“Yes yes I know, Grey Wardens. Poorest souls to ever exist.”
He waits a few beats longer before his hold shifts, more to the knuckles than the pads of his fingertips, sliding down into flattened pressure as he draws up a longer section of clean linen—and begins the tedious work of wrapping it, now that he’s certain the bleeding is stanched.
The scent of iron in the air is alluring to his senses, close at is is. He thinks absently of Wysteria scolding him for being too skittish about asking for Thedosian blood.
He puts that thought, irritating as sand, away.
“But I’d still argue I’d be able to trade what you’ve got on you for a little wrapping and a pot of ointment— even if it means selling off some of your hair.”
no subject
He waits a few beats longer before his hold shifts, more to the knuckles than the pads of his fingertips, sliding down into flattened pressure as he draws up a longer section of clean linen—and begins the tedious work of wrapping it, now that he’s certain the bleeding is stanched.
The scent of iron in the air is alluring to his senses, close at is is. He thinks absently of Wysteria scolding him for being too skittish about asking for Thedosian blood.
He puts that thought, irritating as sand, away.
“But I’d still argue I’d be able to trade what you’ve got on you for a little wrapping and a pot of ointment— even if it means selling off some of your hair.”
A pause, his lips pursing.
“Or teeth.”