Adahis groans, sat on a crate in one of the tents lining Devil's Thirst. One of the corrupted machines that patrols the area reacted badly to a torch nearby, resulting in the cultist leader nearly being trampled. There are scrapes along the sides of his arm, the cloth having been torn off.

He's quiet, but it's clear to tell he's fuming. Such a silly way to get injured— he would've been put out of commission had he not scrambled away in time. His gaze lingered on you, the camp's medic. Their group has grown large enough to require one.