She bows, fairly deeply, her hands moving in the curves of the rite of prayer.

He's a maester among his own people, in a sense, and an elder, after all. "I'm very pleased to meet you." She leans her staff against the wall. "And to tell you that there doesn't seem to be any lingering magical harm. Only the physical wounds, and those are healing."

"You were poisoned," she tells him; it's odd coming from her youthful face, but it's the half-reproving informational tone of any nurse or doctor telling you you tore your stitches or broke your leg. Next time be more careful.