Azwel

Azwel looks up from idly reading a book. He looks dreadful, but he's at that point of healing where no matter how terrible one looks, sleep is impossible. His eyes are hollowed and fever-spots stand out on his pale, drawn cheeks. Tubes and wires still surround him and while he heals fast, his hands are still bandaged. A bruise blooms across his right collarbone, disappearing under a small taped-on piece of gauze.

But he smiles happily at seeing his guest. "Hullo, Prometheus," he says, his voice less exuberant than usual. "I'm... as well can be expected, I suppose. Please--come in."