The chest swathe held his left arm rigid against his chest bone. It took the physical weight off the damaged shoulder. But the throbbing inside the radius refused to subside.
It was a deep, sickening pulse. A heavy, rhythmic ache that matched his heartbeat with clean, steady care. Every beat drove a dull spike of pain from his wrist up into his collarbone, reminding him of the fragile margin that separated his living sinews from a shattered bone. With his arm bound tight to his ribs, his woolen courier coat wouldn’t button across his chest. He had to wear the garment like a cloak, draped over his right shoulder and pinned at his throat with his brass postal buckle.
Len stood in the center of the kitchen floor. He tested his balance with his ash sounding pole held only in his right hand.
Without the counterbalance of his left arm, his stride felt unnatural, truncated. Every time he stepped forward with his left boot, his torso tried to twist to the left to compensate for the missing swing. He had to rely fully on his Surefoot improvement. He allowed the system’s baseline shift to reset his pelvic posture with every step, redistributing his balance point so that his boots cleared the flat stone slabs without scuffing the heels.
