Ryathane glanced to the pile of fabric that had once been Aeylisia’s skirt as she sat the sewing material down on it. At her pause between his question and her answer, he turned back to his pack and reached inside again. He stopped and looked to the elf when she gave her answer.
	He chuckled through his nose at the formality of Aeylisia’s speech.
	“At your service, princess,” he said mockingly with a smirk. “Do [i]all[/i] your kind talk like stuffy royals?”
	He nodded to the box still on the ground when she tried to hand the sewing materials back to him, indicating for her to set it there, then pulled out a scrap piece of fabric cut into a ragged rectangle of a washcloth from his pack.
	He tossed the cloth into the lid of the box as the elf situated herself on her stomach.
	“I could’ve gone to your other side, you know.” He pulled off his gloves and tossed them into his bag. He reached across her and grabbed his hooded scarf. Finding a spot not damp from her blood, he used it to wipe away what he could from the wounds to get a better look them, being as gentle as he could as he moved her leg slightly.
	“Aren’t elves supposed to heal quickly?” he muttered more to himself than Aeylisia. He sat the scarf down and traded it for the cloth and bottle of liquid. With his cleaner hand, he shook the glass bottle, and a gentle blue color spread through the liquid. Unstoppering it one-handed, he poured a liberal amount of the contents onto the rectangular cloth. “This’ll sting a bit at first, but it’ll numb the skin and ease the pain.”
	He dabbed the fabric over the wounds, shaking his head disbelievingly. He still could not believe he was helping an [i]elf,[/i] of all things. Each time he blinked, he expected the woman to disappear, or to wake up back in the tree, none of his traps sprung.