"Then we head for the inn," Traben says with a smile as the elf women begins to cozen up to him. Taking his hand from the front of her body, he opens the ceramic pot, dipping his fingers in. They come out coated in a thick green substance that smells faintly of wet grass. He applies this poultice to both the entrance and exit wounds. Then, wiping the excess plant matter on the fabric behind his knees, he picks up a rolled bandage of clean linen.

Holding one end of the bandage in place just below her hand, Traben begins to wrap the bandage over the woman's wounds with deliberate slowness, passing the rolled end from hand to hand. He does this leaned forward slightly, his shoulder supporting the woman's but leaving his hands free to pass between them. The only glance he spares from the form in front of him is down to his wolves, which remain on alert, studying the others who had fought for the caravan and the many dead that littered the ground. One, the smallest, tugged at something on one of the goblin corpses, eventually working free something made of bone to chew on.

"You never did tell me your name," he mentions as he ties off the bandage at the woman's back. "I typically prefer to know at least that much of those I keep from bleeding to death, though I doubt your wound was that dire. But if we are going to be traveling together, you may as well give me that much more to think on.