I am no yearkeeper but I keep strands of bone beads on a rack that helps me keep track of the days in each season. I keep a record of these things. My Father taught me to read and write as a young boy, though to play ignorant near Dwellers was a bit of amusement to me. It was necessary when the merchants came, or raids to find what drugs are what in liquid or powered forms that might be held in painted labeled bottles or jars. The date keeping helps me keep track of some patients that have those long standing injuries or aliments that return often. There are days I can have the walls of my healing wagon completely lined with strings of bone beads, others where only a few might give a hint of mere decoration. Between my walks of the Ubar's wagons to see where I might give a hand in whatever needs to be done, I met an Elder Warrior by chance. Somehow, just from first glance, he had his hand locked in a chest he had dragged out of the wagon, and was trying to kick to remove the hinges from the lid to at least free his hand which by the hue of wrist was losing blood and circulation. I am impressed though, wondering what kind of strength could have sealed it so tightly, and professionally locked it with a slave shackle though the loops one might place just a basic leather knotted lacing. The Warrior, but by the knot on his forehead and completely soaked, I could tell this was a great tale I had missed the beginning of, and he didn't ask for help of any kind, so I thought to keep walking. The knot of course had me go slow, to make sure he wasn't stumbling beyond the normal fury of what was happening, for I didn't want to add to the scene which was a small gathering of slaves hiding under wheels and a few curious children probably in wonder like myself, that each time the Warrior kicked the trunk, it screamed. Even pleaded a few times. I had to smile, but let my hand wipe it free before walking up with a very straight face, as the giggling children behind me were not helping at all. I did inquire, if I may help.
Being a healer, or trained as one since the day my Father first brought me home, I have mastered the skill, and it took a very long time, of not laughing at the patient. Even when you have to ask, just have to ask, How did that happen? It took another few years to stop even a hint of chuckle when your forced to further inquire, why did they stick it there, or who would tell you to rub it on it, or even my favorite, what made you ever think it wouldn't get bit off? Today, was one of those moments. It seems, the Warriors mate of seasons far beyond my own, and I am not a young man, didn't like the asking of "How about just one time? One time before the Sky takes us both" when trying to get his mate to just put a bit of silk around her even with her leathers on. Somehow, she struck him so quickly he was down, shoved a slave in the silk chest and his hand, if he wanted to feel flesh on silk so badly. That was the way he woke up after being doused with water and seeing his mate walk off with her sewing basket and the great grand children. He finally had stopped kicking and took a seat on the ground so I could walk over and take a look. The trunk was busy doing some muffled sobbing so it was okay, and the wrist wasn't broken, which was very surprising. All I simply did, was use a quiva from my belt to loosen the hinges a bit more, so our audience couldn't see, and the Warrior slipped his hand out with ease looking almost amazed at how simple it was done.
Being a healer was not just about helping, it was about assisting. Once his hand was free, a turned and looked to gathering and announced; "This man has won the wager! Which one of you owe him the four bosk who said he couldn't get free after dragging a slave around in a trunk with just his wrist around the whole string of wagons five times? Which one? Pay up!" With that most had taken off running not wishing to be tagged the loser of a wager and to spread the story of the man strong enough to do such a thing. I took a seat on the trunk, after all had left, I used the tip of the quiva to tighten the hinges once more. It seems I made a friend. Torrick of the Sleen trainers. Getting him a wrist wrap of stiff leather and a promise of favoring it for a couple hands, as from the pulling and twisting, he was lucky it wasn't broken, but it was sprained and with the struggle no doubt a few tendons were torn. My payment? He offered me a sleen pup. Which was perfect timing as I have noticed Vern was slowing down and rarely left the shadows of my steps these days. He had lost his eye sight many seasons ago, but had lived longer then any sleen I know. I needed a young tracking sleen to train. I looked over those bred with a good nose, slender form, and strong legs. I like my sleen smaller to get through places larger herd and battle sleen couldn't due to muscle and bulk. I favored runts. I also favored lighter sleen, as those were not so ready in supply as for hunting, herds and raids dark was the most ideal. I took the light one and offered my services as payment for a second one. One of his breeding bitches had a blocked up milk gland. It was nothing some warm compresses and manual manipulation wouldn't fix, but when its sore and its a sleen, dangerous work.
That evening I took the darker pup, Kado, back to my wagons, putting him in a cage, fed by my hand and talked to him a bit before I took the lighter pup, Seeker, with me. She would be my tracker for the wounded, and lost. I needed her to work out some of that natural aggression, and possessive feelings. The best way to do that was to keep her at my side, and my command, but make sure she was around people, young and old. Tomorrow I would take Kado out in the herds with me, and leave Seeker with my girls. Seeker in hand, I went to the Ubar's fires finally, after a long day of being distracted, by the wrath of angry mates, blocked up sleen, a broken toe, three sets of stitches and checking on a young child who was born fighting for air due to weak lungs, I would get to sit, and perhaps enjoy some conversation.
Being a healer, or trained as one since the day my Father first brought me home, I have mastered the skill, and it took a very long time, of not laughing at the patient. Even when you have to ask, just have to ask, How did that happen? It took another few years to stop even a hint of chuckle when your forced to further inquire, why did they stick it there, or who would tell you to rub it on it, or even my favorite, what made you ever think it wouldn't get bit off? Today, was one of those moments. It seems, the Warriors mate of seasons far beyond my own, and I am not a young man, didn't like the asking of "How about just one time? One time before the Sky takes us both" when trying to get his mate to just put a bit of silk around her even with her leathers on. Somehow, she struck him so quickly he was down, shoved a slave in the silk chest and his hand, if he wanted to feel flesh on silk so badly. That was the way he woke up after being doused with water and seeing his mate walk off with her sewing basket and the great grand children. He finally had stopped kicking and took a seat on the ground so I could walk over and take a look. The trunk was busy doing some muffled sobbing so it was okay, and the wrist wasn't broken, which was very surprising. All I simply did, was use a quiva from my belt to loosen the hinges a bit more, so our audience couldn't see, and the Warrior slipped his hand out with ease looking almost amazed at how simple it was done.
Being a healer was not just about helping, it was about assisting. Once his hand was free, a turned and looked to gathering and announced; "This man has won the wager! Which one of you owe him the four bosk who said he couldn't get free after dragging a slave around in a trunk with just his wrist around the whole string of wagons five times? Which one? Pay up!" With that most had taken off running not wishing to be tagged the loser of a wager and to spread the story of the man strong enough to do such a thing. I took a seat on the trunk, after all had left, I used the tip of the quiva to tighten the hinges once more. It seems I made a friend. Torrick of the Sleen trainers. Getting him a wrist wrap of stiff leather and a promise of favoring it for a couple hands, as from the pulling and twisting, he was lucky it wasn't broken, but it was sprained and with the struggle no doubt a few tendons were torn. My payment? He offered me a sleen pup. Which was perfect timing as I have noticed Vern was slowing down and rarely left the shadows of my steps these days. He had lost his eye sight many seasons ago, but had lived longer then any sleen I know. I needed a young tracking sleen to train. I looked over those bred with a good nose, slender form, and strong legs. I like my sleen smaller to get through places larger herd and battle sleen couldn't due to muscle and bulk. I favored runts. I also favored lighter sleen, as those were not so ready in supply as for hunting, herds and raids dark was the most ideal. I took the light one and offered my services as payment for a second one. One of his breeding bitches had a blocked up milk gland. It was nothing some warm compresses and manual manipulation wouldn't fix, but when its sore and its a sleen, dangerous work.
That evening I took the darker pup, Kado, back to my wagons, putting him in a cage, fed by my hand and talked to him a bit before I took the lighter pup, Seeker, with me. She would be my tracker for the wounded, and lost. I needed her to work out some of that natural aggression, and possessive feelings. The best way to do that was to keep her at my side, and my command, but make sure she was around people, young and old. Tomorrow I would take Kado out in the herds with me, and leave Seeker with my girls. Seeker in hand, I went to the Ubar's fires finally, after a long day of being distracted, by the wrath of angry mates, blocked up sleen, a broken toe, three sets of stitches and checking on a young child who was born fighting for air due to weak lungs, I would get to sit, and perhaps enjoy some conversation.
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