"They've got wizards for this shit," Ronan confirms. He had them fussing all over him during the fighting tournament, even when he told them he was fine. He can deal with scuffs and bruises and even bloody slices like these. Both of his forearms are covered in scars, the kind that landed him in psychiatric hold.

While she works on him, he surveys the room. Every time he thinks he's got a good idea of the damage, he spots another sword wedged somewhere insanely improbable. There's one impaled through the window, but the glass around it is still intact. Like some kind of weird art piece. Obvious Metaphor by Ronan Lynch. Installation. Steel, glass, and angst.

He mutters, "I'm so fucked."