Who

Melusine, Finn, Garf (a dog)

What

Finn is trying to get a snakebit Garf home when he runs across a lone Zingari healer.

When

It is afternoon of the sixteenth day of the tenth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr

OOC Date

 

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Eastern Road

Beyond a steep traverse down the eastern slopes of the Central Range, the road leading out toward Keroon becomes level and wide, a landscape of grit and sandstone giving way to flatlands and swamps near the Igen River. The air becomes thicker, the aridness of the desert succumbing to the atmosphere of the river and, further on, the sea. Eventually, this melds into the plains and foothills that define Keroon's plateau.

Beyond a steep traverse down the eastern slopes of the Central Range, the road leading out toward Keroon becomes level and wide, a landscape of grit and sandstone giving way to flatlands and swamps near the Igen River. The air becomes thicker, the aridness of the desert succumbing to the atmosphere of the river and, further on, the sea. Eventually, this melds into the plains and foothills that define Keroon's plateau.

It is the seventy-sixth day of Autumn and 87 degrees. The day dawns bright and clear. Everything is coated in sand, but no clouds linger on the horizon.


Late afternoon, late enough for the sun to threaten to go down, and the weather is being surly. That day, a sandstorm had howled through this section from the desert, certainly far out of its normal bounds, and man and beast took shelter. Now, after the howling winds lay down and became still, the silence is almost eerie, drumming on the ears and mind with nothing-nothing-nothing. In that silence, along the hardpacked road a few hours out past the weyr's entrance, a lone rider attempts to fill that silence. Swathed in a dark blue that's almost purple, gender is a little iffy. The runner, however, is a real beauty, blood-bay and almost ugly, but beautifully cared for. Tassels decorate the simple saddle, nothing more than a simple sculpted pad, with a suspicious lack of reins that does not seem to bother the rider much.

Riding at a canter towards the Weyr, hooves of his runner kicking up long plumes of dust, a man -gender not iffy- draws rein and dismounts. The runner is winded, chest heaving, foam flecked. Carefully, awkwardly, the man slips down, a bundle cradled in his arms. Hunched, now afoot and leading the runner, he begins walking. He's not paying much attention to the road ahead until the sound of more than his labored breathing finally enters his consciousness. A shrill warbling from somewhere on the packsaddles. A little firelizard raises up, calls, and alights on the man's shoulder. The man, a young man, lifts his head, pale eyes bright against dust and grime-dark skin, and a dun headcloth wrapped around to keep dust off of the rest of him. His steps pause slightly, taking in the other rider, the winded runner trying to stop before reluctantly resuming a steady plod as the man continues, shifting to the far side of the road.

The other rider draws in the runner, and something about the set of shoulders suggests 'female' and 'wary'. One hears things about bandits these days; friendly or not is a hard distinction to make when the other person is muffled in cloth. Despite that, there's the suggestion that her gaze drops to the runner under the man before her decision is made. She shifts in the saddle, guiding the runner closer in little prancing steps, before holding up a hand. "Stranger," she says, definitely a she now, with such a voice, and the saddlework under her is clearly Zingari in quality. "Bide a moment. Your runner is going to…" There's a shocked pause, and a closer stare. "Faranth, man, it's nearly foundered. What could possibly be this urgent?"

Closer, the Zingari woman can see the 'bundle' is a canine. A mottled, ugly mutt. Dead weight in the man's arms. The dog's chest rises and falls rapidly, shallowly. The man's steps slow and his eyes track the woman on her reinless runner, a big bold-looking thing. Tassles, cloth. Another trader. A woman. Alone. Up close, those pale eyes are stricken, worried. "Can't," bide. A low whimper sounds from the bundle and the man's head dips to murmur reassuraning nonsense, arms shifting carefully to readjust his hold. He swallows and looks back up at woman, reassuring her, "Walk, run, walk. 's the quickest way." He's not stopped in this whole time, slowed only. Light eyes shift up to the falling sun, down the road, to the woman, curious and wary, then back to the poor mutt. The runner he's leading plods along, head low.

The woman's bearing doesn't suggest much worry for the rider. Instead, the plight of the animals draw her attention, and there's the suggestion of a frown as the runner is urged on. Clearly, the man's actions say that the canine's valued by him, and the runner doesn't look damaged by an unfriendly rider, just pushed close to his endurance. Indecision doesn't war in her breast. The Weyr might be figuratively close, but distances are still large out here, and the canine does sound ill. Will it even make it to the Herders there? She reaches out again, to hold up her hand again, then down a little half-bow over it. "Bide a while," she instructs, and it is definitely an instruction this time. "I am a healer; animals are known to me. Let me take a look. At the very least I might help it last until the Weyr's Herders can take a look at it."

The man's feet stop. A breath hitched, he turns, "Please," a hollow, hoarse rasp. He casts about for a place to the side of the road, settling on a patch of scrubby grass grown up in the lee of a tumble of loose rocks. He lowers himself and the animal carefully. The runner's, reins turned loose, plods along behind the man, staying with his 'herd.' He's kneeled beside the dog, stroking the wiry fur gently, murmuring. "I don't know what's wrong."

Better. The woman listens attentively as she dismounts with the ease of long practice, and her runner follows at the click of a tongue, and an odd, warbling word. There's a sere slash of dark eyes, lined with kohl, before she kneels down too, and takes her riding gloves off. "There now," she mutters soothingly, not to the man but the beast, and gentle hands unwrap the cloth around the beast. Quickly, delicately, she looks at the rheum of its eyes and the colour of the mucous membrane that lines its jaw. "High fever," she mutters to herself, one hand sliding down to check the pulse behind one leg and finally leans closer to sniff at its breath. The other hand reaches down to a small pouch attached to her belt. "Fetch my waterbottle from my saddle," she orders. "Before it started getting this sick, did it seem as if it had a limp?"

The young man watches the woman intently, brow knitted with concern. He swallows, nodding, and rises quickly to fetch the waterbottle, letting the woman's runner sniff him as he goes hand-over-hand along its length to the bottle. "Here," the bottle extended before the man kneels again, pulling the headcovering down a little to reveal a marginally cleaner mouth and jaw dusted with a seven's scruff. "I don't know," a small shake of his head. "I heard him yelp and by the time I found him, he was like this. He was a ways off." Stupid mutt. There's a suspicious swallow, "Is he…" cracked, hoarse. He clears his throat, "Is he gonna be okay?"

In the time that the young man is away, the woman takes the opportunity to examine the canine a little more closely. What she finds doesn't please her, to judge from the mumbled curse. She rakes her facial scarves off, dragging them back to expose a woman somewhat older, but still on the right side of thirty. "It depends," she informs him in quick, meted syllables. "Snakebite. It depends on the variety that bit him… here, see, high on the inside of his right rear leg. I'm speculating some kind of water snake, but… there, there, great heart. Settle down. Settle down now." The last to the canine, who starts twitching, and she gets in a pat before quickly turning to rummage through her pouch. She rattles the waterbottle, nods judiciously and takes a sip before stuffing several of the leaves into her mouth to chew. Several moments pass, until she spits the mixture back into the waterbottle's mouth, and closes it to shake vigorously. "Hold his mouth open," she orders. "This might get nasty, but we've got to get it down him. It'll strengthen him, and your runner, enough to make the last leg to the Weyr."

The young man nods, putting a hand on the canine's shoulders, murmuring quietly. He'd dosed critters before. Not often. It wasn't ever pleasant, but the firmer and more sure-handed the better. He puts a hand to the limp muzzle, heart aching at those rheumy eyes that drift to roll and look at his. He nods. "Ready." At his shoulder the little gold flit warbles and lifts tiny wings, anxious.

No matter how much the woman be hesitant about helping a stranger, there's something about the young man's look that grips at the heart. "Keep your hopes up," she orders, a little more softly and gently. "He will pull through." There's a small slice of smile, an attempt to meet his eyes, before she gets down to the task. It is dirty and unpleasant; the poor canine can't work with them to help itself get better, and it takes a long while to coax everything down. She might be brusque with distrust, but her bedside manner can't be faulted, even as strong hands make sure to massage the dog's throat to get it to swallow the last little bit. There's a long pause, a soft caress of one ear, and she bends down to listen to its heart. "Your name?" she asks as she does so.

More swallowing. A quick nod, and a brief flicker of eyes up at the woman when he senses her looking at him. No smile from him, but he eases a little. Reassured by the woman's confidence. It is NOT pleasant. "Garf," he answers, because the dog can't talk. She's talking to the dog, right?

Now there's a brighter twitch of a smile. "Garf," she says, and straightens with a firm nod. "Well, Garf, you're going to be just fine." She transfers the smile to the young man; one moment a healer and the next not, as relaxation pours through her. "His heart is slowing down a little, but you'll have to give him at least half a candle to calm down a little before you go on. I'll tend to your runner as well, if I may? My string of the caravan, we used to specialise in runners. Breeding, racing, showing."

More of that suspicious swallowing. The man nods silently, hand petting the wiry, mottled fur. He's a homely thing, this Garf. Of a sudden, the man reaches out the squeeze the healer's hand. Hard. Uncomfortable. "Thank you." Light colored eyes, bright, flicker up briefly before dropping again, the hand turned loose. He nods again at the request to see to the runner. Shifting to sit cross-legged, since he's gonna be here a while, the man resumes petting the canine. "Stupid mutt." Petting still, he looks up, eyes clearing, somewhat more at ease. He looks at the woman's runner. "Zingari, right?" At least that saddle is.

"Zingari," the woman informs over her shoulder as she moves to tend to the runner. Now that the canine's chances are better, her walk turns more to a natural, almost lyrical sway. She leaves the young man some time to bond with his pet and soothe it - that'll do Garf better now than anything else - she tends to the poor runner. She takes her time about it, rubbing salve from a tiny pot onto its legs, chafing, talking, care in every movement. It's nearly twenty minutes before she returns to hunker down at the young man's side. One hand digs into a sleeve, and wrapped sticks of jerky are offered to him without comment on how worn he looks. "There is a man I know," she hazards quietly. "He is very good with animals. If yon Herders and your own folk can't heal him, you can send your gold for me, and we'll meet you somewhere out here."

She moves like water flowing over stones, this strange darkling Zingari woman. The miracle worker. "Reika," the young man offers, watching as the healer moves through tending to his gassed runner. Slowly, slowly Garf's breathing deepens and he closes his eyes, sleeping lightly. Exhausted. The Reika man splits his time between petting Garf and murmuring and watching the woman flow as she moves. Like a dance. He smiles and takes the proferred jerky, "Thank you. I should be offering you something." His eyes go to the packsaddles and fishing gear on the now, resting runner who has sidled up to the blood bay. He shrugs, "I've not got her trained that well. Uh," he twists and looks off down the road away from the Weyr, "Do you think it's… is it that uncertain?" he swallows and looks down at the resting dog, hand stilling in the petting.

Melusine's runner doesn't bite, doesn't even move much; perhaps not she, but someone trained the mare very well, as ugly as she might be. "Ah, cousin," her rider says, delighted, and smiles at the young man. "Distant cousin. Cousin-in-law?" It's a tease, but that slides away the moment his mood sours again, and she reaches out to gently place her fingertips 'neath his chin. "If I had thought it that slim a chance, I would have taken Garf to the Herders myself," she promises quietly, resolutely, as she lets her hand move up to finally cup his cheek. "Be at ease, cousin. He will make it, unless they bungle the treatment."

"You don't look like any of my cousins." Finn's expression lightens, eyebrows hiking up as he takes a bit of jerky and bites into it, giving paid to the name as he struggles to get a bite. There! Steady chewing. Chewing. Chewing. Jerky. Cheeeewing. And then that fingertip, placed gently on his chin. Chewing slows. Stops. He's caught in that intent look. He swallows, blinking at her, listening. He nods, "Thank you," quietly. His head droops, hands following, one to his lap and the other to Garf's slowly rising and falling side.

"Are you not my cousin in the larger sense of the word?" Melusine enquires quietly. "We traders, by and large, should stick together much like family." There's a last squeezing pat to his shoulder before expressive eyes follow the weight of his hand as it settles on the canine's wire-haired flank. "I give it a few days before he's back to helping you charm pretty young girls." She pulls her hand back to dust them off, grimacing at the aftertaste of the ghetto medicine in her mouth. "What is your name?"

A canny light in blue eyes accompanies a sidelong look, "'By and large'?" Finn bites off another hunk of jerky and chews, eyes bright under the fading shadow of concern. He chews, the wry smile turning more happy, "He's never off duty. Apparently." Finn strokes Garf's shaggy neck and ears. "Even snakebit." His grin falters at that grimace and his eyes drop again to Garf. "Finn, wel-" She's watched patiently QUITE long enough and NONE of that jerky has come her way. The little gold flit, her tail trailing down Finn's back, sits back on her haunches and shrills a request (DEMAND) for the vertiable bounty that Finn is Not Sharing. Garf twitches and Finn shushes the little flit, tearing off a piece for her and whistling a little trill. He's fit the flit with a fond look and rubs at the fine frame of her chest, tiny ribs delicate as lacework under the gold hide. "Well met." He grimaces, "I'm lucky we ran across you. Where are you camped?"

"Finn," the woman says, tasting the name slowly and thoroughly. It's a slightly exotic sound that she lends to it, subtly accented. "Finn. A strong name." A smile begins to grow, but it turns into a soft laugh as she sees Little Miss get her way, and digs about in her pouch for a smaller bit. "I see that you well understand how the female of the species needs to be treated," she laughs, and reaches out to rest the piece in grabbable reach. "Does it matter where I'm camped?" she finally asks, happy look turning to a serious one. "Ours is a camp of sickness and death, no fitting place for a visit." No pretty young men to look at either, though she's not looked much at him yet.

'In grabbable reach' means balanced on Finn's shoulder. The little lady warbles brightly at the healer, chattering at her and keeping up the chatter as people conversation resumes. "Feed them and rub their chests?" Finn cocks his head to look at the healer, eyes wide, "The Zingari have interesting, ah, customs!" He boggles at Melusine for moment before it hits him and he grins sheepishly, "You meant flits." He scratches at his jaw. Finn is not the sharpest knife in the drawer. He sobers at the dark turn of expression, "What… I… I knew the Zingari had fallen on hard times. Can we…" he pauses, unable to speak for his whole clan, "Can I do anything?"

Melusine has to smile at that, until kohl-lined dark eyes turn merry and bright. "I spoke of women, and how to pacify a loud one, of course. But yes. The Zingari do have strange customs, cousin," she teases. "And one day I'll show you a few of them, if you're strong enough to … survive them, of course." He's too cute not to flirt with, but that passes at the offer of help, albeit just for the moment. "I don't know," she finally says, heartbreak tiredness on view for a bare moment. As a healer, she's surely overstretched. "Not for the moment. You'll have to owe me a favour." An attempt at joviality there, but a small one, and her gaze is still remote, especially when she looks over his shoulder out towards the river's nearest crooked curl. "Of your courtesy though, what is the road like to there?" Her chin lifts in the direction she's staring in. "Ziachra can outrun most everything, but a pinch of prevention is better than a pound of cure."

Finn eyes light at that smile and a broad grin stretches into place at the teasing, teeth white against a grimy face, "We Reika are but a simple people. You will have much to show me." He may not be smart, but, this he gets. His brows knit at that glimpse of pain. Softly, "For the moment, why don't you come sit with me," he shifts the little flit to his other shoulder and raises an arm for the trader to shelter under, "Cousin." The other inquiries left for later.

A strong woman, she gives him a very steady look for a few moments before, will crumbling, she moves closer to shift in underneath his arm. "Do you know what it's like, helping relatives wash corpses?" she muses. "Doubly so when they're young. It's the most terrible thing I've ever seen, that kind of loss in another's eyes. It's why I became a healer, to help stop that, but I can't. This time I can't. It's slowing, but there are so many dead, cousin." Her closest arm wraps around his waist, and her eyes focus on the idle swish-swish-swish of the gold's tail, absorbing a little of her ease. "As much as I want to flirt with pretty men… I am out of practice just now."

Finn pulls the healer close, tucked under his arm and gives her a squeeze. He stills at the mention of washing corpses, swallowing. He nods, eyes distant. He shifts and leans his head over until it's resting on Melusine's. Finn listens and sits quietly for a long moment when the healer speaks of her pain and her helplessness. She can feel the light shake of his head, "I can't imagine how difficult that is." He leans forward a bit, taking her with him, and pets Garf, "It's a good thing you do. A brave thing. I," he coughs, "I couldn't do it." He takes a deep breath and lets it out with an amused snort, "Aww… it won't take any time to get your chops back. Shoot, just walk from here to there with that sway of yours." Seated, and not a Zingari woman, he makes a poor imitation of Melusine's liquid sway, wrapping the gesture with a point off towards a tumble of rocks not far as a place to where Melusine could sway off to and return.

She almost doesn't fit well there, tall enough that her frame has to compact a little to shift shoulder in under his, but the ease with which she draws up her legs and considers her dusty boots hints at the lithe, boneless grace of a born dancer. "I don't know," she says as troublesome thoughts sweep through her mind. "You're kind enough to try and make me feel better. That's all that I'm trying to do as well. Our applications are different, that's all." Eyeing the canine, she leans forward to take its pulse again, and sighs with greater ease at what she finds there. "It's working." Her mouth purses, and eyes' sideways glance hint at the fire within, deep beneath the fatigue. "Cousin," she purrs idly. "If I have to take that many steps to turn your blood to fire, there is something seriously wrong with me."

She flows seated. Wow. That their 'applications are different' is a vast understatement. Finn disagrees with the healer, but doesn't feel any pressing need to make a point, happy to just enjoy the warmth and contact. The knot of worry in his gut is slowly unwinding. And moreso after the healer's pronouncement. He smiles, leaning forward to root fingers in Garf's shaggy ruff. At that purr a lick of heat runs up the back of his neck, arm squeezing reflexively as he laughs, "I'm just a simple Reika Smith. What do I know?" Better than to be out on the road alone. "Healer," she hadn't given her name, he shifts, murmuring into her hair, hand moving from Garf's neck to rest fingertips on Melusine's knee. "You should get back to your people." He swallows, brows knit with concern, "The roads aren't safe and it's not long before dark."

Melusine look at the fingertips on her knee, reluctantly aware that he does have a point. "Yes," she finally acknowledges. "But I likely won't get back tonight; I still need to get to the river's edge to check for some plants there. However, if I can get at least to the desert's edge before dusk falls, it'll be fine. Ziachra is too fine to let anyone but a dragon catch her." Enjoying one last moment of warmth, she slips away and to her feet, giving Garf a last pat. "You will have to get to the Weyr as well. Send your little queen if you need me urgently." Her motions are practiced as she starts wrapping the long scarf around her face again, kohl-lined eyes still bring between the folds of dark cloth.

"A woman alone…" Finn stands with Melusine as she flows to her feet, "There have been attacks. I'm gonna catch hell from my sister. AND mother." And probably Kalfor and Forin too. "I-" he looks down at Garf, jaw bunching. "It's-" dangerous. He snaps his mouth shut, blinking, "Um, she's not trained to do that yet." He squints, "I… she could go to my people. I could let them know I'm staying out here." He looks like he could handle himself.

Finn looks as if he could handle more than just himself, what with the smith's physique she felt in that hug. "I can't take you to our camp," Melusine says, muffled now by the cloth. "It is a place of too much sickness, I won't allow it. But, I will ride with you to almost at the Weyr, and leave from there if it will make your sister and mother sleep better. Garf will still need some sort of healers' attention." She turns her head sideways, whistles a warbling note and reaches out a hand to Ziachra, who approaches. "I will take him up with me, lessen the burden on your mount, if you wish."

"You're gonna escort me?" To the Weyr? He cocks his head, puzzled at her offer. "Um." He scratches at his jaw, "I meant…" he flips his hand back and forth. The other way. His brow wrinkles, rather like the canine at his feet. He looks up the road, towards the river. The way he'd come. He lifts his head, squinting in the sun and feeling the breeze on his face. See. He's got it all worked out, "You're 'some sort of healer.' We go to the river. You get your," he waves a hand, "Whatever you're getting."

Something about the woman's posture relaxes a little; she's not without protective men in her life, and has learnt to deal with the consequences. "If you have a camp back there, we can, but Finn…" Her voice trails off, and she nods to the supine canine between them. "You have a duty towards him as well. He's not healed yet, just a bit stronger. I only have a travelling pack with me, nothing like what I might need to heal him." One step forward, then two. "Did your sister or your mother pack a satchel for you, perhaps, with healing medication inside? I might be able to concoct something to take care of the last venom if you do." There's the suggestion of a slow, lazy grin underneath the cloth veiling her face. "If that's the case… I can introduce you to Ziachra, who will carry the two of you, and I can take your runner."

Concern for Garf puts a stitch in the man's well-intentioned bluster. "I thought… y-" lots of incomplete thoughts for Finn. Not that he's in the practice of thinking much. He looks at Melusine and then at the packs on his runner, "Let me check. I've got a kit, but… it's old I think. Unless Onari freshed it." He hastens to his runner, who'd crowded up with Ziachra when the bay had stepped forward at Melusine's whistle. He murmurs to the beast, patting it's neck before he flips open saddle bags and rummages, pulling out a tied roll of leather. He hands it to Melusine. "That's my kit. I don't know what you need, but what I have's there."

Melusine takes the kit from Finn and turns, sinking down on her haunches. With a practised flip she opens the tie and rolls it out, fingertips tapping at her lips as she stares at the contents. "This sister of yours … you must love her very much, yes?" she finally asks, eyes still on the contents of the roll. "Because she loves you very much, that is clear to see from these." A single, expressive roll of fingers, a coil of motion in the air. "This is certainly a good enough kit. Heartsease and a little fellis and … ah!" She pounces on a little packet of dried leaves that he likely looked over, sniffing at it with every evidence of happiness. "Baneflower!" Merry now, she rolls up the medicine kit and stands with a shiver of muscular control. "Will you show me to the spot you've been camping?"

Finn leans down to peer over the healer's shoulder, "I do," he watches as her fingers trip across the contents of the roll. "She does," for the time being. He's mesmerized by that roll of fingers. Hmmm? What's in that packet. Fellis?! What does Onari think I'm gonna do out here? "Baneflower," Finn falls back as Melusine flows upright. "Is that what you need for Garf?" He looks at the passed out dog. What? "Camping? No," he shakes his head, "I was just out fishing for the day," he lifts a hand to point north, towards the river. "And I wouldn't camp there after Garf got bit. Think it may be mating season." For the snakes.

"Mhm, that and a few other things," Melusine murmurs. One hand reaches out, laces through his, and she pulls him forward. "This is Ziachra," she says proudly of the bay mare, patting the red-copper face lovingly. "Ziachra, this is Finn, and his canine Garf. You'll have to put up with them for a bit; you're strong enough to carry them both." Finn's runner is examined as well, frowned over a little, but ultimately approved — the medication did it as well as Garf. "We can ride out there," she says tentatively. "I'll be quick. If it gets too late we can turn around?" It depends on him, ultimately.

Finn is about to crouch at Garf's side when that lace of hands comes. His reaction is a subtle one, a slight shift of balance, posture, tension… a willing of weight down through the legs, the soles of boots and into the earth. An alignment of flesh and bone forged in the fires of long labor. Not a rejection of the handclasp so much as a gauge of the healer's strength of body, purpose. A flicker of perfect immoveability, right up to the cusp of denying her and then the resistance melts as if it had been imagined. Raising eyebrows for permission Finn stands at Ziachra's head and lets the mare sniff him, not raising his hands to touch her, or turn loose of Melusine's hand, until the healer goes to check on, "Pacheco," Finn supplies, as Melusine frowns over the gelding. "Hello Ziachra," he murmurs. "We'll get to the river bank at dusk if we leave now."

The healer is certainly not a pushover; there's a good measure of strength in her arms, back and thighs as she leans back to pull him up; she'll never measure up to his strength, of course, but is no weakling. Her hands, uncovered at the moment, are soft and warm and dry, with the suggestion of a faint scrollwork there, a mehndi tattoo likely faded from repeated washing of her hands around sickness. At the raise of eyebrows she nods and stands away a little, one hand still on Ziachra's neck. "You don't steer her with reins," she explains, perhaps unnecessarily. "Just lean a little in the direction you wish to go, and let her do the rest of the work. Yours should be okay until the river from here."

Finn's eyes trace the swirling patterns up the woman's wrist to where they dissapear into her sleeve, a tantalizing trail. Where does that end? He nods, eyes falling to Garf's limp, sleeping form. "Let me get that note off," he pats about himself for a stylus and, belatedly realizing where he is -or more to the point where he is NOT- he moves again to saddlebags and fishes out a scrap of parchment, peering at it dubiously (it's already written on) and then flipping it to the clean side to lean against his runner's saddle and scribble briefly. He sets the little flit on the saddle, carefully affixing the message to her hindleg, whistling little short melodies to her. He rubs a crooked finger along the crown of her head and whistles, with a gesture skyward. She launches and promptly blinks between and Finn dusts his hands. "No idea where she's gonna end up. With my sister, hopefully." He turns his attention now to Garf. Poor Garf. "Hey, buddy. We're gonna move now." The canine was laid down on a length of cloth and Finn begins to work his arms up under the cloth carefully, so as not to disturb Garf's rest.

"Ah, let me help you," Melusine mutters after he scribbles the note; whilst she doesn't help pick Garf up, she stretches out her arms to take possession of him afterwards. "You'll need hands to get into her saddle. Fair warning, it's been stitched for my backside, so it might feel a bit strange." Backsides are different, after all. Afterwards, if Finn acquiesces, she hands Garf up, and fusses a bit to make sure the canine's comfortable. She sways to Pacheco next, holding up hands to be sniffed at, letting the gelding get to know her at least a little before swinging up into the foreign saddle. There's a bit of a nosewrinkle, luckily hidden, before she inclines her head to him and, taking up the reins, clicks to Ziachra. "Come, jewel!" she calls out over her shoulder. Whether she's referring to the mare or Finn? Not said.

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"Thanks," Finn rumbles, carefully handing Garf over into Melusine's care. He mounts with little fuss, shifting as he tries to find a comfortable seat, but forgetting all about that as the bundled mutt is handed up and held close to his chest like a babe. A big, wiry-haired, ugly, ugly babe. Finn's already giving Ziachra unintentional cues and she moves to them readily as if he'd meant them. "Uh, I… uh, whoa! Some help!" Settled after making a number of sidepasses and tight circles, Finn more or less gets the hang of 'no reins.' Though he can almost taste Ziachra's bare sufferance. "Thank you," he murmurs to the blood red mare. He leans forward slightly, urging Ziachra forward to follow after the Zingari woman. In all the shenanigans, he missed Melusine's mouting and mild discomfort for the seat she's found. The mare responds as much (more?) to Melusine's commands than to his and they're off, Finn crouched to shelter Garf from as much jostling as he's able.

Ziachra's stride is smooth, but there's inevitable jostling as they pick up speed. Melusine's back is to Finn the whole time as she leads the way; her mare has been trained to follow her, so it's the safest method for them, and the speed makes it a quiet ride by necessity. The sun is flaming on the horizon as they arrive, and she pulls to at the water's edge under a line of scrubby trees. Dismounting, she stretches for a second to get mobility back before she makes her way to Finn's side, looking up at him. "Well now," comes her voice. "Let's see what we can do for him, hm? You look out for further 'snakes, and I'll make a poultice quickly. It'll keep until I make the medicine." There's a short pause. "Thank you, cousin," she murmurs eventually. "For thinking of my protection."

Finn nods, relaxing as they come to a halt at last. She can't have any bones at all. Finn muses, having spent the last couple hours watching Melusine sway in the saddle and, now, flow down and into stretches. He swallows, leaning carefully over to hand the worrisomely still bundle down to Melusine. Garf hadn't so much as stirred that Finn had noticed. He scrambles down out of the saddle with a pat to Ziachra's neck, but is all eyes for Garf. "He's so still." Light eyes flick up, jaw muscles bunched as he rather unintentionally crowds Melusine in his concern. He looks from Garf to Melusine to Garf and back. He nods at her direction, using his knife to saw and strip a sapling into a stick he can use to prod the brush as he searches, "I'd hope anyone would do the same," cast over his shoulder as he begins to make a circuit of the camp. He's peering hard into the difficult light of twilight, not yet dark enough to use his peripheral sense, not bright enough to properly see. That is, until he really sees something. And it's not a snake. Not the slithering kind. "Healer." The Smith's voice is low and urgent, Finn shifts onto the balls of his feet, fingers adjusting on knife and stick, backing slowly towards the healer and Garf, "Run. NOW."

Continued in Strange Salvation

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