Illi rubbed her jaw. Dried flakes of blood peeled off, drifting to the floor like dust. Sunlight angled in from the dawn through the large, east-facing windows of her apartment. She stood in her apartment's living room, before a full-length mirror. Dressed only in a rough linen singlet and her underclothes, she inspected herself for the damage the previous day had wrought.
Her nose had been broken by Lorelli in her fury, but reset by Aely. She still wore the bruised eyes behind the repaired nose a reminder of the strike. Her face was scratched, some of the scarring on the ruined side of her face bleeding anew. Her lip was split, and she had been jarred into biting into her tongue during her combat with the tauren scum; her mouth still tasted of metal from the blood.
She drew her spittle back and hawked it into the corner of the room; it was still red.
She rubbed her arms. Bruises were everywhere. There were cuts and grazes all along her shoulders and upper arms; nothing serious, but a few more scars. Her forearms were a swamp of angry flesh; blacks and greens and yellows. She brought her hands up to her face and flexed her fingers; one on her right hand didn't move properly. It was likely broken. It hurt like it was. She turned her hands over; her knuckles were a mass of grazing and aggravated callouses.
She lifted her tank top up and looked down at her body. Her pale purple skin was marked with livid bruises. Her leathers and plate had prevented any actual penetration, but she had certainly suffered the force of the blows from the tauren. She drew her breath in sharply, and caught it. A rib was broken.
She let the singlet drop back down, peering at her legs. More bruises marked her thighs, over the pale scars lining her flesh. Her armour did its job, apparently. Further down, her left ankle was angrily purple and swollen; her fist-fight with Lorelli had caused her to twist it as she had knocked her down. It hurt to put weight on, but it wasn't broken, so worth ignoring.
Illithias took a deep breath in. Held it, and let it out. And pangs of pain from the rib which was likely broken subsided. She ran her hands down from her shoulders down her torso and down her legs. She rubbed her arms. She was sore; she was hurt, but standing. Her wounds were respectable, but fixable.
She hawked another mouthful of red spittle into the corner.
She blew crusty dried blood out of her nostrils and pinched them clean again, then wiped her mouth of blood with the back of her hand. Her tongue still felt fat in her mouth, but the fire from her bite had long since subsided.
She sighed. She hadn't slept for a few days; four, maybe five? She didn't want to lay down for at least another. She rolled one shoulder in its socket; then the other. She turned from the mirror, heading down the apartment hallway to the washroom. She had time to freshen and clean herself, before heading down to the street, into Old Town, and then to the Pig.
It was a Day After. And Days After always required doing. And Illi knew she would be required for the doing.
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