@milesducemdominus asked:

He's exhausted, as are most; body riddled with aches, injuries of old rebelling from stresses and strains but little could be done. Instead, Aymeric moves to sit beside company in silence and simply offers the small comfort of a cup of freshly brewed tea;

"Here-" He whispered; "-something to pick you up a smite."

Urianger sits slouched, leaning over the hands he's kept clasped over his knees. There is always too much to consider and too much risk for anything to be particularly easy no matter the date or locale. Lost in thought, as he often is, until the sound of footsteps approaching gets close enough for him to realize it's him being approached.

He watches Aymeric move with a careful eye. He's seen that kind of movement, done as the body complains. Funny; while he knew that Aymeric did his time in Ishgard's army, some part of him always imagined Aymeric's physical form was just as well put together and functional as his mind and attitude. Which, once Urianger realizes he'd been thinking that, is objectively ridiculous.

"Thank thee," he replies softly, taking the cup in hand largely to feel the warmth of it. Urianger looks past it for a few moments, thinking, before abruptly: "art thou well?"

After saying it, it feels too intrusive, impolite, probably overstepping something he isn't aware of. But Aymeric has not before seemed one for whispering. A belated verbal scramble to justify. "It seemed as though thou didst have some resistance to easy movement, and thy speech is dampened. I hath practice as a healer, mayhaps I can be of aid as thou hath already shown such hospitality...." Though he holds little pretention to Aymeric not having dealt with a fair few chirurgeons, of whose membership Urianger is not included by any means. But he has his own methods, and it simply seems callous not to speak.