maskormenacelogs | I can't find enough pots and pans

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I can't find enough pots and pans

WHO: Simon Illyan, Frederick Chilton, Jorah Mormont
WHERE: Chilton's office
WHEN: idk we'll figure it out.
WHAT: the second installment of Simon Illyan, maker of good choices and superspy extraordinaire. Feeling around Baelish's power base, Simon decides to hypnotize Chilton, a decision which could never go badly.
WARNINGS: hypnosis, probably violence

[So far, Simon had not had much luck on turning up anything on Baelish besides Rincewind's vague but ominous pronouncement that he was dangerous. Having found almost no dirt on him at all, Simon was beginning to agree. No-one in politics kept that clean without some fairly high-level maintenance; Simon was that maintenance, back on Barrayar, even if he couldn't quite disappear problem people the way he could back in Emperor Ezar's heyday.

But the connection between Chilton and Baelish had been fairly easy to turn up and fairly conspicuous, all the more so because Baelish was funneling money to him indirectly. Sound strategy dictated that since the head-on approach hadn't worked, it was time to come at Baelish from the side, through his allies. Jorah still proved elusive. Chilton was the next best candidate.

Simon could have simply broken into the office and taken Chilton unawares, but if he had any kind of immunity to his hypnosis, things would have gotten irrecoverably awkward, and Simon had been taught better than that. Instead, he goes at it above-board: Catches Chilton outside of his office, begs to be seen immediately, citing a respectful number of psychiatric red flags. He looks like a man who hasn't slept in three months because of nightmares. Possibly because it would not have been far off the truth a month ago, when he'd still been in the thick of the Komarr rebellion, though far more dramatic than Simon had ever been in his life.]

Tha—... Thank you again, Doctor. [He murmurs as they head back to Chilton's office. Simon's stiff bearing is 100% repressed traumatized war vet whose only notion of psychiatric care is a swift boot to the head. Another easy sell. It was a very common sight on Barrayar.]

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It is really -- no trouble.

[Heavy reassurance needed to be utilized, with open palms and a neutral smile. The timing was fortunate for Simon; Reggie had already clocked out for the day and Chilton had no lingering patients at that hour. The rest was textbook, as Chilton was just as duty-bound to invite Simon in as he was intrigued by the harrowed appearance of the man.

Frederick Chilton wasn't one to scorn opportunities.]

Please, take a seat.

[Within his office stood two obvious modes of seating: a light blue, soft sedan and a hard wooden chair. Both were angled towards his desk, both were parallel to each other. The Heropa Downtown Hospital had been generous in its accommodations, and Chilton's high-ceiling room hosted a lengthy bookcase behind his desk -- one filled with impressive-looking psychiatric texts, a whiskey decanter, and the odd art deco horse statue. Light blue, black, and gold accented the space, and his desk was practically brimming with gold pens.]

Am I to understand that you may need expedited care?

[He knew which pharmacy to hit up, if that were the case. The hospital allowed for in-house use in case of emergency. Without yet turning to take his own seat in his high-backed leather chair, Chilton kept a concerned and analytical set of eyes on Simon.]

[As they enter, Simon seems to hunch in on himself even more, embarrassed by his own grubbiness and disdainful of the luxury. He sits in the wooden chair, back straight, hands curled precisely at his sides. His eyes linger just slightly too long on the whiskey decanter as his gaze sweeps the room. He doesn't let himself think about whether he's overplaying it. It's been a while since he's done undercover in earnest but he's pleased to find the instinct for it is still here. It really does help that Barrayarans versus psychiatric treatment is the galactic joke that never gets old. No-one more in need of it and no-one more opposed than that backwards planet of savages.

Generally, Simon avoids having an opinion on that.]

You're the Doctor. [He snaps back with instant, sullen offense that cuts straight through his nervous reserve. Just about what anyone would get if they tried to suggest to any Barrayaran that they needed care.] I thought you were supposed to... evaluate me. [A note of wariness there, like evaluation might be a sort of witchcraft. Or just a crock. But Simon's gaze seems to take in Chilton standing there, his cool authority and utter seriousness, and then drop again, back to embarrassed and tired and desperate.]

Do you think there's something that will work...?

[Now sit, he thinks. He does not actually have to fake the jumpiness the disparity in their positions causes him.]

[The wooden chair. Chilton frowned at that, but only briefly. For as long as he had established his practice here, he had ensured that his patients would engage that dichotomy -- it was a testing ground of sorts.

The wooden chair always housed the more obstinate patients. The difficult cases.]

You came to me. [It was a counter softly spoken. He kept his eyes locked a moment more.] That rather implies you've a personal problem, or more, you want solved. Isn't that right? I'll need to know the circumstance before I can determine your treatment.

[But certain cases required urgent care, and Chilton didn't want the blood of a potential suicide on his hands. He was already ticking off the symptoms of PTSD -- irritability marking high on the list.]

So if this is emergent, I need to know. Otherwise --

[Chilton turned heel, and walked to his desk, quickly assuming his throne.]

I would rather discuss why you've come here before I pull out the prescription pad. Medication seems likely. [He gave Simon another look-over.] If you consent. We'll talk options. You mentioned some concerns outside, of course, but let's take it step by step. Would that be suitable?

[Gold pen and legal pad in hand, Chilton frowned. It had been a whirlwind, getting flagged down by this man, with the rush of coiled agonies he had stripped bare. The necessities were still needed.]

What was your name, again?

[Simon meets Chilton's eyes with the hunted look of a man with no more options and nods, quick and jerky.]

Fine. It's—I'm Arthur.

[Once Chilton is settled, he leans forward in the hard chair, locking eyes with the man. The timing is good; Simon was prepared, but he does not actually want to have to sit through an entire psychiatric evaluation. Given his eidetic chip and the history of its test subjects before him, he was rather certain any brush with mental imbalance would send him into a hard, fast spiral straight to total insanity and even pretending at that kind of damage was a little disturbing.

The hypnosis is subtle enough that if it fails, Simon can usually pass it off as a particularly quirky moment. All he needs is the eye contact and the right tone of measured calm to induce the hypnotic state.]

But you should tell me about yourself, first, Dr. Chilton.

[He waits to see if Chilton gets the right look in his eye: utterly relaxed, empty, and guileless.]

[Chilton furrowed his brow only slightly, as if about to inquire, as if about to remark about his observation of this man. But his brow quickly smoothed, his shoulders slumped, and the gold pen angled between his forefinger and thumb clattered onto the desk. With a neutral line of a mouth and that uncomplicated look in his gaze, Chilton had manifested an entirely altered demeanor.

Relaxed, empty, and guileless.

His voice was soft and monotone, lacking any emotional judgement in what he said.]

My name is Frederick Chilton. [About himself. His mind was still organized, still authoritarian, and it found what he would have considered to be the most pertinent details about himself.]

Graduate of Harvard. [Of course.] I am originally from Baltimore, where I was the Chief of Staff and then Head Administrator of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. I've authored two books on two very different psychopathic men, I have only one kidney and significantly less intestinal tract than what I was born with. I'm blind in my left eye from the impact of a bullet to the face. [Something that was not particularly obvious -- he wore the hint of a red mark beneath his left eye, its angrier red hue muted with make-up. But what kept his face looking normal was the colored contact he wore to mask the milky iris of his blinded eye and the dental retainer to keep the structure of his face as it was. Baltimore cosmetic science.] I outfit my psychiatric spaces with surveillance cameras, to include my office. I am in a relationship in this world with Raina, and with no one back home. I consider my only trustworthy friends to be Rincewind, James Patrick March, Petyr Baelish, and Jeff Winger. I have been made hurt and confused by Will Graham. I remain unsure about Will Graham. Will Graham is simultaneously perplexing and dangerous and interesting.

[Pertinent details.]

Edited 2016-09-16 14:57 (UTC)

[An opposite transformation seems to come over Simon. In the chair, his posture straightens, his focus becomes still and intense. When Chilton starts talking at length he gets up out of his chair glances around the office; he can risk losing the eye contact so long as Chilton is in the midst of fulfilling a command. He goes for the desk, moving around Chilton to rifle through draws, looking for documents, planners, anything. He can afford to half-listen, letting the chip record the audio while he flashes the visuals in front of his gaze. A second is all he needs for the paper to be immortalized in his memory.

Multi-tasking had become just as much of a personality trait as a survival skill after the chip had been implanted; with the chip there was always two streams of memories, two streams of thoughts occurring simultaneously. It had driven most of its bearers insane. Simon had learned to work with it. As Chilton drones on, Simon already composing further inquiries, pulling out the relevant details . He's here for Baelish, certainly, but more of a handle on Chilton wouldn't go amiss if he has the time. There was certainly something to discover there; no mere civilian doctor attracted that kind of physical trauma by accident.

And he didn't even have to ask about the cameras. Curious that that particular question had elicited that particular bit of information but if anyone could understand bone-deep paranoia, it was Simon. He would have to deal with the cameras after.

Curious, too, that Rincewind's name would come up in this context when Rincewind's terror of Baelish was enough to make him put Baelish into the same category as someone like Lucifer.

Simon's eyebrow hikes higher and higher as Chilton nears the end. He was beginning to develop the notion that Chilton had some deeper issues regarding this Will Graham. Interesting, but low priority. Perhaps he could lengthen this session by applying some fast penta in between hypnosis rounds; the truth drug and its disorienting effects was nearly as good as the hypnosis itself.

He makes an interested noise, almost a hum as Chilton finishes, meeting his eyes again.]

Thank you, Dr. Chilton. [Simon suspected tone was important to keep the hypnotic state less jarring and really it never hurt to be polite.] Now tell me more about Baelish. His goals, his powers, whether he is dangerous or not, and to whom.

[He'd have to come back around for Chilton's powers.]

Petyr Baelish. [Said Chilton, unblinking, his blank expression softening and almost adopting the warmth of familiarity.] Lord Petyr Baelish. He comes from a brutal world, I find it both unpleasant and fascinating. He sees himself in me. [Something that Baelish had said, something that Chilton believed. He wanted to believe it.] He understands what it is like, being outside and looking in. Adept, adaptable, quick with learning. Democracy is not a concept in his world, and yet he understood the nuances of our political system within weeks. He has a way with people, a charm. He understands power in a way that few individuals do, he has convinced the city council of Maurtia Falls and the state government to fund my hospital.

[It was a glowing testament, an itinerary of excellent opinion. Chilton was easily wooed by important, charming men who considered him to be worth their time.]

He can see potential in the neuroatypical. The truly remarkable, unique minds.

[A point poignantly lodged in Chilton's own heart; his ambitions aligned with Baelish because they shared -- at least to some degree -- a very similar philosophy: chaos was crucial. And both men thought they could control chaotic elements.

But Chilton wanted to use that to transform institutions in his image, whereas Baelish would sooner destroy a system than be beholden to it.]

He is going to get what he wants. He has suffered the loss of his wife -- [Lysa, which Baelish had halfway misinformed Chilton about.] -- And I doubt he will allow emotional vulnerability again any time soon.

[With his head tilted to the right, his green eyes still staring ahead, Chilton's eased body exhibited no sign of resistance, no struggle. It would have caused him great chagrin, even ego-born agony.]

He likes mockingbirds. His affinity for them indicates something more than symbolism. Birds follow him. I think --

[The tick of a second. A short, shallow breath.]

Edited 2016-09-17 01:38 (UTC)

[ Meanwhile: Jorah has tested the outer door, found it unlocked, and admitted himself into the empty waiting room.

He stands quietly just inside, with a pair of heavy books in hand. No receptionist.

No Chilton.

But there is something else.

…

The door to Chilton’s office opens. It isn’t locked. One hand on the handle, the other hooked in under his borrowed books, Jorah stands in the doorway like an ape: a grizzled old brute in battered armor with a sword at his hip, distinctly familiar to a man who never forgets.

It takes him a tense beat seconds to do the math, eyes checked hard from Chilton to Simon.

One, two, and he drops the books where he stands. ]

Edited (imprtant) 2016-09-17 02:09 (UTC)

[And on two Simon's ripped his stunner free of its holster beneath his jacket and fired, one shot at Jorah's broad frame before he's snapped his aim around to hit Chilton. Simon does math very, very fast and the odds of a peaceful retreat at this point seemed low. The best he could do was get away.

Now he was regretting not getting Chilton's abilities before. ]<>

[It was something of a cruel awakening -- the stunner shocking him out of his hypnotic state, the sharpness of reality flooding his sight and screaming at his very nerves. Flesh reacted to agony, and Chilton's head snapped back only to slump against the high backing of his chair.

Dazed for the moment, Chilton shuddered into a pinpointed focus, his mind howling for precision. What had happened was a horrifying thing, a loss of control, and he resented falling back into victimhood.

But his limbs were numb to reaction. His eyes remained on Jorah. It was all he could do for now.]

[ Jorah rocks back into the door frame with force enough to crack it, breath forced out at a guttural grunt. He keeps his feet long enough to see Chilton slump, shoulders braced and eyes scorching, fighting to grit through it. Then he falls through backwards.

His next stop is the floor. Belly up.

Boiled leather and steel soak the worst of the impact -- his healing ability does the rest. If Simon opts for the door, Jorah’s sensate enough to load back and aim a mule of a kick at the younger man’s knee before he can break through. ]

[Simon goes for the door. The window was discarded as an option almost immediately. He doesn't pause to see what the stunner's down to Chilton, he just flat runs.

And Jorah's kick drops him with a restrained yelp of pain. He's twisting to fire wildly again before he can even hit the floor.]

Edited 2016-09-17 03:45 (UTC)

[It was a lot to digest -- Jorah's rampant appearance, this other man injecting himself into Chilton's life, the violence, the dull ache he was beginning to feel as he slowly regained self-control.

If the shot he suffered had even a second more to strike something vital, he doubted he would be conscious enough to witness this much.

Nevertheless, as Chilton's slumped form struggled to crawl from chair to desk, for the sake of leaning upright on something, he kept clean away from the commotion mere feet in his vicinity.

From now on, he thought, no more walk-in appointments.]

[ There’s a leaden ring to the clatter Jorah’s dagger makes when he drops it, caught at the raise of his wrist by the stray shot as he rolls up to one knee. The blade is too heavy to bounce. ]

Nnghff, [ sounds a lot like stop it under the circumstances; he lunges to lock the paw of his left hand hard around the grip Simon has on his stunner instead, twisting and crunching, tendon to knuckle. He muscles to keep the business end pointed away from himself (and unwittingly, towards Chilton), all angry sweat and bristle at close range, with strength enough to stifle even the biolectric buzz of the chip in the spy’s brain.

This is exactly what he’d been concerned about when Baelish had taken him on. Man vs gun.

He touches upon the cover of one of his books with numb fingertips in place of his dagger and tries to spike that down into Simon’s face instead. KNOWLEDGE. ]

[Good news is Simon drops the stunner and does not shoot Chilton again. Mostly in hopes Jorah will risk letting that hand go to get a better grip on him. He gasps in pain, very quietly, letting that arm go slack.

And then his chip stops working.

It is like reaching out with a limb and finding its been blown off. He had hypothesized that Jorah had some sort of power nullifying ability like the Lord Regent but had never, not in any scenario, thought that such an ability might effect his chip.

For a vital moment he's wide-eyed, stunned. Another gasp, of pure startlement. All the background calculations--Chilton's location, the charge on his stunner, the mental map from the office to his nearest bolt whole. All gone.

But even three decades from now when he's old and grey and half-mad, Simon's known for fighting like a damn wild cat. He had never let the chip replace his hard-won instinct and the chip not functioning does not change his priorities: fight like hell and then run. He rears his free hand back and goes for a direct, solid strike that will definitely break Jorah's nose if it hits.

This is just sligjtly before Jorah whacks him in the face with a boom which is plenty disorienting on top of everything else. ]

Edited 2016-09-18 00:09 (UTC)

Who the hell are you?

[A question that could be directed at either Jorah or Simon; the moment his tongue was functional again, Chilton wanted to verbally address how "Arthur" surely had to be a pseudonym. But then there was the matter of this rather burly man bursting in to rescue him, this literal knight in shining armor. Well -- almost shining, if Chilton were wont to indulge in critique.

But not was not really the time. There were two strange men fighting in his office, one of them had lured him and assaulted him, and surely it was only a matter of time before security responded to someone hearing the commotion. When Simon dropped the stunner, Chilton made it his business to hobble over and kick it away -- towards the door, but further away. When Simon froze, Chilton did too; the psychiatrist did not want to entice an impulsive reaction towards him.

But luckily Jorah was a man who knew how to use a broom.]

This is goddamn ridiculous.

[Muttered Chilton, keeping pressed against the wall and out of the way of a broomed Simon.]

[ It’s like breaking a branch over a bear’s head.

Jorah’s chin snaps down from the blow, breath forced out in a blood-clogged splatter that unlocks his grip and rocks him back without laying him out. Rather than risk a second shot to the face, he heaves unsteadily to his feet in the break afforded him by the book, sword ripped free of its scabbard in a room-clearing arc.

It’s probably for the best that Chilton’s getting friendly with the walls. ]

Lock the door,

[ he commands by way of an answer, blood rough in his throat. ]

[Simon does not answer Chilton's obviously rhetorical question.

He's still on the floor, slightly stunned by the blow but mostly by the gaping hole in his thought process. Everything he does feels incredibly slow and awkward as he trudges along on one stream of thought only.

Jorah's between Simon and the door and Chilton, still standing despite Simon's best efforts. Leaving two dead bodies is the absolute last course of action, less for ethical reasons and more because it would be incredibly messy and troublesome. If he knew what sort of interrogation he could suspect from Jorah and Chilton, he might've just let himself get caught as the lesser of two evils.

But he still has one last option. When he pulls his needler out he aims, as best he can, for Jorah's leg. That probably won't kill him, but it might take the leg mostly off. Once Jorah's down he's fairly sure getting past Chilton won't be an issue.]

[Chilton hesitated at Jorah's command -- there was some inherent indignation to being ordered in his own office, his own throne room. But violence scratched out new perspective, and Chilton wasn't going to rub raw tensions when the "Arthurian" assailant was downed in this room.

He tiptoed around the wreckage of flesh, still keeping as close to the wall as possible, his fingers outstretched and reaching for the door lock. With a sharp click, he turned back to Jorah, and nodded.]

What now?

[Well, he would have to get a cleaner in here, that's for sure. Chilton wasn't looking forward to the sheer paperwork he'd have to file for an incident report.]

And what about him?

[The question was barely past his lips when his eyes darted back to Simon -- a needle-armed, aiming Simon.]

[ Ser Jorah doesn’t have the luxury of a steadying breath before Simon reaches for a second gun.

The old knight surges forward only to crash headlong into Chilton’s desk when his right leg buckles, the boiled leather of his skirt stripped through to meat, and meat stripped through to bone. Heavy wood slams back down beneath him, papers sent up in a flurry, expensive pens jarred off the edge.

It sounds like someone’s ripped his gut out through his throat before he can stifle pain down to a growl through his teeth.

Mormont holds himself half upright over the corner of the desk, a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow of gore. He’s still dripping from the nose, all anguish and impotent fury, with his sword anchored into the floor like a third leg. Unfortunately laser vision is not on his list of abilities.

What about him?

Jorah waits to see if he’s going to be shot dead in this idiot’s office.

A piece of his thigh drops loose off the tail of his skirt, chased by a burble of arterial spurt. ]

[Simon mentally flinches, staring for a moment at the meat and the blood: no matter how many times he'd seen needler wounds, had them fixed forever in his memory, they never got any easier to look at.

Then he remembers, with a hysterical jolt, that he didn't have to worry about it this time. The chip wasn't working. Every time he reaches for it and it isn't there, he could feel a pulsing little ache. A building migraine. He hadn't had one in years but remembering how bad they had been in the first few months after the chip, he was already gritting his teeth.

He manages to roll to his feet, gun trained on Chilton. Jorah's not coming after him any time soon, so Chilton's the last problem to deal with. He'd prefer not to shoot Chilton and risk a corpse but moving him himself is out of the question when Simon's focus feels like it's slowly cracking in half.]'

Move.[Simon's not melodramatic enough to add "Or I will shoot you." It seems fairly implied. And just that one word seems to drive another spike into his head.]

Edited (NOW WITH ACTUAL DIALOG.) 2016-09-18 22:01 (UTC)

[Chilton put his hands in the air, eying the assaulter. He considered disobeying, considered lunging to grab onto "Arthur's" face, his arm -- any uncovered skin would do. He calculated quickly and accurately: it would take three seconds to move from his back against the wall to knees bent and thrust forward, hands grappling for skin. A half second to determine what dosage of sedative from his fingertips, another half second to have it swirling through the man's circulatory system.

A second more until it affects the brain.

But that was assuming there was no healing factor at play, and in this equation, that assumption was monumentally dangerous. The variables did not add up into his favor.

Chilton had a gun trained on him. It wasn't difficult math.]

Just stay calm.

[He moved, slowly and deliberately, to unlock the door. Chilton did not look at where his cameras had been hidden in his office, he did not want to give this man any reason for additional suspicion. It was better for both him and man bleeding on his floor, he rationalized, if "Arthur" just left.]

There. You can run. I am going over to that man you left for dead, is that all right? I am going to call for medical help. I am calling only for medical help, do not shoot me.

[ Any threat Jorah could put out there to back Chilton’s request would feel comical under the circumstances. He keeps his jaw ground shut, and his sword staked into the floor.

He doesn’t move much at all, save to breathe, strength holding in his arms to keep him upright over the desk at least until Simon is gone.

The truer tell is in the ebb of his negation, especially once Simon has moved for the door. ]

[Simon listens to Chilton with a dry look of impatience, brow cocked. He's perfectly calm; the situation is back under control. Jorah is neutralized and if Chilton had a power that could take him out, he would have used it by now.

The situation was salvageable. He just had to think.

But thinking hurt, a vibrantly painful stab at every step as he tried to strong together a coherent chain of events. The chip was coming back alive but imperfectly, randomly. He stares down the length of his arm, at the gun pointing at Chilton's head. He closes his eyes briefly. The chip plays out a disorienting scene from an almost-but-not-quite identical perspective: Standing at the shoulder of the Lord Regent as Aral aims a nerve disrupter at the head of a fellow, green-uniformed officer. The Commander of the POW camp. Vorkosigon's voice is rough, iron. I need you to witness this, Simon. Then he pulls the trigger.

Simon opens his eyes again, focusing on Chilton as best he can while the chip tries and fails to retrieve some other relevant stream of data, driving another sharp spike of pain through Simon's head. If Chilton's looking for signs that Simon might flip out and shoot him he should be pretty alarmed by now: Simon's gone several shades paler, broken out into a cold sweat, starting breathing in shallow, labored pants. At least his aim doesn't waver, though his hand's started trembling.

It was just a damn headache. He could work through it. He wasn't even hurt that badly, otherwise. He had a vial of fasta penta in his jacket. He could hynoptize Chilton, fast penta Jorah, find the camera footage, be out in ten minutes and still be able to come back later for another round. If he ran now, he'd have to go to ground, hide, who knows for how long. If he left the stunner it could be traced back to the other Barrayarans, but it was all the way over by Jorah. No, he couldn't run, he had to fix this—

Simon makes himself focus on Chilton, meeting his gaze, trying to summon that sense of power that was his hypnosis skill. He can feel it coming to bear but when he opens his mouth to issue the order—

It feels like a thousand shards are driven into his brain at once. He blacks out, sways, hits the ground hard.]

Edited 2016-09-19 02:57 (UTC)

Did you see that? He was looking at me like he had before --

[Hypnosis was a funny thing. Chilton had no natural persuasion against its effects, but he was a trained and capable psychiatrist; he knew the blanked outcome, the short term the memory loss that skipped time indicates. The strength and the true influence of Simon's power was still up for discussion, and hopefully those tapes would enlighten that treacle of an issue. The fact that Simon couldn't do it again, when he clearly had every intent, was cause for concern -- the pallor, the tormented expression, the hesitation.

Something was wrong. Something wrong among many, many brutally incorrect things that have happened this afternoon.

But as priorities were left standing in a crucial order: the wounded man, then "Arthur". Chilton didn't finish his halfway verbalized thought for Jorah's benefit, instead he removed his business jacket (and hung it) before stepping over Simon and gave Jorah a better look over.]

Oh, god.

[That gun had done a nasty job on Jorah's leg, Chilton could determine that from even feet away. The sheer amount of blood... Fortunate that Chilton was very used to gore at this point in his life, and what remained of his stomach could handle the horrifying imagery. Quickly, he turned back to Simon, his long fingers gently feeling around the man's waist. Once the belt was evident, Chilton unbuckled and stripped it away, and he turned his unblemished focus back to Jorah, the wounded fellow still gripping onto that tormented desk.]

Look -- I can make you a tourniquet, but you've already bled so much. Just, slide down, won't you? Better if you're fully on the floor, I don't want gravity working in favor of your massive blood loss.

[Amazing that the man was even conscious, really. Chilton glanced over, keeping clear of the fallen sword.]

Your trousers probably... Ought to go. This is... Already going to be difficult.

[A wince, a little shrug. At least it appeared to be isolated in the thigh. Chilton didn't ask for permission when he moved to partially strip down his patient, but he would have been easily stopped if Jorah took offense. Either way, the belt would be wrapped around the leg above the wound, and pulled tight to a buckled state.]

Guessing from your attire that you're one of Petyr's?

[Chilton hoped the assumption was right, because that was who he was calling this moment -- a brief conversation, a "I need your help, I was attacked in my office, I need you here now. Bring aid." Chilton was a woeful surgeon in his youth, a fact that hadn't changed with age. He wouldn't attempt any stitching right now -- but he had something else.]

I can give you something. [He said, his fingertips brushing Jorah's forehead.] A sedative. It will help with the pain.

[Or it would have, if not for Jorah's power negation.]

What should we do with him?

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