Denif isn't overly-injured; he has a few scrapes here and there, patches where the scales on his cheeks have been scraped away by one of those obnoxious void creatures and fine cuts along the skin on his hands, but nothing serious. Yet he looks exhausted anyway, despite the fact he knows he reasonably shouldn't be.

He'd come to check up on the figure resting to make sure she's, well, alive, and when she speaks to him he offers a thin-yet-polite smile. He's relieved, to be honest. Ordinarily, he wouldn't rest, but perhaps a short break is in order.

"Thank you for the offer. I'll take you up on it," he says softly as he sits, tucking a draconic tail underneath himself to keep it out of the way. "Are you injured?"