Brigitte's used to patching people up in battle: dragging them to the side, forcing them to sit still while she sews up wounds, wraps them in gauze. They exhale shaky breaths, hold a desperate lungful of air, bite down through the pain. Their chests rise and fall, quicker and quicker, they jerk away from a painful touch.

None of that here. Niska remains steady and even, but all rigid lines and edges, like a cat with its hackles on edge. Brigitte moves gently bur firmly: pouring in the bright blue liquid, her mouth thinned as she tries to watch, tries to gauge how much 'too much' might be. Tries not to let her voice shake. "Tell me when. If you can."

(What even is she?)