#τ::|| giles morel

[ofspvrta]

She's more careful, mindful of where her hand goes when tending to the wound, steadying him with her free hand on his other shoulder, away from any markings on his flesh. She wants to ask, but she knows, more than anyone, the value of a secret. Cleaning the blood from the wound and satisfied that it wouldn't spill over again, she gently presses a cloth to it.

Rummaging through her supplies, she pulls out a thread and needle. "I don't have any healing potions on me, the wound may have to be stitched until we can get back to camp proper. Is that okay?" He already seems irritated enough by what she had to do and the last thing she wants to do is make it worse. They shouldn't have but half a day back to camp. But a lot could happen in that time.

"True, some more than others, I suspect." She looked at his scars for a moment before pursing her lips together. "When I was a little girl, I had an accident. I fell from the top of a very tall mountain, hitting crags and minor precipices along the way down," it wasn't an accident, she was thrown, but he needn't know that. "by the time I hit the bottom, I was a bloodied mess, and by the grace of whatever god saw fit to look after me, I survived. Or perhaps it is because children are far more pliable than adults. It's why my arm and shoulder are all torn up, and my hand." She didn't expect him to tell any tales back, but she figured sharing might help him feel a bit more at ease.

"I understand, I am much the same with some of my own scars." She smiled slightly, "no harm."

His discomfort is more than apparent given the hunched posture he keeps himself in, like he is trying to cover more of himself rather than accept being exposed. There's a startling difference between the shade of his upper half and his neck and face, the latter suffering from months of sun exposure and battle weariness.

"Thank you," he mutters, still apparently miffed, but aware enough that he should not so readily lash out at Kassandra's helping hand. The pain of the gash radiates down his arm and his chest, and he merely wishes for the entire affair to be over.

"Yes, well," Giles starts, then seems to stutter, gathering his thoughts. "... Thank you. I'd assume that every adventurer out there has some modicum of secrecy they'd like to keep, scars involved or not," he continues, trying to make light of the situation. The mage still does not make eye contact with the other woman, instead choosing to fix his gaze on the wall, or the sky, or anything else, really.

He moves a little on the bench to adjust his posture. "They are sensitive. I didn't mean to lash out."

[ofspvrta]

She works with the utmost gentleness and care. For someone whose hands are so capable of destruction, she knows when to hold back and be kind and soft with her touch. The wound is tender, red blossoming angrily from the gash along his shoulder. A tender spot for anyone, but especially one who is traveling, packs wear heavy on that spot, and in combat, it would see so much movement. She makes no comment on the scars already healed over, they seem deliberate and she knows how personal healed wounds could be.

And still, even with all the care in the world, she accidentally brushes over one of the scars, causing the man to flinch in response. Immediately, she withdraws her hands, holding them up until he seems ready to resume.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she glances down for a moment. Normally she'd chide him or anyone right back, she is helping them after all, but she understands. She could be the same way with her own scars. They held stories not everyone was privy to.

"I'm sorry, I'll be more mindful." She switches hands to avoid brushing over the area again, a frown wearing onto her features. "For what it's worth, I get it. I won't ask, that's your secret to keep."

“brush” - for giles

THE INQUISITOR CLUTCHES ONTO THE TOP HALF OF HIS ROBES IN HIS ARMS LIKE A VICE. Bizarrely enough, he hasn't bothered to remove his gloves, his hands up to his elbow still obscured under thick leather. The scars on his back are deep and purposeful, and they cover the length of it. Words of scripture carved methodically by someone—ones always hidden under layers of clothing.

Presently, a large gash inhibits the curve of his shoulder. When Kassandra goes to clean it, and brushes a wayward hand against an old letter, Giles flinches away from the touch.

"Don't." Giles immediately snaps at first, and for a moment, his eyes flash a bright, luminous green. They close tightly.

"Please, be careful," he says after a tense few seconds of silence. He says it as if he sounds exhausted, and for a moment, he does look tired, hunched over the bundle of cloth, green eyes averted to the ground. He's waiting for it to end.