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Spilled Coffee

Lirriel's picture

Her fingers wouldn’t curl around the handle of the mug. Her hand jerked as she tried to compensate, and the cup tipped over. The smaller, lighter troop models swept across the representation of Nagrand in a tide of coffee.

Nore cursed and gripped her right wrist in her left hand. She flexed her stiff fingers. Stress and lack of sleep were not helping. When was the last time she’d done her therapy exercises? It didn’t help she was running low on lotion, so needed to make the current batch last. Wesley was trying to find alternatives on Draenor, or grow the components here—at worst, they could import from the Stormshield portal.

Alynore looked around. She was alone in her office, but it was reflex as she removed her gloves. Few people saw her without them; no other scar bothered the Commander the way her hands did.

The skin was splotchy reds, pinks, whites, and browns. Much of the scarring on her forearms had smoothed out to a semi-even tone and texture, the damage there less intense than in her palms and fingers. That was where the deeper damage had occurred.

She shuddered, the memory of the fiery demonic armor flashing to mind, the acolyte’s screams ringing in her ears, while her nostrils flared at the memory of his body burning. Nore swallowed, counted to twenty, meditated on the Light. The sensations faded, leaving only her hands tingling with phantom pains.

Her Firelands-treated armor had saved her, as had the Light’s grace, reflexively healing her as the damage came in—until she could no longer keep up with the constant searing while trying to tear the thing apart. Burn, heal, burn, heal, burn…Then the real healers had gotten to her, using Nature and Light to properly manage the injuries, instead of panicked instinct.

The nerves were damaged, some of the muscles hadn’t healed quite right. She could grip her shield and swing her sword, which was all that really mattered. Therapy helped with adjusting to more delicate efforts, such as engineering and enchanting. The alchemical lotion, though, that kept her messed up tendons and joints working right on a day-to-day basis. It was like lubricant on cogs; sure, they could move without, but it was a lot harder. Especially on days like today.

With only a little pawing, Nore opened the drawer to retrieve the canister of lotion. It was as if her hands were asleep, until she got some of the gunk on her fingers and the shiver of semi-magical reactions took effect.

Just enough to work, that was all she needed. Then maybe she could catch a quick nap once the latest scouting assignments were signed—and the coffee cleaned up.