| Consummate Professionals (Eir) |
[04 Apr 2008|02:16pm] |
Busy, busy.
So busy that, after making rounds and speaking with all of his patients, Asklepios had nothing better to do than hole up in his apothecary for the vast majority of the day. The conversation with Philotes had, of course, gone less than well. Try as he might, though, Asklepios couldn't think of anything to distract himself with. A hangover combined with Philotes' confusing choice of words would confuse anyone. In point of fact he hadn't handled that encounter very well, and if he'd been given a chance to do it all over again Asklepios was fairly certain he would have used different words himself. Conversations were irreversible things, however, and all of them being equal it was probably best if he didn't run into Philotes in the halls of Epidaurus for a time. In the halls of any place for a time, if he were pressed to tell the truth, but that seemed harsh. She hadn't been cruel to him, nor he to her. Miscommunication just made him awkward. Not nearly as much as conflict did, however.
( Conflict was worse. )
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| Render Unto Caesar [Tag: Zeus] (Zeus's Temple) |
[04 Apr 2008|06:33pm] |
The smoke had been filling his lungs, the orange glow of fire surrounded them, by the time Apollo had manged to shunt himself--with the unconscious, broken body of Moros in tow--into Concept. He wound up not a yard from the great marble steps leading into Zeus's sumptuous temple, just where he'd wanted to be, though he couldn't recall, in the race to leave what little was left of Hedylogos's estate, having concentrated on arriving here. It mattered little. He'd walked away vindicated and victorious, though not exactly unscathed. He was covered in soot, black and stubborn, from head to foot, and enough splinters and pebbles of plaster and rock clung to him that he could likely have built a shanty from them. Where he wasn't sooty, he was bloody; the wound just about his left hip was still leaking, the various cuts on his legs that he'd suffered from debris or from Moros's spear had bled enough to make them feel like they were encased in papier mache, and would certainly have to be disinfected, and now that the impact of Moros's last blow on his right shoulder was coming home to him, he found it difficult to do more with it than bend at the elbow.
( The stairs would be a problem. )
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