Two kittens had an argument. It was a cat-astrophe.

It was a tad hypocritical of the elf, he had tried performing surgery on himself once until the Stoner had interrupted him and took over. While he’d likely have been able to work on himself a second pair of hands and eyes helped wonders, and made far better margins in not marring his good looks further.

Still he could help but poke holes in the Warden’s logic. A cruel lopsided smirk spread across his face. “And… you think their questions would be any less, than now? With your galavanting and sudden unstable side effects? Really doing the Order credit there… and reaffirming my belief that they ought to rethink their joining standards.” The sarcasm dripped from his lips, though despite the harshness of his tone, it was clearly not directed at the man himself.

“It’s life. It’s amazingly unpredictable and unkind. I’m also an elf, so I’m doubly used to it. Toss in magic and the affinity to the grace of spirits - for some reason - and I’m triple-fucked.” Ruth’s smirk turned almost maddening, caught between glee and bitter understanding of the way of things. “In any case. It is in my professional opinion, that you need a butler, or a maid, whichever your preference just until your condition stabilises. Though… I hope you understand that may not ever happen.”