Wind ruffles through the mahogany fur of the assassin, her eyes staring over the cliffs of this ridge. She wasn't sure where she was, but wherever it was it was peaceful. Wolves had lived here— maybe not recently but not too long ago. Dried scat was littered every so often around the area, but there were no recent or strong scents to suggest a current pack lived her. So she ventured forwards.

Her ears angled forward as she moved to sit, her paws graceful and careful enough not to slip over or disturb the ground that held up the edge so carefully. Then she sat. With her ears still rotating— in case of anyone trying to come at her from her behind— Natasha sat and stared over the landscape.

Her peaceful watch was interrupted by a hunting woman. She could see her not too far off, staring at goats hungrily. Curious, the red mercenary dropped down a few ledges, careful and graceful on her feet. She slinks in the shadows, remaining hidden, and watches the reddish-brown woman as she moves. Suddenly, she leaps. Maybe at the goat— but it's so ungraceful it's hard to tell. She watches her land on her shoulders, a sickening pop sounding. Natasha takes a deep breath and stares at the woman for a moment before shaking her head.

She moves closer to the lady, eventually making her way to the top of the ledge that the other had so gracefully thrown herself from. She stares at her from up top, ears cupping forward. "I recommend landing on your feet," she says, then begins to descend via a much safer route. She reaches the bottom and stands in the shade of a large boulder, her tail swishing behind her, waiting silently.

Natasha gave a small chuckle, tail flicking. "I doubt you're doing any pushing on that shoulder," she says, taking a seat where she stood. "Doesn't seem broken," she says from a bit away. She was by no means a seasoned healer, but broken bones tended to cause a little more pain that gritted teeth. 

"You got a name, Red?" she asks, a tiny hint of an implication hidden beneath her. Give some info, get some help— she seemed at least a little willing. She couldn't truly make fun of anyone for having such a November color-scheme, her own coat sporting everything from pumpkin-oranges to apple-reds... but a nickname never hurt anyone.

"Nat," she answers swiftly. The other sits up, but seems pained. She didn't know much— if anything— about wounds, but maybe she could fix it if it were just popped out of joint... that wouldn't be too hard, she didn't think. 

"Want some help?" she offers, raising an eyebrow. She wondered if the woman was too prideful to accept help, even though the help was unprofessional and most likely useless. She was feeling generous today.

"Sure," Natasha says, coming over, she watches the red-head with a cautious gaze before dipping her head and sniffing at the shoulder. What good did that do? No good. No good at all, but did Roz know that? Nope. Not at all— she assumes, anyway.

"Yep," she says with mock certainty, "Looks just, popped out of joint, I'd say." She stares at the shoulder once more before nosing it a bit more. "I need you to turn this way," she says, pointing with her muzzle. It did seem a little off center, so maybe she could fix it by forcing it back. She was gonna jump on it.