Still Do No Harm
Posted: Tue Jan 05, 2021 10:26 pm
She was getting old. Slow, stiff, and old.
Deaf too, apparently.
Mharren Sil’Orah cried out as she stumbled across the threshold of her new home: a quaint cottage in the hinterlands, tucked away in the hills that lined the coast; a hermit’s dream. Her only place of refuge.
Leaving behind bloodied boot prints that stained the unfinished wooden slats of the floor, she tattooed herself a path of red to the kitchen, pushing off walls and the few pieces of furniture the previous owner had left behind. Each structure she pushed off of steadied her and thrust her closer to her goal: the fireplace. She jammed a hand into one of her pants’ pockets and closed her fingers around her steel and flint—
—just in time to get her ankles tangled. She twisted awkwardly, her previously vertical frame falling hard into the floor ... just past the hearth: too much momentum had been put behind the ultimate entanglement.
She screeched, the wound in her side tearing further as the muscle and sinew that surrounded the foreign object inside squeezed, adjusting their hold in a way that gave the object a sickening slip of torque. She lay on the floor, her empty hand pressed so firmly to her wound that her arm shook. She pressed harder, zeroing in on the pain to keep herself from slipping into the inviting tug of unconsciousness that crept into the edges of her vision.
“Eeeeaahhhhh!” She cried, as much from the pain as from her plight. Here she was, finally retired from her freakish duties in the Undercity, finally away from the talented monsters who called themselves scientists, and now she had never needed one of Sylvanas’s loyal stitch-knitters more than she did now.
Free at last...
She realized she was still clutching the flint and steel, the edge on the new flint shard biting into her palm.
Fire the kettle, do it fast.
Obeying her inner, much calmer self she heaved herself onto her side, sobbing at the results of her effort. Gritting her teeth, she pulled herself to the edge of the hearth. She looked up, the blackened kettle was already hung, water left over from her morning meal still inside. From so far below it was an ominous thing, and unknown object against a grey sky of stone, but it was also salvation.
Sterilization.
Using her feet to push off the floor, she crawled half onto the hearthstone, the lumpy lip of water-smoothed stones biting into the soft meat below her ribs. Her kindling was not within reach, but she always kept strips of birch bark on her person. She wrested these from their designated pocket and set them in a prime nook amongst the partially burned logs.
Fast. Gotta go fast.
Taking three shallow breaths to prime herself for the pain, she let go of her wound and descended upon the fire pit, striking the flint against the steel. Her wound loosed a wash of blood and other torn tissues, pooling below her and soaking her pants and the lower portion of her shirt. Ignoring this, she struck and struck, sparks flew but the fire didn’t catch. Her previously hot skin was flushing cool.
C’mon PLEASE.
The sparks caught, a tiny coal twinkling in the fluff of dried and frayed bark, she dropped her face to the ember, blowing long full breathes over it; it grew and soon the smaller pieces of wood caught, providing a base for the new fire to lick at the logs.
With the fire done, she rolled away from the hearth, bloodied hands sliding through the pool that had collected beneath her. She pressed both hands to the wound and forced herself up onto her knees. Her vision swam as her lowering supply of blood was diverted from her head down towards the big leak in her pipes.
So dead.
That was probably so, but she would not go without at least a bit more of a fight. Weakened and with time waning, she hooked one of the kitchen chairs with her boot and jerked it towards her, it toppled over, catching on a knot in a floor plank. This suited her fine, what she wanted was the crude cushion the previous owner had left affixed to the seat, that and one of its legs.
When she’d been jumped she had been fortunate enough not have her hatchet in hand at the time. If she had, she would likely have lost it.
Or I could have put it through that beasts face.
Regardless, she had it now. She yanked away the cushion, setting it aside then straddled the chair with her legs in a way that left her half laying on her inured side and half pulled into a sort of twisted sit up. She used the hatchet to weaken the joint of one leg, then drove her foot through it, severing the wooden limb from the chair.
Finally with some things she could use, she slithered out of her top, fingers leaving streaks of blood on her needlessly restrained breasts (Gods, she hadn’t been gifted on that front), and shook it out. The lower portion was heavy with blood, but it would still work.
Behind her, the fire crackled into a decent roar. She pressed the cushion to her wound, bending the flimsy padding around her side. She held the cushion in place, noting that despite the severity of her bleed it had not soaked through just yet; that was something. Using the cotton shirt, she wound it around her waist, pulling it taught over the cushion so that it was held snug against her. Then, entangling the chair leg in the twisted ends of the shirt, she began to wind the contraption, using the leg like a knob on a faucet. She wailed as the object inside her edged just a little deeper; not an ideal situation, but at the moment she was less concerned about it than she was about bleeding to death.
She cranked the massive tourniquet again…and finally she felt the bleeding to be held at bay. She had bought time, not much perhaps, but possibly enough.
Outside, somewhere in the forest surrounding her new home, the insects sang and the beasts hunted. Night was coming on quickly…and she was alone.
Deaf too, apparently.
Mharren Sil’Orah cried out as she stumbled across the threshold of her new home: a quaint cottage in the hinterlands, tucked away in the hills that lined the coast; a hermit’s dream. Her only place of refuge.
Leaving behind bloodied boot prints that stained the unfinished wooden slats of the floor, she tattooed herself a path of red to the kitchen, pushing off walls and the few pieces of furniture the previous owner had left behind. Each structure she pushed off of steadied her and thrust her closer to her goal: the fireplace. She jammed a hand into one of her pants’ pockets and closed her fingers around her steel and flint—
—just in time to get her ankles tangled. She twisted awkwardly, her previously vertical frame falling hard into the floor ... just past the hearth: too much momentum had been put behind the ultimate entanglement.
She screeched, the wound in her side tearing further as the muscle and sinew that surrounded the foreign object inside squeezed, adjusting their hold in a way that gave the object a sickening slip of torque. She lay on the floor, her empty hand pressed so firmly to her wound that her arm shook. She pressed harder, zeroing in on the pain to keep herself from slipping into the inviting tug of unconsciousness that crept into the edges of her vision.
“Eeeeaahhhhh!” She cried, as much from the pain as from her plight. Here she was, finally retired from her freakish duties in the Undercity, finally away from the talented monsters who called themselves scientists, and now she had never needed one of Sylvanas’s loyal stitch-knitters more than she did now.
Free at last...
She realized she was still clutching the flint and steel, the edge on the new flint shard biting into her palm.
Fire the kettle, do it fast.
Obeying her inner, much calmer self she heaved herself onto her side, sobbing at the results of her effort. Gritting her teeth, she pulled herself to the edge of the hearth. She looked up, the blackened kettle was already hung, water left over from her morning meal still inside. From so far below it was an ominous thing, and unknown object against a grey sky of stone, but it was also salvation.
Sterilization.
Using her feet to push off the floor, she crawled half onto the hearthstone, the lumpy lip of water-smoothed stones biting into the soft meat below her ribs. Her kindling was not within reach, but she always kept strips of birch bark on her person. She wrested these from their designated pocket and set them in a prime nook amongst the partially burned logs.
Fast. Gotta go fast.
Taking three shallow breaths to prime herself for the pain, she let go of her wound and descended upon the fire pit, striking the flint against the steel. Her wound loosed a wash of blood and other torn tissues, pooling below her and soaking her pants and the lower portion of her shirt. Ignoring this, she struck and struck, sparks flew but the fire didn’t catch. Her previously hot skin was flushing cool.
C’mon PLEASE.
The sparks caught, a tiny coal twinkling in the fluff of dried and frayed bark, she dropped her face to the ember, blowing long full breathes over it; it grew and soon the smaller pieces of wood caught, providing a base for the new fire to lick at the logs.
With the fire done, she rolled away from the hearth, bloodied hands sliding through the pool that had collected beneath her. She pressed both hands to the wound and forced herself up onto her knees. Her vision swam as her lowering supply of blood was diverted from her head down towards the big leak in her pipes.
So dead.
That was probably so, but she would not go without at least a bit more of a fight. Weakened and with time waning, she hooked one of the kitchen chairs with her boot and jerked it towards her, it toppled over, catching on a knot in a floor plank. This suited her fine, what she wanted was the crude cushion the previous owner had left affixed to the seat, that and one of its legs.
When she’d been jumped she had been fortunate enough not have her hatchet in hand at the time. If she had, she would likely have lost it.
Or I could have put it through that beasts face.
Regardless, she had it now. She yanked away the cushion, setting it aside then straddled the chair with her legs in a way that left her half laying on her inured side and half pulled into a sort of twisted sit up. She used the hatchet to weaken the joint of one leg, then drove her foot through it, severing the wooden limb from the chair.
Finally with some things she could use, she slithered out of her top, fingers leaving streaks of blood on her needlessly restrained breasts (Gods, she hadn’t been gifted on that front), and shook it out. The lower portion was heavy with blood, but it would still work.
Behind her, the fire crackled into a decent roar. She pressed the cushion to her wound, bending the flimsy padding around her side. She held the cushion in place, noting that despite the severity of her bleed it had not soaked through just yet; that was something. Using the cotton shirt, she wound it around her waist, pulling it taught over the cushion so that it was held snug against her. Then, entangling the chair leg in the twisted ends of the shirt, she began to wind the contraption, using the leg like a knob on a faucet. She wailed as the object inside her edged just a little deeper; not an ideal situation, but at the moment she was less concerned about it than she was about bleeding to death.
She cranked the massive tourniquet again…and finally she felt the bleeding to be held at bay. She had bought time, not much perhaps, but possibly enough.
Outside, somewhere in the forest surrounding her new home, the insects sang and the beasts hunted. Night was coming on quickly…and she was alone.