"Okay," Melisande said as she wrapped the final piece of gauze around Redd's arm, fingers moving with the practiced precision of someone who had tended to wounds too often to count. Her voice was calm, but a tightness lingered beneath it a restraint masking the quiet frustration of working in low light, under uncertain skies, with blood that still seeped from barely closed flesh. The strip of linen, once a pale cream, was now marbled in red, soaked through from the wound that refused to settle.
"What a waste of time," Gorak muttered from nearby, arms crossed like a statue carved in disapproval, his tone as rough and gravelly as ever. He stood over them like a sentinel, eyes fixed on Redd "He heals naturally."
Melisande didn't even flinch at the remark. She pulled the gauze tighter, smoothing it with the heel of her palm, then gave the barbarian a curt glance over her shoulder. "For a barbarian that's used to injury," she said, "you sure don't understand the human body."
