"And nor would we. Seems you played the hero in the end after all," comes a familiar voice from overhead again. There's a nudge to Eleven's shoulder, someone pushing him down against blankets, thin but soft.
"This is probably going to hurt, but sleep if you can," comes Archeval's murmured voice one more time.
Some of the workers have brought medical supplies, sparse but certainly better than the nothing they were working with before; disinfectant, clean bandages, blessedly warm water -- automatically, Arche is already rifling through it all with shaking hands when one of the other strangers here leans down into his face with a soft smile.
"You seem ready to collapse yourself. Please, rest, get some water. We can look after him for now."
Clean, female, nicely dressed, speaking something that he can only understand through the translator. A local then, perhaps. Arche's mind tiredly registers all this and he purses his lips as he sits back a little, pushing away from the case of supplies. His head swims slightly the with the motion. Ah -- that will be his body's last gasps of adrenaline wearing off.
"...burns. On his chest. Be careful with those," he gets out after a moment, rubbing a hand across his face, and stumbles back swayingly to his feet to find that water. It's always nervewracking sleeping among strangers; hopefully these don't decide to dispose of the foreign nuisances in their sleep, because he knows very shortly he's not going to have a choice.
Once he's carefully drunk his fill, he crawls into a corner to be quite dead to the world for a while, sitting back up into a woozy wakefulness many hours later only when the clamor of activity around him in this large backroom becomes too insistent to ignore. New business of some sort? Another wave of refugees? He can't find it in himself to care right now; instead his eyes automatically seek out the people he stumbled into that door with.
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"And nor would we. Seems you played the hero in the end after all," comes a familiar voice from overhead again. There's a nudge to Eleven's shoulder, someone pushing him down against blankets, thin but soft.
"This is probably going to hurt, but sleep if you can," comes Archeval's murmured voice one more time.
Some of the workers have brought medical supplies, sparse but certainly better than the nothing they were working with before; disinfectant, clean bandages, blessedly warm water -- automatically, Arche is already rifling through it all with shaking hands when one of the other strangers here leans down into his face with a soft smile.
"You seem ready to collapse yourself. Please, rest, get some water. We can look after him for now."
Clean, female, nicely dressed, speaking something that he can only understand through the translator. A local then, perhaps. Arche's mind tiredly registers all this and he purses his lips as he sits back a little, pushing away from the case of supplies. His head swims slightly the with the motion. Ah -- that will be his body's last gasps of adrenaline wearing off.
"...burns. On his chest. Be careful with those," he gets out after a moment, rubbing a hand across his face, and stumbles back swayingly to his feet to find that water. It's always nervewracking sleeping among strangers; hopefully these don't decide to dispose of the foreign nuisances in their sleep, because he knows very shortly he's not going to have a choice.
Once he's carefully drunk his fill, he crawls into a corner to be quite dead to the world for a while, sitting back up into a woozy wakefulness many hours later only when the clamor of activity around him in this large backroom becomes too insistent to ignore. New business of some sort? Another wave of refugees? He can't find it in himself to care right now; instead his eyes automatically seek out the people he stumbled into that door with.