[Palamedes very nearly objects and moves to make Paul put down the mug, good God, he can pour his own tea, he can hear crackling — but he figures that the display has a purpose, and who is he to deny Paul what dignity he can muster? He remembers the way Paul had spoken of what's happened to his joints in the tone of someone talking about personal failure, so; Paul can pour tea. In the meantime, Palamedes tugs at his outer cloak, so he might free this satchel and set its contents down like Paul's knife. He doesn't understand the gesture, merely that it is one - that's enough.]
A — what, seeing all that sky, all the time? The ocean was worse.
[Hah; it's been strange but not, say, particularly undoing to be away from the Sixth for so long. He's deftly handling it, the way he deftly handles the flap of his satchel and begins removing what he's deemed the relevant medical supplies: scalpels (a few, in case), a small towel (on which he piles the rest), a pair of scissors, some tiny plastic bags (they are, in fact, snack size! but who's keeping track). He notably lacks anything like a roll of bandage, but: necromancy. That one is the easy part.
As an afterthought he picks up the mug and sips his tea, giving it an appreciative hum, compliments before he has to do something unpleasant with scalpels to several parts of Paul.]
The desk is fine. The rest depends on you; I'd proceed under the assumption that the smaller ones will be the easiest to remove, and therefore the most painful. That said, those would most likely be in the hands, naturally more delicate than the shoulder, for example.
[Personally, he's endlessly thankful that nothing horrid has bloomed into his own hands; that would make this, ah, even more difficult. But he means it: it's Paul's choice which joint to start on. He sips the tea again in the meantime, giving him a moment to think it over.]
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A — what, seeing all that sky, all the time? The ocean was worse.
[Hah; it's been strange but not, say, particularly undoing to be away from the Sixth for so long. He's deftly handling it, the way he deftly handles the flap of his satchel and begins removing what he's deemed the relevant medical supplies: scalpels (a few, in case), a small towel (on which he piles the rest), a pair of scissors, some tiny plastic bags (they are, in fact, snack size! but who's keeping track). He notably lacks anything like a roll of bandage, but: necromancy. That one is the easy part.
As an afterthought he picks up the mug and sips his tea, giving it an appreciative hum, compliments before he has to do something unpleasant with scalpels to several parts of Paul.]
The desk is fine. The rest depends on you; I'd proceed under the assumption that the smaller ones will be the easiest to remove, and therefore the most painful. That said, those would most likely be in the hands, naturally more delicate than the shoulder, for example.
[Personally, he's endlessly thankful that nothing horrid has bloomed into his own hands; that would make this, ah, even more difficult. But he means it: it's Paul's choice which joint to start on. He sips the tea again in the meantime, giving him a moment to think it over.]