[ The Darkling is far from what he'd call used to this situation, but he has enough of sense to get his shit together as quickly as possible. He dislikes feeling like this, feeling powerless: the simple act of not knowing where he is is enough to set his teeth on edge and his jaw to clench just a little too tightly if he thinks about it for too long. Mercifully, he doesn't have to: he keeps busy, he explores, he learns. There's a clinic, he hears, and of course his feet wind up heading in that direction after he spends the morning pouring over the library. Cursory glances first, deeper dives afterward. He has what others do not. He has all the time in the world.
The clinic's sign makes it fairly easy to spot, though when he steps in he's surprised to see someone right away. The Darkling's an imposing figure, tall and dark, black coat once an elegant, elaborate thing with embroidery covering almost every inch of it, now battered and torn, if clean. His gaze flicks over the stranger he immediately sees, curious.
The other's busy, the Darkling notices, though there's a certain weariness to it, something he recognizes in the smaller villages of Ravka, the ones among the border. It's the instinctual ability to keep busy, lest whatever recent tragedy that's happened starts to wear on you. It's similar to what he himself is doing: if one stops, one is left with the fact that one is horribly, terribly out of their depth. ]
Dr. Suzuki, I presume? [ He keeps his distance, still at the doorway, voice incredibly soft and distinctly British. ]
b;
The clinic's sign makes it fairly easy to spot, though when he steps in he's surprised to see someone right away. The Darkling's an imposing figure, tall and dark, black coat once an elegant, elaborate thing with embroidery covering almost every inch of it, now battered and torn, if clean. His gaze flicks over the stranger he immediately sees, curious.
The other's busy, the Darkling notices, though there's a certain weariness to it, something he recognizes in the smaller villages of Ravka, the ones among the border. It's the instinctual ability to keep busy, lest whatever recent tragedy that's happened starts to wear on you. It's similar to what he himself is doing: if one stops, one is left with the fact that one is horribly, terribly out of their depth. ]
Dr. Suzuki, I presume? [ He keeps his distance, still at the doorway, voice incredibly soft and distinctly British. ]