Bitterroot Valley a head start in hindsight

An hour before sunrise, he rolled over and staggered to his feet. Then he puked his guts out.

Impossibly, the stuff tasted even sourer the second time - coming up instead of going down. And evilly hot, too. The crisp, cold, dry morning air turned over with the odor of decay and bile. Skífa held the position, head down and back arched, until he'd relieved his stomach of its contents and his nausea receded like an ocean tide. The world grew steady. His sides hurt. But at least he felt better.

The stars were fading out and a steely color was growing brighter on the horizon. The chilly winter breeze felt soothing on his cheeks and forehead. He nosed the air, then realized he'd have to walk away if he wanted to smell anything besides his sick. So, he slunk from the brambles and bracken covered rocks that'd been his shelter for the night; he was shaky and a little weak, but moving felt good. He made his way into the desolate, open fields of Bitterroot Valley, sugared far and wide in a fine layer of snow. Barely enough to count as more than frost. His breath smoked around his muzzle.

Skífa tried smelling the wind again. South - maybe. Southwest? He still tasted acid in the back of his mouth and he was sure it was screwing up his sense of smell. But he wasn't about to wait around second-guessing his nose. The only way he'd know for sure was to take a look - to see if there really was water nearby.

So, south-southwest he began trotting. Slowly. Stretching against the aching stiffness in his limbs. Along the way, he smirked mockingly at himself. What a stupid position he was in, and what a stupid reason for it, too. But his smirk was a little less acerbic than he really wanted it to be, and it evaporated as the sun really started coming up, painting the puffy sky in hues of pink and gold.

hope you don't mind me?

The dark was coming to an end. Pink and soft purple lit up the sky, the stars faded against the light drop. Were they always there, he wondered, or were they transported somewhere else only to return? He found he didn't care. Walking further from the Glen, he found himself in a dense woodland. The weather was clear enough, but he didn't care about that either. He sought shelter.

But he paused.

The unmistaken scent of sickness caused him to curl his lips. Soon finding the origin - bile in the brambles - he curtly kicked more dirt over it. Movement caught his eye, the distant shape of another wolf walking away from him. But Holland walked toward. Perhaps his steps were a bit rushed, for he soon came near enough to speak to. "Wait" he says to the man simply at first. He pauses in step, tail swishing behind him. 

"Are you unwell?" his words could be seen as blunt if not for the edge of quiet concern. His brows furrowed, glancing back at where he knew the bile to be. "I will leave you be if you want" Holland proclaims slowly "yet I am a healer. I can look you over - should you wish."

ofc not!

Wait, someone called behind him. Skífa planted his ears to his scalp and staggered broadside, head low across his chest, hackles up and shivering. His nose wrinkled slightly as he caught sight of the wolf following him. Damn. Too late to hide, probably too late to bluff his way out of trouble.

He flicked his ears forward and considered his options, his face blank and unreadable. Strangely, the other wolf was acting civil. Friendly, even, despite knowing Skífa was sick. Vulnerable. After a beat, Skífa tilted his head back and smirked again. "Healer?" Maybe he felt giddy and reckless because his body was tired and sore, or because he was starving and thirsty and just upchucked the last meal he'd tried to stuff down, but something about the word was incredibly funny. What were the odds? His luck wasn't this good - not ever.

If this was a trick, it was an interesting one. Might as well see how it played out. He canted his head to one side. "What do you want in return?" His lip half-curled in what might have been amusement or contempt.

"Nothing."

He knew that it was suspicious. He knew the other would balk. Holland only knew for himself what he'd get out of it; experience. That would not be something to give - only gain. He tilted his head slightly to the side, squinting his good eye as he mentally looked them over. "Would you mind telling me what ails you?" he would request, moving along as quickly as possible. 

Throwing up could be stomach problems. It could be a more serious sign of sickness. Vomiting protected the body from threat as well. Something the man ate or drank could be the cause of it. But he did remain where he was, keeping a civil distance from the other wolf. Polite even. He did not ever like to press his company on others. Not unless they requested it - and even then it was dreadfully exhausting on Holland's part.

Suspicion crawled across his face; he narrowed his eyes and studied the stranger more carefully. "Ate bad food," he answered. "Found it in a bog. Sheep, I think. Might have been. I don't really know. Gross, old. But at least it was food." The ghost of a grin flickered across his face, then disappeared. Slowly, his hackles settled down again, and he heaved something of a thin sigh from his chest. It was taxing enough to keep his guard and his wits up - if the other wolf was going to act cordial, Skífa was willing to relax a little. He was feeling too flushed and weedy to put on pretenses of strength, anyway. He gestured shamelessly at the wolf's face. "What happened to your eye?" If they were going to get to know one another, Skífa was going to push his curiosity and his boundaries as far as he could take them. If Skífa wasn't wrong, the other wolf must be half-blind. His eye was white as the moon and framed by scars.

"Hmm" Holland's good eye pulled a thoughtful look. If it was carrion, there was not much he could do. The body itself would churn it out in time. With winter here, the frost killed all the herbs. He could not offer any to the man to relieve him quicker. "would you mind if I felt your stomach?" he would ask now, still not moving from his position. 

He would be able to tell from that what sort of pain the other had from pressure alone. The man had questions of his own though. Holland snorted softly, closing both his eyes. "Cougar" was perhaps the easiest answer he had given so far. The wounds from his brethern had healed nicely, but the scars from them dragging him to the cougar's den... had not.

He stared, baffled. Place that much trust in a stranger? He must be joking.

"Fine." After a cold second, he shambled closer, step by shaky step. He was cautious as if expecting the other wolf to suddenly lunge at him. When he came close enough for either one of them to attack, he stopped and flashed his teeth. "Make one wrong move and I'll pry the other one from you," he bluffed, feeling a new wave of nausea bubble up in his throat. The intended effect was ruined by the sour hiccup that followed, and the whole-body shiver that twitched him from shoulders to knees. He offered the 'healer' a listless smile.

"You kill it at least?" He flattened his ears and eased down onto the snow-dusted ground, trying to avoid thinking about how he was literally exposing his guts to a random stranger in the middle of the wilderness. Stupid, his entire brain chided him. His pulse was notably faster; he could feel it in his entire body, encouraging him to get up immediately and defend himself. He kept his eyes on the other wolf, instead, and stayed still, watching him do his thing. "The cougar?"

He snorted dryly, watching as the man accepted the request and move closer. Holland made no move to become aggressive - the wolf had done nothing to warrant such a reaction from him. But he couldn't promise it wouldn't hurt where he touched. If the pain was unbearable, then all the man could do was keep hacking up stuff. 

He moved a paw, lifting his limb slowly and deliberately. His one good eye focused on the man's stomach, trying to pluck out odd bumps or swelling. It did look swollen from heaving his guts out, but otherwise he could find no bumps. A good sign. "How long have you been throwing up?" he would ask before the other asked his question.

"Yes, I killed it" Holland's voice was flat. The last life he wanted to say he'd take. But wolves had a habit of being assholes and then he became an asshole by hurting them back. "that was long ago. It is dust now" he added, applying light pressure on the center of the man's stomach with one paw. "tell me if it begins to hurt."

"Since yesterday," he said, forcing his hackles to stay down. Skífa kept holding his breath and had to remember to inhale every so often. Letting someone get this close to him - it felt awkward not to fight.

He vaguely curled his lip again. "Good." He glanced into the other wolf's scarred face, and he smiled toothily. "That's good. Good hunter, then, ha." The other wolf's paw contacted his stomach. Skífa held his breath again and went very, very still. The examination was not as bad as he expected at first. His sides were still sore, and the pressure was mildly painful. It was discomforting but fine.

Then there was a sharp stab around his upper abdomen where his intestines were still inflamed. The kind of feeling he associated with throwing up. He could have tolerated the pain, but the touching was too much. He shoved at the other wolf immediately and rolled upright, hackles bristling again, tail pressing against the inside of one thigh. "Enough." He shuffled backward a few paces, putting distance between them, and spat at the ground off to the side; his mouth had started watering as soon as the pain hit him. He eyed the other wolf skeptically, really hoping he wasn't about to puke again.

"I wouldn't say that" he breathes, narrowing his good eye and bad one. Hunter? It had been pure luck he had gotten away. But he didn't elaborate. He didn't get to. Suddenly he was thrown back, the male having enough from the inspection. He growled at Holland, saliva probably building up and refusing to puke. "throw up" came the healer's command, soft and commanding. He focused his good eye after situating himself. "your body ate something bad and is ridding itself of infection."

His lip curled as if thinking about what would happen if the man didn't. If he forced the bile back, he'd just get sicker and sicker. The poison would fester. He'd get infected and ill. He'd die. "This is natural" Holland empathized strongly "but if you don't throw up the bad prey, it'll poison your gut. Then you'll have a problem that many cannot help with." Especially when various herbs and flowers - precious to survival - were out of season. Holland was reminded that sage helped with digestive health but he didn't know where it grew.

But in the end, he could do nothing. He did not have the means to force the other wolf to get better. He had to keep going, and he could not babysit them forever. "Drink plenty of clean water, rest when you can..." he paused, shaking his head "the problem will sort itself out."

Throw up? His first impulse was to refuse - rashly, and with prejudice. Then another wave of nausea bubbled up and his mouth was full of spit again, and throwing up seemed like a good idea after all. Still, he just blinked dourly at the one-eyed healer while he was lectured why it was best to go with the flow.

Skífa managed to shine a nice, sharp smile at him. "Good healer too, huh? If you know all that." And then he promptly puked again. This time more bile than putrid old meat, but that was fine because he felt infinitely better once it was over. He prowled away from the offensive blob, raised his head, and took a whiff of fresh winter air to clear his head. That cold wind still felt wonderful against his face. "There, just for you."

Given the prescription to take care of himself, Skífa shrugged blandly and glanced south. He still felt his best chance of finding some water was that way. "How long?" he ventured to ask before either of them could move away. How long until the problem sorted itself out, and he no longer felt so gods-awful, wrung-out and queasy?

"I would not turn away someone in pain" Holland remarks to the praise "if that makes me a good healer, then so be it." He looks away respectfully as the man chucks the contents of his stomach, mindful he may be embarrassed about the action. When he looks back, he gives an approving nod. How long was asked, and to this the healer shrugged.

"You seem to be a strong, able-bodied wolf" he states bluntly but not unkindly "I think perhaps a week. If you don't feel better by then, you should seek another healer out" But finding one was like a needle in a haystack right now. They all stuck to their packs. Holland shook his head "but I believe you will be fine. Your stomach is swollen but no bumps are there. Just discomfort." Pain and discomfort, which was also natural.

"Heh. Yes. Strong." He skulked in place for a half-moment, shifting his weight from side to side, keeping his head low. "Discomfort is nothing. I will trust you, then. If that's what you think." Skífa took a few steps away, turning broadside toward the one-eyed wolf, clearly restless, ready to depart. He was smiling again, all teeth, feeling lighter. Maybe that was the result of having just relieved his stomach again, or maybe it was the worry lifted off his shoulders. He even offered the other wolf a single, friendly tail-wag. Flippantly, he remarked: "If not, I will find you, and make this your problem, eh, Good Healer?"

His smile widened briefly before he lapsed into a sober expression. "Careful with yourself, helping everyone. When you're not the hunter, you're being hunted."

Without lingering further, he shrugged into a south-southwest heading and trotted away. Yet he kept his ears tented backward, listening for the other wolf. Still on guard, even though the encounter had been miraculously in his favor. Just in case.

He supposed he could do worse than a reoccurring patient. Holland let out a huff of amusement, giving a nod to the man. The other wolf would attempt to leave, but still listened for his words. He even had advice - don't try to help everyone. You'd only end up being hurt. That's the take away he'd get from it, anyway. "I'll keep that in mind." Was all he could promise. For if he was not a healer with access to anyone that needed help, he was doubtfully a good one. Without another word, the russet-black man left. 

exit!