[ basileios is still in the middle of an emergency evacuation after word spread of a failing pillar. the only reason wriothesley had been drawn anywhere near the scene at all was on account of his recent trips to and from the augmented-run farm. and so, he did what any reasonably capable augmented would do, or at the very least answered a desperate call from a panicked city worker who needed someone better suited to take a closer look at the tower.
so—the state he’s in now, after that climb to the top, is largely his own fault. the only excuse he can offer himself is succumbing to the coercive influence of the tainted katalyth, namely in quantities far beyond anything most he'd run up with had previously encountered. there was enough of it to nearly stamp out his rational thought entirely, if not for a moment of quick thinking. unfortunately, that’s as much credit as he’s willing to give himself, considering he was ushered back down after what could only be described as a reckless and disastrous attempt to mitigate the damage he found up there.
now he’s left to lick his wounds, figuratively speaking, as a few kind strangers help settle him beside a makeshift patho-gen shelter before moving on. his overcoat is the only thing preserving any sense of modesty after fully shifting, and whatever protective equipment the engineers had managed to scrounge up is far too small to be of any use. still, even those experts reasoned that it would be better for his corroded flesh to breathe after he used the entirety of his shifted form to shave away as much of the jagged, corrupted overgrowth as he could manage. the radiation burns covering the length of his entire right side are miserable, but it’s only thanks to his carnivora soul that his body even attempts to heal at a slightly faster pace than most.
all that’s left is to endure the pain layered atop the lingering mental fog from prolonged exposure to the katalyth. an imprint would dull and soothe it, unquestionably, but he hesitates to call neuvillette all the way out here just to help him limp home. but even if he wanted to, the effort to even search up the other in the directory feels impossible. as the pain makes it hard to focus long enough to form a message, and so wriothesley finds himself staring blankly at the screen, concentrating on his breathing more instead of trying to fumble out a call on his syntrofos.
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let's just cw: everything
so—the state he’s in now, after that climb to the top, is largely his own fault. the only excuse he can offer himself is succumbing to the coercive influence of the tainted katalyth, namely in quantities far beyond anything most he'd run up with had previously encountered. there was enough of it to nearly stamp out his rational thought entirely, if not for a moment of quick thinking. unfortunately, that’s as much credit as he’s willing to give himself, considering he was ushered back down after what could only be described as a reckless and disastrous attempt to mitigate the damage he found up there.
now he’s left to lick his wounds, figuratively speaking, as a few kind strangers help settle him beside a makeshift patho-gen shelter before moving on. his overcoat is the only thing preserving any sense of modesty after fully shifting, and whatever protective equipment the engineers had managed to scrounge up is far too small to be of any use. still, even those experts reasoned that it would be better for his corroded flesh to breathe after he used the entirety of his shifted form to shave away as much of the jagged, corrupted overgrowth as he could manage. the radiation burns covering the length of his entire right side are miserable, but it’s only thanks to his carnivora soul that his body even attempts to heal at a slightly faster pace than most.
all that’s left is to endure the pain layered atop the lingering mental fog from prolonged exposure to the katalyth. an imprint would dull and soothe it, unquestionably, but he hesitates to call neuvillette all the way out here just to help him limp home. but even if he wanted to, the effort to even search up the other in the directory feels impossible. as the pain makes it hard to focus long enough to form a message, and so wriothesley finds himself staring blankly at the screen, concentrating on his breathing more instead of trying to fumble out a call on his syntrofos.
oh mr aodh won’t you save me ]