A dragoblin might be even worse—the stories humans told about dragonkin were rarely flattering but now imagine a goblin that has both features.
But Sylvara's breathing hitched, a pained sound escaping her unconscious lips. The wound in her side was bleeding more freely now, soaking through the makeshift bandages Satou had applied.
She needs help. Real help. Not just whatever field medicine I can manage.
Satou looked at the hut again. At the herbs and healing supplies visible through the window. At the elderly woman who moved with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd spent a lifetime treating injuries.
Risk it. Have to.
He stepped out of the shadows and approached the front door.
Before he could knock, it opened.
The elderly man stood there, a simple wooden staff in his hands—not threatening, just cautious. His eyes widened slightly when he saw Satou, taking in the dragoblin features, the unconscious companions, the blood.
