ROBCO EVENT LOG V2.66
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Ashur The juggernaut plates are inches thick and more at home on an armored vehicle than a man. The Legion and the NCR alike praised the armor -- they could make a man utterly immune to small arms fire, shrapnel, and even deflect higher-caliber blows at times. Its indomitability made it worth the crushing weight it was, suited only for the strongest of soldiers; its rarity made it a status symbol even among them.

There is much to admire in the craftsmanship. While the base T-45d is unimpressive so far as power armors go, the modifications made to it by the metalworkers of New Rome have a certain artistic appeal.

He'll leave the armor, once out of it, by the locker. The toga will be stripped off and tossed over it, too, leaving the bull's sprawling body all exposed, head to toe.

He is shameless. He meets the woman's gaze with an imperious glare, turning and padding barefoot toward the small stairs and the door that leads to the warm bath.

Once, this was a swimming pool; now, it is a gathering place for the stressed, the social, and the unclean. Today's festivities have given them free access, and so he plods his way across the tiles, sitting down at the edge of the deepest end with his feet hanging in the water.

What wounds he has! That massive body is covered in scar tissue from all manner of human and inhuman assault. Cut, burnt, bruised, lashed, bitten, clawed, melted, shot, stabbed, abraded, pierced -- name it, and a sign of it is there, ten thousand thousand wounds healed by time and heroic constitution.

Surely, trauma like that leaves injuries, seen and unseen.

"How old are you, Lua?"
Lua      Lua watched as he moved to the water's edge, eyes taking in each of those scars and marks. He had seen numerous battlefields, clearly, and yet emerged still strong. The girl kept her gaze respectful even as she was evaluating his current injuries.
    
     Each fresh mark made an impression and she noted it silently. But as the giant rested at the water's edge, she would find herself digging through her pockets searching for something. Finally, she came up with it; a salve of some type. And with that, she went to his side.
    
     The question he posed surprised her and she flushed faintly. "I am thirty-five, Eres. Allow me...." She opened the salve's small jar and dipped her fingers in carefully, withdrawing only a small amount. Surely that would never be enough for so many wounds. And yet.. this went further than one might expect. Assuming she was allowed, she would begin to rub her salve into his wounds. The scar tissue would be made to be more elastic and thus heal faster, also it would remove some of the itch scars produced. Her work was deft and practiced.
Ashur The most recent scars are where shrapnel buried under the skin; the flesh healed over them, but the metal is toxic, and interferes with the healing process. While most of it was picked out by another's practiced hand, in the end the brute did not stay to let the process finished, numbed his pain with sheer determination and women, and forgot about it. Those parts, where his skin bulges and highlights the sharpened metal underneath, will ideally need to be cut open once more to remove them from right beneath the surface.

But elsewhere, the rest of it? That soothing salve is miracle work.

"Many think I am immune to pain," he idly comments, as her fingers work at a knot of frayed tissue. "They see me take a blow from a super mutant, or be crashed into by a car, and think that because I stand back up I was never hurt." His head hangs low, chin to chest, eyes closed. The tenderness of his touch has a placating effect on him. "They don't realize that pain resistance is a trick of the mind. It can be conditioned, over time, to suppress such feelings, to endure them, under duress; it is how the fierce resist torture. When the adrenaline flows, and the battle-rage comes, sensation fades."

A pause.

"But there is always calm after the storm. I am always in pain."

An oddly intimate confession. She's made a good impression.
Lua      Lua frowned at the shrapnel wounds. She would dig the out if she had the time and the place. The equipment. "Eres in a place where I might safely work and spill blood, I can remove many of these." Her hand ghosts over the shrapnel without causing actual pain. But she did not go further than that, merely returning to the salve a moment later. The scars her main concern in such a public place.
    
     The admission that he was always in pain, that he was hurt... Made her pause in her application. She watched him hang his head, listened to him recount how others saw him when he fought. And she frowned....
    
     The hand working the salve into his flesh paused and she turned her head away, jaw clenched.