A clusterfuck is what. Last time the Admiral shit the bed, we were dropped in a port with some powerful, malicious magic ingrained that turned some of us into rage-driven maniacs and suppressed any useful abilities we might have.
[Adrian rolls his eyes, but the distress is softened enough by time that he restrains the rest of his reaction. Considering his current state of mind, best he doesn't think too hard about any of this.]
Yes, well, you should see how dramatic someone can be when they haven't felt ill since Atlantis.
[Only a strict sense of medical ethics keeps him from deliberately poking a wound.]
Certainly the only time I've seen my father turn down my cooking. Well, since the mud pie stage of things. So. When... when they're back, there's a nasty bit of nausea in with the rest, keep that in mind.
[He shakes his head, not wanting to make anything worse when Trevor's clearly no better off than he is. Rather than make it worse, he walks up the few steps from the bathroom, reaches behind one of the big, intimidating pillars, and comes out with a couple bottles of wine. He's laid off considerably lately, in light of supplies, and because here he is only rarely left so utterly miserable that there's only one possible escape from his own head. But he's still got a bit stashed. He holds one up for Trevor mutely.]
[Oh, is it sad drinking time? Trevor is here for that, especially so soon after coming back in blood and debris not his own. He takes the offered bottle with a nod of thanks and goes to sit down on the steps leading to the bathroom]
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[Normally he'd be a bit more careful with that subject in front of Belmont, but he's not at his best.]
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The fuck? What happened to your dad?
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A clusterfuck is what. Last time the Admiral shit the bed, we were dropped in a port with some powerful, malicious magic ingrained that turned some of us into rage-driven maniacs and suppressed any useful abilities we might have.
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Yes, well, you should see how dramatic someone can be when they haven't felt ill since Atlantis.
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Oh my god. I wish I could have been there to see it.
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Certainly the only time I've seen my father turn down my cooking. Well, since the mud pie stage of things. So. When... when they're back, there's a nasty bit of nausea in with the rest, keep that in mind.
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Hang on. Did you die here?
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[Still a little punchy, he keeps talking when he probably shouldn't.]
I'm not used to having to worry about things like cold.
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Oh, no. Did you have to put on a jacket? Figure out the joys of sneezing?
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Merely skirted the edges of hypothermia. Eventually I got dragged into a tent by--
[Well, it was an excellent plan.]
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Oy. Zone out after you patch me up.
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They're not usually that bad. I'm under the impression that last port with the giant food was much more typical.
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[He ties off the last bandage.]
There, that'll see you through.
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[He examines his arms, checking them over]
Well. You're a credit to your human side, Alucard.
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[He straightened, not really trying to fight his odd morose mood now the task is over.]
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Wait, no. You're never happy.
[He relaxes the teasing a little, exhaling when he sees Alucard's expression]
Admiral's a necromancer. You know that.
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[He shakes his head, not wanting to make anything worse when Trevor's clearly no better off than he is. Rather than make it worse, he walks up the few steps from the bathroom, reaches behind one of the big, intimidating pillars, and comes out with a couple bottles of wine. He's laid off considerably lately, in light of supplies, and because here he is only rarely left so utterly miserable that there's only one possible escape from his own head. But he's still got a bit stashed. He holds one up for Trevor mutely.]
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I'd tell you to find someplace more comfortable, but my only furniture is a coffin. So.
[He drops down one step up from Trevor. The bottles, lifted from the lounge, are of modern make. Adrian is a fan of screw-tops. Efficiency.]
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This is fine. Everyone's so fucking quick to shower me with comforts so they can take them away as punishment.
This is a nice bottle.
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