The wound closes with a warm prickle, as if microscopic sparks of lightning were stitching his wound closed. It's not altogether unpleasant, but he does have to stave off the urge to itch that same place.

No scarring, which is nice. He doesn't need the memory of a random lizardman bandit getting him fast with a rusty scimitar immortalised on his flesh.

"Nicely done," he says, "wrong boots or otherwise."

He rests his hand over hers, curling his fingers around the edge of her palm, bringing it up to kiss her knuckles.