For a moment, she thinks he's going to refuse. She wouldn't blame him if he did. Knowing how to fight and knowing how to heal are two different things, and not many people with a knack for one would presume to have a knack for the other, too.
But then he nods, and she smiles up at him as she settles herself on the ground, legs crossed. "Right. Give me just a moment."
This is hardly her first healing of the day, and she's a little tired. But once she closes her eyes, it only takes her a few slow breaths before her expression smoothes over and her mind sinks into her patient. She can feel the dog's trust in the back of her mind as she examines the dislocation from the inside, getting a clearer picture of what needs to be done, and which nerves she'll have to quiet to keep things from hurting overmuch. She makes quick work of other, smaller hurts: a few scrapes and grazes, a blossoming bruise. Then, she turns all her attention to the dislocation.
It's not any prettier from the inside than it is from the outside, but this isn't the first car-struck animal she's treated. They can sort him out, she thinks. There's a severed ligament she can't fix -- her magic can only help a body do what it could do naturally -- but if they can get the ball joint back into its socket, she can build up the dog's muscles enough to hold it in place.
"Okay," she says, her own voice sounding distant and hazy to her ears. "I need you to rotate his leg a little, clockwise, until I tell you to--there, that's perfect." She narrows her focus to a few select nerve endings, quieting them with her magic. "Now, give it a good pull, straight back."
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Date: 2018-11-16 03:52 am (UTC)From:But then he nods, and she smiles up at him as she settles herself on the ground, legs crossed. "Right. Give me just a moment."
This is hardly her first healing of the day, and she's a little tired. But once she closes her eyes, it only takes her a few slow breaths before her expression smoothes over and her mind sinks into her patient. She can feel the dog's trust in the back of her mind as she examines the dislocation from the inside, getting a clearer picture of what needs to be done, and which nerves she'll have to quiet to keep things from hurting overmuch. She makes quick work of other, smaller hurts: a few scrapes and grazes, a blossoming bruise. Then, she turns all her attention to the dislocation.
It's not any prettier from the inside than it is from the outside, but this isn't the first car-struck animal she's treated. They can sort him out, she thinks. There's a severed ligament she can't fix -- her magic can only help a body do what it could do naturally -- but if they can get the ball joint back into its socket, she can build up the dog's muscles enough to hold it in place.
"Okay," she says, her own voice sounding distant and hazy to her ears. "I need you to rotate his leg a little, clockwise, until I tell you to--there, that's perfect." She narrows her focus to a few select nerve endings, quieting them with her magic. "Now, give it a good pull, straight back."