Daithi sighs through his nose. (Perhaps an arrow is that bad, after all.) He allows Brigham's guidance without complaint, though: even appreciates the gesture, murmuring in gratitude, and complies as much as able. He adjusts a knee for comfort. (— forgets his coat as well, half resting on the fabric.)

Comfortable, Daithi rolls his neck, examining the wound for a moment, and then clinical, ... thumbs the protruding tip. The arrow remains still for once. Daithi's gaze shifts to Brigham. (He is not masochistic so much as curious.) "How do you plan to get it out?" he asks.