Delightful.  She was as weak as a kitten, and as desperate as a starving one.  Where, if the situation was different, she would be more suspicious the circumstance gave him all the opportunity the cultist needed.  Stalking forward, he leans over the injured night elf, looking her over.  "You are dreadfully injured,"  Though he spoke the language, it was not without heavy accent, the orcish tongue lending a bite to the dialect that was not commonly there.  "I cannot risk the time to tend to you."  With that, he turns to go... but before he takes but a handful of steps, his shoulders slump, and he turns back with a scowl.  "Nor can I leave you to their mercy.  You must endure, this will be painful."<br/><br/>He walks back over to her, brushing away the plaintative arm, and then leans closer still as he gathers the injured elf into his arm.  Though she was not tiny, born of a race with some stature, he manipulates her quite easily.  A testament to his strength, certainly, as is the resilient flesh of his chest as he holds her close.  "When we are free of here... then I will do my best for your injuries."  With that, he marches toward the door, no more burdened by the woman in his arm than if he was carrying a bundle of cloth.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>