The Sunspire he held my hands above my head and i commenced to pray

no one has been here.

concerning, that. her mouth parts to ask if she can take a look — she's no medic but she knows a couple of basic things; it seemed imperative that a warrior know how to stave off infection at the very least until they can get to someone more skilled — but before she can even utter the so much as a word; his followup startles her to silence.

praimfaya's words are lost as she stares at him, a bit like a gaping fish. slut? the term rankles her, and the implication that is donovan's plaything burrows like an annoyance deep in the marrow of her bones. she draws back, chin lifting imperiously as she stares him down; momentarily setting aside concern for his wounds.

was that what drew the others to donovan? his sexual prowess? praimfaya ponders it, troubled as she composes herself. i am no slut, praimfaya spits the word at him; insulted. and i may run with the saints but I am not donovan's. she belonged to herself, she belonged to her people, to the spirits of the commander's past ...but she sure as hell didn't belong to the man she wanted to bring down from the inside; and as praimfaya couldn't say that she leaves her conviction and roughly emphasized words to hang between them.

a breath and then another. my name is praimfaya. i am a blade of the saints. she introduces herself offering all she has: name; rank. now let me see your wounds. while she might've been of a mind to ask earlier, the quiet command imposes itself in the air between them; an expectation in the wake of insult he gave her moments ago.