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Harlan      The interior of the the mechanic shop is carnage. A quick inspection reveals a battle between a group of bandits and one blacksmith also known as Harlan. The battle was was intense, and the perceptive might see that Harlan had an unlucky time of it. Sprawled upon the floor, his left leg is a bloodied mess and the back of his head is matted with blood. One might think him dead except for his skin still having color and a light shallow breath causing his broad chest to rise. Surrounding Harlan is various knives and rocks, similar debris surround dead bandits.
Samhain     Perception is in the eye of the beholder.
    In this case, there's the quiet skittering claim of this or that as Samhain blindly steals bits and parts from the shop she's known since her arrival -- it always seems to regain some new treasure. What's up with that?
    There is a pause in her shuffling step as something idly creeps over her skin, the voices that whisper setting her to halt in her approach. Pearly white eyes stare off at the darkness as she listens to that shallow breathing, the twisted reflection found in those creamy pools distorting the image of the interior, warped by the curve of her eye and the moisture that slicks her lids.
    Another step, then another, until her booted foot makes contact with Harlan's arm with a quick, probing tap. Assuming he doesn't spring into the world of the wakeful, she will crouch beside him to feel about his battered frame, the scent of blood lingering low in the stagnant air of this place.
    Her touch is cold -- so much so that were he awake, he might think it were the spirits that handled him now. They move over fabric and prod at flesh, her head canting to one side as what may seem obvious to others goes over her head, and what would be missed by all but a few trickles into her subconcious.
    "One more lost in the dark," Her voice is haunting, but small. "Lost in the dark," She repeats, "Lost in the dark..." It becomes... sing-song.
    "Here I find you, bring the light, bless the path, face my fright..." It continues, even as her hands are moving to a satchel at her side to bring out some crude items of medical import. The words she's said, or sang, continue to pour from her as she works at mending the wounds she's found here. Though she is no doctor, her motions are rote -- she knows these wounds, perhaps she has 'seen' them before, maybe it's the red of battle that brought her here from where she was before.
    There's a slick, sick-smelling salve that she begins to apply to him, a careful lift of his head onto folded gauze as she prepares for deeper inspection.
Harlan      A low deep rumble echoes in the man's chest. A groan of mixed fear and discontent. His breath is haggard as his head is manipulated. He's not bleeding profusely fortunately, otherwise he'd be dead. The smell of the salve assaults his nostrils, his face crunches his up and then abruptly his eyes snap open.

A deep inhalation draws air into his lungs, his eyes darting back and forth before they lack upon the woman who seems to be treating him.

"Who...?" His eyes roll back into his head as a wave of pain overcomes him. He groans and huffs.

"Never.. coming back here. That damn smile.. it's too strong."
Samhain     When his eyes snap open, it's the sugar skull he sees; it grins, though her palled lips do not. She's staring down at him with this sober lack of surprise, despite how abrupt he's been in his revival, his own frightened face reflected back at him in that vacant gaze. When she blinks, her eyes disappear, leaving nothing but the pitch of the paint that has been applied around her eyesockets, little more than what must appear as bottomless pits to his fear-addled brain.
    She continues working on him, her cold, smooth palm pressed to his forehead to keep him secured against the gauze she had placed back there. Quietly, she hushes him. Softly, she soothes.
    There's a sting to her ministrations -- a needle and sinew thread used to stitch newly disinfected wounds, mostly deadened by whatever it is she's put on him -- likely the queer effects of some chem-inspired analgesic, a muddling of a mind made weary by surroundings in which he does not belong. She hums to herself, some lullaby-like tune that likely hasn't been heard since gods know when.
    "I am Samhain," She finally allows, once she's inspected her work by way of running careful fingertips over the stitching, "Ever-friend to the lost. You should not be here."
Harlan      The grizzled man nods to her. One might think he'd have been frightened by the sugar skull.. but he's of mixed heritage. He had seen the medicine-men of his mother's tribe. He had grand-parents who'd adopted similar customs. No, the face of a sham is the face of a healer.. just like anything else. So instead of fear, he seems relieved.

"Well thanks whatever noble spirits exist out there that you've found me." He swallows and pushes up from the ground after she completes her stitching, another groan welling up in his chest, this one from the stiffness of being out called on scrap covered ground. He pulls a metal nut from the small of his back and tosses it aside.

"You are right. We should not be here. The thing that haunts this place is just getting stronger.. I'd had a few run in's with it before.. but this time, well.. if it can do what it did to me." His eyes narrow. He grunts his teeth. He shoves himself to his feet and retrieves his sword from nearby slipping it into a scabbard.

"Thank you for awakening me, Samhain. I'm Harlan Smith.. born of El Dorado, resident of Acme."
Samhain     "There is much that haunts this place."
    It's all she offers, shuffling unsteadily to her feet once he's righted himself, her head hanging slightly forward as her eyes slide shut. When she hears of Acme, there's a bit of a flinch to her features, though she says nothing in regards to it. Now that he is aware, the woman is small -- not even five feet in height, and likely less than 80 pounds sopping wet, emaciated and frail and completely unarmed. Why she's in a place like this is beyond the majority.
    "You had better run, run, ... run... Harlan Smith of El Dorado."
    She shifts back and forth, placing her weight on either foot as she turns and begins pacing back off into the warped wonderland of Dunwich, her head tilting back as though she were looking at the sky once she's cleared the smith's, seeking the nothing for answers that likely don't exist.
    "Run, run, run..."
    It's repeated in her idle retreat.
Harlan      The large man seems taken back by the woman's state but she seems to move well enough, so he assumes the best for her. He reaches down and slings his backpack over his broad shoulders and turns toward the shop. He spits on the ground and growls before he starts to walk in the direction out of Dunwich. He raises a hand to the pacing shaman.

"Be safe out there... And thank you. If you ever need a helping hand, go to the general store in Acme or look for Vault Team Six in Vault Town." He calls out with a bellow.

"I'll return the good turn you did me." He then begins to job, gear jostling on his back. The hair on his neck raises as he swears he hears laughing.. Oh he's going to have to do something about this town.