There is no bracing for it, it just hurts like a bitch. Not the worst injury she could have sustained but she still lets out an unbriddled yelp of pain when he pulls the needle out, and may manage to grit out something about how nature can die for all she cares.
She doesn't mean it, of course, but still.
About three new waves of cold shivers and sweat rush over her in the aftermath, and she would have felt faint if not for the stool anyway.
Something about this moment makes her easily listen to his instructions as if he's the most knowledgeable when it comes to tending to wounds. She imagines Astarion knows about stab wounds, she's seen him at work. (She's seen his back.)
"I wish I was like Lae'Zel," she declares, in a moment of pure vulnerability as she lowers her arm and starts to undo the laces of her stays. "You know, just capable of walking this sort of thing off. No pain, just pure grit - well, I mean I'm sure she feels pain too, everyone does, but does she allow that to set her back? No, sir. Lae'Zel would never be all blurry-vision over a sharp little shadowy tree needle. She'd have yanked it out on the battlefield, probably."
She's done loosening her stays enough to take them off by now, dropping the piece of corsetry on the floor by her with not even a care to clean it yet. Instantly, the absence of it brings into contrast the wounds that the healing potion did not fully close. She lets out a tired little sigh.
"Probably would've stabbed the tree with it as a reaction," she finishes her soliloquy for Lae'Zel's grit, and rolls her shirt up to her waist before grimacing. Lae'Zel would probably just pull the shirt off fully, but Hermione's not there yet in her self-confidence, so.
The process is slow and a bit clumsy, but she manages to pull her shirt up to her shoulders, revealing her bare back, but still covering most of her chest.
"I really hate not being good at things," she mutters under her breath, as a confession. The confession being implied: she is not good at the fighting. Or rather, not durable.
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She doesn't mean it, of course, but still.
About three new waves of cold shivers and sweat rush over her in the aftermath, and she would have felt faint if not for the stool anyway.
Something about this moment makes her easily listen to his instructions as if he's the most knowledgeable when it comes to tending to wounds. She imagines Astarion knows about stab wounds, she's seen him at work. (She's seen his back.)
"I wish I was like Lae'Zel," she declares, in a moment of pure vulnerability as she lowers her arm and starts to undo the laces of her stays. "You know, just capable of walking this sort of thing off. No pain, just pure grit - well, I mean I'm sure she feels pain too, everyone does, but does she allow that to set her back? No, sir. Lae'Zel would never be all blurry-vision over a sharp little shadowy tree needle. She'd have yanked it out on the battlefield, probably."
She's done loosening her stays enough to take them off by now, dropping the piece of corsetry on the floor by her with not even a care to clean it yet. Instantly, the absence of it brings into contrast the wounds that the healing potion did not fully close. She lets out a tired little sigh.
"Probably would've stabbed the tree with it as a reaction," she finishes her soliloquy for Lae'Zel's grit, and rolls her shirt up to her waist before grimacing. Lae'Zel would probably just pull the shirt off fully, but Hermione's not there yet in her self-confidence, so.
The process is slow and a bit clumsy, but she manages to pull her shirt up to her shoulders, revealing her bare back, but still covering most of her chest.
"I really hate not being good at things," she mutters under her breath, as a confession. The confession being implied: she is not good at the fighting. Or rather, not durable.