The supplies he'd thought to leave behind were a godsend. Before he dressed, he looked at his own state. Blood coated him and his body was purpled with bruises, cuts that were scabbing, scrapes that chaffed his skin. The calluses on his hands did little to save him. He'd fought off when he could, but he'd been on the cusp of death. This was the closest he'd been, truly, and if it were not for Jayari's intervention he would be.
Pride would not let him openly acknowledge such a feat. Not now. Not because she was a woman, not because she was a chieftain's daughter. Not because this was her fault too. He was still Duhjari, no matter how he tried to shake the feeling, that he could not face his death with the pride of his clan. And that pride only seemed to come when he refused to admit that...he owed her. Was it the thought of debt? Or shame of himself?
"Oh, uh, it's fine," he said, turning to look at her work on the fire. It was well done, as he would have and should have expected. Leathers were slipped back on, a hide set of trousers and tunic before he wrapped an indigo cloak around his shoulders, treasures taken from the desert beyond.
"I can't say. Anywhere but here. I do have business in Essyrn I have to deal with. That is one destination."
