Over the arcs, the gagging had become something routine to Ronan and he'd learned not to talk about things that triggered it. At first, he'd thought it to be random whenever he spoke, like someone just messing around, playing tricks, but time had shown that only certain things were triggers for his illness or whatever it was. But who or what would want someone to bleed out from the thinnest of cuts and not be able to lie? What would he have done in the past that might have made someone, some immortal do this to him? Ronan couldn't think of a single thing he'd done in his life that would have angered an immortal. He barely even knew their names.
"I wouldn't say accuracy. It's simply a lie or it isn't. If it is... well, you saw what happened. But it is definitely not interesting." He couldn't believe she thought that way. She'd seemed so nice but to view his illness that way shook the old fighter a little. He felt disappointed in the woman. She was a gold robed healer of the Order, she should know better, no? Oh! An idea came to mind, the little wheels in his head turning and turning. He looked at her. "Pregnancy suits you, doctor." People always spoke about a glow that women had when they were pregnant. Ronan had never seen that. He'd only ever seen fat, waddling around with a big belly, constantly out of breath, more aggressive eating habits, lack of emotional control in public settings. It was one big mess. Before he'd even finished his sentence, he had already turned away from her, facing towards the empty chair opposite of her.
In the same instant his sentence was done, the nausea was back, just as strong as before. When he was physically fit, keeping it under wraps was easier to do. He could force it down if necessary but having lost most of his own blood and having been supplied a stranger's blood, Ronan had nothing left to control it. He did manage to bring his hand up to cover his mouth as the gagging picked up again. For several trills the only noises that came from Ronan were swallowing and almost throwing up. The nausea passed and Ronan fell back into his pillow, breathing heavily. "Interesting? Little girl, it's anything but interesting." His rose from the pillow, willpower overcoming pain and pushing him up, ready to fight. His voice was sharp, aggressive. He even snarled at her before he remembered where he was and who he was talking to. Ronan managed to control himself and dropped back in the pillow. He sucked in a deep breath and released it slowly. "Sorry."
Perhaps the only interesting about this whole thing was the fact that no matter how large or small the lie, the strength of his reaction to it was constant. But he didn't feel like sharing any more on the subject now. Instead he shifted his focus back to the curse, pulling her along with it. Faith? A strange name. She looked more like a... Lindsay, perhaps. Or Amy. Yeah, that suited her, a proper name. Ronan pulled his attention back to the topic at hand. "I've never done anything that would draw attention from an Immortal. I've ne-..." His sentence got cut short by another bout of gagging, even less controlled than the last time. In a sort of reflex he managed to roll to the side, Faith's side, and hang his head over the edge of the bed, waiting for something that never came, even though his stomach was most definitely ready for it.
"I don't know..." Without bothering to roll back, Ronan tried again but he hesitated. His stomach and throat were hurting already and he doubted his own statement, his own truth on the matter. He truly had never met an immortal so why did he react like this? He turned his head back into the pillow and just quietly shook his head, letting Faith know that he didn't want to try any further. "There is a mark, though." It suddenly occurred to him that there was one. He'd always thought it part of his sentence, his time in jail, but perhaps it was something much more powerful. His hand went to the marks on his left side. The obvious Rynmerian slave mark, adjusted to show that he was free now, was there, next to the red string of ink that moved over his shoulder and arm, almost like a snake. Over both tattoos was a third mark, dark black, reacting slightly to the light as if it was covered in a sheen of sweat, like most of the rest of his body. Considering the state of him, that wasn't unusual.
He ran his fingers over the third tattoo, running from his neck over his shoulder and down the left side of his chest, cutting through the slave mark and the red string as if they weren't there. "I always thought it was part of my sentence, a way to identify me..." He hesitated again, for a moment, before pushing through and making the statement. " But it's not." There was no instant recoil, no nausea to his words and he breathed a sigh in relief. Then he got worried. Relief and worry mixed as he turned to look at Faith. "Do you recognize this as one of those marks you mentioned?"
"I wouldn't say accuracy. It's simply a lie or it isn't. If it is... well, you saw what happened. But it is definitely not interesting." He couldn't believe she thought that way. She'd seemed so nice but to view his illness that way shook the old fighter a little. He felt disappointed in the woman. She was a gold robed healer of the Order, she should know better, no? Oh! An idea came to mind, the little wheels in his head turning and turning. He looked at her. "Pregnancy suits you, doctor." People always spoke about a glow that women had when they were pregnant. Ronan had never seen that. He'd only ever seen fat, waddling around with a big belly, constantly out of breath, more aggressive eating habits, lack of emotional control in public settings. It was one big mess. Before he'd even finished his sentence, he had already turned away from her, facing towards the empty chair opposite of her.
In the same instant his sentence was done, the nausea was back, just as strong as before. When he was physically fit, keeping it under wraps was easier to do. He could force it down if necessary but having lost most of his own blood and having been supplied a stranger's blood, Ronan had nothing left to control it. He did manage to bring his hand up to cover his mouth as the gagging picked up again. For several trills the only noises that came from Ronan were swallowing and almost throwing up. The nausea passed and Ronan fell back into his pillow, breathing heavily. "Interesting? Little girl, it's anything but interesting." His rose from the pillow, willpower overcoming pain and pushing him up, ready to fight. His voice was sharp, aggressive. He even snarled at her before he remembered where he was and who he was talking to. Ronan managed to control himself and dropped back in the pillow. He sucked in a deep breath and released it slowly. "Sorry."
Perhaps the only interesting about this whole thing was the fact that no matter how large or small the lie, the strength of his reaction to it was constant. But he didn't feel like sharing any more on the subject now. Instead he shifted his focus back to the curse, pulling her along with it. Faith? A strange name. She looked more like a... Lindsay, perhaps. Or Amy. Yeah, that suited her, a proper name. Ronan pulled his attention back to the topic at hand. "I've never done anything that would draw attention from an Immortal. I've ne-..." His sentence got cut short by another bout of gagging, even less controlled than the last time. In a sort of reflex he managed to roll to the side, Faith's side, and hang his head over the edge of the bed, waiting for something that never came, even though his stomach was most definitely ready for it.
"I don't know..." Without bothering to roll back, Ronan tried again but he hesitated. His stomach and throat were hurting already and he doubted his own statement, his own truth on the matter. He truly had never met an immortal so why did he react like this? He turned his head back into the pillow and just quietly shook his head, letting Faith know that he didn't want to try any further. "There is a mark, though." It suddenly occurred to him that there was one. He'd always thought it part of his sentence, his time in jail, but perhaps it was something much more powerful. His hand went to the marks on his left side. The obvious Rynmerian slave mark, adjusted to show that he was free now, was there, next to the red string of ink that moved over his shoulder and arm, almost like a snake. Over both tattoos was a third mark, dark black, reacting slightly to the light as if it was covered in a sheen of sweat, like most of the rest of his body. Considering the state of him, that wasn't unusual.
He ran his fingers over the third tattoo, running from his neck over his shoulder and down the left side of his chest, cutting through the slave mark and the red string as if they weren't there. "I always thought it was part of my sentence, a way to identify me..." He hesitated again, for a moment, before pushing through and making the statement. " But it's not." There was no instant recoil, no nausea to his words and he breathed a sigh in relief. Then he got worried. Relief and worry mixed as he turned to look at Faith. "Do you recognize this as one of those marks you mentioned?"
