ROBCO EVENT LOG V2.66
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Kurokumo Mibojin      It's been a fairly busy day, since Jacqueline arrived earlier to get her injuries checked. More and more, Kurokumo is starting to feel like this is the best fit for her. Maybe she doesn't have to run anymore. Her office being throughly cleaned out, she muses upon furniture or knick-knacks to decorate with. She hadn't had something like that in a long, long time.
Ashur There's a clamor like thunder as the door to the clinic is knocked open from some blow; the sound rolls through and weakens to the dull roar of heavy footsteps over the next few seconds. It is a juggernaut of muscle and ruined flesh that comes in next-- from the splatters of blood through his black braided hair, to the savage cut that's split open a cheek and his eye, damn near carving into the occipital and dislodging the eyeball, to the ruined mess of a metal helmet he holds in a broken-fingered hand, clutching the edges as jagged as a broken bottle, he's a mess.

How is he even alive? The injuries are severe, and there's no one helping him move-- the why of that takes but a casual glance, as though wounded he is nevertheless intimidatingly large, and wears the faded, tattered remnants of a Legion cloak, a golden bull against red. He limps, spilling blood from a leg wound upon the floor.

"I require medical attention."
Kurokumo Mibojin      There's a moment that Kurokumo takes, a stillness in the air, in which she openly gapes at the hulking brute. She might not personally have met the Legion in her days, but the horror stories told by her Raider Slavers are enough to put her on edge. It then clicks: Enemy of my enemy and all that jazz. Right? "The fuck you do." At 5'10", Kurokumo is still a tiny Japanese-Amercian woman to Ashur. Quickly her kit is grabbed, before she hastily pushes open the door to one of the Exam Rooms for him to follow.
Ashur The barbarous soldier can see from one eye, the left one-- his dominant eye he only knows still lives in its socket because, at some point, he poked it to make sure. A mixture of blood loss, shock, and fatigue have rendered his vision blurry, but he nevertheless stumbles on like Odin himself, leaving a trail of gore behind him. He ducks his head low, turns aside so his shoulders fit, and squeezes over the threshold into the examination room.

"Hnng," he growls, and that's the only word fit for his voice-- a low dark bestial thing. The torn helmet-- and god, that thing's made of metal, what would just RIP IT like paper?-- is tossed on the ground where it rattles and sits, oozing the red blood that pooled inside it. He slow-walk-hobbles his way to the bed and sits.

"The eye. Can the eye be salvaged?"

It can-- but it was close. Not that he knows how close.
Kurokumo Mibojin      Kurokumo does what she does best while under pressure: Become one sarcastic bitch. "Oh, I don't know, you'd look great with an eyepatch." Knowing her luck, Ashur might. Pulling a makeshift chair around to bear, the medkit is set on the bed as she peers at the wound. Fucker is lucky to be alive. "I can salvage it..." The young woman, only 18, has the resignation of someone much older. Having had grabbed a few bandages along the way, she begins to gently dab at the edges to get a better look.
Ashur It's trauma from a blade of some sort-- the flesh is cut, and it almost went deep enough to hit skull. The bruising from the impact of it, though, has spread across most of his face. Elsewhere, she can see other sorts of wounds, too: bite marks on his forearms, his shoulders, chest, more abrasions, more wounds-- defensive wounds, judging from the arrangement of them. And hell, start stripping off the armor, get a glimpse at the marred bronze flesh beneath, and there's a host of old scars on top of the bruising; burn marks, jagged healed-over incisions.. it's a lifetime of pain and battle writ on a human canvass.

"Then save it," he growls, tossing his head and staring down at her, braids brushing over his back. "Clean and dress the wounds, stitch what you must.. at least one of my fingers is broken."

He takes a deep breath, the adrenaline that pushed him through the wastelands here finally fading. A great weariness threatens him. "Deathclaws.. such admirable beasts."
Kurokumo Mibojin      The mask of bitter humor melts away into one of genuine concern, and a little fear. Deathclaws? This man fought off Deathclaws? Kurokumo has lost all appetite to verbally spar, and her skills begin to shine as she sets to work. First, she manages to stop the active bleeding, tying off the gash from his leg that's making a puddle on the floor. She keeps moving to mend what is pressing in the here and now, and has to make a choice: Stitch the eye, or reet the fingers? Would the stitches tear when she did?
Ashur It's the right ring finger that looks mangled; it's also the right hand that's wearing a set of worn, bloodied brass knuckles, and is wrapped in bandages to support and cushion the hand. He's a pugilist, it looks like-- and given he has no either weapons on him, he either abandoned them, or fought a deathclaw with his bare hands.

He spreads his legs, shifts a little on the table, and leans forward a little. The shoulders round inward, the spine arches, the head sags, leaving the black braids to dangle and sway-- the living wall of muscle is tired. The table he sits at is comically small with his weight upon it, groaning in protest whenever he might move. "The eye," he says, noticing her in his peripheral hesitate. "Focus on the eye. I need to see."
Kurokumo Mibojin      Nodding timidly in agreement, Kurokumo squares her shoulders and continues on. Her patient could probably set his own fingers for all she knows. Taking the curved sewing needle in hand, it doesn't take much for the cord to be threaded before she's working on him. Hopefully, she'll be able to get the side of Ashur's face secured before he passes out from the day's ordeal.
Ashur "Good girl," the brute says, but even his gentlest words boom, a vibrating bass that tickles her skin and bones so long as she's in contact with him. It's a sleepy bit of praise, slow, almost slurred-- but as she wipes away the blood and prepares to knit his brow shut, she'll notice the good eye is wide awake, held open by force of will, and focused on her intently. "Just do as you're told." The Legionnaire clearly does not trust the people of El Dorado.. which is, perhaps, not unwise.
Kurokumo Mibojin      The expression of the Shantytown Clinic Doctor tightens, compassion having been driven away by Ashur's words. He must have suffered some brain damage as well, saying such things while there's a needle in his face. "Insulting a Doctor in her practice is considered disrespectful." Kurokumo's tone is controlled, since her aim depends soley upon her focus.
Ashur "You will know when I mean you insult," he replies, that one good eye still staring at hers. This close, she could stab him with that needle, if she wanted-- this close, he could grab her if she did. ".. Your skill is appreciated, woman. And you will be paid." Outside of Legion territory, Ashur knows things work a little differently; she is most likely not a slave. "I am not ungrateful."
Kurokumo Mibojin      It's that gaze, and the words not quite an apology, that gets Kurokumo thinking. Maybe that's how this brute of a man simply expresses himself, a culture foreign to her own. Raiders have their own pecking order, and vulgar as it is. Her expression softens, and she gives a patient smile as she works. "I am sorry for accusing you of insult. I...hmm. To be called a 'girl' is to say one is unskilled as a child around here." Would he understand her point of view?
Ashur "A child of the Legion is skilled enough to kill men twice his age," the man observes. "It is a statement of fact, not insult-- you are too pretty to be old." As she works at his eye, when the needle is finally piercing skin, he does shut the good one; there is something relaxing in being tended to by another. With his good hand, he slowly works the brass knuckles off the other, peeling them away and clenching his teeth as the broken finger is stretched and pulled by the movements. He holds the brawling weapon in his lap, near the tied-off wound.
Kurokumo Mibojin      Apparently, the Legion fastracks their children into becoming hardened killers. Girl is...not an insult. There's a bit of a hestiant smile as the cord is tied off and snipped away. "What does it take to be considered a woman?" Kurokumo's curiousity is getting the better of her, a fresh cloth being used to touch up the sown up gash in Ashur's cheek.
Ashur "A matter of age and experience-- when does a boy become a man?" A snort, nostrils flaring-- he's much like the bull that stands proud and golden on his cloak. "There are milestones in life. Accomplishments that mark us as separate from the chaff; while you Dissolute might lack true virtue, I presume even you understand that much." He chews on it for a moment. "We are grown when we realize our purpose and fully adhere to it; a man is a soldier. A woman is a healer, a breeder; one takes life, and the other nurtures it."
Kurokumo Mibojin      Ashur's outlook is antiquated, in Kurokumo's eyes. The weight of the words become bitter, and heavy, and her response turns to ash in her mouth. The woman could care less about the superiority complex the Legionaire has over others. He's proved that fighting a Deathclaw today. "Your face has been set. I would recomend getting some rest. You can sleep here, if you like." Her response, while polite, has become a bit distant.
Ashur "There are caps in the pouch," he instructs her, reaching his hand to his skirt and belt and pulling off said pouch-- moleskin leather, it looks like. "Take what is owed for wounds and set it back. I will.. rest for a time." The pouch is tossed toward her with a soft underhanded toss. "If you've a splint small enough for my finger, fetch it. Otherwise.. thank you. I do not know your name, but you've my gratitude. Ave."

He leans back. He's a titan stretched across the table, limbs dangling, armor molded to hairy muscle and bulging veins. And he's permitting himself a moment's rest.

It might last longer than a moment.
Kurokumo Mibojin      Catching the pouch, Kurokumo cradles it a bit as she watches Ashur sag into the mattress. She doesn't seem to be in a rush for the money. "My name is Kurokumo Mibojin. You can call me Kumo." Setting the pouch aside, she does move to get a splint for the broken ring finger. "Do you want me to set the finger now, or later?" She would hate to disrupt his rest, since he seems so stubborn to do so.
Ashur "Now," he prefers, raising the muscular arm and holding the bloodied hand-- the bandages wrapped 'round it for support having been unwound, dangling in limp ribbons. "Kurokumo Mibojin," the man then repeats, tasting it on his tongue, how it shapes his lips. "Kumo. I am Ashur. Your hands are skillful; you should be proud of your talents."
Kurokumo Mibojin      Kurokumo gives an indulgent smile, taking the bloodied hand in hers. "Nice to meet you Ashur. You are quite the soldier yourself. However, I don't want to see you wrestling with anymore Deathclaws anytime soon. You'll undo all of my hard work." With him mildly distracted, the finger is broken and reset with an unsettling 'pop'.
Ashur The man clenches his teeth and hisses through them when the finger is set. "It was not my choice," he begins, and his eyes drift across her eyes, follow the lines of her throat, lower to her chest as his whole body settles and relaxes. "I stumbled upon a man and a woman in the wastes-- she was a raider, and I intended to beat her down. We must have unknowingly been in the beast's territory; it growled and assaulted. They fled, and I managed to buy them some time." An unexpected bit of Heroism from one of Caesar's dogs. "But there is only so much to do armed with a set of knuckles and grit teeth."
Kurokumo Mibojin      "Why did you intend to attack her? Had she done something to you?" Having Ashur's eyes wandering is better than becoming a target herself. Her own troubled past might be enougb to label her a Raider herself. Kurokumo begins to gently fasten the splint into place.
Ashur "That she was Profligate vermin is cause enough," the soldier declares, his good hand clenching into a white-knuckled fist. The sheer vitriol with which he spits those words would amaze gentler-hearted sorts. "Raiders are parasites; they lack discipline. Without concern for others, they prey on the weak-- yet unlike the Legion, they do not then transform it into strength. They kill, they kidnap, they steal, and then they run off into the night. There is no ambition there. No vision. They are bloatflies in human skins."

He growls. "Degenerates like that belong on a cross."
Kurokumo Mibojin      Slowly nodding along, the woman begins to check across various points of exposed skin for hidden injuries. Kurokumo's gaze becomes a bit distant while she does. "You're right. They burn your homes, take your mothers, and then..." Her words are hushed, as she tries to distract herself with medical busywork.
Ashur "They take you."

The Legion is no stranger to slavery; Ashur himself has participated in their capture and breaking. "The slavery of the raiders is a crude thing. As they lack virtue themselves, they cannot instil it in their property-- there is no greater purpose there than the pleasures of the flesh and the entertainment of idle minds." A scoff as she examines him; he is scarred, and there are bruises and afflictions galore, but nothing so threatening as to demand concern-- though a general all-around cleaning of his injuries wouldn't be a bad idea.
Kurokumo Mibojin      Kurokumo winces, her head turning away from her charge. Sounds as if Ashur speaks from experience, as if somehow Legion slavery is a better thing. You can't change a man, once set so deeply in his ways. "You should get some rest."