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Apothecary┌────────────────┐│
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"They always say that what doesn't kill you..."↣ ───── 🌿 ───── ↢
Curious | Blunt | Logical
Experimental | Daring | Fearless
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│└────────────────┘ Username + ID: ♔Voltaire♔ + 749955
Fawnae name: Hawke
How did they get their scar?:
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His hands fumble with the cap of the bottle, a small grumble spilling past his lips as he scans the cluttered mess of his work table for a corkscrew. Loose sheets of yellowed parchment remain scattered across the desk and floorboards from where they fell last, covered in black-inked chicken scratch and scribbled images of plants. He grumbles again when he finds what he's been searching for, tightening his grip on the neck of the flask before releasing the cork sealing its contents inside with a successful "pop". With a sigh he sets the now opened flask on his work table, moving to scan his equally as cluttered wall shelves for the right reagent.
As an apothecary, Hawke is very much aware of the dangers and cautions one must take in his line of work, though he'd rather ignore the yellow caution signs and vibrant red letters for the sake of scientific progress. Of course, he knows well enough to not make any horridly rash decisions- at least that is what he tends to say for the sake of reassuring the fearful and skeptical. His natural and fantastical immunity to poisons only makes him feel more untouchable by the wrath of mortality, though as of recently, it seems as if he has become too reliant on such gifts.
He scans his shelf for a long while, over flasks and bottles of various shapes and sizes until he finds the one he is looking for, heart racing in his chest with the addictive tingle of adrenaline. He snags it from the shelf, stepping over the scattered parchment on the floor and back to his work table, setting the newly retrieved bottle beside the one he opened prior. He takes a moment to set up his regular experimentation devices before pouring the content of the original flask into a beaker, watching the bubbles rise and fall within the amber liquid now settling at the bottom. With a shaky exhale of excitement, he pipets a small drop of liquid from the other bottle to the beaker, unknowing of the chemical warfare to happen next.
It's an immediate reaction, the liquid inside the beaker bubbling and beginning to foam before the contents spray out of the beaker with a sharp hiss, the sound startling Hawke and making him stagger backward in a moment of shock and wonder. Unfortunately, his movement isn't enough to save him from the splash; a small spray of the acidic mixture shooting from the beaker and spraying across the bridge of his nose at almost the same time he attempting to turn his head away, the acid-to-skin contact causing searing pain to fray his nerves. He groans loudly in pain, falling backward onto the floor with a thud as the acid drips off the edges of the table, splashing onto the parchment below and eating away at the material.
With much care, the wound heals up quite nicely, leaving a thin yet prominent scar, one Hawke doesn't seem to mind one bit. In fact, when re-telling the story of how he acquired such an injury, his eyes seem to alight in a fire that one can only assume means that he plans on doing a second test run.
