Ostus didn't like Kiara's pleas at all. Traveling while healthy would be hard enough as it is; he was not sure how they'd make the trip as she was. He was glad that her arm wasn't somehow broken, but her numbness bothered him. He gently pressed his fingers around her shoulder, thinking that perhaps it was dislocated, pinching a nerve, and that setting it back and place would solve their problems. The more he felt around, the more that seemed unlikely. Her nerves must have been severed... this would not end well for her.

"Kiara, the bastards at Berinike can wait," he murmured, saddened to see her so desperate. How ironic that that she could only show him affection at her lowest point, when he couldn't enjoy it. "I'm sure they don't want a sick bride-to-be in their hands."

He sighed heavily, listening to her insistence to move on. He wanted to agree with her, to move forward, to get this entire experience over and done with, but what if Kiara didn't survive the trip?

Tentatively, he lifted the shirt from her wound. It had absorbed a lot of blood, but the bleeding seemed to slow. Good, at least there was that. He pressed the shirt back against the wound, then gently drew Kiara's free hand to it, showing her without words to take over in applying pressure.

"I'm going to get a fire started," he said in a tired voice. All of this worry was emotionally draining, "get some water boiling. We need to disinfect that wound. I have some clean shirts; I'll tear them up for bandages. We'll see if your shoulder's merely dislocated. You better pray you don't get an infection..." He neither confirmed or denied pushing forward to Berinike. He hoped that after a little rest, Kiara would come to her senses and agree to see a doctor.