13.Sep.13, 09:28 PM
His elbow was bleeding again. Not that that was anything new. Bumps, bruises and scrapes were his second attire; he was always sporting at least a few. And a skinned elbow was hardly anything to write home about. The problem with elbows, though... they bend. Making them hard to heal. And apparently leaving blood prints on the dining hall tables was not appreciated. He'd managed to shove a few rolls into his mouth before being chased out by one of the matronly cooks there. Matronly, in the sense that she was threatening to box his ears in. Which put her in the only vein of mother's he'd ever known.
So, escaping with his life and a mouthful of dough, he'd made his way leisurely in the direction of his hut. After all, he didn't need a healer. It was a damn scratch. He has worse ones in worse places at the moment, if anyone was keen to ask. [ghalath] To wrap it... [/ghalath] Ghalath said simply, lazily. She'd been sleeping. [ghalath] ...just take some.[/ghalath]
Z'jan slowed, chewing. It always took a minute to understand what Ghalath was saying. She hardly ever spoke in complete sentences. Ah, a roll of cloth wrap... Z'jan smiled. She had a point. Just grab a roll and take it back to the hut. No one would notice. Probably. And he'd have enough left over to make a makeshift sling next time he needed one. Because there was always a next time. So he changed direction, heading towards the Healing Hall. He would just pop in, grab a roll, be on his way... he pulled the door open and took a few steps inside. It was quiet. No one else seemed to be around.
Good.
He'd been here enough to know where most things were kept, and headed straight for a known storage closet against the far wall. As long as he walked with his head up and looked like he knew what he was doing, no one would question him. Every real sneak knows as much. But halfway across the hall, a small movement caught his eye. He stopped dead, even though he should have kept walking. But the figure had already disappeared around the next corner. Who had that been? Z'jan tried to reconstruct what he had seen. A healer? Maybe, but... not likely. It had moved too... sneakily?
Forgetting his original objective, he wandered quietly over to where the figure had been. On the floor, just out of easy sight, were a pair of sandals. Odd place. Z'jan looked up again, gazing in the direction that the figure must have gone. He pondered for a moment.
Then followed, of course.
But not before abandoning his own shoes. He stashed them more secretively, under the ledge of a cabinet. No one would find them there. I'm stalking an intruder, Ghalath. If I'm not back in a candlemark, then I might be dead. Call the healers... or... you know. Ghalath was not amused. She grunted in her mind: [ghalath] You act like a hatchling... and you're not funny. [/ghalath] There was more than sleep in her voice this time, there was also some anger. She didn't like 'Zjan's dead' jokes.
Z'jan's sighed. He probably shouldn't be making those jokes anyway. But irreverence was stitched into his soul; it was part of who he was. Still... do you want me to say sorry?
[ghalath] I want you to leave me alone so I can sleep.[/ghalath]
Z'jan put a finger to his lips, pledging silence, even though the green couldn't see him. Then, on tip-toed barefeet, he crept after the mysterious figure.
So, escaping with his life and a mouthful of dough, he'd made his way leisurely in the direction of his hut. After all, he didn't need a healer. It was a damn scratch. He has worse ones in worse places at the moment, if anyone was keen to ask. [ghalath] To wrap it... [/ghalath] Ghalath said simply, lazily. She'd been sleeping. [ghalath] ...just take some.[/ghalath]
Z'jan slowed, chewing. It always took a minute to understand what Ghalath was saying. She hardly ever spoke in complete sentences. Ah, a roll of cloth wrap... Z'jan smiled. She had a point. Just grab a roll and take it back to the hut. No one would notice. Probably. And he'd have enough left over to make a makeshift sling next time he needed one. Because there was always a next time. So he changed direction, heading towards the Healing Hall. He would just pop in, grab a roll, be on his way... he pulled the door open and took a few steps inside. It was quiet. No one else seemed to be around.
Good.
He'd been here enough to know where most things were kept, and headed straight for a known storage closet against the far wall. As long as he walked with his head up and looked like he knew what he was doing, no one would question him. Every real sneak knows as much. But halfway across the hall, a small movement caught his eye. He stopped dead, even though he should have kept walking. But the figure had already disappeared around the next corner. Who had that been? Z'jan tried to reconstruct what he had seen. A healer? Maybe, but... not likely. It had moved too... sneakily?
Forgetting his original objective, he wandered quietly over to where the figure had been. On the floor, just out of easy sight, were a pair of sandals. Odd place. Z'jan looked up again, gazing in the direction that the figure must have gone. He pondered for a moment.
Then followed, of course.
But not before abandoning his own shoes. He stashed them more secretively, under the ledge of a cabinet. No one would find them there. I'm stalking an intruder, Ghalath. If I'm not back in a candlemark, then I might be dead. Call the healers... or... you know. Ghalath was not amused. She grunted in her mind: [ghalath] You act like a hatchling... and you're not funny. [/ghalath] There was more than sleep in her voice this time, there was also some anger. She didn't like 'Zjan's dead' jokes.
Z'jan's sighed. He probably shouldn't be making those jokes anyway. But irreverence was stitched into his soul; it was part of who he was. Still... do you want me to say sorry?
[ghalath] I want you to leave me alone so I can sleep.[/ghalath]
Z'jan put a finger to his lips, pledging silence, even though the green couldn't see him. Then, on tip-toed barefeet, he crept after the mysterious figure.