<strong>~Galo, Infirmary~</strong><br/><br/>Seeing the woman blush and drop her head stoked his ego.<div class="floatright">(http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f162/shadowjewel/Character%20pics/GaloICPic.jpg)<br/></div>Oh, he was no muscle-heavy arena champion, but subtlety and skill were his fort. It please him when it payed off.<br/>When he tried to speak to her in Gaulish her response was both disheartening and yet encouraging as she shook her head,<strong>"No."</strong><br/><br/>Well, at least she wasn’t mute and even if she knew just a handful of Latin words, that was something that she could build on. It was also pleasing and promising how quickly she responded when he offered her the tunic, lifting her arms for him with little prompting. Still flushed, still hesitant, but cooperating. Good.<br/><br/>He slipped the tunic over her arms, making note of the abrasions and sores on her wrists from shackles - a normal injury for new blood - and how thin she was. Again, this was normal. Mindful of her injuries he slipped the tunic up her arms, ignoring the touch of her skin on his hands. He was not unaffected by what he had walked into when he had entered the infirmary but now was not the time; there was too much to be done and this woman, however beautiful or responsive, was just another slave like him. He refused to risk it.<br/><br/>Carefully pulling the tunic over her head then down her body, he held it away from her back as much as he could to avoid the drag of fabric over fresh wounds.<br/><br/>Her stomach growled and he grimaced in sympathy.<br/><br/>Then she chuckled and spoke; his eyes widened then narrowed slightly in thought. It was a Celtic dialect, certainly. Galo wracked his brains for a moment before recognition set in; She was a Briton. Probably from... Weston Britannia, if he had heard that right. Well, that gave him something to work with as he tried to remember who, if any, of the other slaves might speak that particular language, at least more proficiently then he could.<br/><br/>He was already reaching for one of pouches strung to his belt when she reinforced her request in heavily accented Latin,<strong>“Food?”</strong><br/><br/>Opening the strings on the pouch he pulled out a few slivers of dried meat and flat bread. Trail rations only, something he had plenty of; he always ate well in the wilds, better the guards even, and when back at the villa he could always find better food to scavenge or steal. He used the rations to supplement his apatite from time to time, nothing more. He had more then enough so she was welcome to these. Shifting himself in the way of Autolycus’ line of sight, Galo placed the rations in her hand, quickly moving to curl her fingers over them, trying to convey subtlety, discretion and hopefully a degree of haste.<br/><br/>A completely foreign language sounded from behind him and Galo glanced back to Autolycus and the other woman, who seemed to be coming round from her trance. He watched with some degree of concern as she grew more and more distressed, rising from the table to grab Autolycus’ arm.<br/><br/>As she moved he saw the patterns in the blood on the bed, some of them ringing familiar to him while others were utterly unknown. Although clearly still disorientated, fear and desperation oozed from her and Galo turned fully to face the pair by the other table, tensed slightly incase she lashed out. Distant concern grew to something closer to true alarm as the young woman fell back against the table. Her own safety and welfare aside, the Dominus would not be happy if she were made ill, either mildly or fatally so from any drug given to her. That Galo had not been there when the drug was administered would not necessarily be a guarantee the he would not receive punishment if punishment would be dealt.