it is so much simpler to bury reality than it is to dispose of dreams.

[redraw]

[Being the famous Warrior of Light has its perks, right? People are thankful that you exist. They speak your name with a reverence reserved for royalty, and they're always eager to give you discounts or do you favors or whatever else. The leaders of pretty much every free nation know you to be someone dependable and trustworthy. Simply walking down the street of any city or backwater settlement will prove just how recognizable you are to the masses.

Being famous is also a very bad thing when the last thing you want to be is widely recognizable.]

Ow.

[No amount of hair dye or hair styling or abuse of glamour can change Cain to a meaningful degree. Wincing, clutching his shoulder, he's reminded of some platitude from way back when: A coeurl cannot change its spots. He'll always be that shifty loser who deserves to get the tar kicked out of him by a bunch of mother-loving half-wits with a grudge. The Echo doesn't redeem him any more than it damns him...

And, as it turns out, all the healing magic in the world doesn't matter when there's constant stun-locking and an astrolabe flung into the freezing abyss below the Brume. It won't be fun going down there to retrieve it later.]

Ow.

[Ishgard itself is colder than a chorus of ice elementals. Cain can't seem to convince his battered legs to move him to warmth and safety, though. He's just going to stay sitting at the end of this dirty, likely diseased alleyway, feeling sorry for himself. Even when the alley's entrance is darkened by a certain silhouette, he doesn't react all that much. He's too busy tonguing one of his bloody teeth.

In a frosting of breath, he says,] Before you lose your mind, I'm fine. But I might need some help getting back to the Manor.

Comments

[everheavensward]

[ Alphinaud begins to fret and pace when Cain doesn't return hours later - not that he'd ever admit to it. Tataru suggests that he go look for Cain, and after an hour or so of pretending he wasn't worried enough to do that, Alphinaud heads out into the wintry cold.

He knows Cain isn't the most typical Warrior of Light, perhaps, and despite how infuriating he can be at times, Alphinaud has come to appreciate it. More than just appreciate it, truth be told, but he can feel the flush rising in his cheeks just from the thought.

Still, knowing Cain's reputation, it would be no surprise if he ran into trouble eventually, especially here in Ishgard. Alphinaud's breath mists in front of him as he walks through the streets. His search takes him to the Brume; to every last alleyway when he can't seem to find Cain easily. When he sees an ever familiar figure hunched in the alleyway, his eyes widen. ] Cain.

[He moves to Cain's side immediately, inspecting the severity of the injuries and already reaching for his grimoire to cast Physick. ]

What on earth happened? Hold still. [ The greenish glow of healing magic surrounds them - he may still only be a novice when it comes to magic, but it's a start. ]

[redraw]

[Cain winces again, lifting a hand to his jaw, which doesn't seem to be aligned properly.] Do you think it's going to scar? [he asks, ignoring Alphinaud's question. He's more concerned about the state of his face: his split-open lip, the scrapes along his brow. There's even the start of a nasty black eye--which reverses itself, to a degree, at the first splash of magic.

He isn't exactly image-obsessed, but he doesn't want to end up with poor Thancred's collection of injuries. For facing so many gods or would-be gods in battle, Cain has come away unbelievably unscathed. That's another benefit to the Echo, he supposes. The close-at-hand healing magic is another help. He relaxes under Alphinaud's spellwork, then, closing his eyes lightly. He never expected to take to healing magic himself. It's so selfless a role that he thought wouldn't mesh with his personality, but then...]

If it's going to scar, I hope it's symmetrical, at the very least.

[He's dropping his hand now to grasp Alphinaud by a thin, pale wrist. It's a grateful gesture, if the tenderness of his squeeze means anything. One of life's greatest mysteries is how Alphinaud can stand to be around him. To worry about him, even.]