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The healer doesn't mind, now that Daithi's curiosity doesn't come with risk of exacerbating a wound. The handkerchief he had been holding in his lap he now wets with a skin of water, and cleans the area of blood to double check. Satisfied, he looks to the Herald. "You do not need to thank me, Your Worship. I am only glad I can be of use. If you wish to rest, it will do you good."

He shifts, intent to rise from the cot, though pauses for Brigham, resting on his elbows. Tempting as the suggestion is ... Daithi's smile widens. "Unfortunately," he answers. "I've too much work to do."

Brigham cannot deny that. His eyes close momentarily, a slow inhale drawing his focus back. He bestows another spell on the Herald: rejuvenate, to ease any weariness and even hasten the recovery of stamina.

"To speed you on your way, then," he relents. While he would prefer the Herald rest after battle and injury, the healer well understands the momentous work before the Inquisitor. He stands, then, brushing soil from the knees of his plain robes, though that does little for the dampness that has soaked into the hem - something all those currently stationed in the Fallow Mire seem to be getting used to.

The spell's effect is rather immediate, granting Daithi an alert clarity of the mind. He remains on his elbows, though, watching the mage. "Beginning to think I wouldn't get very far without you," he says. His smile is wide in the corners, still.

Brigham's pause in his tidying, however brief, suggests surprise. He lifts his gaze momentarily to Daithi, and then away again, though does not quite resume what he was doing, and instead fiddles with the soiled kerchief. "That is kind of you to say," is all he manages, tone steady as ever - save for one slight hesitation.

The enchanter seems to realize his fidgeting, glancing down to his hands, then folds it with a sort of finality, perhaps a mental admonishment, and puts it aside. He fetches the arrow he had discarded earlier, and examines it briefly. "There would be someone else, if it was not me," he decides aloud. "I am fortunate to be able to help."

Daithi watches Brigham for another moment. He notices the fidget of kerchief though opts to remain silent, sitting to inspect his tunic, instead. He fingers the tear. (His armor will require repair as well.)

He raises his head as Brigham continues, remains silent for another pause, ... then, stands, turning from the other man. "You're right," he concedes, pulling the tunic over his head. "It was Solas before you arrived." He reaches for his coat. "But I like your bedside better."

Daithi glances across his shoulder, then, smiling once more.

Brigham glances over his shoulder towards the Herald momentarily, before returning to his task - little more than busying himself, unsure of how to deal with such praise. It was unlike him to be caught off guard for something like a minor compliment. Perhaps it was because the Herald... yes. It was certainly not unreasonable, he thinks.

Solas... the elf apostate. The Enchanter disapproves of apostasy, but even he acknowledges the man's control over magic. He respects him for that, besides seeming generally reasonable (something most apostates he'd met, and even some Circle mages, lacked utterly). "I am humbled," he answers quietly. "I will do my best to remain worth of such praise."

Edited 2017-08-19 13:02 (UTC)

Daithi chuckles, a soft (perhaps inaudible) noise. Such response is strange, he thinks, though he supposes it must feel strange, too, to receive compliment from the Herald. (— to think he truly is the Herald.)

"You make me sound disagreeable," Daithi teases. Then, smile obvious in his voice, "you don't have to try so hard, you know. I think of you as a companion."

"That was not my attention at all." For a moment, Brigham is quiet. He seems to realize he is being teased, then.

"I respectfully disagree," he says mildly, with a touch perhaps even of dry humor. "If I did not who knows how many arrows you would accumulate."

He pauses, half in the process of fastening his chest plate, chuckling once more; the noise is audible, this time. "You would have an easier time joining me afield, then."

"I am little practiced in combat," he confesses, wiping his hands clean before turning to face Daithi fully. Then, thoughtfully. "Though it may be that my spells could assist you just as well. Better that you avoid injury than require it treated."

The thought of fighting is one he is not keen on; he fought demons in the Hinterlands when trying to locate the Inquisition, and it was not a pleasant thing- though he had done surprisingly well. Peaceable as the Enchanter is, though, he knows this is war, and if it was the Maker's will he join the Herald's side in battle, he would go.

"If you wish for me to join you, I would be honored to do so. I am capable of taking care of myself."

Such confession is not surprising. Brigham strikes Daithi as peaceable, that is true, — though Brigham is shemlen as well and one from the Circle towers: for all the violent foolishness of his people, few understand combat; their mages fair even worse. (One of the innumerable reasons Daithi was reluctant to seek the rebel mages. Their corpses in Haven weigh evermore upon his spirit for such truth.)

"I've no doubt you'd be useful," Daithi answers, remembering to mind his hair now that the plate of his armor is comfortable. He gathers the messy mane into a thick chignon. "— and you'd be welcome, of course," he continues. "But the decision is yours."

It's a little strange, to be offered an open opportunity to join the Inquisitor closely. The Herald of Andraste seemed like a figure that should be nearly as distant as Andraste herself. And yet, here he was, offering Brigham a chance as though they were almost equal. Brigham is no one special, he knows. A good healer, but there were better. Still, he was here where others were not - and clearly Daithi needed for a healer.

He bows his head in both agreement and thanks. "I am humbled."

He smiles though pauses, still, uncertain of his own answer. The role of Herald, gracious and serene, is far easier among strangers; Daithi feels awkward for thinking Brigham more than that: not a friend, of course, — Daithi knows so few — though familiar, constant wherever the Inquisition takes him, and intimate for the mage's work. (How strange to realize ... this man knows, has even touched, his small, elfin frame, free of regalia, and still, sees something hallow and divine.)

Daithi glances from Brigham, then, reaching for his gloves. He opts to change the subject. "I'll visit requisitions," he declares, attention in adjusting each glove. "See if there are any spare blankets. Yours aren't like to dry by evening."

His brow raises slightly for the declaration. Amusement underlines his tone. "It is kind of you to offer, but I thought you had much to do? I will see to it myself, Your Worship." Although dry blankets might be something of a difficult find in this sodden place.

A smile tugs the corner of Daithi's mouth. He supposes that is true, ... though what is one more quest for the Inquisitor?

"Of the two of us," he replies. "I'll have better luck finding a fresh blanket."

Brigham does not see the point in it. If it were necessary, he could ask. And, if none were to be had, then that was simply it. But, far be it from him to argue with the Herald. So he dips his head in acknowledgment. "Thank you," he says simply.

He offers a simple "mm" as answer. Then, turning and gesturing: "hand me my pauldron?" Brigham is closer than Daithi to the left piece, near forgotten on the tent floor.

He turns, finds the article and retrieves it to return to Daithi.

"You are feeling well, now?" he asks, extending the piece.

Daithi accepts the spaulder though refrains from fastening the armor piece. He smiles.

"Thanks to you."

Brigham offers what might actually be the beginning of a smile. "I would be remiss in my duties otherwise," he points out.

Daithi raises an eyebrow, noting the subtle shift in Brigham's expression. That the man is rare to smile, if ever, is not lost on Daithi, and a pleasant jolt of satisfaction stirs in his stomach to witness even the wisp of one. He wonders what a true smile might look like on Brigham.

"All the same," Daithi replies. He pauses for the slightest moment: then, half gestures in an upward motion, spaulder in hand. "Suppose I'll be back soon," he says, opting to excuse himself.

Edited 2017-08-21 14:30 (UTC)

"I shall be here."

Brigham busies himself by tidying the pallet, smoothing it out. Not too damp, at least not particularly more than everything else in this place. He takes notes too of the potions and elixirs remaining, and which he'll need refills of soon. More elfroot, which was thankfully locally plentiful. Dawn lotus too, perhaps, rarer elsewhere and good to have on hand for myriad things. A trip to the requisition officer later, then (and a half-amused thought that he would have to see the very person Daithi went to find).

Daithi returns though not until evening and perhaps to neither man's great surprise: a multitude of tasks require the Inquisitor's attention, after all. He smiles, apologetic, presenting the gift of fresh quilt. "I didn't forget," he promises.

Brigham himself had been called away after a time. The need for healing herbs, and Inquisition soldiers arriving with new wounds. The day has been long, and whatever dampness had been on the quilt had likely since dried, even in such humid weather.

"Ah," he mumbles, as if suddenly remembering, and he reaches to take the blanket. "Thank you, Your Worship." He thinks there are soldiers that need it more than he, especially wounded, he makes note to take it to them, instead - not to slight the Inquisitor's favor, but surely he would understand. "How are you feeling?"