Luitwin watched as his new patient didn't hesitate to take up the bottle and drink away. It hadn't bothered him, frequent subjects of vice had their own uses, as did opium, for example. The tone this man had taken up with him wasn't much irritating either, but Luitwin still deigned to stuff his hands in his sleeves and squint his eyes judgingly. "You have a mouth on you... That's good." He nodded, an air of sarcasm about the remark. "You're... no stranger to incidents like this, are you? Your body I mean..." The monk swallowed, quickly correcting himself, "It's scarred."<br/><br/>He had been close enough to observe, especially when the stranger grabbed his wrist in a fit of pain and delirium. It wasn't some hobby of his, but this was hard to simply not notice. In fact the whole look the man had about him, from the long hair to the beard and his large, imposing frame-- had he not lay injured in bed of course.. He was foreign, wasn't he? "This isn't an interrogation but, if you could tell me about how you ended up here, and how long you were at sea, it may help me treat you." He gave a long, sincere glance, before returning to the short table in his room briefly to bring the knife, running the same bit of cloth along it's bloodied blade. Lifting it to inspect it's cleaned blade in front of his patient, he mused. It wasn't just some dagger, though that fact alone didn't quite leave him at ease.<br/><br/>"I would put my bias aside, and take that you were a victim, but if you are by your own faults then you should know it's part of my worth to listen." The man's bitter words on the topic of their god made him uneasy, he didn't know who, or what he was dealing with here.<br/><br/>Luitwin had no intention of giving the stranger the knife, turning it in his hands a few times over. Perhaps it was a strange thing to see embedded in any man, but it was already a proven weapon nonetheless. He turned to set it on his desk, fiddling about in his room not far from the foreigner's bedside. Luitwin pulled around the chair from his writing desk, a leather flask of water and the cleanest rag he had left after the worst of the initial treatment had come to pass. "It's been boiled so you needn't worry." He assured him, though from the looks of these scars something told him that this individual was no stranger to risking infection. "These..." Luitwin stopped patting down the sewn up gash with the dampened rag, tracing one of his larger marks with a thumb. He had a strange stare set on it, clinical but intrigued. "Were they done by you? Or a friend. If you ever get into a situation like this again, I could offer some advice if you lack hands like mine. If you remove the flesh around the wound.." The monk made a motion across each side of the scar to try and conceptualize, "It keeps the skin from folding inward while it heals.. And individual stitches if you can manage, they have less pull." If he had all of his supplies, perhaps he could've done a better job, but this man was suffering enough due to lack of anesthesia and exposure so compromises had to be made.<br/><br/>Satisfied, he pulled the rag away and corked his flask. The stranger's chest was as clean as it was going to get for anyone who spent however many days at sea without so much as a full body rinse, but at least the blood was gone. Luitwin gave him another once-over, however necessary it was, before looking him in the eye. "I am Brother Folke.. unless you have as bad a relationship with god as you say, you could call me Luitwin if it brings you less discomfort....?" He paused expectantly, wondering what a strange looking man such as this called himself. He seemed of northern stock, short, ridiculously hardy and full of vitality despite numerous signs of age. Something tells him that if this one was any younger then he'd still end up in sutures, that his years had nothing to do with it.