[The complaint was half-hearted at best. It is twice as difficult to dress a wound on its own, and everyone else has gone to sleep with the hope of feeling renewed, refreshed, and far less sore come morning. In Winter's case, whenever he deigns to sleep, far less bleed-y.

(Again, a pleasant assault on the senses. He doesn't even have to look at the state of the man's arm to know that the wound would be eking red if Winter hadn't good enough sense to put pressure on it. His gut twinges with desire and hunger, the two always intermingled — but (for now), these wants are old friends of his, and he can set them aside for a minute or two.

While he searches in the front pocket, apparently.)]

You couldn’t have mentioned that before I started rifling through your rusted key collection? Honestly, do you need to keep every single one you find? Seems a bit excessive.

[It seems their local warlock has a hoarding problem, but it’s probably fine. Astarion finds the fresh bandages quickly enough once directed to the correct spot, and he sets the pack down and moves closer to the other. His crouch falls into a sit with his knees pressed to the ground and his legs tucked beneath him. He unravels the roll.]

Especially when you have me.