Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-28358106-20181111180537/@comment-28358106-20181115005836

(Rep) Thomas doesn't react to the hand on his shoulder, namely because he is kneeling in the bushes of the front of the house, vomiting. He wretches dry heaves, his body shaking, until he manages to get ahold of himself and stand up shakily. He takes a handkerchief from his vest pocket and wipes his mouth.

"... No," he says, his voice a hoarse grunt. "Nobody goes into the operating theater until we're done. Not a godsdamned soul. That includes gods of chaos."

Simonelle has stopped on the wide veranda, at the top of the stairs leading down to the yard. Calmly she pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and lights one, puffing deeply, her pale face showing relief.

"Sorry about your arm, Director, " she says, blowing out smoke. If she's truly remorseful, she doesn't show it much.

"Not your fault," Thomas grunts, wiping his mouth. "This is mostly from the fumes." He's only partially telling the truth, as the experience of having his blood siphoned off has left him deeply unsettled.