Rea Family/Darren/Good Morning

Roleplay

'Why does it always itch?' Darren scribbled his question on a small pad of paper, charcoal stick blacking his fingers. More often then not these days his fingers were covered in charcoal dust. His voice had not returned yet, and while his healer had hope for it, secretly Darren had resigned himself to carrying a stick and sheaf of paper. They sat in his tent, Darren sitting on his cot, his healer Alera, checking him over, and Bernard standing at the tent flip, looking pensive. Nibbers sat in his lap, the only sort of working finger on his right hand stroking the mouse. Darren had blue eyes, and what little hair had grown back around the massive 'T' burn across the crown of his head was raven black. A few long, thin scars stretched across his face, courtesy of the D'Haran Judge's torturer. He was stripped down to his underwear, vainly attempting to scratch the back of his shoulder. "Sir, you need to stop scratching it, you are only making it bleed." Darren scowled, and reached for his pad. Alera sighed, quickly putting her hand over his, "Sir, you don't have to tell me, we have had this argument more then once. You are a 'Sir', and I am going to keep calling you such. No, I don't care what you've done, and you still are not going to convince me otherwise." Darren sighed, and sat back up straight, letting her continue her check up. Carefully, she rubbed some mashed leaves into his shoulder, covering up the reddened and bleeding skin. It was the only injury that she hadn't been able to heal yet. While it wasn't much bigger then a baby's hand, the small red burn refused to heal, instead staying a dark red scar, vaguely in the shape of a rabbit's paw. Darren had been messing with it for weeks, leaving thin red scratches around the scar, and those had been healed, and reopened more then once since he returned from D'Hara. She stuck a pad of bandages to the scar for what seemed like the hundredth time, before moving on to check the rest of his injuries. "Hand." Nibbers looked up in disappointment as Darren stopped stroking him to give Alera what was left of his right hand. His fingers were twisted and gnarled, despite Alera's careful tending. She hadn't been the one to set them, originally, so there was only so much that she could do. While he could still move his thumb, the rest of his hand was dead weight. She pulled each finger, as straight as it would go, little pops accompanying each gentle tug. "Have you been doing your exercises?" Darren pursed his lips, and stared at the canvas ceiling. Alera very nearly rolled her eyes. "Sir, you need to keep trying, or they will stiffen up, and you'll have no use of them at all." She dropped his hand, shaking her head before reaching for a canister on the nearby small table. Darren laid back on the cot, without a word from her. Alera popped open the can, and stuck her fingers in it, pulling them back out covered in a lightly fragranced cream. She looked him up and down for a moment, taking in the new scars. She'd been there for the ones across his stomach, a few dozen thick lines from a rod. But the ones he'd come back with from D'Hara were still a grimace of fresh pain to look at. The scars were healed now, thin white lines criss-crossing his front. They had taken some sort of narrow whip to Darren, mostly staying on his torso and legs, but a few had caught his face as well. She'd watched him toss his hand mirror to the weeds one morning, a look of pure disgust on his face. He'd never admit it, but the broken nose, and the scars across his face bothered him much more then he let on, even Alera could see that. She began to thoroughly work the cream into the nastier of the scars, starting from his feet, and working her way up. It didn't take long for her to finish, rubbing the last bit of cream off of her fingers into her shirt. This was a routine, everyday for them now. It seemed to Alera she couldn't leave him alone for one second without him getting hurt, but he did have a job to do. Darren stood up from the cot, and silently shuffled over to a large bag. He dug around for a moment, before pulling out a red velvet tunic, with beautiful golden trim. Rolling his eyes, Darren set the tunic aside, and dug in the bag again, this time dragging out a set of black slacks. With a little help from Alera, he managed to get his getup on without too much trouble. He tucked his paper and stick away in a small pocket on the front of his tunic, and smiled at Alera, before motioning Bernard to follow him out of the tent. He had peasants to impress, and gold to acquire.