While Hecate inspected Luna's wounds, Qebhet had set her bag on the table and had begun drawing out various bottles: a flask of water (more transportable than a pitcher, though the contents were no less blessed), a bottle of cloudy amber liquid (beer, of an ancient recipe, sweet and medicinal), a jar of salve that smelled faintly of honey. She paused in the act of reaching for a roll of bandages, glancing over at the young blonde mortal. There had been no time for introductions, and Qebhet had no idea what she might know – or not know – or think of what she was hearing.
She caught the tear before it was swiped away and felt a swell of empathy for this girl, who had rushed into potential harm's way for a friend. Qebhet touched a gentle hand to her shoulder. "You did a good job," she said. "Are you alright?"