The girl's father was an elf?
The floorboards, stained by the soles of Moulin's boots creaked as he stood. His silver eyes stared intently at the sick man laying on the bed and the little girl tugging at his white cloak, staining it with the dirt on her fingers. Moulin didn't mind it.
"M-Mister?"
Seeing that the Moulin wasn't paying attention to her, she grew anxious, stepping back. Moulin noticed the child's movements and he gave a soothing smile. No matter how he looks at her, there wasn't a hint of any physical feature similar to the bedridden elven man.
Moulin patted the head of the little girl and then dragged a wooden rickety stool and bent his head so he could check the man's pulse and temperature. Just as he was about to touch the sickly man's wrist a rough hand abruptly grabbed Moulin's hand.
Moulin only stared at the hand and frowned as he spoke disapprovingly uttered, "What is it?"
