[ His fingers are stiff and uncooperative, though there's a sense he's done this before at half-capacity—the practiced way his thumb forces a button until it simply slips free. Only when Nadine crouches down does he let her take over, for the sake of efficiency. He shifts to help her tug them off with a wince.

That's a fucking question, isn't it. A sudden tension rises in his shoulders. Maybe the better question is, what hadn't happened? ]

Magic. Mostly. [ If it left lasting marks on him inside, he can't yet tell. He thinks he remembers throwing up blood, maybe something snapping. How much happened in reality, it's—blurry. And not an event he wants to dig through in detail. He focuses on the easier parts for now, unwinding a bandage around his middle: injuries he picked up during the initial scuffle or getting to Nott. He's usually better, more careful. The woods are as much home for him as any place. But he knows this time around, he's just lucky he hadn't passed out and never gotten up. ]

Must've broken a rib or two. [ Feels like it. He can't remember when. Bruises wind up his arms and down his legs, fading far too slowly for his liking. They should be healed by now, if they'd been normal ones. ] A few mages came for me. Out in the desert. Seems Thorne's reach is further than we thought.