Strange rolls his eyes at her, fondly beleaguered, and then summons up a small spirit-blade, approximately the size of a letter opener.
Once he’s holding it, however, he realises the flaw in the plan.
Combat is one thing. Utilitarian cutting through rope or bandages is one thing. But he’s remembering he hasn’t held a surgeon’s scalpel in a few years now. It feels— hopelessly familiar, horribly uncomfortable, with a sickening swoop in his stomach. He knows precisely the amount of weight and pressure to break through exactly how many layers of skin and epidermis; but his nerves don’t behave the way they should. Signals misfiring, messages not received, precision lost. That jarring tremor which might (will) send that sharp blade skittering out-of-control, deeper than it ought to, harder than he planned to.
“Hm,” Strange says, thoughtful, scrutinising the canvas of Ness’ pale arm. But he can’t let her do it either, because her senses are even more off. (Maybe this is a bad idea?) But whatever tiny voice of reason piped up just then, it soon vanishes — he has potions, they’ll manage, this isn’t actual surgery — and so he presses that sharp edge to her forearm.
He’s more hesitant than she might expect, however. The touch too delicate, afraid of losing control and pressing too deep into the skin.
no subject
Once he’s holding it, however, he realises the flaw in the plan.
Combat is one thing. Utilitarian cutting through rope or bandages is one thing. But he’s remembering he hasn’t held a surgeon’s scalpel in a few years now. It feels— hopelessly familiar, horribly uncomfortable, with a sickening swoop in his stomach. He knows precisely the amount of weight and pressure to break through exactly how many layers of skin and epidermis; but his nerves don’t behave the way they should. Signals misfiring, messages not received, precision lost. That jarring tremor which might (will) send that sharp blade skittering out-of-control, deeper than it ought to, harder than he planned to.
“Hm,” Strange says, thoughtful, scrutinising the canvas of Ness’ pale arm. But he can’t let her do it either, because her senses are even more off. (Maybe this is a bad idea?) But whatever tiny voice of reason piped up just then, it soon vanishes — he has potions, they’ll manage, this isn’t actual surgery — and so he presses that sharp edge to her forearm.
He’s more hesitant than she might expect, however. The touch too delicate, afraid of losing control and pressing too deep into the skin.