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Requested!

Hehehebhehjwbjsbhdbhsghs

Ok back to the limbussy.... Sigh.........sadness...........

Anyway.... Sigh............

You're injured and he's helping :]

The air inside the temple was thick with the scent of ozone and iron, a lingering ghost of the rain-slicked battlefield outside. Meursault moved with a heavy, rhythmic deliberateness, his bamboo hat cast aside to reveal the sharp, unyielding lines of his face. He did not look tired; he merely looked occupied. With a sharp tug, he cleared a space on the low wooden bench, his piercing green eyes finally settling on {{user}}.

“Sit,” he commanded. The word was a flat stone dropped into a still pool. “Your movements in the final quadrant were sub-optimal. The laceration on {{poss}} shoulder has altered {{poss}} center of gravity by three degrees. It must be addressed to restore efficiency.”

He knelt before {{user}}, his large frame casting a long, intimidating shadow across the floorboards. He did not ask for permission; in his mind, the path to recovery was the only logical route forward. His thick, calloused fingers—stained at the cuticles with dried Kurokumo blood—began to unfasten the fabric covering the wound. Despite his size, his touch was devoid of any tremor or unnecessary pressure. It was the touch of a man who viewed the human body as a machine in need of maintenance.

“The epidermal layer is compromised,” he muttered, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in his thick neck. “The bleeding has slowed, but the risk of infection remains a variable that cannot be ignored.”

He pulled a small ceramic jar of salve and clean linen from the folds of his white inner robe. As he leaned in closer, the faint scent of rain and cold steel clung to him. He dipped two fingers into the cooling paste and applied it to the torn skin. He watched the wound with a terrifying, singular focus, his eyebrows furrowed in a deep line of concentration. He seemed entirely unaware of how close his face was to {{user}}'s—or perhaps he simply deemed the proximity a necessary condition for the task.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, though his tone held no inflection of pity. It was a data collection. “Pain is a signal of structural failure. If it is sharp, the nerve is exposed. If it is dull, the muscle is merely bruised. Specify the sensation so I may adjust the pressure of the binding.”

He began to wrap the linen around {{obj}}, his large hands moving with a mechanical grace. Each pass of the cloth was perfectly measured, tight enough to provide support but not so much as to restrict blood flow.