It hurt to breathe after a beating like that, let alone walk. The pain was something that Fridgar, the enormous battle-hardened Lothar, found comfortable. It was a broken rib or two, a deep, dull, cold ache that stretched and writhed with each draw of breath from his lungs. The last time he'd broken a rib was to another man like Rhostus, someone with incredible speed and impossible strength, far surpassing him in every way... Last time had been a lot worse. Warren, the last mage to wield such power, had broken his nose, eye socket, a few ribs and left him bloody and broken, bedridden for a whole season. That was the very first time he'd looked death in the eyes, defeated and inches from death in Valyeria's stone hovel, barely clinging to consciousness while he bled beneath his skin and all over the cold floor... Fridgar blinked away the growing dry warmth in his eyes and took a shaky, painful breath of Ashan's morning air. It didn't matter what he'd been through before, he survived until totrial and he was still breathing. That was all that mattered.
The sun had only just started to break the horizon as he reached the Ashvane estate, filling the morning sky with a bright shade of red as well as little flares of warmth that brought almost pleasant shivers to his bloody, torn skin. The protean sighed in pain and relief as he dragged his broken form to the door. The giant, red-bricked building towered over his head, an impressive piece of architecture to any other civilian, surely. He looked upon it with dread; the stone walls felt more like a prison than a home to him. Even though he'd only been here for a few trials, he already hated Quacia.
Standing there in the rising sun, he closed his eyes and thought back to the waving, tall, green grass of Gauthrel. The bright blue sky of home that carried very few clouds and endless trials of warm sun... He'd only had it for a couple of arcs and hadn't long left it, but it all felt so far away from here. For a trill or two, it almost felt like he was standing there again, his bare feet brushed gently by the shorter grass while the sun gently warmed his bare skin, breathing in all the scents of the wild. That was until he drew a breath in the waking world and filled his lungs with the rotten, stale air of Quacia. The protean growled off the pain in his chest, then shook his head before letting himself into the cold, stone prison block.
The wounded, drunk and exhausted Lothar was ultimately loud and disruptive with his enormous weight and stature, no matter how careful he was about his step. It wouldn't be hard to ignore the sounds of his heavy footsteps walking toward the living room, but it would be just as easy to wake and investigate the source.
The Lothar gently eased himself into one of the couches, then sighed. He pressed one hand to his throbbing head and left the other to press against his broken rib while he laid back. He'd stopped bleeding shortly after the fight due to means that he didn't quite understand, so he wasn't all too worried about getting the furniture dirty. He laid his head back and exhaled a very shaky sigh at the stretch of his chest. The deep, dull ache coursed through his form and brought on a feeling of weakness in all his muscles. His room was quite nearby, so he focused his mind's eye on his Stekir totem, then poured his ether into it. The totem built up with a small, quadrupedal frame of bones and wrapped itself in muscle and skin before sprouting thick fur and various organs. Once it was fully constructed, the beast took hold of the bag that he stored his totems in with its jaws before carrying it down the stairs and along the halls toward him. Anyone awake at the time would have seen carrying a medium-sized leather bag through the estate.