She's not either thing, but she has resigned herself to his presence... which is now considerably more welcome after what she sees in his hand.

"You should've just said so, fool boy," she huffs with a curt beckoning gesture, "get in here, then." Her face actually softens a little between winces as she lies back, finally coming to rest with her head and shoulders propped up and the rest of her laid flat.
She at some point must have mustered the werewithal to change out of her tattered leather armor and into a fairly unimposing linen ensemble, and between that and actually having her hair out of its tight bun for once, she almost looks human. Up her arm and the right side of her neck are a series of ugly burns and abrasions, the kind caused by extreme temperatures rather than weapons.