"You are awake."
Ellias blinked groggily, wincing as he attempted to sit up. Colours returned in smudges of red and blue and green, dancing at the edges of his vision, and he blinked a few more times to try and coax the blurred image to clarity. It revealed Solas staring down at his disapprovingly, arms crossed across his chest as usual, and he almost wished he hadn't bothered.
He ignored the other elf entirely in favour of examining his injuries. His head pounded like he'd been kicked by an entire herd of druffalo, far worse than his usual hangover, and even just attempting to sit up had caused the room to spin. Well, so far as a tent could be considered a room, and the stretched canvas of the travel cots made him feel seasick at the best of times. He appeared to have bled all over this one, so perhaps there was hope that he was rid of it.
He'd been stripped to the waist, though most of his torso had been wrapped in thick bandages, uncomfortably tight. Part of the white cloth, just under his ribs, was already pink, and he attempted to pull the bandage away in order to see the extent of the injury. Solas stopped him, firmly grabbing his arms by the wrists and tugging them away.
"You will only make it worse. It has taken hours to patch you back together, and I would appreciate it if you did not undo all of my hard work, Inquisitor."
Ellias frowned, but relented, allowing his arms to fall back to his sides. "The dragon?"
His tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth as he attempted to swallow around it, and he wondered how long he had been unconscious for. Solas handed him a metal beaker of water and he gulped it down greedily, uncaring that his clumsy hands spilled part of it down his chin.
"Dead. Moments after it nearly killed you."
Ellias winced. Over-confident, he'd believed the dragon was already defeated, and had dropped his barrier in wild elation of having brought one of the mighty beasts down. It had clung to life long enough to kick out at him and send him flying, though that was his last memory. The razor-sharp talons had sliced through his armour like butter, and he couldn't imagine his abdomen was a pretty site. More scars for the collection; he was lucky he was handsome enough to pull them off.
"Try not to move. I have stitched up what I can, but I am no healer, and the wounds are likely to reopen. Word has been sent to the nearest Inquisition camp. They will likely be able to do more for you, so I advise you try to sleep until they arrive."
Solas frowned down at him again and moved to leave, hand hovering on the rough canvas of the tent flap.
"Solas? The dragon? Did we get anything good?"