“Shit, shit, shit,” Cang wheezes, gripping his bloodied hand.
“Well who didn’t see this one coming?” Shyan says, tightening a tourniquet at his wrist.
“Oh, please. On an average day, I’m quite skilled at this.”
“Tell that to the puddle of blood on the table.”
Fassn straightens his spine and says, “Lemme at ‘im.” He roughly grabs Cang’s arm and holds it aloft, such that crimson drips down his wrist.
“No, Fassn, no, I need not your god’s delusions,” Cang says, but in a booming voice, Fassn speaks right over him.
“Old Ajralan,” he intones, as peasants crane their necks to see what’s going on. “May my wee buddy here have his fill.” Fassn shakes Cang’s hand making his whole body wobble on his seat.
“He needs a doctor, Fassn,” says Shyan.
“He just needs a little lick from the Old Guy.”
The anger on Cang’s face begins to wash away as he feels a tingling in his fingers, as though the flesh were stitching itself together. He revels in the strangeness of the feeling, then shakes Fassn off him. His good hand shaking, he peels the bandages from his hand to find his fingers bloodied but attached, the wound entirely gone.