Zanthus feels the life flow into Dyra's chest as he heals her. Her breasts are small enough that they don't interfere with his motion, but he can still feel them heaving as the magic surges into the strange woman. The wound in her side closes rapidly, and while it can still be seen, it is now a substantially more minor injury. As the pain leaves her body, Dyra simply lies there for a moment then clasps Zanthus' hand so that he can pull her up to her feat. The elf and the mongrelwoman end up with their faces barely inches from one another. Dyra stares into Zanthus' face with her strange, dark eyes.<br/><br/>"Thank you," she whispers, her skin turning a strange coral pink. Then she steps away.<br/><br/>"The gates to Neathholm are right behind Chief Sull," she says, "We can can get some of our people to stand guard while we see to ourselves. if there is another attack, we'll know. This requires retribution though. We have lived with the foul tribes for too long Chief Sull. It has been a battle for territory and resources, but this is a battle for souls. These people are not natural, their hearts are twisted worse than our bodies are, and the dark ones long ago turned away from the gods of our ancestors." A nerve has clearly been touched in her, seeing the slaughter of her neighbours along with her own near death experience.<br/><br/>Meanwhile, behind everything, Aravashnial is murmuring to himself, "Alas, but I had my eyes! I must also write a history of the molemen should we survive. History is happening all around me, but I have only my ears to record it with."