*he's got into a downpour and can't see due to hair sticking to his face*
Oh? You, there? Could you be a dear and bring me a brush and a set of paper to dry my hair with? It would be delightful! Thank you ✨
"But of course, Wise. Allow me."
Iguin drifts, sitting perfectly cross-legged in the air behind the man's sealchair. Humming a soft note of something akin to amusement, the witch deftly produces a long quill pen from the unknown folds of their billowing cloak. In the next motion, the pen is secured as a hair pin at the back of Beldaruit's head, separating sections of damp strands for them to begin combing through.
"I cannot but help my own curiosity. What brings one such as yourself traveling through such a deluge?"
They position themself just out of range of eyesight as they begin to tend to the Wise's hair, their hands gentle and unassuming to one who could not see the conjuring ink staining their pale skin.