[How would divine sense even work in aef. I imagine (???) not at all, given Game Stuff, but she's not Actually Undead, so it's...probably about the same either way. It's fine. Who among us hasn't stumbled into a little bit of evil magic from time to time. (Lots of people, that's who.)
Given that she's able, he allows her to—quite literally—disrobe on her own power. And he whistles lowly once the damage is revealed, as if impressed by the scale of it. (Or that she's still standing despite it.) Ouch.
And, well. Good question, actually.]
Preferably the former, I think. [He thinks. He gives the intricate holy symbol pinned to his coat a little tap, as if in explanation, though his fingers stay to rest lightly and thoughtfully against it for a moment, afterward. Y'know. Shit's been weird, is all. That cold, awful, oily feeling seeping into the magic of this place is still present, and it's impossible to ignore the feel of it every time he tries to draw on any facsimile of his usual abilities. Something about it feels like-enough to the creeping brackish cold of his old pact magic that part of him is apprehensive about even trying for a healing spell at all. (Like maybe he might reach for it and find it impossible. Might take his next breath and find it tastes like salt water, see the nightmare unfolding around them become one of serpents and shipwrecks and bloated bodies, might wake from this whole weird exercise to a glare of yellow light and a falchion buried in his chest.)
The uncertainty of it is actually something he's been avoiding, and the reminder inspires a sharp little spike of anxiety, followed closely by a twist of guilt for being apprehensive about it at all. Melora has never given him reason to believe she'd abandon him, and he knows that, logically. But faith is a new thing for him, and not one that comes easily. Like all things worth having in his life, he has to work at it.
No time like the present, probably. He drops his hands away to clap them together and work out some of his nerves. Amiably, in light of how reassuring an answer that probably is not—]
I suppose we'll have to find out together.
[Because if the one fails him they'll just have to resort to the other, huh. Great! He drops into a crouch to get eye level with the slash in her shirt, peels the torn fabric away with as much gentleness as he can manage for a patch-job. Gives her one last quick glance before—]
Deep breath.
[Last warning. He splays his fingers against the wound, like he means to apply pressure to it. And thankfully for the both of them, as the cool light of the spell gathers under his fingers, the bleeding starts to slow.]
why won't you let me have this
Given that she's able, he allows her to—quite literally—disrobe on her own power. And he whistles lowly once the damage is revealed, as if impressed by the scale of it. (Or that she's still standing despite it.) Ouch.
And, well. Good question, actually.]
Preferably the former, I think. [He thinks. He gives the intricate holy symbol pinned to his coat a little tap, as if in explanation, though his fingers stay to rest lightly and thoughtfully against it for a moment, afterward. Y'know. Shit's been weird, is all. That cold, awful, oily feeling seeping into the magic of this place is still present, and it's impossible to ignore the feel of it every time he tries to draw on any facsimile of his usual abilities. Something about it feels like-enough to the creeping brackish cold of his old pact magic that part of him is apprehensive about even trying for a healing spell at all. (Like maybe he might reach for it and find it impossible. Might take his next breath and find it tastes like salt water, see the nightmare unfolding around them become one of serpents and shipwrecks and bloated bodies, might wake from this whole weird exercise to a glare of yellow light and a falchion buried in his chest.)
The uncertainty of it is actually something he's been avoiding, and the reminder inspires a sharp little spike of anxiety, followed closely by a twist of guilt for being apprehensive about it at all. Melora has never given him reason to believe she'd abandon him, and he knows that, logically. But faith is a new thing for him, and not one that comes easily. Like all things worth having in his life, he has to work at it.
No time like the present, probably. He drops his hands away to clap them together and work out some of his nerves. Amiably, in light of how reassuring an answer that probably is not—]
I suppose we'll have to find out together.
[Because if the one fails him they'll just have to resort to the other, huh. Great! He drops into a crouch to get eye level with the slash in her shirt, peels the torn fabric away with as much gentleness as he can manage for a patch-job. Gives her one last quick glance before—]
Deep breath.
[Last warning. He splays his fingers against the wound, like he means to apply pressure to it. And thankfully for the both of them, as the cool light of the spell gathers under his fingers, the bleeding starts to slow.]