politestpirate: (Default)
It is not quiet. He might be talking to somone. Or he might not be.
politestpirate: (Default)
Wellard sits on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, face in his hands.

The bottle sat on the table across the room.

He was not even looking at it. He already had the dose for today, and

not enough- too much

no more. As much as it hurt, he had kept himself to the carefully measured and rationed doses. But the bottle was still there, and he did not think he had enough strength or energy to drag himself down to the bar room today. Or ever again.

But this had to stop sometime, right?
politestpirate: (Basic)
He was not sleeping well, in the few bits and pieces of sleep he did manage to get. He had hardly eaten anything; for the most part, food would not stay down. He was shaking, and miserable-

But Wellard had measured out what was in the bottle Bar gave him. Two weeks worth. Half was one week. Divide that by seven, for each day. It had to be enough.

It was not. Pacing in the room, (the fox on his bed watching him back and forth), he found his steps taking him by the bottle on the nightstand, time and time again.

~And then, it'll be less than this.~

He hit his hand against the doorway. Hard. And then rested his head against his arm, breathing hard. Miserable or not, if he stayed in this room much longer with that bottle staring at him-

With an angry intake of breath, he pulled open the door and headed to the bar.
politestpirate: (Stricken)
That was it, then.

Wellard set the empty bottle on the small table next to the bunk. It had been half-full

half-empty

when he arrived here. However you chose to look at it, the bottle was empty now, even as much as he tried to be careful.

("A little laudanum for the pain?")

The problem is, the pain never stopped. It just kept coming back, and only the spirits in the bottle served to chase it away. But only for a while.

And now the bottle was empty.

A quiet exhale, and Wellard rubbed his eyes before standing up. It was perhaps time to try dealing with the Bar directly himself. He picked up the empty bottle and slipped it into a pocket before he exited his room.
politestpirate: (Default)
Its an english room, and sparce as per one who is used to keeping all of their belongings in a single sea chest. Being that this is a room at milliways, it is larger than a room aboard any sort of ship, and a bit better appointed than one- Just that Wellard tends to be very neat, and does not have much in the way of belongings to scatter about as it is.
politestpirate: (Default)
The hangover? Wellard can perhaps blame on Sharpe. The headache and general pounding of his head is quite a hangover.

The chills, weeping eyes, and cramps are not, as well as the general pain moving through his body.

(Doctor Clive shook the small glass bottle. "A little laudanum for the pain?")

His fingers fumble with the cap, but Wellard does not drop the bottle. There's a few doses left. It would not do to waste them. One swallow, and he manages to get the cap back on, and with exaggerated care, set the bottle down on the small table.

Soon, the pain from the hangover and the pain in general ebb and seep away. He'll keep to his room until the world stops swaying before his eyes, but the pain is gone.

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Henry Wellard

January 2011

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