Greta gives her hands a quick rinse under the tap - the bloodier of the two had started to get unpleasantly tacky - then sets about unpicking the knot she'd tied in the scarf and unwinding her hasty bit of binding. His shoulder looks a mess, but it might not be that bad beneath all the blood and the torn sleeve. She tsks quietly, then soaks a washcloth so she can start cleaning away the blood. It'll be easier to pull his shirt away from the wound when it's damp, too.

Truth be told, having something practical to do is a bit of a relief. Greta's not a healer by any stretch, but she has a good enough grasp of basic first aid. She winces sympathetically at the sizable graze along his arm, once things are clean enough for her to make it out. Poor fellow; that really must hurt.

She carefully peels his sleeve away from the wound, lips pursed in general disapproval. "This might need to come off," she says, giving the shirt a pointed tug, "at least until we've bound it properly." Under less dire circumstances, she'd probably be embarrassed by the idea; as it is, she's too busy being worried (and quietly furious) to care about anything as currently trivial as propriety.

As for disinfecting, she barely knows what that means. "What would work for that?" she asks as she rinses out the washcloth.