the dead

This is so bad lmao, for sicklyscavenger, Nipper puking up RAINBOW SHERBET apparently.

Grim shudders a bit at the sudden shock of water, even though it was lukewarm, it felt unnaturally cold due to the fever from her infection. However, it felt nice, the tinny water washing some of the grit off of her skin and Grim was able to get a few mouthfuls of water as it was poured over her. This sated her extreme thirst slightly, but even then she was left licking the extra drop from her lips.

The girl then pulls herself up enough to support herself ,letting go of his prosthetic. Once she realizes that she hadn’t been holding onto a real leg, her eyebrows furrow in confusion. At first she rubbed her eyes, the war paint on her face already being smeared and this blurred it further. Grim had seen other war boys with prosthetics but, never had she grabbed one like this. Even though her side was dripping blood once more now that she had begun moving, she felt embarrassed from having done this.

She knew speaking wouldn’t be really possible at the moment and her mind was still half fogged while recovering from her attack, so she simply sits there for a moment, studying Nettle. Grim figured he was only trying to help, so hold up her good arm, hoping he’d take it to help her up, so that she would tear her scabs as little as possible. Even though she wasn’t sure if she could walk, she surely couldn’t stay where she was.

Nettle rises to fetch more water, dropping back down beside her with the watering can only half-full, if even that. The gardens get plenty of water, sparing some wouldn’t hurt. He thrusts the can into her possession, and then returns to glancing over her crumpled form, now slightly raised after she’d released him.

“Anyone could.” Dove replied. “Can I?” She wanted to take a closer look at the herbs, maybe sort some that could be of use. She was almost running out of sage and needed it to disinfect deep wounds. 

The medic walked closer to the plants and crouched; She couldn’t help but notice the way the War Boy moved to put one of his sides out of sight, but didn’t mention it. He probably didn’t want to show something, be it an old injury or a scarification gone wrong. 

These happened, before the Citadel’s liberation, and former war boys sometimes refused to let her take a look, arguing there was nothing she could do to change what was already done. Dove couldn’t stand this feeling, being powerless, but acceptance had been a part -the hardest- of her medic formation. Letting the tips of her fingers brush the plants, Dove softly hummed a few notes, focused on the types of plants. 

He doesn’t give her a verbal response, instead nodding his head; it’s only a twitch of a motion, bright eyes locked upon her curious form. She’s a strange looking one, wearing such pale colors, yet the garments are not damaged by the filth scattered around the Citadel.

With each movement she makes, the gardener turns accordingly, his back never turned to her for a second. He watches as she drops down into a crouch to draw her fingers over the plants, to inspect them better, he assumes, though her touch is but a breeze along the green.

Sometimes he forgets how strong the scent of some of the herbs in here are, only intensified by the heat and closed space. He’s always reminded when he returns after a venture out.