The half-elf doesn't even question it, doesn't wonder if she'll be safe in the dragon's sharp talons enclosing in on her. He adjusts the young girl quickly, wrapping the rope around the opposable claw to cradle her more carefully and once satisfied, turns back to the battlefield in front of them.

His voice is still rasping into his throat, a faint catch of air from where his larynx was squeezed, but he forces it to work regardless, pushing the words through. The first one is a colourful curse, but it ends up wheezier than he'd wanted it to be.

"Medic tents; s'cure the area? Bring the refugees." That's... that's a plan, right? 'Dians, just the fact that he's rattled enough of a plan to get him going is creepy, but Esteban is already three steps forwards towards the tents, trying not to mind the churning of the earth, like a giant is twisting in their sleep. He doesn't have the brainpower to wonder at this, simply following the steps laid out.

Medic tents. They gotta go and secure them, and Esteban is darting lightly, trying to jog to his destination while keeping an eye out for any intruders.

"Run ahead?" he suggests to the dragon, "I'll catch up, an' she's-- we gotta get her som'where safe."