Harold cleared his throat, gesturing to the half-made firepit.
"So… uh, you wouldn't happen to have anything for, you know, sparks, would you?"
Jini straightened from where she sat, water dripping from her blood-slick hands.
Her gaze swept across him with a mixture of irritation and pity, as though he'd just asked if she could also chew his food for him.
"Of course."
She turned her back.
Her tentacles shifted aside, and from between the folds of her tattered harness she pulled a strange device.
At first Harold thought it was some kind of rock—jagged, translucent, about the size of his palm.
But when she angled it in her claws, thin lines etched across its surface began to glow faintly, like veins of molten metal trapped in crystal.
She crouched over the firepit, pressed the stone against each other with her other claw, and a sharp fsshhht! burst into being.
Sparks leapt, showering onto the waiting grass.
The tinder caught at once, thin curls of smoke rising before fire licked upward, hungry and fast.
Harold's eyebrows shot high.
"Well… that's one hell of a lighter."
Jini gave him a look that could have stripped paint.
"You speak nonsense."
"Yeah," Harold muttered, scratching the back of his head. "Guess I do."
With the fire growing steady, he moved to his own task.
From his pile of sticks, he peeled bark away, whittling them down with nothing sharper than patience and his fingernails.
Each became a rough skewer, splintered but serviceable.
He set aside the cleanest cuts of meat Jini had prepared—thick strips and thinner slivers alike—and threaded them onto the sticks.
The meat was dark, marbled with fat, smelling faintly like iron and musk.
"Not exactly USDA approved," he muttered, holding up his first finished skewer. "But it'll do."
Jini said nothing.
She simply adjusted the fire with a practiced nudge of a thicker stick, feeding it bits of dried grass until the flames burned low and steady.
Harold crouched beside her, resting the skewers across the stones so the meat hissed when it met the heat.
The smell rose instantly—rich, savory, primal.
His stomach growled so loudly it made Jini glance sideways at him, lip curling faintly.
"Hungry?" she asked flatly.
"You could say that," Harold replied, grinning sheepishly. "It's been more than a few days since i last ate... well anything."
The silence stretched.
Only the crackle of fire and the sizzle of cooking meat filled it.
Harold shifted, searching for words, but each attempt fizzled before leaving his mouth.
"So…" he began.
Jini's eyes flicked toward him.
He clamped his jaw shut.
A few moments later, he tried again.
"Back where I come from, we—"
She raised one brow.
"—ah, never mind."
The third time he opened his mouth, she didn't even look.
Her tentacles curled lazily around her, like snakes resting in tall grass, but the scowl carved into her features never softened.
When the skewers had seared through, Harold pulled one free, blew on the steaming meat, and took a cautious bite.
Juices burst across his tongue, hot and gamey.
Tougher than beef, stringier than chicken—but food.
Real food.
His eyes watered as he chewed, not from pain but sheer relief.
"Good god," he muttered around his mouthful. "That's… that's actually not bad."
Jini took her own portion without ceremony.
She didn't skewer it, just lifted a strip in her dainty fingers and tore into it with sharp teeth.
She chewed once, twice, and swallowed, as if eating were nothing more than a task to finish.
Harold slowed, watching her.
There was no joy, no savoring.
Just efficiency of the act itself.
Guess that's the difference, he thought.
For her, food's fuel.
For me, it's the one bit of comfort left.
The fire popped, and his courage finally pushed through his hesitation.
"Jini," Harold said softly.
Her head tilted, eyes sharp in the firelight.
He swallowed, suddenly uncertain.
But the words came anyway.
"I need to ask a favor."
Her brow furrowed.
"Another?"
"Yeah," Harold admitted.
He set down his half-eaten skewer, rubbing his palms together.
"You let me patch you up before. you know the splint and all for your leg, not to mention the bandages an' all that. But... well do you mind if i practice my skills on you... so i can get better?"
Her tentacles stirred, restless.
"More?"
"It won't help you heal faster, but i would help me, see just like with sword fighting the more you practice the better you are, only if i have to wait for another injury to take place, well that could take a while, not that im saying you can be injured again." Harold said, ending rather quickly as her face turned a the mention of injury forcing him to verbally retreat into complimenting her martial prowess.
For a long, suffocating moment, she just stared.
The fire crackled, painting shadows across her sharp features.
Her eyes narrowed—not with suspicion this time, but with a different edge, something heavier.
Finally, she spoke, her voice low and careful.
"Practice… what?"
Harold met her gaze, his stomach twisting, and said quietly:
"Well, splinting for one, broken bones dont happen all that often afterall, so when does i want to make sure i get it right."
His choice was actually the only remaining one, stitching would require him to remove her current ones which would hurt, not to mention stabbing her over and over again would probably wind up with him being killed for the attempt.
Bandaging wouldnt work since the experience gain would be near negligible, while casting could net both experience for itself and splinting.
Then of course there were his three new skills, Suction couldnt be done without an actual wound so it was out, but byond that would be acupressure, but that would be pretty personal laying hands on her, not to mention it'd hurt like hell if he got it wrong due to differing anatonmy and all.
So in the end he'd settle for wrapping and releasing her fractured leg, if he could level the skills up perhaps he could do something even just a little bit more stable thank splinting, not to the point of complete return of mobility but enough that she could walk around like normal.