ROBCO EVENT LOG V2.66
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Owner Pose
Zeik      It's been a really long trek back from Roswell, one full of pain and uncertainty. How many times can a man look for pieces of his past and be hunted down, lose his gear, and escape once more? Too many for Zeik to tell. It's a new place, a new town, gloved hand pushing the door to the Shantytown Clinic open as the dark skinned man limps inside. The left leg of his trousers have holes in them, burned from the extreme heat and light of laser fire. His head swivels around, goggled eyes taking in the place. "I need medical assistance." He mutters, using words far too educated for any normal resident of this place.
Samhain     Standing somewhere near the entry is a small woman; not even five feet in height, her face painted like a sugar skull, blank and creamy coloured eyes staring blindly out at the office with a vacancy that mirrors the emotion in that eerie smile she wears. Her hands are clasped at the front of her, covered in ripped lace, the smooth skin there immaculate -- in fact nearly TOO clean for the comfort of many.
    Strange how that came to be the norm.
    When Zeik enters, her head turns fluidly to one side to stare toward him, his form twisted and mirrored back in the slick milky pools in her moment of assessment. "The others are occupied, I am afraid." There's a slow breath taken in through her nose, those creepy eyes of hers closing, swallowed up by the pitch paint that circles her sockets, leaving nothing there for the viewing.
    "Perhaps I might help."
Zeik      42 years, Zeik has been alive. Barring the few formative years of life as a child, he remembers most of his waking hours, and this is definitely something new for him. There's a bit of a stare, a facial twitch, before the man lumbers over painfully to the painted woman. Odd people he meets in the Wasteland. Well, he's an odd one himself, so no room to judge. "I can pay." Most humans seem bent upon receiving payment in one form or another for their efforts. Zeik plops himself down in one of the seats, a noisy sound of chair leg against the floor, gritting his teeth at the flare of pain. He looks a bit scuffed up, weathered in his years, but none the worse for wear.
Samhain     Like a ponderous puppy, her head turns from one side to the other in a seeking tilt, eyes still closed as she follows the sound of his footsteps, the rustle of his clothes, the creeking skitter of the chair's plaintiff cry. Samhain hesitates for a moment before turning fully to face him, that near-emaciated frame of hers more drifting forward than it walks; were she wearing a longer skirt, she could be mistaken as hovering -- some vision straight out of Dunwich, a haunting recollection that never seems clear -- that's her, alright.
    She approaches quietly, slender long-fingered hand moving to gingerly prod at the affected areas with careful clarity; she cannot see, but somehow she knows just where those wounds hide, where the blood blossoms against the fabric of his clothes, where the skin puckers from scorching rays. Her hands are so numbingly chill, smooth and inhuman, as though she had been constructed of marble and brought to this so-called life; in his state, it is perhaps a mercy, refreshing and cold.
    "I am certain you can." Her voice carries the haunting lilt of campfire ghost stories, gallow's humour brought to form, barely above a whisper as to not disturb the other patients that are away in examination rooms with someone doubtlessly more traditionally educated in the healing arts than she.
    But, out here?
    She's it.
    She turns from him to allow her hands to wander to a satchel at her side, from which she produces a greasy, foul-smelling salve that the knowing would identify as some burn ointment with the acrid bite of disinfectant wafting right along in time. Out comes some gauzing, surprisingly white still, despite her state of disrepair, placed aside the chair where he sits on a small metal table.
    "The road you walk is a dangerous one," She begins, frail fingers picking at his clothing, pulling bits away from the wounds that ail him so. "You never know when the sun will set, when the light will go out, when you will be left there in the dark." An esoteric statement, perhaps, some attempt at small talk that spectacularly fails. "If you do not take care where your feet make their mark, those marks may be all that remains come morning." She murmurs, eyes still closed, sparing him the somehow emptier stare that awaits when they aren't hollow pits.
    "Please be more cautious in the future." Oh god, the smell gets worse when she uncorks it!
Zeik      Its funny, most folks are too lost in their goals, their desires to live, for Zeik to really understand. He's tried, really he has, but sometimes people are just too...human. Squishy. Dirty. Prone to flights of irrational fancy. This woman would take the cake, but her words are uncannily accurate. "I will try to be more cautious in the future." He echoes, the sight and the smell of the ointment actually pulling his attentions closer. His nose wrinkles as he gets a wiff.
Samhain     That smell -- once the pungent odour of the initial opening has passed is actually more unusual than it is particularly grotesque; traces of honey, calendula, essential oils that aid in numbing and disinfecting such as comfrey or arnica to those that are knowing in the more natural of remedies. If anything, there's medical knowledge here blended with a necessity to use what one has, or can find through whatever means a small, blind woman might have at her disposal.
    Of course, there's also that dettol pang.
    She's not a complete savage.
    When he agrees to caution, she does nothing to press it further -- no grand speeches nor scolding tone, but a simple nod before she sets to work. There is a bit of a sting that comes with the first bits of application to his skin, most likely the disinfectant making its presence known, soothed quickly by the oils that comprise the surprisingly effective salve. One of her hands moves to lift his shirt from the hem upward without so much as a word of warning, nor hint of impropriety, that she might better clean the wounds she might find there. There's a quiet humming from her, some lullaby-esque serenade that tells well of the adventure she's embarked on into the depths of her thoughts whilst working her magic.
    There's pressure, the tightening of bandages, the latching of tiny hooks that keep the gauze connected like some tenser at a joint. Finally, her eyes open yet fail to find focus, looking through more than at him, taking a moment to breathe quietly. It's like being buried in the snow with wolves sniffing you out.
    "There is deeper trauma," She speaks, eyes ticking back and forth without finding an anchor to still them. "But, not here..." Her head turns a fraction, "... Mm." She straightens, her cold hands falling away from him, his torso appropriately repaired as the numbing agents in that oil begin to settle into the muscles below the dermus.
    "Ah. Your leg."
    She sets to work again, fair manhandling him in her pursuit of health. "Tell me, what is so important that you would get yourself battered and bloodied, so far that I can smell your anguish?"
Zeik      Zeik grimaces, whether it's from the application of the home made ointment or the question will come soon enough. The man doesn't seem to have shame, nor does he leer in any lewd way. He's rather stoic, expression fairly bland as he continues to watch the human tend to his wounds. "I was a child, once. Born within pristine walls, put through a battery of tests so that I could become something...more." Or less, as the wistful tone begins to come through. "Was trying to find something in Roswell, since I had heard rumors of those captors there. Of course, they found me too. I managed to get away."
Samhain     She makes no attempts at sympathizing.
    There is no offer of her own woes to compare.
    Samhain merely does as she was meant to do; to shepherd the lost through the dark.
    She is proficient at the craft of medicine, fingertips pressing just far enough into the muscle of the man's thigh to make sure that no infection has sprung up at the root, a quick sniff of the air telling her everything she need know about what underlying threat lurks in the heated wet of his wound.
    "I do not understand why others are so concerned with 'more'. If they so wish something greater, let them focus upon themselves, and leave others to live and to learn as they must." Samhain finally speaks, though in her usual roundabout fashion, dabbing at the wound she's found after having applied a liberal amount of disinfectant there, as well. Then the ointment comes again, applied by the fingertip at the ragged, torn edges of the disturbed flesh.
    "You should never walk the night if you can't hear the stars." She heaves a sigh as she's securing another bandage there, a small needle procured from a cork container in her satchel in order to jab at the deadened skin experimentally, likely trying to locate where the life comes back to him. "But, should you get lost in the most bewitching hour, you may look for me and find that I have gotten there first." A soft nod.
    "I am Samhain, buoy in the bloodtide, stranger on your side, friend to the lost."
Zeik      Zeik's cheek twitches, not as any sign of pain but as some autonomic response that he can't quite get out since the electroshock therapy the facility used so many years ago. "Sometimes, 'more' is just enough to keep you from simply going back to sleep and never waking up." There, something cryptic offered with meaning, since that seems to be the tone of the day. "My name is Ezekiel Cole, but I normally answer to Zeik." His leg twitches where the needle pricks his skin, the response to pain something that he doesn't avoid immediately like he should.