Apparently, his name is Jack. Taking the hint, Lyra takes a single step closer, doing her best to appear as nonthreatening as possible. "Alright, Jack. I'm Lyra." She scans him, head to toe, noting the way he remains prone and in the mud. "Do you mind if I come a little closer?" she asks, polite and professional. He's lucid and talking, and he knows his name - all good signs that there won't be any lasting damage.
Still, even though Lyra knows that head wounds bleed like a bitch, she can't help but worry that there's something else hurt that she can't see. "It looks like you may have cut yourself. I can help, if that's okay." She hopes he'll accept the assistance. She isn't keen to pester him until he lets her help, but she will if that's what it takes. Gods know she's not one to leave someone out here in this condition.
Still, even though Lyra knows that head wounds bleed like a bitch, she can't help but worry that there's something else hurt that she can't see. "It looks like you may have cut yourself. I can help, if that's okay." She hopes he'll accept the assistance. She isn't keen to pester him until he lets her help, but she will if that's what it takes. Gods know she's not one to leave someone out here in this condition.
Lyra Abrams
