Azwel's used to that sort of presence--it doesn't faze him at all as he smoothly peels open one of the injured man's eyes, listens to his pulse and breathing, and, interestingly enough, presses the man's fingernails. He frowns.

"The cold managed to slow the blood loss somewhat. But he's lost rather a lot." He looks at the supplies. Realises they have no blood and scarcely anything to hydrate with. There's a pause.

He clearly makes a decision, as he snatches up the strange golden gauntlets from the nearby table and slips his hands into them. Ralts squeaks in alarm.

"Noffin ell forrit," he says, tightening the straps with his teeth.