Regardless, it isn't the story that he needs to linger on in the moment.
The knight's gaze swivels back to Geralt's face as he, unprompted, loosens the collar of his shirt and pulls it apart for the "mercenary" to take a better look. Claw marks and blood; red lines through porcelain skin. No mottled blue or purple or green would suggest immediate signs of a toxin, but then Geralt would, ostensibly, have a better view of these things. ]
Well? Your verdict?