The healer's expression remains passive, save for the slightest loft of his eyebrows. A cursory inspection shows that is remarkably shallow - shot from a great distance, perhaps, or with the bow barely drawn. Or, perhaps simple the grace of the Maker. After all, the other arrow didn't even pierce skin, despite lodging in his armor.

The other side of the tent (somewhat small, but room enough to move about, necessary of a healer's station) bears a cot held aloft of the mud by spare duckboards. Brigham motions to it and turns away to an array of potions and elixirs on a too-small table. "Carefully," he warns without turning back. The potion he reaches for turns out not to be for Daithi, but for himself. He uncorks a bottle with an unearthly blue liquid, takes a sip then re-corks the remainder.

"An arrow to the abdomen... I wonder what wound you consider 'that bad'," Brigham muses as he turns back to his patient's side. There is a faint touch of humour in his tone, but no smile to accompany it - rarely, if ever, did the Enchanter smile. He gathers his robes to kneel next to the pallet. "How recently was this?" he asks, glancing over Daithi for the best way to remove enough armor to safely get the arrow out and begin healing.