"I can stitch it, if you haven't the inclination," Ellis tells her, trading the offer as he extends a small, silver flask. Tarnished, round, toted in his pocket for who knows how many years. The ridges on it's stopper have been worn smooth. "I'm a fair hand at repairs."

It's what comes of doing your own. He supposes she's taught herself that skill as well. Whatever she'd been doing before the guild, it'd likely required a fair amount of tailoring if it was anything like the scrapes Ellis had found himself in.