Fakir stood there silently, feeling decidedly awkward. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to try and comfort the naga, or ask if he (Fakir was fairly sure the naga was male from his voice) had people he could return to. Mesut didn't seem inclined to conversation either. Maybe he was in shock? Or they didn't speak often? Or Fakir just had the luck to chance on the quiet one. He inwardly scolded himself. He couldn't expect strangers to instantly warm up and start bantering with him right away, even if he had rescued him. But then, it was also unintentional. He had only been here for the daggers.<br/><br/>Oh! The daggers! Fakir bent over, reaching down quite a bit since he didn't want to get on his knees, before hefting the chest into his arms. He scowled at the broken clasp, moving to open the lid to check the contents. With everything present, he breathed a sigh of relief, closing the lid and hugging the rough wood to his chest. Now held in front of him, it was visible that a sleeve had been torn, dark red staining the travel coarse linen. Giant of a centaur or not, it seemed one can't charge single-handedly into a camp of thieving ruffians and escape unharmed. There were several thankfully shallow cuts (the fools tried to slash rather than stab) along where human waist met equine shoulder. Luckily, none had thought to aim for his legs. He wasn't sure if they'd ever robbed one of his people before.<br/><br/>"Alright then," Fakir drawled slowly as Mesut continued to... stand...? sit...? coil...? on the cart. "I should..." he quirked his head in the direction back towards the path that would lead to the road, where he had hidden his wagon while he retrieved his stolen goods. He coughed, tried to make a sympathetic face that might have ended up more of a grimace, shuffled the chest more safely into his arms, then slowly turned to walk away, unsure of what else to do or offer. Besides, this interruption was going to delay him. He had foodstuffs he was bound to deliver to the city of Sypre, which would be late now and depending on the weather, the textile bolts he was carrying could--<br/><br/>Mesut's voice stopped him, and Fakir turned his waist slightly to look back. "Yes. There's nothing left here," he said before furrowing his brows. "Well, nothing of worth to me. Just some stolen trinkets," he said before frowning. He seemed to struggle a moment, his withers swaying as he shifted his weight before sighing. "Why don't you come with me, lad? I don't have much room in my wagon, but it's safer than staying out here," he offered. Besides, he was sure if he didn't at least offer to help, the horse gods would send a thorn up his shoe. He turned and walked back to the cart. "I saw a nasty gash in your side," Fakir admitted, setting his chest down on the lip of the cart.<br/><br/>Twisting a bit, he apparently kept a pair of saddlebags, refitted to sit on his shoulders instead of his withers, on him. From one, he drew a decently clean cloth. His brow furrowed as he glanced at it, then the naga, then back to the cloth. It wouldn't be long enough to wrap around the body and act as a bandage. Fakir walked over to a tent he had destroyed, and with a few cuts of his knife, he started tearing the cloth to long strips, working as fast as he could in the dimming light. While he wouldn't be blind in the dark, he still couldn't see well once the sun set. "Pardon me," Fakir said, using his clean cloth and pressing it against Mesut's wound before awkwardly tossing his makeshift bandage over and around Mesut's body repeatedly until he could tie it tightly. "Not my best work," he admitted before looking up at Mesut. "Can you walk? Or slither?" he asked as he gathered his chest again.