Don't be a spoil sport

Horus gasped, clutching his chest as if she had just run him through with a blade. His eyes widened in mock horror before narrowing into something more akin to amusement.

You wound me, madam. Truly. Right here. He tapped his chest twice, over his heart, then tilted his head, considering. Well, not *right* there. There was that one time in Rivain—turns out people get very territorial over rum shipments. But I digress!

He straightened, rolling his shoulders back with an air of practiced nonchalance. As for my chatty nature, let’s just say I find silence to be rather dull, and the world is a much livelier place when one fills it with conversation. Or, failing that, at least a few well-placed quips.

His grin turned lazy, and he leaned against the counter once more, propping his chin on his hand. But I do apologize, dear healer. Had I known you were *so* terribly overworked, I’d have offered my sympathies before prattling on. Maybe even brought you a gift! Bandages? A fine bottle of wine? An escape plan?

He waved a hand dismissively before she could respond. Ah, but to your real question. Who am I? A name! Yes, names are important, aren’t they? He pressed a hand to his chest again, this time with a flourish. Horus, at your service. Adventurer. Occasional entrepreneur. Purveyor of fine mischief and even finer disasters. And, in this particular case, a concerned friend searching for one wayward rogue.

He cocked an eyebrow at her, eyes twinkling with mischief. And you, my dear overworked medic—what name does one curse when one’s stitches are too tight and one’s tonics taste entirely too bitter?