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Malta bounded frantically and awkwardly behind the man, her wing held awkwardly at her back as it, numbed by her magic, began to heal bit by bit. It would heal faster if she could focus, but she couldn't. Castor was hurt, and she could smell blood and sickness and worry. Worry was bad. Clearly this Oblivionite was a nice man: he was nice to Castor anyway and, since Castor himself was nice, the niceness was thus compounded.

The inside of the city itself, however, was strange. It was a dark, imposing forest of stone, it's paths covered in hard stone like the back of a dragon. Monsters glared down from the tops of the stone trees, which smelled of Oblivionite and excrement and rain. It was not alive, it was not her home, and that made her sad and feel very out of her element – which she was.

But it was, at least safer: away from the Mara and the battling and the pain and the fear. Or, rather, it provided a new fear, in an environment where she could concentrate on it and it alone.

Castor was hurt. Her protector could die.

She set her foreclaws on the table and looked at Castor's paling features with worry, her heart still racing from the battle and the flight. She looked up into the eyeless sockets – and intense third eye - of the Oblivionite man, and began to shake.

”We were in the woods...” she whimpered, ”And we got attacked and he protected me...” she glanced back at Castor again, her earfins staying vaguely at midmast, ”And then we had to run and run...” she swallowed, ”Is he...?” going to be all right? she knew he wasn't.

Malta watched anxiously as the female Oblivionite began to use magic on her protector, watching as first the unfamiliar blood magic sealed the wound, and then the very familiar nature magic began to heal him. She reached for her own magic, only to find it unusually low and sluggish and unresponsive, a mere sprout compared to the thicket that it usually was.

She had used up a lot that day, with the roots, and with healing her shoulder – she'd never used so much power before. It was sort of startling to be, essentially, without her magic, only able to look on as the woman inexpertly healed her son – she could smell that they were his parents, in his blood and in the scents of fear and panic that rolled off of them, though the male seemed much calmer. Warrior-ly.

She drew herself away from the boy being healed on the table and back to the adult. “Yes!” she nodded, “He did a very good job...” she looked back at him, wanting to help – desiring to help. But she was hungry and tired and nervous and she just couldn't...

Her earfins drooped. Surely, she could do something to help her protector? Anything? She turned back to the man. “He was brave and strong and polite and smart...” she shifted, an idea coming to her. “I'm sorry! This is a strange thing to ask, but do you have a cauldron?” she asked anxiously, her Ovblivionite blurring as she spoke it faster than she was used to.

“Thank you!” Malta said, moving quickly towards the cauldron, coiling near it as she inspected it. It was larger than her cauldron at home, but her's was a portable one and it looked like it was made of the same stuff, which was good. She put some water in it and let that heat up to a boil as she inspected the herbs nearby with a knowledgeable nose.

They were good herbs, some that she couldn't get in the forest and, with a careful claw, she picked out a few sprigs of what she needed; Seggan Always seggan, Remedial frond, some spongey root mass that was good for thickening but would also make a handy applicator and bandage... good things. She tossed the basic herbs into the pot and boiled and crushed them into a paste as quickly as she could. She let it steep for a moment, chewing on the stems of the fronds to ease her nerves and restore some of her energy.

Then, all too aware of the time-sensitive nature of the situation, she took the cauldron off the heat, lugging it away with a straining of her draconic neck muscles, and let the contents cool before sopping it up with the spongy myceum-gauze. She 'bloomed' it, renewing the old herbs in the mixture with her regenerating magic, before picking it up in her teeth and bounding over to the table, bouncing so that her forepaws rested on the table.

Carefully, she put down the basic herb poultice on the wound. “Here!” she said, her mouth freed, “I think I can...” could she really? She assessed her magic. “I think I can help him a little!” she said, hopefully, looking at the adult Oblivionites, as if for approval.

Malta would argue that it was she who had to thank him for saving her from the scary Mara, but the point was moot. He protected her, she helped him, and she helped the adults, and that made her feel better about the whole chaotic day. She let her magic trickle out, supplementing the nature magic the Oblivionite woman was using and the natural beneficial energies of the poultice to staunch the bleeding and coax the scar tissue to close properly around the wound.

“Malta.” she said, looking at the man, trying – for a moment – to read his face. Magescan faces were so much more expressive than Khehora faces: it was like a whole other language besides, and she was already speaking in one that was not her usual one. “I'm Malta, of Katangi.” she added. She drew away.

The healing wasn't completely done, but the poultice should do the rest and her semi-experienced healer's eye told her that Castor was probably going to be okay. It was certainly not something she should use too much magic on – she didn't want to faint. That had not been pleasant before, with Detraeus, and would not be pleasant or good at any other time.

She was still shaking and she wrapped her tail around herself. She felt safe. She felt tired, but she felt, finally, safe. She sniffed at the air, briefly. “Are you his sire and dam?” she asked, surprised. They smelled similar to him enough to be, but it was odd to think that Oblivionites had parents other than their goddess.

But hadn't she known that? Hadn't Castor mentioned a father? Of course Oblivionites had parents, just like dragons did and khehora and dovaa and everything.

She slumped, embarrassed. “I'm sorry...”

So he would be Castor of Medea. Good to know.

She gave a little murr of surprised delight as Castor woke up. “Castor!” she exclaimed, unable to keep herself from nudging his hand slightly. She had, intellectually, known that after healing him he would be fine, but seeing it was a whole other thing entirely.

The tip of her tail twitched with her relief, and she felt, in its wake, extreme exhaustion and soreness. “Ah!” she said, as he tried to get up, not sure what to do herself, “Don't do that!” She wanted to lie down, but she knew she couldn't do that yet. Not until she was absolutely sure he would stay fine until he could heal.

She looked at Medea. “Um...” she was his mother, and she was the healer in charge, so she should tell him, right? That was how it worked, right?

Malta could tell this was a 'moment', one of those elusive things that changed a life and stuck in the memory like a burr, and she felt happy for Castor. She was emboldened, also, by his good mood – that meant he really was all right.

She gently nosed his face as he laughed, trying to encourage him to stay down. “That's right.” she she said gratefully, “You said you would, and you did.” She was supposed to defer to the main healer, but he was talking to her so that bypassed things... right? “... But now it's my turn, and you need to lie down so you can heal right...” she was tired, not really up for intense healing, but she had helped already, and when she could she was willing to help more. “So...” she purred, unable to help it. She was happy her savior was all right. She was happy he was home. She was happy his parents were happy. Things were, in general, at this moment, in her tired mind, looking up.

“Thank you.”