"A few. Not many. Some are old. But I think 'old' means different thing for someone... like you."
As Isolde worked, she listened to the Myrian's words, glancing over at his expression every once and a while, through mostly she kept her eyes on what she was doing. Still, at this one her hands stilled for just a brief pause before picking up again, wiping the blood from her fingers --trying not to think of blood oozing around a knife in a man's back, trying not to think of blood pouring from another man's bashed face-- and then pawing through the medical kit, getting out a salve, swiping a layer on one of the smaller slashes on his arm that she'd just noticed. It was becoming like a searching game to find them all.
The Nuit was reluctant to speak of herself. She was always reluctant; she never knew what she'd end up saying. That was why she'd directed the conversation, originally, towards him; it was easier to converse when she didn't have to worry about what incriminating details she'd be giving up. She didn't have much of anything nice to say about herself.
Though of course, his statement had left her open to reply as objectively as she wanted.
"It doesn't feel any different. Time. It just passes. The years--" Her brow furrowed, looking back. Years stacked on years stacked on yet more... Or perhaps not stacked but lined up like boxes of files neatly in one big row, each coming before the next and behind the last. And none of it meaning anything. She shrugged. "They're just years. Time doesn't seem to go any faster or slower than it did... b-before." That was straying awfully close to out-of-bounds territory, so the Nuit shrunk away from the word. "There just happens to be more of it."
"Mummies. Hear stories when I was boy, dead men that walked. Maybe... cousins of you?"
And speaking of out-of-bounds territory... "My family is dead." That was it. She carefully kept looking away from both Razkar and Eranis, standing up to move the purple man's hands aside from the jungle warrior's shoulder wound, checking the bleeding. It had stopped enough for her to pad and wrap the wound. The Myrian truly was starting to look like a mummy.
After what felt like a long pause to her, but what could not really be all that long, Isolde took a deep breath and moved on. She picked up as if she hadn't replied at all, forcefully lightening her tone. And if he wanted to joke around... "Though who knows? Perhaps mummies are others like me, trying to scare tough Myrians shitless by putting on wrappings. Gods forbid wearing actual clothes--" She quirked an eyebrow and glanced pointedly over his uncovered body, though it was clear there was no sort of appraisal going on besides another check for more wounds that she'd missed. She caught sight of a slash on his elbow and had him bend his arm so she could get a better look-see. "Just saying. Maybe a certain Myrian wouldn't get so many scars if he wore enough to cover up." Her suggestion was innocuous, the corners of her mouth twitching with a smile. Maybe it would be uncomfortable to others, his... display of flesh, but she'd grown up at the Outpost, and toiling and sweating in the Syliran Fields under Syna's merciless glare had necessitated both men and women to shed as much clothing as possible. So was that what this was?
"Unless you want to be scarred--?" This question was an honest one, the tone altering subtly, showing real curiosity... before her eyes danced wickedly, and she continued in a mild tone, probably making her words all the more startling, "Or perhaps your state of undress just makes it easier for fucking in the pit?" She smiled at Eranis, not knowing if this was going too far, hoping the purple man had a sense of humor... but... for the sake of making her teacher squirm... She leaned a bit towards the giant and lowered her voice, adding in all the hushed conspiracy of small-town gossip, something she had grown up hearing and mimicked perfectly. "I don't suppose he's ever asked you to--? No? Hmm."
Well, he'd started it, and she'd take her kicks where she could find 'em. The Nuit went back to smearing ointment on any wound she could find, finishing up... and allowing herself to give an impish grin. The expression felt good, coming naturally even to these features that were not her own, an old friend long forgotten.
The character dynamics are very interesting. 
! What if Razkar truly realize his offer? Hahahah-... 
alright, bad mental image.
