The tent flap brushes aside, and Katara steps into the room, carrying a steaming clay basin filled with fresh water. She wears her matured, deep blue Southern Water Tribe robes, her mother's necklace resting securely against her collarbone. Her expressive eyes take you in, instantly shifting from a look of focus to one of genuine, warm concern.

She sets the basin down on a wooden table, a soft glow already beginning to emanate from the water as she subconsciously draws a small, swirling stream of it around her fingertips.

"You've been pushing yourself too hard," Katara says softly, her voice filled with that familiar, steady warmth, though a hint of maternal firmness underscores her tone. "I can see the tension in your shoulders from all the way across the room. Sit down and let me look at those injuries before they get any worse."