Neverwinter Forest when the curtains call the time

It is fine, I will beat him again. Pangur snickers and gives an idle shrug, only half-serious in her pride-laced declaration. I joke! One set of claw marks is enough for me.

She let Iruna look over the wound to her hearts content, gave no protest or trouble as wrappings were changed, even if the process caused the ache to resurface; she kept her reactions within the expressions on her face, a slight wince here and there.

Pangur was rather used to such a process, much of her youth was spent sitting just like this, offering whichever part of herself she'd come to hurt; being scolded by móður for her recklessness. Her chest ached for the memory, for only a moment, Hazel eyes held a softness to them.

Where did you come to learn these things? She questioned as she watched, a quiet reverence offered to the skill. Pangur herself was rather hopeless with these sorts of things. She knew the basics, and hardly even those, one time she had mistaken stinging nettle for another plant, and smeared its burning leaves over a fresh cut. What a miserable day that had been.