If he was really curious, he could always ask her. Of course, asking was no guarantee of an answer, and less of one with Azabeth. She faked a pout for his pleasure, though - and what a devastating pout it was, especially with the force of her valley of bliss to back it! Imagine if she used it in different circumstances. It was a wonder men could deny her anything. "That doesn't mean I don't want to see you in uniform, Aurin. I've always wondered how those robes attach to the plate, you know."
She dabbed a bit at the mark, considering; a stitch or two couldn't hurt his odds, and if she wrapped it tightly enough it wouldn't even pop on the way out of the narrow window. Up she went, to dig in the dresser for a sewing kit, which came to hand quickly enough - in a trice she was sitting beside him again, her smile appreciative of his form, her eyes and fingers all business. "Sounds like your commander doesn't like you very much," she noted, threading the needle. The thread was black, and would be ugly and obvious across his hide, but better than nothing.