Granig looks down at his hands, grimacing.

"Normally I think, 'Disease is in hands of fate. Might get it, might not. No way to know.' But... sickness might pass through hands," he says, contemplative. "I'll go clean, then look for healer. It's good you're physician, but they might know the sickness. And I don't want to carry him to bed and feed him water."

Granig steps outside of the tavern while Danica goes for her equipment. Outside he crouches, grabbing a handful of soil and rubbing his hands with it. When they're dry and suitably earthy, he steps half back into the tavern.