Turning aside, Hector retrieves one of the honed swords, drawing it slowly from its scabbard and watching the sunlight dance across its glistening blade. But an instant later, his brows knit together, a thought occurring to him. Gloves. Examining others' uninjured hands isn't something intends to do, but he figures little harm can be done by being polite. And besides. Blisters are damnable things. Particularly to those who rely on their hands to fight.

He sheaths the sword and moves to fish through his pack again, eventually producing a pair of leather gloves, their palms worn and supple from regular use. Hopefully, they'll fit well enough if Firo chooses to don them. "You may use these too, if you wish."

[ooc: I'm so terribly sorry for the wait. ;_;]