Olhar pra dentro é o nosso desafio! #boatarde na Clínica de #psicologia 😊 Look inside is our #challenge ! #goodafternoon at the #psychology clinic 😊 #psicologa #terapia #ajuda #stress #ansiedade #depressao #psicóloga #therapy (em Clínica Plenitude)
THAT’S RIGHT Y’ALL, AN OVERWATCH ACCENT CHALLENGE MADE BY YOURS TRULY! This challenge is open to anyone, but you can tag friends you’d like to see do this if you want!
What to say:
- Your name and username. - Where you’re from. - Pronounce the following words: Ana, Nano boost, Bastion, Configuration: Tank, D.va, Self-Destruct, Genji, Dragonsword, Hanzo, Dragonstrike, Junkrat, RIP-tire, Lúcio, Sound barrier, McCree, Deadeye, Mei, Blizzard, Mercy, Resurrect, Pharah, Barrage, Reaper, Death blossom, Reinhardt, Earthshatter, Roadhog, Whole hog, Soldier: 76, Tactical Visor, Symmetra, Teleporter, Torbjörn, Molten Core, Tracer, Pulse Bomb, Widowmaker, Infra-sight, Winston, Primal Rage, Zarya, Graviton Surge, Zenyatta, Transcendence.
- Least favourite character? - Who do you main (if you don’t play, who do you think you would main?) - Offense, Defense, Tank or Support? - Overwatch or Blackwatch? - Talon or Vishkar? - Genji or Hanzo? - Favourite animated short so far? - Favourite comic so far? - Got any ships? - Give us one of your favourite character lines! - End the audio post with 5 random words!
It’s been throbbing since the previous night, but now it’s accompanied by some sharp pain rolling up her spine and into her heart. Whatever the man Justice had done with his strike, it’s more than a little bit of damage. When she’d finally been dragged, arguing and struggling the entire way, back to the infirmary, her bruises had darkened to a purple, near-black mess, and the chirurgeon tending her was positive that some internal bleeding had wreaked havoc that would require hours of attention and more bedrest than the Warmaiden would take; it’s regular exercise just to keep the girl stationary.
Today, though, she notices as she finally rouses from drug-induced, dreamless sleep, that she’s no longer alone in her small, usually-empty ward. A tall, brawny man with snowy locks and a complexion that makes hers look like the driven snow (which, admittedly, isn’t hard to do) is now occupying the infirmary bed just on the other side of the curtain; his shirt is mostly cut away, the skin slaked in blood around the site of some mysterious wound.
“Are you kidding me?”
She throws the remaining curtain back from her cot and nearly collapses as the muscles in her chest and back begin to scream. He chuckles broadly, but then stops sharply, a half-concealed groan slipping from his lips. She snorts and regrets it, pushing herself upright in the bed, holding her side.
“Was she a roe?” she asks with a wide grin, pushing herself up onto her feet slowly.
“Midlander,” he replies smoothly. That wolfish grin on her face doesn’t flicker, but her eyebrows lift in mild surprise.
“Midlander? Hells, I’d not have guessed. Let me see.” She nods curtly to the recently-treated wound; he leans forward slowly to allow her access to the entry site, and she peels back the gauze pressed against it, brows furrowing as she takes note of the deep gash, only just cleaned by the mender before bustling off. “Twelve, Rev, you’re lucky she missed your damned heart. There’s a lot of mechanical damage too…”
His own brow knits as she gingerly pokes and prods, almost indignant but for the humor on his face. “I don’t think you have much room to talk, lover. You’re a patient, get back in bed.”
One hand waves idly, the other collecting aether from the crystal visibly embedded in her sternum, only partly covered by the bandages wrapped around her chest and ribs. This part is familiar, she’s done it once before, though she was in far better condition at the time. That the pain is grounding, perhaps would be the most apt description. “I am fine,” she murmurs her sing-song, half-distracted reply, sutures working through the damage carefully and pulling torn flesh and sinew together. “No axe this time?”
“Short sword, and no, you aren’t.
She works quickly, apparently ignoring the latter half of his statement, far more adapted to her fiery brand of mending magic, taking extra care to avoid sensitive circuitry and damaged machinery before she finally steps back and balks, nearly doubling over with the pain racking her chest. “Done,” she coughs and sinks back onto the cot. There’s another clamor and bustle as the chirurgeon returns, a stern, motherly, older midlander woman who cares little for Enambris’ attempts to rectify some of the damage in the man’s shoulder. She scolds the both of them in a whirl of changing bandages, prodding and conjury, light flashing between irritable mutterings and regular chastising.
The woman tends his damaged shoulder first, the ancient wand swatting against the stitches and aether delving underneath knitted flesh, eliciting a poorly-concealed giggle and a wince and groan of pain from the pretty redhead, and hisses of annoyance and soreness from the man himself.
When finally the woman rounds on Enambris, the furtive muttering crescendos into wholly-annoyed ranting, from the shattered ribs to the obviously-dangerous crystal embedded into her chest, to the through-and-through stab wound cauterized in her left shoulder. There’s what could be described as a squeak that issues from Enambris’ mouth as the mender snips through the bandages covering the entirety of the girl’s chest, but with the mender’s broad figure obscuring any real view besides the red on her face, he’s left with naught but the sounds of her quick arguments and visible fidgeting. It’s his turn to chuckle and regret it through the rather animated procedure of knitting the bones and sinew and setting them properly, until finally the woman sets to work rebandaging Enambris’ damaged abdomen and, with no small measure of further scolding, she bustles away again, leaving painkillers and laughter behind her.
“Think she’d be upset if I traded the painkillers for a bottle of rum?” the girl asks through her laughter, sinking back onto the pillows, face paled from pain and cheeks flush from mirth, hand pressed over the newly-knitted flesh and bone.
“Who cares, as long as you’re sharing,” he fires back without even missing a beat. She drags an unopened bottle from the pack laying on the bedside table and pulls the cork out; she takes a long draw and tosses it over, issuing half-laughter-half-sobs as he fumbles it briefly and recovers spectacularly, shoulder muscles convulsing around damaged circuitry all the while. His one good, umber eye narrows briefly to the chorus of her musical laughter, so infectious that he can’t help but chuckle deeply himself.