“Oh, no,” Falke immediately responds, waving away both the salute and the honorific. “No, at ease. I’m not a Dragoon.” Turning to the perturbed hatchling, he also offers an apology. “Sorry, friend. I’m not dangerous. Promise.” Then back to the girl, who now gets a more thorough look as his dark, warm eyes take in the shed, her age - and the wrapped hand. An injury? Not uncommon in the Dragoons, so he takes no notice of it given that it seems small and she doesn’t seem to be in obvious pain.
That he doesn’t know her means she’s relatively new, so the Fixer tucks everything in his hands into the space between his torso and upper arm and offers the appropriate hand (so her unbandaged one can shake) to the girl. “I’m Falke. Some people call me the Fixer. You and your companion are...?”
