"Ages for mortals, which is what matters." Mundus shall have a respite from the evil of Sanguine's artifact for a good while. It is enough, Martin thinks. Even if he had to bleed for it.

"It is not a plight!" Anger surfaces, teeth gritted. He sees empathy, but her words and gestures do not match it. Martin doesn't have time for his life to be referred to as some sort of charity, or for deceit. "No, I have nothing to prove to you." Bloody handprints mark the trail he walks across the walls, steps pathetic and shambling. Maybe if he waits a couple of hours in this factory, he'll have enough magicka to heal himself.

The spell isn't coming from a healer. There's the uncomfortable tugging of flesh and tendons renewing themselves, the itch of skin shifting and smoothing. What healing actually is, as opposed to the stylized skill that forms after decades of practice. "Here, for your services," he says, now able to unclasp the broken amulet around his neck, and toss it at her feet.