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[plasticasshole]

[Connor watches as Gwen steps into the water and sinks into it, noting the scars. Was she captured too? He never saw her.

The touch to his arm is reassuring. He moves to follow her instinctively after that, shedding his shoes and his shirt, but when he reaches waist level in the water and his legs turn into a tail he recoils in pain, grunting.

It burns, and he can't go back onto the sand and make it stop. He instinctively grabs onto Gwen's upper arm to support himself, wincing.]

...I'm sorry.

[He forces the words out between clenched teeth, and lets go again. His tail is raw under the water, his scales missing in huge patches where they'd been peeled off in sheets with a blade. He hasn't seen a medic still. Maybe he should have.]

[trouvaille]

( she makes a noise when his hand digs into her arm, but when he releases her she hasn't recoiled—her mantle and tentacles swirling beneath him, coiling protectively and uncertainly, not quite touching him but approaching and retreating, investigatory. )

We can stay shallow.

( is that better? she isn't sure; she wants to help, but this is nearly as new to her and her instinct says that the water ought to help, ought to heal, but she isn't certain and that uncertainty burns almost the way the salt does in his wounds. )