Thirty-three

"Yeah, good work," Sebastian nodded, immediately regretting he had done so. "I don't really get nurses that are good and better than tolerable-looking. Or maybe I did once. Gods, I can't remember," he sighed.

Tick.

Tock.

He clamped a hand over his mouth again and looked a little apologetic.

In fact, Weft had been applauding whatever she'd done in the way of healing. He'd seen mages teaching each other to pick up and throw things up to and including whole trees (and beyond - Suitov had moved ships). Magical healing, from what he'd been told, required more specific expertise and precision.

He cast an amused glance in Sylvie's direction and back at the patient.

Sylvie covered her mouth with a hand and turned back at him, chuckling. She took in his expression and tilted her head. "Sebastian." How could she put it? "Complimenting someone is not a bad thing. You don't need to look so embarrassed." She tried hard not to laugh. He had hit his head and needed some time to recover. A bit breathless with the effort, and still looking terribly amused, she added, "Thank you."

"And I'm really sorry I'm laughing." She sighed, and would have looked more apologetic if her cheeks weren't hurting from grinning.

The faint ghost of a smile twitched on his face, and then he shrugged just as if to say "oh well" and looked at Weft. After noting the monk's expression, he looked at Sylvie again. "You're welcome."

Sebastian still managed to look a little concerned about something. Maybe even a little boyish. Mainly concerned. Oh yes. Definitely.

"You should rest", Sylvie advised, and crouched dwon next to the griffin to discourage any further conversation while he was still confused like that.

She was rather glad to find it had not died of a heart attack and was relatively quiet, even if it did start clucking again now.

"No kidding," Sebastian sighed and blinked owlishly after Sylvie. Then he looked at Weft.

The monk shifted back from his crouch into a seamless seated position, cross-legged. At the same time, he'd angled himself so that he could see either one of them.

He looked remarkably unmurderous, but then again, it was hard to tell.

So, how to best go about it? It would be better if the animal was calm, but it was not likely to calm down in this situation. Sylvie's magic was a matter of matter; she could relax muscles, but anything in the way of 'soothing spells' did not even exist.
Hm. With the front half being chicken...
With some careful loosening of vines, some difficulty and plenty of stubbornness, Sylvie managed to get the creature's head under its wing, and, really, after a short while it fell asleep.
She then started to examine it with her magic, not wanting to free it yet.

Eventually she gave it up. That little trick earlier had been a bit much, so she could not get deep enough in the matter now. It it was a chimaera, there should be traces of magic to be found, but they would be fine and subtle. All she got from trying to focus enough was a headache and itching hands.

She slumped. After a few moments he turned a pale face to Sebastian and Weft, to see how her other patient was doing.

While this examination was taking place - and after Iceheart had suffered the obligatory "Our little foundling's grown up, boys!" from Nico the goblin - the five friends had been engaged in dragging and/or levitating furniture up to the bedrooms. Thus was the upper floor of the inn mostly rendered habitable, finally.

The folks on the lawn had either wandered back indoors (whether to help or gawp) or been blathering among themselves outdoors. Baskerville occasionally barked at wildlife, sometimes with discernable words.

Sebastian muttered something to himself and sat still, squinting at the ground. It was embarrassing, more than speaking his mind had just been, sitting there on a root of a magnificent oak tree, swaying ever so slightly and brooding visibly.

It wasn't as if he didn't brood normally. It was just that he wasn't supposed to do it in front of others, not in a way that was rather apparent. Sulky he could pull off, but brooding... oh, no. He looked back at Sylvie, angular face serious.

Weft had the feeling he was seeing something he shouldn't be; and he had no idea why the normally-shameless Sebastian seemed to be so, well, discomfited. At least, it didn't seem explainable merely by the proximity of a member of the female species.

He savagely crushed a lone thread of thought that was finding the whole thing slightly charming.

After a benign blink and a smile in the brooding Fochs's direction, he deliberately turned his sight on the sky, the woodland, the sleeping creature, the treeline again - in other words, everything else.

Sylvie closed her eyes and thought for a while.

"At least there is some chance the day will get better", she told the world at large. She got up, smiling, and dusted off her clothes. "I think I'll ask Suitov if he knows creatures like that."

The hindquarters hidden under vines, it now looked just like an oversized chicken. It was a weird enough sight, sleeping peacefully in a not quite complete, green cocoon.

Weft performed something of a grimace. "That man is very interested in things like that. The uglier and more psychotic the better. Haven't you seen his latest ladyfriend?"

Another thought occurred to him and he added "But don't bring the animal back to the inn, or he won't let me kill it. It's his stupid neutrality rule."

Make that: some very small chance...

Sylvie stared at Weft for a moment, then looked away again, mumbling "Wasn't planning to." She had some thoughts on the theme of insanity, but kept them to herself.

"Could you do me a favour and leave it alone for a while? It's not like it's any danger now. Please?"

He gave her a solemn, questioning look. "All right. It wasn't me that it offended anyway.

"But if it comes near -- I mean, if it does anything risky, I will stop it."

Sylvie nodded at Weft and turned a pleading look on the halfie. "Sebastian?"

"Yeah, sure," came the somewhat distant reply.

"Thank you." She meant both of them. She was a bit worried about Sebastian, but for all she knew this was his normal behaviour. Nothing she could help with, anyway, so she left.


Back at the Inn, she found the place more crowded and busy than before. Hopefully Suitov had some time; at least Weft's words suggested he might be interested.
She saw him engaged in conversation with four... small, green people, approached the group, but did not intrude directly. Hoping he'd notice her or there would be a break in the conversation seemed like a better idea than interrupting.

Several moments after Sylvie had passed out of earshot, Weft spoke softly. "Sebastian, is there anything you need?"

---

"...and the guitarist said, 'That's fine, as long as he picks up my tab'!" The four around the table laughed with varying degrees of raucity. Suitov, arms folded and leaning against a wall a short distance off, smiled. As delightful as it was to have his old friends around, it heightened his own feeling of... well, never mind.

"Hello, Sylvie."

"No, I'm not... I don't. Thanks, Weft," he said with a sigh, trying to focus his eyes on a rock. It was surprisingly tough, which he wasn't too thrilled about: he already had a double-sided attention span. He didn't need one that was short twice. "I'll be fine once this damn swaying stops."