Henry's gotten used to all the staring, to all the words from murmuring tongues in the mouths of cruel speakers. Indeed, he knows intimately the repute of the Wardens and whatever doubt that plagues their Order beside brackish disdain. Truthfully, he knows them more than even the drag of his clothing or perhaps the throbbing of his bruises gone the shade of a violet, but oh well. The lonely and the loathing rather wears one, don't they?
Regrettably. But Kliff? Henry softens in his room as he dresses his bleedings.
"Might have mistaken you and yours for us Wardens what with the way you come to us," he says. Aye. Especially now after the shite with Warden Clarel! What a travesty. Grimacing, muscles protesting like too many cats in a bloody knapsack, he looks up, his body spent, herbs displayed, but the quiet kinder. "I'm fine if that's what you're poking your head in for. Not saying you got to leave, course, but I'm a little too grown for your mother henning." / @vordur.
