@mythicbane says, "i’ll get blood on your shirt…"
his hand falters, mere inches from the hero's face, and hangs suspended as if entranced. so too, does his gaze — falling towards the fine indigo-dyed shirt he'd been given. it was modest in appearance, but made of the finest linen martin had ever had the pleasure to touch. he'd been told it was one of the few things that had been saved during emperor uriel's ( HIS FATHER'S, he must remind himself ) flight from the palace.
“ you are bleeding, my friend. ” the spell ends, and martin's hand moves again, pressing the damp cloth against the side of pax's head. the priest's touch is gentle, diligently working dirt from the wound. “ no shirt is worth more than your health. ”









