minor injury meme.

[estivates]

You or your meme partner has been hurt, but don't worry! This time around it's not that bad. You can still limp your way out of this mess.

INJURIES.
1. Sprain/strain. How did you screw up walking?
2. Broken bones. Simple fractures still hurt.
3. Cuts. Hopefully one of you has a sewing kit.
4. Burns. Location, location, location. Let's pray this one isn't on your ass.
5. Concussion. No, they're most likely not holding up fifteen fingers.
6. Other. I'm not a doctor.

HOW'D IT HAPPEN.
1. Stupidity. You did this to yourself.
2. Accident. Is an unintentional attack still an attack?
3. Attack. Don't lie, you deserved it.
4. Other. It's probably still your own fault.

WHERE'D IT HAPPEN.
1. Home. Did you remember to invest in a first aid kit?
2. School/Work. This should be excellent for getting you out of doing stuff!
3. Outdoors. Predators like the smell of blood. Clean up asap.
4. In the water. Hopefully there aren't any sharks!
5. Other. Like a hospital. That'd be handy.

Comments

[inquisitorialness]

[ She's already kneeling to dig through her pack - she tries to keep a few burn poultices on her all the time, especially after that dragon in the Hinterlands.

Her lips twitch faintly at his joke as she searches. ] I don't know. Commander Cullen might be safe - I overheard some of the serving girls at the tavern discussing Iron Bull's, ah, assets.

And I'm sure when it grows back it'll be more impressive than ever. Here we are.

[merchantprince]

[That gets a chuckle out of him.] Heh heh. Assets. [Can you believe he's nearly 40?

He looks over at her when she finds a poultice. Oh, good, she isn't about to try magicking him to health or anything. It's not that he doesn't trust the Inquisitor, he's just had enough of magic for the day.]

You are a saint. Er... a herald. You know what I mean.

[He scritches idly at the uninjured half of his bare chest.]

Next time, I'll try to take out the apostate first.

[inquisitorialness]

[ She chuckles a little. ] Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves, anyway.

[ But her smile fades quickly. ] He dispelled my barrier. I should've been paying closer attention. [ It's the most basic strategy - lay down the barrier spell, then keep an eye on everyone to make sure it doesn't go haywire or get counteracted, especially when there are enemy mages on the field. ]

[merchantprince]

Not every spot of bad luck is your fault, Inquisitor.

[He smiles at her. Even if this burn hurts like hell, he knows how hard she's trying. He can't imagine how hard her life is, he's so wrapped up in his own-- but he knows that she'll make a great hero in a story. Selfless, compassionate, and with a dash of danger... He can already see the last battle unfolding in his mind, the way his audience's eyes light up when the Inquisitor manages to freeze a demon solid and then shatter it to pieces.]

Just... apply that poultice and we'll call it good.

[inquisitorialness]

I know.

[ She's never been much of a medic, but a poultice is a poultice. She's picked up the ability to apply them fast in the field over the last few months.

Not everything may be under her control - but the way she sees it, if she can't even keep safe her companions, what good would she be as Inquisitor to decide the fate of so many strangers? ]

We'll make camp soon - we'll lose the light in a few hours, anyway. How's that?

[merchantprince]

A hot meal would be nice. And some decent ale for once. [He sighs heavily, a low noise that is nonetheless warmer for having company.] And while we're at it, maybe a cute dwarven serving girl or three...

Oh, right. The burns.

[He rolls his shoulders experimentally.]

Looks like I'll live.

[inquisitorialness]

[ She snorts again. She can't be too worried as long as he's still cracking jokes. ]

We'll be back at Skyhold soon. But if you want more dwarven serving girls, you'll have to find them yourself. I don't know any personally.

[merchantprince]

That's the hardest part: actually finding them. Dwarves on the surface tend to be of two types: the kind that tries to swindle you, or the kind that tries to kill you. [A pause.] The Merchant's Guild is both.

[He gingerly puts his tunic back on, taking extra care with the sleeves.]

Point is, you're more likely to find a pair of matching socks or a nice templar than a dwarven serving girl.

[inquisitorialness]

How terribly reassuring. [ There are already plenty of people trying to kill her. At least this dwarf is amiable enough. ]

Then again, we already have one of those things. Sort of. [ Cullen is a former Templar, sure, but that's a technicality. He's definitely nice. To her. ]