Dragoncrest Cliffs up in arms, it's just the god of thinning dreams,

Aure merely nodded, came closer, and promptly set to work. She bolstered herself against the stench of blood, and first focused her ministrations on where crusting was the most evident; and then delved into the infected areas with careful, gentle lavishes of her tongue. Well, as gentle as one could be, cleaning wounds and all. It only took a few, quiet heartbeats, and if she'd had any notions of the boy's previous observations of her, she either didn't notice or did not care. Where most took their time considering the looks of others, she seemed to be resolutely defiant of the fact that, heaven-forbid, she might still retain the loveliness she was born with.

She hoped not. Heavens forbid, please.

Shooing the meek thoughts from her mind, Rose' assistant retreated to the roots she'd brought with her. Out of nowhere, she mused, "I remember when I was a child, and used to think that war was ze stuff of glorious tales." A pale eye arced back to him from over the spire of a thin shoulder, "It is not what I'd thought it'd be. Even now, when I grew out of that illusion long ago." Turning away, she consumed the few roots and began to work them into a mash between her fangs, her gaze distant and here at the same time.

When the mash seemed to be sufficent, she returned to the overcast, young male, and bent to slab the poultice upon and into his lacerations. She didn't expect an answer - even before the opkepa's teachings, she was more of a born mediator than anything. Allowing a sliver of her own thoughts, before retreatng back into that enigmatic mind of hers. Had she arrived to Drageda sooner, she might've known or heard of Portia, and this boy and his family; she might've given her condolences. In her experience, however, condolenes rarely eased the anguish one would be in, so she kept silent.