[ Their aspects are separate enough form one another that he picks up nothing internal from her; that he cannot help her and she cannot help him with anything outside of the physical. That's the world they both operate in, anyway — the physical, two beings accustomed more to action than anything else — so maybe that's for the best.
He returns, and she is no different from how she was moments ago; she is moving to undress herself, and... ah.
He turns away, eyes closed, as she asks him to preserve her modesty. Sure. He's got no problem with that. Didn't even need the disclaimer. He feels the cloth suddenly thrust into his hand and instinctively closes his fist around it; cracks his eyes open — while still facing away — to look at both it and the not-twig in his hands. Considers them, until she gives him the proper all clear.
Amos turns back around to face her before moving to her injured leg, taking it in his hands as he lines up the not-twig with it. (The cloth floats beside him, to be utilized when he's ready.) ]
Alright. This might hurt a little. [ She probably doesn't need the warning; he is being truthful, though — there isn't actually anything he can do for the pain here.
And then he's tying the splint, using as much force as he needs to in order to do a good job. Doesn't matter if she's hurting, doesn't matter if she instinctually tries to kick — he holds it firmly in place, not letting go until he's satisfied with the job he's done.
He is, at least, not going to half-ass first aid.
That much sorted, Amos lets out a breath. Looks up at her before turning to kneel in the soil, putting his hands to work on digging a little hole out, almost like a dog. (He is steadfastly loyal; maybe he has a bit in him after all.) ]
You good to help out? I'm alright if you can't. Just might take a bit longer.
[ As though he isn't planning on crawling out of here the second there's a space big enough for him. ]
no subject
He returns, and she is no different from how she was moments ago; she is moving to undress herself, and... ah.
He turns away, eyes closed, as she asks him to preserve her modesty. Sure. He's got no problem with that. Didn't even need the disclaimer. He feels the cloth suddenly thrust into his hand and instinctively closes his fist around it; cracks his eyes open — while still facing away — to look at both it and the not-twig in his hands. Considers them, until she gives him the proper all clear.
Amos turns back around to face her before moving to her injured leg, taking it in his hands as he lines up the not-twig with it. (The cloth floats beside him, to be utilized when he's ready.) ]
Alright. This might hurt a little. [ She probably doesn't need the warning; he is being truthful, though — there isn't actually anything he can do for the pain here.
And then he's tying the splint, using as much force as he needs to in order to do a good job. Doesn't matter if she's hurting, doesn't matter if she instinctually tries to kick — he holds it firmly in place, not letting go until he's satisfied with the job he's done.
He is, at least, not going to half-ass first aid.
That much sorted, Amos lets out a breath. Looks up at her before turning to kneel in the soil, putting his hands to work on digging a little hole out, almost like a dog. (He is steadfastly loyal; maybe he has a bit in him after all.) ]
You good to help out? I'm alright if you can't. Just might take a bit longer.
[ As though he isn't planning on crawling out of here the second there's a space big enough for him. ]