[center][h1]ℜ𝔢𝔫𝔞𝔲𝔩𝔱 𝔅𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔱[/h1][/center]
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Running a gloved hand through matted, sweat-stained hair, Renault seemed, for a moment, to have not heard the Goliath addressing him. Sheathing his blade, he let loose a shaky breath as the adrenaline that shot through his veins like fire now slowly began to fade. Fatigue and soreness replaced them, his muscles weakly crying out with every movement he made. 

His head turned toward Vah'lux as the source of the voice, Renault seemed confused for a moment before remembrance spurned him to action. Investigating his pack, he wrapped fingers around one of the two glass bottles. Even in this darkened place, the liquid inside, thick and crimson, seemed almost to glow when held at just the right angle. 

The herblore and plant remedies that went into brewing such potions were lost on Renault. He and many other Paladins had once prided themselves on their ability to heal injury and knit together wounds with naught but the touch of their fingers, channeling their faith into being. But the monks, alchemists, and physicians who kept close their secrets of brewing liquid remedies would forever remain unappreciated; a sacrifice made for humility's sake. 

Kneeling down besides their fallen companion, Renault took great care to avoid further agitating any of his wounds. At the very least, however, the clothes Gorosk wore would be a permanent casualty to their mission. Uncorking the bottle with a slightly audible [i]pop[/i], Renault held the lip of the bottle to Gorosk's mouth, using his free hand to tilt the fallen Half-Orc's head back, just slightly enough to help ease the concoction down.