Tsaba waved her free hand dismissively at Sain's admission that he was an assistant. "I'm a professional assistant," she joked, trying to ignore the pain of the little needle stabbing through her flesh. "I've always been an assistant, at everything... medicine, lab work, scribing... you seem to know what you're doing and that's really all that matters." It would be kind of difficult for him to screw up sewing a wound, she figured. "I came here to..." she paused, considering how to answer that question without ten minutes of backstory... "I came to learn. I'm from Sahova, see, and society there is quite... insular. I was worried that the lack of information about the modern world might be shielding us from certain opportunities; not just social, but research opportunities. Entire new races have sprung up out here since the creation of Sahova and the only real cultural flow we get is the occasional research assistant showing up; nobody is looking into what we can actually learn from human agriculture, or Zith morphology. I want to learn about everything out here, on the mainland, and write books about it for the Sahovan library. Some might say it's not as productive as translating pre-Valterrian tomes but..." Tsaba realised she was ranting, and slowed down. "As I pointed out the second time my application was rejected, there are hundreds of Nuits who can and will translate tomes. It's hardly a cost to send somebody out on the off-chance they'll find something interesting." Of course, 'sending somebody out' had really translated to 'just let the child leave on her wild goose chase so we can get back to work', but the results were the same. "I mean, even Sunberth has probably changed a lot since I was a child. Human society, most mortal societies, progress very quickly. Data not gathered now is data lost forever."
"How about you? Did you grow up here?" Tsaba flexed her hand experimentally. The last joint in her little finger didn't respond. Pity. The big risk now was the weak flesh around the stitches simply traring, but there was very little that she could do about that. Tsaba opened her carry bottle of embalming fluid and, holding her hand over her cloak to mop up the excess, dribbled a tiny bit over the wound. She'd have to salt it later, and probably wrap it up. Being dead could be so inconvenient sometimes. "There has got to be some kind of... of Nuit specialist around here," she muttered. "I know we're a minority in this town, but there must be somebody capitalising on our presence." If not... she made a mental note to look into changing that.