| Seventy-seven (Philammon) |
[04 Mar 2008|02:40pm] |
Asklepios hardly felt anything at all while he stumbled. There were other deities here, nearby, but in his home they would take no note of one such as himself. Not unless they were looking for him. Gasping in pain with every step, trying not to touch his charred flesh against anything that might stick to it. The scars would heal if he could find the proper potion for the job. In this condition it hardly mattered. Arms hanging limply at his sides, it was enough to demand of himself just then that he keep moving. Into the confines of a room. His workshop, where the 'magic' happened. Philotes and Peitho had gotten away. There was nothing to be done for Hedylogos or Pothos. And as for himself... he had done harm. To save a life, but the feel of it, twisted his stomach into knots. He'd already vomited once, stumbling half-blind down the marble corridors of his home.
Now, here in the inner sanctum of his temple, he was going to black out. And before that happened, he needed to find the right mixture. Stumbling into one counter, and then another, trying to see his way around all the myriad obstacles in his path. Fire. Fire and smoke and steel. Asklepios collapsed with an audible creak of bones, a crack of his forehead against marble that would ring out down the hall because of his still-open door. The bottle was somewhere. Flailing wildly, his hand reached the counter and used the edge to pull the healer up. Bit by bit. Inch by inch. His opposite arm, right, it was swinging to and fro in search of the bottle. Only one bottle, about six inches tall and a deep brown. The sort of thing they used to put rubbing alcohol and other drugs into. He had prepared it for a myriad of reasons, none of which had proved to be correct or even closer to accurate as time went on. Asklepios could have shot the man that had such poor planning skills.
Oh, yes.
( That was him. )
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