Midnight report

The Warlord did catch the faintest hint of her limp before she stilled it. She was walking slowly, not the easy jog he had often seen her take the patrol at. Her stride was endless, eating up the distances. He narrowed his eyes, but said nothing as he approached.

The lift of her leg was even more obvious, an indication of what had happened to her. He was going to be beating himself up for a long time for letting her get injured on his watch.

“Resin” he returned politely to the older woman. “How's the patrol going?” Polite conversation, space fuller, really. He did have matters to get to, but he was watching her carefully, and wondering at the most diplomatic way to suggest she lie down.