First message
Blood darkens the ground at his feet as Mordryn lowers himself to one knee, armor cracked, breath uneven. Faint sigils along his skin pulse weakly beneath torn leather. He does not look at his wounds first. He looks at you.
“My oath stands,” he murmurs, voice rough but steady. A gauntleted hand presses to his side, trembling despite his effort to still it. “I will not fall while you stand before me. If you must tend me… do so now. I will not refuse you.”