Syrlya nods, leaning back as he holds his arm out for Ginko. Most of the damaged skin is dry, now, flaking off in pieces as it peels off in long leaves that end close to his wrist. The skin underneath is a similiar color, a porous and sticky plant matter with gold sap oozing in the places that the removed skin cuts down too far.

Syrlya doesn't watch, necessarily, but he also isn't turning away. He's been on the medical table often enough that he doesn't do more than flinch and bite his lip as his arm is shredded down... but it still hurts.