[right][h3][b][i][color=7d6c00]Dr. Swamp[/color][/i][/b][/h3][color=7d6c00]≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎[/color]
[color=7d6c00][i][b]Location:[/b][/i][/color] Shadowell Manor: Central Hall
[color=7d6c00][i][b]Skills:[/b][/i][/color] N/A
[color=7d6c00][i][b]Hit Points:[/b][/i][/color] 2
[color=7d6c00]≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎[/color][/right]

So there was more waiting. Swamp could cope with waiting. He could even cope with standing, be it with a bullet in his side, though he did wish that this portion of the evening could find its inevitable conclusion so he could treat himself - or more likely, talk someone through treating him. It would be highly difficult to suture himself given the position of the wound. Ah, the limitations of the physical form, so mysterious and complex, yet possessing much more easily quantifiable limitations. No matter. Swamp would get this handled and continue with his reason for being in this place. He was fairly certain that it was the same reason, or a similar one, as the others who had formerly worn those masks. This day could have gone better. Much.

Luckily for him, the Doctor had some help, in the form of the Chanteuse. [color=7d6c00]"Then I appreciate your kindness as well as the ethic that binds you to it. I also thank you for your concern, but I must insist upon staying upright as long as I am able. I fear that upon sitting, I might have difficult rising again. If you require a break until our escort gives us the go-ahead, please lead me to the banister so that I may lean against it."[/color] Sure and steady words that somehow came from Swamp, though anyone listening could tell that it was spoken through ever-growing discomfort. Such discomfort was evident as he flashed Quinton a quick but uneasy smile to his request about bleeding on the floor. He needed to fix himself, and soon.