The mire is miserable — and puzzling, Daithi cannot fathom the shemlen penchant for such settlements, — though not so miserable, either, as to spoil the Inquisitor's spirits. He returns from mission peaceable, more so than his companions, sour in their expressions, and even smiles for another's approach. ... though the gesture is, in part, a means of reassurance as well.

"It's not that bad," he promises Brigham, palm against stomach.

The wound is most obvious for the tear in Daithi's clothing, though the stains are pale, an excess of rain and swamp water, and Daithi's pain seems minimal, — even in spite of an arrow, split across the shaft, fixt into his left spaulder. He is otherwise a mess of muck and mane, plaits falling heavy and free, and feels more in need of fresh water, warm clothes, than Brigham's magic or a series of potions.