[ P ] sneaking in the pain

In contrast to last night, the morning really was quite far from the best Nicharion's ever had. The hangover was one thing, manifesting as dull pounding within his skull, but his.. injuries? The red brute rolled out of his bed slowly, frowning at the pulsing pain coming off from various bites and scratches scattered over his large body. He couldn't recall getting them clearly, other than that it had felt good in the moment.. but clearly, it all went a bit overboard. He staggered out of his quarters, sighing heavily when the early sun made him recoil the moment he set a paw outside. Right in this moment, he really didn't feel like bothering with any of his duties...

After refreshing himself and having a quick breakfast, he's managed to pull himself together enough to look none the worse for for wear... except for his wounds, of course. They wouldn't impede any administrative tasks, but if he was to participate in any sparring or patrolling later today, something had to be done. Nicharion was more than capable of treating simple injuries, of course... but he didn't feel like doing it. It would only remind him of long gone days he had no interest in thinking about.

So he made his way to the medical wing instead. Why not? Might as well use this opportunity to see what the army has to offer in that field. Fortunately, it's been quite a while since the first battle of the war so there weren't many soldiers waiting for treatment. Nicharion picked an office at random, walking in with little hesitation. Even if some rank and file soldier had an appointment for this time.. well, what does he care? He's an officer, he can make them wait. "Ah, no one else in. Perfect." His crimson eyes settled on the dark male who occupied this space as he offered a nod in greeting. It seemed wise to play nice with a medic... it wasn't exactly his turf, after all. Nicharion tried to lean against the entryway, then frowned, deciding that putting any pressure on his shoulder wasn't the best idea, after all. "Got a moment for me, doc?"

manip + code: clae

let us live, since we must die

Mornings are usually quiet for Valefor. Typically, the army officers haven't yet managed to wound themselves so early in the day, and he has the freedom to organize his office, take note on his stores, and enjoy a cup of tea. He's managed the first two tasks, but the medic is only halfway through his drink when he hears the telltale approach of footsteps, and he tosses his chin over his shoulder in just enough time to see the stranger shadow his doorway. The man's eyes are a similar ruby hue to his own, set in a dark mask, but the similarities end there; the other wolf is a muddied blend of reds and browns and blacks, and larger in structure than Valefor, who is an average specimen at best. He tips his scarred muzzle in a curt nod and deposits his tea on a nearby shelf, ushering the soldier over the threshold with a steady tone, "of course. Come in." He's already pulled a few jars with ointments from the shelf as he turns—in his experience, infantrymen are not patient about medical care—and sets them on a low table, settling a more appraising look over the wolf's battered features. "Rough night?" Valefor queries with a slightly bemused arch of his brow, his eyes flicking back up to meet the other's. Sometimes, they come in here with the most cockamamie stories to tell about how they've been wounded—he loves those stories, however ludicrous their delusions of grandeur may be. "Anything aside from the obvious bring you here?" he questions with a more serious, clinical tone; he eyes the shoulder that Nicharion is favoring. There is very little after all these years that escapes his attention, but he prefers to hear it from the mouth of the patient—assuming they're willing to talk about their ailments, that is. Some of them would rather keep him playing a guessing game (to whose benefit, he still hasn't determined), but he suspects that the man who has sought him out on his own time is not here to beat around the bush.

code & art

Well, so far this was pleasantly expedient. Back in the Guild, healthcare never was quite so simple. One had to be able to pay well for a priority treatment, or have favors to call in... on top of knowing who is a mere quack and who is the real deal to begin with. Watching the dark-furred man quickly prepare himself for the task at hand, Nicharion could safely assume him to be to be the latter. As was to be expected; while there was no shortage of questionable character in the army, incompetency was less likely to be tolerated.

"Mmm. After a fashion." The corners of his lips curled upwards as he contemplated how upfront he felt inclined to be. If this medic was as experienced as he seemed to appear, it would be a futile effort to play this off as a result of a fight. The placement and angles of his injuries just wouldn't back that kind of story upon closer inspection, and only a fool tells lies that are likely to be caught. "Quite enjoyable, actually." Many wolves are more than happy to end a day battered and bloodied, so that alone wasn't saying much. The red brute settled for this ambiguity, not shying from the subject but neither offering anything specific. He was curious if the medic would make any sort of remark, or choose to let it go unsaid.

Nicharion stepped closer to the center of the room where the other could examine him more closely, though it didn't escape his attention that eyes similar to his own were already on the shoulder that he briefly failed to lean on. Observant, indeed. "Ah, just another bite there. But if you're asking..." The lieutenant put on a suave smirk, seemingly unable to resist the temptation to go after the hair of the dog, in a manner of speaking. "It'd be too much of a cliche to say I want a thorough checkup, wouldn't it?" Soldiers and physicians are both professions sought by the everyman in fantasies... it must be quite a hassle to fit both criteria. "So how about I settle for a name instead?"

manip + code: clae

let us live, since we must die

He gets a sense that this man is not quite so serious as many of the wolves who cross his threshold. Of course, all sorts of characters can end up within the ranks of the military, but those with years of experience tend to be more jaded than the first impression he gets from the ruddy wolf. ‘Quite enjoyable, actually.’ Valefor can’t help it—he snorts. It’s just a momentary huff of an exhale, but one that he knows is unlikely to go unnoticed; he does, at least, manage to refrain from commenting. There is a time and place for casual banter, and he is a firm believer that it does not belong in his workplace. He does not have the luxury of working in a field that can afford him any distraction; distraction, in his occupation, could mean the difference between life and death. A grim outlook, perhaps, but he has the experience to back up his serious nature. He watches the larger wolf prowl into his office, brightly lit from open windows set high within the wall, and notes to himself that whilst he is moving somewhat stiffly, he lacks a limp or any other indication that his injuries are more than superficial. Considering what the coming weeks hold for them all, that’s for the best. ‘But if you’re asking…’ That sly smirk is met with a pointed arch of Valefor’s brow, as though to say he is asking—in a completely professional sense, of course. He is, admittedly, somewhat entertained by the soldier’s temperament; it’s a breath of fresh air amongst the stale nature of most army recruits. "I wouldn’t be inclined to call it cliche, given that this is a medical office," Valefor comments, and despite his tone that borders on stern, there is a faint twinkle to his eye and the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lip that suggests he is amused—against his better judgement. The expression fades as quickly as it had come, and he bridges the remaining gap between them to begin a clinical assessment of the wolf's litany of injuries scattered across his pelt. "Valefor Janković," he offers easily and without pause when he is questioned for his name. There is no hiding one's identity in the military, and any wolf with a higher status than soldier—a category he suspects this man falls into based on age alone—technically outranks him. Obedience is second nature to him now. Tutting softly, the medic finishes his perusal and turns to his supplies, preparing an antiseptic first to prevent any infection setting in. "There’s nothing too serious here," he comments as he works, doctoring the soldier’s wounds with a sure and steady paw. "I’ll treat these with a salve that should quell most discomfort for the day and allow you to participate unhindered in your duties. You can come back this evening for another application if necessary." By the end of the day and whatever rigorous drills the military requires of him, any pain inhibitor that Valefor gives him will undoubtedly wear off—though most of the infantrymen he knows would be loathe to admit it, and would be slower yet to drag themselves to the medical offices twice in one day. Vale gave up on making demands of them long ago.

code & art

Intentionally or not, the medic has managed to tread the fine line between humoring him and shutting him down. No direct response other than one of professional nature, but a snort here and a smile there... like a game of cat and mouse. A fortunate impression - it would be irksome if his words turned out to be an immediate waste of time, but this was quite entertaining instead. Of course, he would take it as an invitation to keep trying. "Tough crowd, eh?" His eyes roamed the room unhurriedly while the other wolf examined him, noting the orderly organization of space. This also was a stark contrast to some of the less reputable guild medics... sometimes they could scarcely be told apart from butchers.

That a name would be offered easily was to be expected, but its foreign ring came as a surprise. "How exotic." he rumbled his approval in a husky tone. Surely, there was a story there, a reason why an outlander would end up as a medic in the imperial army. Something to be curious about... yet not ask. Courtesy and caution in equal measure; Nicharion didn't care much to be asked for his own reasons in turn.

The treatment was less than pleasant, stinging sharply in one wound after another. Not the kind of discomfort that was easy to enjoy, unfortunately.. but it was also brief. The red brute hardly let it show, instead opting to smile and make another comment. "Gentler with your paws than you look." He really couldn't complain, Valefor's touch was light and precise. It was a welcome change of pace to interact of with someone competent, instead of the usual fumbling soldiers. The suggestion to come back in the evening was quite convenient, so he nodded in agreement almost immediately. "Well, far be it for me to refuse an invitation." He had a feeling that the atmosphere will be more relaxed when they no longer have a day full of work ahead of them.

After the dark-furred male has finished the job, Nicharion waited a few seconds before going for a stretch. Not that he was trying to show off, but if it happened coincidentally... well, nothing that can be done about it! "Ahh, much better." he sighed, then stood straight again as he turned to face the other. "Technically I don't really owe you anything, I know.. still, would you let me buy you a drink later, in appreciation for your time?" Nicharion offered with a wink, feeling rather confident about his chances. And even if it turns out to be just a drink in the end.. there's no harm in treating a rather crucial colleague well, is there?

manip + code: clae

let us live, since we must die

Tough crowd, eh? Valefor shrugs, failing to find a response to that. The version of him that exists within the army barracks and on the battlefield is a persona that has been crafted to perfection over the years—intentionally or not. There was a time in his life where he could have been considered reckless, and his profession holds no room for it; he had learned, in the most vicious ways possible, that being reckless gets wolves killed. He doesn’t dwell often on it these days, but it comes back to him in flashes of memories when his demeanor is commented on. His outward response is casual, shrugging off the comment in favor of focusing on the task at hand. Those memories don’t haunt him anymore, but they do provide a distraction he has no intention of entertaining. Valefor has a particular distaste for making the same mistake twice. "Not half as interesting as it seems," he returns with a slightly amused huff—not quite a laugh—when the soldier says his name is exotic. He supposes to a Rionnach native, it would seem that way; unique and out of place, and unexpected from a man whose accent has long since faded into being imperceptible. The wolves of this country are not always fond of outsiders, and so he’d shed the traces of himself that were outwardly foreign, and donned a new face—chameleon in nature. This soldier, like most who walk through his door, is stoic. Despite his quick and precise work, Valefor is well aware of the discomfort his treatment causes—he has always thought it an unfortunate effect of medicine, that he must cause harm to heal. "I should hope so. I’ve certainly had enough practice," Valefor says with a faint smile. Male medics are rare these days—and rarer still are ones who work with such careful precision as he does; he is an anomaly, in more ways than one. Satisfied with his handiwork, the blue-grey wolf steps back out of the soldier’s personal space and sets to returning his supplies to their designated spaces on the shelf. From the corner of his eye, he can see the man’s languid stretch, and Valefor studies him for half a second longer than is proper before he sets his focus intently upon putting the rest of his herb jars in place. Technically, I don’t really owe you anything, I know… The medic goes a little bit more still with each passing word, until his paw finally drops from the shelf and his head tilts faintly, as if in thought. He turns to meet the wolf’s stare with an unreadable one of his own, and he lets the silence linger for one, two, three steady thuds of his heart, and then his lips kick up into an earnest—albeit small—smile. "Alright," he acquiesces; Valefor has to admit that he is curious, and besides, he enjoys a drink as much as the rest of his men-at-arms. He’d be an idiot to turn one down when it’s on another wolf’s dime, after all.

code & art

No matter the verbal jab he used, nothing could quite get past the steely wall of Valefor's exterior and get him to talk. The attempts clearly weren't unwelcome at the very least, so it did present a rather interesting challenge. It wasn't often that he got to meet this kind of wolf. It reminded Nicharion of.. someone. Though who, the red brute wasn't certain just yet. "Skill and humility rarely go paw in paw... so forgive me for insisting that you're quite the unique blend." Nicharion could easily continue to feed the medic flattery until he was ready to burst.. or at the very least, until some other means of peeling the outer layers reveals itself, so that he could see what makes this curious outlander tick.

And it would seem he will get plenty more chances today. His smile grew into a grin at the single simple word of the other male's agreement. "Splendid. I shall see you later, then." The lieutenant eyed Valefor for a couple seconds longer than he had to, before he would tip his head and turn towards the door. "Toodles." For such a silly parting phrase, he put a lot of effort into it, weaving a hint of anticipatory tension into his voice as it descended into a deep, almost seductive tone. Then he walked out with firm and steady steps, slowing down only for a moment just as crossed the threshold so that his tail would be the last thing Valefor saw, brushing against the doorway unhurriedly until it, too, vanished.

He hadn't realized how slow and dreary his duties would seem when he had something to look forward to on his off hours. To the medic's credit, that ointment has really made everything mostly effortless, at least in physical terms. In the end, the lieutenant had no choice but to unload his frustrations with additional supervised drills for his subordinates, strictly punishing even the slightest failure to meet form. Their struggles helped kill the time, and might pay off with better performance off the army... everybody benefits. Well, except for the grunts, but such is their lot. Their cumulative good results might get him a promotion one of these days, but individually most of them weren't likely to get any recognition. Life is simply unfair. At least if they die for it, they will get a neat little ceremony for their funerals... such a consolation.

When it was all done and the sun started to paint the sky orange, Nicharion made his way back to Valefor's office. With stealth that belied his size, he paused in the doorway to watch the medic fiddle about his workplace for a moment. He hasn't realized until now that the lower half of Valefor's body had a lighter fur color; the setting sun's hue brought that out far better than the morning light did. Quite the tempting fur pattern... "It worked as well as you promised." he said, revealing his presence in case it has gone unnoticed this long. "Got any taverns you like, then?" Nicharion tilted his head slightly, still watching the other male with curiosity. Letting the one he was treating to a drink pick the place might seem like nothing more than being polite, but even something so trivial as a preferred tavern could provide some crumbs of hints. And the longer this puzzle taunted him, the hungrier he was for more.

manip + code: clae