"What's wrong, exactly?" Grane asked, motioning for them to cross the room to join him at a large, flat, smooth table. Another table nearby held an assortment of bottles, boxes, twisting papers, herbs, and other healing components and tools.
"My thigh," Rath said, before Tress could. "I was mugged yesterday, and my thigh was slashed by a bit of broken wall."
"Breeches off and on the table, then. Let's get a look at it," Grane replied.
Rath grimaced inwardly, but stripped off his ruined breeches and drawers and climbed up on the table, though it was an awkward, fumbling effort at best, and he needed Tress's help. He buried his flushed face in his folded arms, wishing he were anywhere but there. After four miserable days, this was how he and Tress started talking again? Him injured and his bare ass in the air while a grouchy healer poked and prodded? On the other hand, given the tumult of his life lately, he wasn't certain why he'd thought it would go any other way.