Bramble comes in (not exactly enthusiastically) into Thorn’s home, a bag full of jarred medicine and poultices in hand. “Alright, alright, fine. I’m here. Fletcher convinced me. Now, what did you do?” Then, seeing the damage: “oh, dust alive, what did you do?!”
"Oh, good, it's you."
Thorn is just barely sitting up, drenched in sweat. He's pale and looks awful. He makes to get up, and then crashes back down, closing his eyes and withholding a groan.
"I didn't do anything. It was done to me, if that's not..." He grunts in pain. "Perfectly clear." He looks down, at the already-bloodstained bandages on his body.
"If it wasn't for — that odd version of Peter — I'd be dead now. So let's just celebrate that I'm alive, hm?" Despite saying that, he doesn't look all too happy.