Raistlin pulls his arm away, trying not to snap at the boy. He means well, that's plain enough. The situation isn't his fault any more than it is Raistlin's.

"I can stand," he says, and does. Barely, leaning on his staff the whole way. His lungs begin to seize, and he swallows a cough. His legs are shaking, but he knows from long experience that, wearing robes, as long as he holds himself upright, no one can tell without paying close attention. Which people rarely do.

"Do you have a parent, child? A sibling? Who is responsible for you - ?" A cough strangles the end of his question. He fumbles in his pouches, still coughing, and manages to retrieve the one with his herbs. Pressing it to his face, he inhales deeply. This isn't a bad attack, just overexertion. The sharp scent cuts through it quickly.