center]Day 19 of Spring of 488 AV[/center]
Guy lay on the floor, his face pushed up against the wooden boards. Snapping his eyes open, he sees the grains of the wood so close and nearly cries out. He attempts to move his arms, but can’t make them budge. They were, all night, laying beneath him, the blood circulation cut off and the appendages becoming nothing more than dead weight. No doubt they would need to be amputated, and then his career as a street performer would be over, and he would be left in rags, begging on the corner, using his feet to do everything.
Flipping over to his back, He moans and arches his back forwards, causing him to be supported by his feet and behind, his arms dangling uselessly beside him. He says calmly, already accepting his doomed future, “Father. I have lost the use of my arms.”
Jionn gets up slightly, looking over at his son, sitting on the floor. “Get off from the floor. And what are you talking about?” Smacking his lips, he pivots himself up and stands, stretching as he does so.
“My arms. I can’t feel them, or use them.” He heaves himself forward, getting on his knees, and then levers himself up, standing and staring at his father. Why does he seem so apathetic? Doesn’t he care about my well-being?
“Don’t be silly, boy. You fell of the bed and landed on your hands, cutting them off from your heart. They have no blood in them! Give it a couple of seconds, they’ll hurt real bad, but then you’ll be fine.”
“H-Hurt?” Guy looked down at his dangling arms, already able to feel the tingling sensation that precedes the needles-and-pins feeling when one regains the use of a limb. Sighing, he sits down, gyrating his chest and making his arms flap about, having fun with his useless arms before they became - gasp! - useful again.
Chuckling loudly, Jionn goes and gets a jar of butter and a loaf of bread from the pantry, placing both on a counter and slicing up their breakfast. The tingling has now progressed into pricking, and started to regain motion in his arms. He dutifully walks over and seats himself at the table, looking at the earthenware plate in front of him. His father slaps a slice of bread on the plate, followed by a glop of butter, salted for preservation, and smears that evenly across the surface of the bread. This he does for himself as well, then returns the loaf and the butter to the cabinet, coming back with a pitcher of water, which he pours into two clay cups, one for each of them, and returns this to the cabinet as well.
“Enjoy,” He said, grinning and chomping down on his bread. Guy did the same, and almost spat it back out.
“Blegh! This bread is stale!” He washed it down with some water.
“Well, it’s the best we could do in such short circumstances. Deal with it.”