It’s been nearly a fortnight since the incident. (He doesn’t like to think of it as an attack or a fight—it wouldn’t be fair to. Large chunks of the event are wiped from his memory in a haze of violence wholly foreign to him)
The wounds are not survivable. He had been shocked to realize that he was still breathing, still alive, half-expected that feeding would be the last requirement and perhaps it would finally work as it was supposed to, but no, he was alive and stuck with fatal wounds that would not heal on their own. There was barely a hint of tissue granulation in the slashes on his face two weeks hence and the stab wounds kept him half-doubled-over, though they had long since ceased to bleed.
He knew he had all the facility of an infant with Restoration work of even the most minor nature, so he had stitched the long wounds closed and tacked the ugly, deep stab marks. It didn’t work. Alchemy was his fallback—he was hardly better at it, but at least it only required following set recipes and amounts for reasonable competence.
The alchemist he had obtained the order for ingredients through had offered to deliver them, to Ioannes’s everlasting gratitude. The vampirism, while stuck incomplete, had not done wonders for his appearance and he had no doubt that traveling to retrieve the materials himself would result in suspicion at best and hostility at worst. He waits.