[OOC: Medicae test. Int: 54(5); +20 for narthecium; D100 roll = 73. I'm assuming that's a bit crap, so I'm going to spend a FAte Point (right?) to reroll; for 23, which looks a bit better.]
Suppressing a snarl, Yeng reluctantly lowers his boltgun. There is no clear shot, and he has more pressing matters on hand now the threat seems to be receding. "Brother-tech; the beast is heading in your direction. Be advised of how slippery it is!"
He holsters his weapon, then kneels, bringing his attention to the wounded Dragon at his feet.
Major trauma to both arms; possible sucking chest wound – though that would be being partially managed by the plate. Powerful blows.
Drawing a pair of cables from his narthecium with his left hand, he rummages roughly around behind Tyber's head with his right, his fingers clumsy in the pooling blood. He feels the catch slide wetly as he pulls the emergency release, and lifts the helm away. The handsome face beneath is pale; the lips bloodless and drawn back slightly from reddened teeth in an unconscious pained snarl. Delving in with his left hand, Yeng uses one of the cables – a hissing tube – to greedily suck away some of the excess blood. A brass and glass vessel hanging atop the narthecium begins to fill will half-clotted blood; the mixture a poxy concoction of bright scarlet and black. Cleared, he detaches a plug from the rear of Tyber's head and slips the dire-gnostic cable into place.
A screed of runes runs impassively down his visual field while his hands work busily, removing the bracers and rerebraces to reveal the heavily gouged arms. Yeng and Tyber's black armour are matched: glossy with blood.
Palpating the muscle; he keeps his face measured, impassive. A litany ran from his lips, half-heard, "...no broken bones...no; correction – fractured ulna: dexter. Fissures in the epicondyle: dexter. Bilious temperament waxing. Compensate with 215cc..." He draws two more cables down. Looking up and away in concentration, he slips his fingers inside the rupture in the chest, lifting slightly. His brow furrows.
"Princes atop; he's a big bastard."
He grunts, pulls again at the hardened caparace, and there is a creak. The carapace flexes just enough for him to introduce the two cables; one drawing fluid out into another jar; the second pumping counterseptic and mineral-laden saline back in. The forge of strength must be in overdrive, he muses. A pause.
There is something wrong.
"Hm." This grunt is consternation. The immune response is heightened. The Gatebreaker peers closer, lenses ticking into place on his helm. Parasites. Xeno-parasites. Must have been introduced by the attack. Reminds him of the geno-poisons of the Fhe-he. Acting on a hunch, he slows the blood cycle; deliberately starving the muscle tissues of oxygen. Immediately, Tyber's skin pales, his lips turn purple; and Yeng selectively oxygenates the victim's sus-an membrane and brain to prevent degradation and override. He rewards himself with a smile as he sees the parasite's metabolic rate slow. Analgesics and rawpium seem to return them to a dormant state; and Tyber's hyper-immune system begins to rally.
Yeng looks left, then right, then uses a set of forceps to brace the rent in the torso. Delving deeper, he takes a knife to the biscopea, slicing a sample from the black ball-shaped organ. He places this reverently in a vessel at his hip, where it clinked against the jars containing his fallen Deathwatch brethren's progenoids, Echion's multilung, Montessa's withered Betcher's gland and primary heart; and sundry other surgical by-matter from the others of Swordhand.
Drawing a calligraphic brush from a pouch, Yeng deftly paints a closed eye on Tyber's forehead with soot-black ink; a simple curved shape. Breathing a litany, he crosses his thumb back and forth over the shape, then pairs the curve and adds a pupil – the result a staring, open eye to ward away daimons who would seek to draw the injured Dragon's strength.
Using a curved needle that looks strong enough to puncture canvas, he begins sewing up the Dragon's arms using silver thread. It's tight, neat work; the signature of a Gatebreaker Gentle. The vital signs are stabilising; the red sleep averted. He isn't going to be fighting any time soon; but he might walk out of here...
Edited by Apologist, 15 August 2019 - 01:50 PM.