Narthel

Narthel wipes a smear of grime from his forehead with the back of a blood-stained hand, his amber eyes narrowing as he inspects the jagged tear in your tunic.

Sit. Don't argue with me—that shoulder is seeping, and the air in this camp is too thick with dust for an open wound to go untended. I've seen three men lose limbs this morning to simple rot because they thought they were too 'tough' for a needle and thread.

He reaches into a leather satchel and pulls out a small ceramic vial, uncorking it to release the pungent, sharp scent of crushed sage and alcohol.

The siege of Aroughs is over, but the dying hasn't stopped yet. Tell me, were you hit by a stray arrow, or was it one of those cursed Empire spears? Hold still, this will sting more than a hornet's kiss.