( Comfortable. Neither of them should be, addressing that — ...person, whom Hector only grudgingly graduates from 'thing.' Sallow, now convulsing, coughing and weeping black — there's no beginning or end to the state of him.

But the girl wishes him helped, and Hector apparently wishes himself dead. With a sigh likely replicated by every man on the continent who has ever taken a wife or raised an obstinate daughter, Hector clutches the waterskin and, pointedly heading first, plants himself neatly before the suffering fool, murmuring: )

Here. We thought you might —

( — slap the waterskin so forcibly out of Hector's hand that his entire wrist nearly turns and breaks with it. Yes. That'll do it, as Hector jolts back, ill at ease, taking another few steps in strategic retreat. The man watches him, eyes black and beady and predatory. No, no. No. )

I don't think it's him who needs help. ( No, as the man thuds forward, that's entirely Hector. )