[Center][u][b]Medbay[/b][/u][/center]
Dieter loathed questions, especially when they were asked in blindingly quick succession. It was but a trait he had picked up when the mercenary was once taken as a captive in Canth; the interrogation had been long, ardous, and unsettlingly violent. Coupled with his reserved sense of self and typical stoicism, Sigrun's torrent of questions, while appearing to be of a more curious intention, make the typically unflinching man uncomfortable. Had his chin not been split open by an idiotic slip up, the grizzled, taciturn mercenary would be long gone by now; but, being here without so much as a choice, he decides to give her an appropriated response. There's only so much you can do when your chin is on the fringe of getting a few stitches. As such, the warrior went to speak; yet found no voice within himself. When was the last time he'd drunken water? It must've been the adrenaline, he thinks, prior to sinking into his seat and gritting his teeth as the knowing figure before him sinks a needle into his split chin; gripping the poor, bloodied arm rests for dear life, white knuckled beneath those dark gloves of his. 

He's no stranger to pain; as a matter of fact, the grizzled, combat-weary soldier has basically come to grips with the idea that his job puts him in the way of pain, and possibly death. Such is the way of war; and he was no stranger to conflict. Indeed, the question this physician had presented him sent a flurry of bloody, hazy memories through his taxed mind, emotion striking hard besides them; now he had two reasons to grip those arm rests so toughly. Where hadn't he fought? It seemed as if though Dieter had circumvented the entirety of the known world, killing and maiming for a living. At least, that's what it felt like. 

Pulling the finely-honed trigger of his rifle on a rogue Canthian Artillery Officer; ah, his ornate helmet had soared through the air, still coated in his head's blasted remains. Running a Ventui Rebel's own blade through his ragged gut... God, he still remembers the look in his eyes; the memory of a man's life quickly draining from those frightened, shimmering orbs is one hard to forget. There were many, many more experiences he could recall, despite his best intents of suppressing them. Once, he had etched the number of his dispatched combatants onto the butt of his rifle; once he ran out of space, however... he simply stopped. These cruel markings are clearly visible now, that dark, finely-calibrated death bringer now taking up the seat besides him, almost as if it were its own entity. 

The wounded warrior for hire looks up then, regarding his medic's careful, calculating eyes with his own grayed, pained ones. Blue.. it reminded him of a village innkeeper's, a girl he had... tried so, so very hard to protect. He had been one of hundreds of Ghersland soldiers, sent as a detachment to help protect and defend the distant land of Ysmir; how the land was covered in pristine, white snow... how the immaculate, cold snow was stained by hot, crimson blood. Suppressing the thought, he shivers; flinching as Sigrun pierces his blood-encrusted skin a second time, sighing once the girl does. Once she pulls it tight, he finally finds his hoarse, growl of a voice; disregarding her questions entirely, and presenting his own.  

"Are you.. of Ysmir?" The gruff soldier would croak, searching the Doc's eyes for some kind of answer. Dieter couldn't help but disregard her questions; they'd drifted from his mind, overtaken by memories painful and of a distasteful kind. His own curiosity had taken over, like a method of self preservation. Even so, such a fickle response may seem rude.