[ No guards, only white skirts—laughable, in this room. Alexandrie with a stuffed satchel slung over her shoulder heavily, the strap digging down into the pale of her shoulder alongside lace. (Pink beneath, when she sets it down. The audacity of it, to touch her so). She bends, opens buckles, frees waterskins and rolls of absorbent cotton bandage to set on the desk. Shears to cut it. Curved needle and waxed thread for what has already been cut. A roll of tools, a small bottle with a soft familiar glow of blue.

Their previous owners wouldn’t miss them.

A long exhale through her nose, as she turns her head to regard Leander even as she speaks to Isaac. ]

Was your need only for the delivery of such tools or their utilization as well, Enchanter? I know little of your skills in the arena of healing.