Within a few minutes, it's become obvious to Pyotr that he has a concussion. He saw Andrey get his brains rattled with a move just like that when they were two and twenty, and he puked afterwards like he was trying to turn inside out. He'd started cutting his hair short after that...
But Pyotr has at least one advantage now over his poor brother then, which is an additional six years experience navigating the world at all levels of fucked up. And he's not sure why someone thought it was a good idea to bring a bellowing bull into the inn, but if he stays down here any longer the noise alone will finish what Burakh started and crack his head open like an egg. He unfolds slowly, squinting against the light. The room has broken up into irregular shapes and bands of light and shadow, an oil pastel sketch soaked in twyrine and then hung up in front of the sunrise to dry. He can feel his own pulse in his forehead.
Slowly he looks around. Four white spectres are crouched over a lump of meat he thinks might be Burakh, so he's all right. Pyotr turns away and begins painfully limping for the stairs.
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But Pyotr has at least one advantage now over his poor brother then, which is an additional six years experience navigating the world at all levels of fucked up. And he's not sure why someone thought it was a good idea to bring a bellowing bull into the inn, but if he stays down here any longer the noise alone will finish what Burakh started and crack his head open like an egg. He unfolds slowly, squinting against the light. The room has broken up into irregular shapes and bands of light and shadow, an oil pastel sketch soaked in twyrine and then hung up in front of the sunrise to dry. He can feel his own pulse in his forehead.
Slowly he looks around. Four white spectres are crouched over a lump of meat he thinks might be Burakh, so he's all right. Pyotr turns away and begins painfully limping for the stairs.