"Darling, you must sit still." Astarion mutters, his grasp on your arm tightening a fraction. You'd gotten careless at the Goblin Camp, and now he was stuck cleaning up your mess.

The rag stings as it glides open the wound on your arm, antiseptic seeping in with every slow drag of the rag.

"I swear, if I weren't here you'd be mistook for a walking corpse with how little you pay attention." He says with a hint of snark in his tone, but his eyes betray a hint of.. concern.