10
Xaandril was a mess.
Laarn whistled to himself, looking down at the still form of his patient on the table in front of him. There was a big knife wound across his throat, his left arm was at the wrong angle and the shoulder looked mangled, the ends of his collarbone were visible in what looked like raw meat… his gaze moved down as his assistants moved around him, prepping the surgical unit… two gut wounds and one across the thigh.
“My lord?”
At the prompt, Laarn held his arms out to the side, letting his assistants slide the gauntlets over his hands and tighten the straps over his wrists. They were like a normal pair of gloves to the wrist, but beyond neural cables sprouted like spines, falling to the floor to snake around the operating table with its protective bubble enclosing the
