Tristain’s right hand stung just slightly - he had punched the drunkard a little harder than he had intended to originally, but it had proved to be very, very cathartic to see those bloodshot eyes flare in pain as his jaw cracked under the impact of Tristain’s fist. The drunkard hit the ground in a loose slump, consciousness driven from his body.

The armor-clad man glared around at the others who had clustered around to watch the ‘show’. The angry gaze made most of them quail and hide away, and those few that had an inkling to try to provoke him any further only paused to look down at the unconsciousness man, blood dribbling from his mouth, and the ‘courage’ in their hearts failed. Tristain let out a loud snort when the crowd melted away, none of them attempting anything else. That dealt with, he turned around to look at the person that he had rescued.

At some point the thin, bedraggled woman had slumped down, and dropped her head into her hands. Tristain frowned deeply - what was wrong with these people, this woman clearly needed help, not - not what that bastard had intended. Slowly, carefully he approached the woman, his face tightening when she seemed to shrink in on herself even more. Ever so patiently he reached out one hand, pausing in place when the woman flinched.

“I might be a mercenary, girl, but I did not save you for some expectation that you would reward me.” Tristain’s voice rasped out, a low growl that still bore the rust of disuse. The woman kept babbling apologies to him, and shrinking down like a wilting flower, and the man had to suppress the urge to go over and break a few more of the drunkard’s bones. Instead he let out a sigh and shook his head.

“Peace, girl, peace. I am not going to harm you.” Tristain sat back on one foot, and propped his arm over his knee as he studied the girl. She was shy, reticent, and quite clearly afraid, shaking like a leaf in a strong wind as he stayed in front of her. He chewed on the inside of his lip as he thought, then let out a slow breath through his nose.

The brown-haired man was no counselor, to guide this girl through whatever had traumatized her. All he knew how to do was treat her like he had been when he had shown up at the camp of the Danse Indomitable as a runaway. Namely, throw her into a wash and get some hot food into her.

“Come on.” He gently took her wrist and stood up, pulling her with him. He knew she wouldn't resist - if she was going to do that, she would have fought harder against the drunk. He could see where an inn was nearby, and that would have both of the things he needed to care for this waif.