"It's an old wound, isn't it?" Solas asked. He was a master at digging his nails into those.
But something made him try to be a bit gentler with the man. A bit kinder.
"Oh, about a hundred years old and still festering," the goblin gave him another piece of jerky.
Solas thought about asking the man from what the meat came, but then decided that it was uncalled-for.
No one wanted to die of starvation. Besides, Solas' Boliarin number two, what's-his-name, the one who could cook, ate eyeballs… and eggs!
Solas was not one to judge.
"You know, if you let it fester, it will," it was just something Solas had heard once. Before, while he had still been human and too afraid to let a healer burn away the impurities in his wound with a potion that stung.
A simple, watery one, which made something like white foam over a wound. Something that had made him think that it was burning away his skin.
