[ They make it back without any real trouble, Drake proving once again that he can handle his shit and that Ephemera's worry--confusing and persistent as it is--wasn't founded. They're okay. They're the motherfuckers who survived, who made it through. Ephemera sits down slowly, running through a mental checklist. He's not swaying on his feet, but he's starting to feel the ache. The bloodloss is stacking, the adrenaline dumped, and this is the aftermath. Already, Ephemera knows he's going to be exhausted when it's done.
He powers through. He doesn't fall. Ephemera winces a little as he gets the armor off, one piece at a time, but he takes his time. He sets each individual piece aside, marking the areas that will need to be repaired or cleaned. It's important to take care of your gear. And then, when it's done, he lifts his shirt up to examine the wound.
It's deep. Three distinctive slashes across his stomach, arcing slightly to the left. None of his guts are showing, though, so he decides to treat it as a win. Ephemera takes Drake's bloody shirt and holds pressure to the wound, in the meantime. ]
Those things pack a hell of a punch. Miss my power armor.
[ He could've shrugged this off like it was nothing. ]
no subject
He powers through. He doesn't fall. Ephemera winces a little as he gets the armor off, one piece at a time, but he takes his time. He sets each individual piece aside, marking the areas that will need to be repaired or cleaned. It's important to take care of your gear. And then, when it's done, he lifts his shirt up to examine the wound.
It's deep. Three distinctive slashes across his stomach, arcing slightly to the left. None of his guts are showing, though, so he decides to treat it as a win. Ephemera takes Drake's bloody shirt and holds pressure to the wound, in the meantime. ]
Those things pack a hell of a punch. Miss my power armor.
[ He could've shrugged this off like it was nothing. ]