Taskar sat on his haunches a respectful distance from the other dragonborn as she lay unconscious. He was trained in two healing arts. The first he regularly employed in battle, calling upon his companions to find reserves of strength in themselves. The second was a traditional technique he’d learned from a disheveled monk he’d befriended after mistaking him for a pile of rags. He had administered both in this situation to the best of his abilities, bandaging what he could, salving the rest, all the while muttering words of what he hoped were encouragement. He didn’t rightly know how to assuage spiritual wounds.
He now watched the rogue and ranger claw their way into the trap door. He’d tried the stone over the door again, to no avail. Despite their taunting, Taskar did have at least a fraternal connection to the unconscious female. Despite his best efforts to become worldly and to make himself more than just another dragonborn warrior, he had in no way become calloused. He was still compelled to help when he could. This compulsion seemed amplified in the presence of one of his own race. For the time being, at least, he’d done all he could. He closed his eyes and began clearing his mind for meditation.