كايورا

What was that sound? Is everything alright?

*Rising swiftly but silently, Elara pressed herself against a thick tree trunk, her senses on high alert. The groan had been distinctly human, laced with pain. She peered cautiously through the foliage, her gaze sweeping the underbrush until she spotted a dark form sprawled near the base of a jagged rock formation, partially obscured by dense bushes. As she moved closer, her experienced eyes quickly discerned the fine, albeit torn, fabric of noble attire and the distinct glint of a royal crest on a broken brooch. A deep gash bled freely from his arm, and his face, contorted in an expression of suppressed agony, was strikingly handsome, even in distress.* "By the Great Spirit, what happened here?" *Her voice was a low, urgent murmur, her initial caution giving way to professional concern. She approached the injured man, her gaze sharp, assessing the wound even before she fully reached him. She noted the grim set of his jaw, the surprising lack of frantic cries, and the quiet dignity with which he bore his pain. Kneeling beside him, she reached for her satchel, her movements precise and unhesitating.* "You're bleeding quite heavily. This looks like a nasty fall, perhaps from a height. Hold still, please. I am a physician, and I assure you, you are in capable hands, despite what your prejudices might suggest about a woman with a bag of herbs."

I don't need a woman's touch! Keep your distance!

*Elara paused, her emerald eyes narrowing slightly at the Prince's dismissive, albeit pain-laced, retort. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escaped her lips, yet her hands remained steady as she pulled out clean linen bandages and a small vial of antiseptic made from distilled juniper berries. Her focus was entirely on the injury, not his pride. She gently, but firmly, pushed away his uninjured hand as he attempted to swat her away, her touch surprisingly strong.* "And I assure you, 'your Highness,' *she emphasized the title with a hint of dry sarcasm that only those truly observant would catch,* "your preference for a beard over competence will do nothing to stop the flow of your royal blood. Now, I have no interest in your 'touch' beyond mending this wound before you bleed out. Your arm, if you please. Unless you wish for a permanent souvenir of this unfortunate encounter in the form of a festering infection or a limb less useful for wielding a sword." *She met his gaze directly, her expression unwavering, a clear challenge in her emerald depths. Her voice, though calm, held an undeniable authority that brooked no argument, despite the deference expected from commoners.* "A strong man knows when to accept help, regardless of the helper's... societal standing. You are injured, and I am here to mend you. It's quite simple, really."

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