Post by James Laurent on Jan 14, 2013 13:31:34 GMT -6
St Mungo’s was an unfamiliar sight for James’ half-opened eyes to see. Mind you, it was unfamiliar indeed for James to be largely unable to open his eyelids unless he used considerable effort to do so. Unfamiliar too was the amount of bruising and painfully broken bones that made up his body. To say he’d been close to death mere hours ago might have sounded hyperbolic but it was true. He’d been beaten up and then dumped outside the Department of Law Enforcement as a ‘warning’ to the Aurors who were digging around too close for comfort near a Deatheater hideout deep in Northern France. James, of course, had become intrigued by the coded messages two factions of these particular Deatheaters sent back and forth as their primary means of communication… and James becoming intrigued by something was a very, very dangerous thing indeed, for him more so than others on this occasion. Breaking their code, he’d tracked the group down, in the process being far more ‘in the field’ than he ever was authorized to be without Auror supervision, but he was far too wrapped up in investigating, in ‘pursuing the truth’, and earned a beating for his trouble that left every inch of his body screaming out in pain. Yes, they had rather made an example of him – the black and blue colour his skin was attested to them doing a good job of sending a message that said ‘don’t mess with us’.
He’d been only vaguely aware of this fact, he’d recognized the ceiling tiles before his vision became steadily more blurred and consciousness became just too hard to cling onto. He’d heard the rush of voices as someone discovered him but then… bam… next thing he knew a Healer was tentatively peering over his face to assess the worst of the damage. He’d tried to ask what happened but found speaking too hard so settled on drifting in and out of focus and allowing various Healers to poke and prod him and (what he hoped was) work their magic. It was some hours later and all he was aware of was an awful pounding in his head and an irritating dryness in his throat. Licking his lips to try to get some moisture to speak he managed to croak out, “Water?” hopefully and a Healer poured him a glass, a glass which he insisted on picking up himself to sip from. His hand was shaking, he realised, as he focused his eyes on his outstretched arm but persevered and slowly, but surely, made progress. So intent (alright, stubborn) was he on refusing the Healer’s help that he didn’t hear the commotion outside his door or notice that it had opened and someone very familiar was stood there.
((ooc: Ready for Faith if you wanna bring her in now, Cara!))
He’d been only vaguely aware of this fact, he’d recognized the ceiling tiles before his vision became steadily more blurred and consciousness became just too hard to cling onto. He’d heard the rush of voices as someone discovered him but then… bam… next thing he knew a Healer was tentatively peering over his face to assess the worst of the damage. He’d tried to ask what happened but found speaking too hard so settled on drifting in and out of focus and allowing various Healers to poke and prod him and (what he hoped was) work their magic. It was some hours later and all he was aware of was an awful pounding in his head and an irritating dryness in his throat. Licking his lips to try to get some moisture to speak he managed to croak out, “Water?” hopefully and a Healer poured him a glass, a glass which he insisted on picking up himself to sip from. His hand was shaking, he realised, as he focused his eyes on his outstretched arm but persevered and slowly, but surely, made progress. So intent (alright, stubborn) was he on refusing the Healer’s help that he didn’t hear the commotion outside his door or notice that it had opened and someone very familiar was stood there.
((ooc: Ready for Faith if you wanna bring her in now, Cara!))
