Glaran turned around slowly, his eyes scanning the brush quickly before resting on her. Her hair fell in long wet strands over the dark of his cloak, almost invisible against it. His eyes lingered on her face for a few moments, taking in the angles of her face, the shape of her eyes. Just before his thoughts can drift he snaps out of it, crossing the clearing to his gear. Starting to buckle on the leather, he looked at her. "Can you walk?" His voice had lost the gruffness and anger, leaving nothing in it's wake. For all Liz knew, he did not care much about the answer. This, however, was not true. Aside the practical difficulties it would cause, Glaran was not someone to hurt unnecessarily. Of course, his idea of necessary was something of a mystery.