Ravenshook Cliffs of salted crimes

She was weary, Riptide noted from the shift in her posture though what he could have possibly said to make her so — seemingly as confused as he himself — he didn't know and deigned not to ask. She gave a name, or a duty; perhaps for her it was both. Doctor. Simple. Easy for him to remember (which was by and far the best thing). She'd taken a few steps back from him, creating space that had not been there when she'd been tending to his wounds. This fascinated the Riptide. His head canted to the side in a curious fashion, studying her, trying to determine what about him unsettled her so. He would analyze how he felt about it later for there were more pressing concerns to tend to. “I am called Riptide,” Though there was only a minuscule hesitation, his lips parted as if he did not think that was quite right. But of course that was silly. There was no other name to associate with himself...and Riptide was what the spirits had violently whispered to him like a mantra while he had been dreaming. Thus, of course, it was his name.

“I won't hurt you Doctor,” Riptide promised in a softened purr as she approached, each of her steps and movements weary, cautious. It was fair for her to assume that it was a possibility — everything she said and indication thus far suggested that they'd never met before. “A poultice,” Riptide repeated. “Of what? For what?” He fired off the questions, knowing that he would oversee the creation of the poultice: for as weary as she was of him, he felt a creep of suspicion towards her. He had to be sure she was not creating a poison to give him, after all.

“The top?” Riptide asked her, his steps halting, peering over a svelte shoulder to set his fiery gaze upon her. “Surely you don't mean the cliff?” In case it hadn't been clear by the fact that he'd fallen down it (though he only known this by what she told him) he was not exactly thrilled, or truthfully, all that eager to climb it. Or anything with any sort of elevation for that matter. He refused to move, contemplating that there had to be a way around the damned thing.