Iraklís watched the blood run down his arm for a while. His body had long shut down and made him grow numb to the pain. He was aware of his headache, though, and the tension in his muscles. He knew that something had skinned his arm and tried to break his bones but he couldn’t remember what had happened for the life of his. He sat down by himself, grunting quietly when jolts of fire shot through his limbs. He picked up the bottle of alcohol by his side and slowly poured it over his wound, washing out the injuries as well as he could. Despite the clenched teeth and grimace he couldn’t help but utter sounds of discomfort.
“Why does this always happen?” He murmured huskily, his voice strained and thin, and ripped his other sleeve apart to use it as bandages. “Every single time…” He coughed and cleared his throat. Blood and dirt covered each inch of his skin that wasn’t hidden and his clothes were torn. He really would like to know what had happened to him here.
[/When the jailor has opened the cell’s door, pushing a stumbling figure inside, the Spaniard has given enough fucks as to quirk up his gaze and acknowledge that he has some company. Something to take in care, though. Even if he has been pretty confident when it comes to his skills in a physical fight he has been pretty beaten up out of his last bar crawl (it seems that they’re getting strick enough as to send its instigator to sleep at the cell). Thus, he has made sure of his position, curled up at a corner, knees up his chest, a hand resting half asleep over the the place in his boot where he has been able to keep his dagger, before dozing up a little (despite of all, it’s all a matter of time, as every single one of the other times. His sister will bail him out or he would threaten the jailor enough as to make possible to ”negotiate” with him).]
[/Being a light sleeper when not insomniac, the murmurs of his now cell partner achieve to wake him up. When he realizes about who he is (focusing his gaze hurts, out of the black eye), he wants to laught. In fact he chuckles, lightly, the sound coming out of his mouth worn out and tired but indeed amused.]
Usually because thy partner is quicker than thee with the blade. [/He tries to strighten up and achieves it without much of a groan.] Dost thou need help with that?
Iraklís raised his gaze from the improvised bandages on his arm to find the somewhat injured face of a familiar Spaniard in front of him. “Would ya look at that?” He scoffed and pressed the cloth against his bleeding wound. “You don’t look like you should be joking about failure, brother. What happened to that pretty face of yours?” He japed, although through thin lips. “You couldn’t do any better here. I’ll be fine.” Iraklís scooted closer to him a little, leaving his small corner. “How did you end up here, huh?”
Who talks about failure. Say for thee, the one bleeding. [/And maybe he’s a little happy that he’s not moraly forced to move to help, yet___] Tell me, though, if thou need more cloth, or to convinze that stupid dumbass of there [/Obviously, the jailor. He raises slightly his voice for him to hear, ironic. He likes to be obeyed without a doubt and respected like a superior. He has a little problem when it comes to giving the same respect to another person.] to bring thee more___ is that alcohol?
[/After straightening up, he leans back onto the wall, facing the Greek. He’s sure as hell that there must be something broken but sincerely he can’t bring himself to care. It’ll be allright in some hours, if he achieves to get some rest. As usual. As every other fight.]
[/The only downside of it it’s the pain that start to blossom once the adrenaline of the fight fades. But with the cold wall pressing hard at his back he can cope pretty well.]
[/He grins, broadly, his tone kinda snarky.]
Spare night without much to dost, discovered that little, petty tabern. [/He butchers the language slightly more than usual out of being quite tired as to put much effort into translating from his Spanish, yet he makes his best to form phrases with sense. Plus, if something he likes is to be asked about such stories.] Near the port, I guess. Made some friends, drunk some time, played to an extent____ And there was this jackass. Boasting broadly about his skills with cards. Same skills that I easily beated. And maybe ‘m just that good, or maybe he’s just surrounded by dumbasses who can’t play for his own lifes. Thing is, he went furious and accused me of cheating. Then, things scalated quickly.
I felt obligated to teach him how one lose conserving his dignity and pride. [/And there’s that touch in his grin that insinuates his usual methods as to achieve respect.] Seems like the owner liked his local in peace and we were interrumpted halfway through the lesson. Pity.
[/He rises his chin, gazing up the other.]
What’s thy excuse, then?
Iraklís listened to him for a while, slowly drifting in and out of an attentive state. His arm burned like fire as it was and the rest of him wasn’t much better off but he forced himself to bear it in silence. When the other addressed him he spat out, blood most likely. He might have bitten off the tip of his tongue at one point.
“No excuses. ‘Though I didn’t exactly plan this either. Don’t know what happened. I guess I can count myself lucky that I still have the arm.” He muttered lowly, not seeming overly delighted by that fact. “They fucking flayed it, though. Whoever did the deed. No fucking skin left.” He wanted to laugh but it hurt too much to even try. “Shit like this will be the fucking end of me.”
[/He chuckles, resting the back of his head at the wall, and it comes out as better than a simple cough. Not much breathing damage. Good new of the night.]
End thee? Never thought I’d live enough as to see the mighty Iraklis getting tired of his hunts. Glad to hear that whoever did it didn’t make it through. Sounds more like thee.
[/He gazes down slightly to his friend’s figure, then to the door, then back to him.]
Any back plan to get out of here? ‘Suppose my sister shalt bribe me out. Canst ask her to dost the same for thee.