Cries of hurt rent the air.
Perhaps an unfortunate youngster who has fallen prey to gravity, perhaps a Slinger who has met another's business end. Peridot gaze seeks the afflicted alongside beady eyes of the loyal Frightgeist at the shoulder. Sigh of relief that it is the former and not the latter; he does not feel like playing the pacifist today before administering care to the wounded.
Ianmo stops at his command before the stricken child, quiet and friendly reassurances passing through accented lips to anchor calm and not panic. Even through the painted skull, his amiable nature shines, a beacon in such dim time as this. Award-winning smile granted only when permission is given, small laugh gifted as ails are forgotten for the oddity of the skull-faced creature.
Explanations follow every action. Poultices applied, more for keeping infection from ravaging than any other thing. Bandaging comes last, Minerva keeping watchful gaze at her handler's workings and the well-being of the injured.
Scrapped knees are nothing to sneeze at, and the child has certainly won their war with the pavement. Wear those wounds proud, brave soldier; they serve the reminder that physics is a cruel mistress.
Thanks are bestowed and a grateful pat to Minerva's head given before they run off. All in the day's work for a healer.
Where have all the medicine-men gone?
YOU ARE READING
100 Blinks
FanfictionA collection of drabbles written off a pre-existing list of 100 prompts, centered around a multitude of noncanon continuities. Some long, some short, but all addressed in one way or another.
