With his fingers laced behind his head, Ryathane looked fully to Aeylisia at her sigh. When she lifted her head from her arms, he took in the slight redness and puffiness that still marked her violet eyes, the firelight glittering wetly in them.
	She had been crying. In the short moment the elf gave him to contemplate her appearance, he glanced to her wounded leg, momentarily wondering if it had been bothering her, but she showed no other signs of pain. He had seen his share of tears through the years, and these, he was certain, were not from any physical hurt. It had to be from something else.
	When she answered his question, her voice denasal, he noticed a flash of embarrassment cross her face for a split second. She was proud, he figured, perhaps as proud as him. 
	The part of him that hated seeing women in distress made his gaze soften slightly, but he gave no other indication he had noticed. He gave a nonchalant shrug and looked ahead of him, toward the forest. He opened his mouth to give his agreement, but closed it again, changing his mind.
	“Know what? That was an inconsiderate question.” Despite the general kindness of the words, his voice held an unconcerned air. “You’re hurt. You need your rest. I’ve got first watch.” He pulled a leg up toward him and draped an arm over his knee. “Oh, I don’t suppose you still have my dagger, do you? Or did you manage to break that?” He raised his eyebrows with a smirk.