[center]Featuring [@Leidenschaft][/center]
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[i]Ah.[/i]

There was an impact, and after that, for a moment, there wasn't much different going on. Life was normal and life-threatening as usual, but the Dunmer's crossbow had let loose. Sadri blinked, and then realized that there was something within his sight that wasn't there before. At first, he thought it was a stick - a mere moment later, his synapses got back to work, and he realized it was a bolt sticking out of his left inner bicep, right next to his chest, going through his coat, armor, skin and flesh. It was with this realization that Sadri felt pain, the old familiar feeling, and let loose a silent [i]'ah'[/i], followed by a short huff of breath. He looked at the crossbow, and then back at the bolt, and his bloodied coat. His mind got to work, and compared the situation to the last time he got shot - it wasn't a nice comparison, given how last time the arrow hadn't even managed to get to his flesh, but he'd been through much worse. Hell, he had once fought with seven arrows lodged throughout his limbs and torso. He wasn't going to let this get to him. 

He took another breath. The bolt's presence caused white-hot pulses to course through his muscles, with every moment. He turned his eyes back at the crossbowman, but now all he could see was a woman. At first, Sadri thought that the bolt had actually hit somewhere much more vital, and that a guardian angel had come to take him away to whatever afterlife the Gods had for him in store - soon, however, it turned out that things weren't that fortunate. Solveig's grasp on his shoulder made his arm move slightly, and he was again rushed by another surge of burning muscles. He hissed out air, and blinked, focusing on Solveig. Was he in a situation bad enough to get her concerned? He felt guilty, angry, somewhat disappointed even, for he felt he had put a dent in her mood. 

[i]''Where did it hit? Where did it hit?'' [/i]

Sadri blinked again, trying to gauge the tone of her voice, but mostly busied by the pain. ''Nothing to worry about, love,'' he muttered, then looked back down at his arm. It had gone clean through. He turned his head back to see the bolt head, and gave a sigh of relief. It wasn't a broadhead - it would've been much messier if it were. Had his right arm not been severed, he would've likely still felt the pain of that one he had taken in the forests near Silvenar. 

Wait, what'd he say?

He took a breath. Suddenly, his choice of words felt more concerning than the bolt sticking through his flesh. ''Could you help me remove this? I can mend the wound,'' Sadri said quickly afterwards, changing the matter of subject. It wasn't like they were in a position where she could refuse. If only she could cut off the bolt head. 

Did he call her [i]love?[/i] Her cheeks grew hot and she thanked whatever Gods made it so the scene was in a half-light. She coughed into a fist, unable to meet Sadri's eye but she swore she saw even he was taken somewhat by surprise by his choice of words. Even so, maybe she'd have words with him over this at a campfire in the future or on the trip back, there was still the matter of a wound.

“Um,” Solveig's hands retreated from Sadri's arm, seeing now that she might be jostling where he didn't need any, “I can sew wounds, make poultices. Damn scarce ingredients for poultices though.” She eyed Sadri's wound, spreading red now, and wondered at two choices that needed to be made, “We could give you some leather to bite on, cut the flights and push it through or give you something more to swear for while I saw at the head with something.”

Her hands went to her belt and she unsheathed a knife, setting it down beside her and offering Sadri the leather sheath to sink his teeth into. “Either way, it'll hurt...” She remembered how many stories of scars he'd told to her than she had told to him and bit her lip, “Not that you wouldn't know.”

Sadri couldn't help but smirk, despite the bolt in his arm, upon her remark. ''Oh, I would know... It'll be fine,'' Sadri said, half reassuringly and half sarcastically. It was true in both counts - he really had suffered much worse, but on the other hand, it wasn't a fun experience, at least, Sadri had not become masochistic enough to consider having bolts pushed out of his flesh fun. He knew from experience that it would hurt like hell, but he was used to it. ''I know a thing or two about Restoration, shouldn't be too hard to fix,'' he said as he looked down at her hands. Seeing that the knife had no serration, Sadri decided it would not be easy, nor comfortable, to have her saw off the head.

With his iron hand, he took Solveig's wrist to lead the knife against the thread holding the fletches together. ''Slowly now,'' he muttered as he guided the knife back neatly, cutting the threads. He figured they were lucky that they weren't glued down, or, Anu forbid, carved out of the shaft. He watched her pick out the fletches, one by one, now that they weren't bound. With every movement, it hurt, but he knew better than to pay any mind to that.

And then came the hard part.

Solveig started pushing down on the bolt slowly but powerfully, which Sadri tolerated without any assistance except his adamance for a few seconds. Eventually, however, he caved with a quiet groan, gesturing for her to stop. He held his forehead, trying to call upon some magical Respite, and then nodded for her to continue, his artificial fingers squeezing his brow tight, channeling relieving magic as he closed his eyes. Eventually, he felt the flesh forced apart by the bolt fall relaxed once again, spilling more blood over his clothes and flesh. He raised his head and smiled at Solveig, grateful.

''Thanks.'' 

Holding his wound with his iron hand, Sadri held it close and stood that way for a minute to call upon magic, silently grunting, his eyes filling him with some respite through Solveig. He could feel flesh growing back upon the muscles, however poorly, and he eventually came to a stop after he felt that the wound had been covered by scar tissue enough to stop its bleeding. He figured that his Birthsign could handle the rest over some time. For now, he tried to console himself with the fact that he and Solveig now had a common story behind one of his scars.