Awaiting Pratt and Ben to get their injured friend situated, Carlisle keeps his eyes on Kieran's -- or on his lack thereof, rather -- as he formulates just how he is going to do this. Pratt whispers to him, distracting him from his already troubled thoughts.
"Had we more time, I could construct a compound glyph to draw upon us both, but..." He wrings his fingers. "Healing with a glyph is temperamental. It would be akin to baking bread according to precise directions rather than being able to adapt and improvise as necessary. It may work, but there are so many variables, so much that could go wrong—"
He stops himself there, knowing it's better he not remind Pratt of all this -- certainly not now, when Kieran is in enough trouble as it is. He shakes his head.
"The offer is kind, but we can contemplate it as an option for the future at a later date. Let me work for now, and... be prepared for anything." If that sounded ominous, it just might be: given the shift in his powers and how uncontrolled they've been since he awakened as an undead, he cannot be certain this will even work. If nothing else, he likely can't make things worse -- or at least he hopes he can't.
Swallowing the knot in his throat, Carlisle places his hands along Kieran's neck, his palms against the curve of his jawline, his fingers and thumb coming to rest around his ears. One more deep breath to steel himself, and he begins. What Kieran may feel, if he's not gone completely into shock, is an intense burning at the point of contact, trailing into his muscles and through his veins. It's usually more of an uncomfortable, unrelenting stinging than outright painful -- a sharp, searing ache, at most.
What Carlisle feels, on the other hand, is quite different both from Kieran and what he's used to. Though he was expecting the sudden turmoil from the energy he's utilizing clashing with that which keeps him animated, that doesn't make it any less excruciating as he channels into his ward. His arms burn, threatening to give out on him; Carlisle focuses his mind, regaining control over them before he forces himself to continue. He squeezes his eyes shut so he can better concentrate on what he is able to feel through his energy as it cascades into Kieran, spreading into his torso and through the rest of his skull.
A major component of healing the way Carlisle does is exploring the patient internally through his channel, allowing the energy to flow into and through the body. Like water in a vessel (if said water were scalding), it ripples as it bumps against abnormalities in Kieran's structure, alerting Carlisle to their presence. A bruise here, a tear in his skin there -- minor injuries, ones healed without actual effort put toward them. Far worse are his eyes, being that they are completely missing. It's much easier to repair damaged tissue than it is to reconstruct it entirely, though the latter is possible for a properly trained healer. In good news, Carlisle is one of those, and gifted in the craft to boot.
Unfortunately, he's also starting to buckle under the strain of maintaining his channel, even if he's only done an inspection and minor healing so far. His hands tremble, a shudder running through his entire body. From behind him, a line of sudden, violent rot cuts through the grass, its path jagged and sharp like blackened lightning. It races one way before turning wildly, leading directly to one of the trees. Within seconds, the bark begins to crumble, drying and flaking as the branches wither.
That seems to stabilize him, and back to work Carlisle goes, unaware of the dying tree a short distance away. He focuses on the sockets, healing the damaged skin, reforming the eyes bit by bit. Visually, it's a strange sight to behold as the tissues seemingly stitch themselves back together layer by layer, all while blood and magic come together in Kieran's ruined sockets to form the various components of the eye. Nerves, fluid, vessels—
He grits his teeth, stiffening as another tremor runs through him. The blackened line cut into the ground grows a branch, reaching for another tree, then another. It can only do so much for him as he starts to lose feeling in his hands. As he works on the base of the second eye, he can feel ink trailing out of one of his own; it bleeds from the edges of his fingernails, stains his mask from the inside out as it drips through his teeth. He tries to keep going, to fully finish the job so Kieran won't have to suffer and he can prove to himself that he can still do this and that he's not worthless now that he's an abomination of his former self, but—
Carlisle's eyes open, the light behind them bright, agitated, unfocused; he tears himself from Kieran's side, but only manages two steps before he stumbles, landing hard on his elbows. His body refuses to do much more than shake uncontrollably, his limbs jerking and twitching as his joints seize; his fingers curl against the dirt, raking lines in it. It's then he realizes the ground beneath him, around him, is decaying.
Terrified of what that means for those around him, he tries to speak; however, instead of a warning not to touch him, all that emerges from his throat is a garbled rasp, one accompanied by a fit of hacking, coughing, choking on the ink welling there.
no subject
"Had we more time, I could construct a compound glyph to draw upon us both, but..." He wrings his fingers. "Healing with a glyph is temperamental. It would be akin to baking bread according to precise directions rather than being able to adapt and improvise as necessary. It may work, but there are so many variables, so much that could go wrong—"
He stops himself there, knowing it's better he not remind Pratt of all this -- certainly not now, when Kieran is in enough trouble as it is. He shakes his head.
"The offer is kind, but we can contemplate it as an option for the future at a later date. Let me work for now, and... be prepared for anything." If that sounded ominous, it just might be: given the shift in his powers and how uncontrolled they've been since he awakened as an undead, he cannot be certain this will even work. If nothing else, he likely can't make things worse -- or at least he hopes he can't.
Swallowing the knot in his throat, Carlisle places his hands along Kieran's neck, his palms against the curve of his jawline, his fingers and thumb coming to rest around his ears. One more deep breath to steel himself, and he begins. What Kieran may feel, if he's not gone completely into shock, is an intense burning at the point of contact, trailing into his muscles and through his veins. It's usually more of an uncomfortable, unrelenting stinging than outright painful -- a sharp, searing ache, at most.
What Carlisle feels, on the other hand, is quite different both from Kieran and what he's used to. Though he was expecting the sudden turmoil from the energy he's utilizing clashing with that which keeps him animated, that doesn't make it any less excruciating as he channels into his ward. His arms burn, threatening to give out on him; Carlisle focuses his mind, regaining control over them before he forces himself to continue. He squeezes his eyes shut so he can better concentrate on what he is able to feel through his energy as it cascades into Kieran, spreading into his torso and through the rest of his skull.
A major component of healing the way Carlisle does is exploring the patient internally through his channel, allowing the energy to flow into and through the body. Like water in a vessel (if said water were scalding), it ripples as it bumps against abnormalities in Kieran's structure, alerting Carlisle to their presence. A bruise here, a tear in his skin there -- minor injuries, ones healed without actual effort put toward them. Far worse are his eyes, being that they are completely missing. It's much easier to repair damaged tissue than it is to reconstruct it entirely, though the latter is possible for a properly trained healer. In good news, Carlisle is one of those, and gifted in the craft to boot.
Unfortunately, he's also starting to buckle under the strain of maintaining his channel, even if he's only done an inspection and minor healing so far. His hands tremble, a shudder running through his entire body. From behind him, a line of sudden, violent rot cuts through the grass, its path jagged and sharp like blackened lightning. It races one way before turning wildly, leading directly to one of the trees. Within seconds, the bark begins to crumble, drying and flaking as the branches wither.
That seems to stabilize him, and back to work Carlisle goes, unaware of the dying tree a short distance away. He focuses on the sockets, healing the damaged skin, reforming the eyes bit by bit. Visually, it's a strange sight to behold as the tissues seemingly stitch themselves back together layer by layer, all while blood and magic come together in Kieran's ruined sockets to form the various components of the eye. Nerves, fluid, vessels—
He grits his teeth, stiffening as another tremor runs through him. The blackened line cut into the ground grows a branch, reaching for another tree, then another. It can only do so much for him as he starts to lose feeling in his hands. As he works on the base of the second eye, he can feel ink trailing out of one of his own; it bleeds from the edges of his fingernails, stains his mask from the inside out as it drips through his teeth. He tries to keep going, to fully finish the job so Kieran won't have to suffer and he can prove to himself that he can still do this and that he's not worthless now that he's an abomination of his former self, but—
Carlisle's eyes open, the light behind them bright, agitated, unfocused; he tears himself from Kieran's side, but only manages two steps before he stumbles, landing hard on his elbows. His body refuses to do much more than shake uncontrollably, his limbs jerking and twitching as his joints seize; his fingers curl against the dirt, raking lines in it. It's then he realizes the ground beneath him, around him, is decaying.
Terrified of what that means for those around him, he tries to speak; however, instead of a warning not to touch him, all that emerges from his throat is a garbled rasp, one accompanied by a fit of hacking, coughing, choking on the ink welling there.