Sivve // pre-search
On the day of the race, Sivve and Imsky were huddled under a small shack next to the track. Thankfully, though it was a long race, the track itself was only half a klick around so Sivve would have no difficulty getting to her patient when he began to slip. Sajag was with her, icey blue eyes following every movement of the runners.

"You really think he'll fall?" Imsky asked between shivers, pulling her blanket closer to her shoulders. "He looks just fine up there."

Sivve followed the apprentice's gaze to where Koran was already in the saddle on an almost golden chestnut who well earned the name Summer's Glory. He certainly did look perfectly healthy, but Sivve knew it was only the man's will to stay on his runner that kept him where he was. The moment he lost his concentration in the whir of the race, he would be down. "I know he'll fall," Sivve replied glumly. "Make sure everything's layed out and that I can grab my bag quick if I need to."

The runners were lined up now, pawing restlessly at the ground. Two burly drudges stood with their hands on the gates, ready to open them. A piercing whistle split the air and the gates were pulled back. Black, brown, gray, white, bay, and chestnut blurs went flying from the starting line. As they thundered around the first corner, Summer's Glory, with Koran still hunched over in the saddle, was in the lead. Bets were placed and murmurs snaked through the crowd, but Sivve was concentrating on her patient, out there trying to kill himself.

By the end of the first lap, it looked as though Koran might have actually been fit to ride. Summer's Glory crossed the line far in front of the other runners and Koran had a grin on his face as he went whizzing past Sivve's little shack. But his grin was not just a grin, it held a grim determination that Sivve knew could not last for the rest of the race.

The second and third laps were just as smooth and uneventful as the first. Summer's Glory remained in the lead most of the time, running neck and neck with one runner or another for a time but always pulling ahead in the end. Even Imsky was cheering as loud as anyone else as Summer's Glory began his fourth lap, only Sivve remained alert. There were four more laps to go, and a lot could happen in two klicks.

What Sivve had known was coming came halfway through the fifth lap, conveniently right in front of Sivve's shack. One runner, in desperation and encouraged by his jockey, tried to pass Summer's Glory, nearly ramming into him in the process. The chestnut gave a frightened snort and swerved to avoid collision, as any runner would do. But it was too much for Koran, who was just barely hanging on now. He went flying onto the track, as limp as a wet cloth cast away by an angry cook and just as powerless. There were gasps from the crowd and other jockies were swerving in order to avoid Koran. The runners, hwoever, were spooked by the crowd's reaction and refused to be steered.

Koran might have met his death under those thundering hooves had it not been fore Sajag. The canine hurtled towards the fallen jockey, snarling as he ran. It had never been Sajag's way to bark, and the menacing snarls had a much greater effect on the runners anyway. Some reared, others shied, but each runner, in his own way, tried to get as far away from the snarling canine as they could.

Sivve was not far behind her canine, Imsky running behind her with a bag of supplies. When she arrived, Sajag lay down, head on his paws, a low growl in his throat: he now had two humans to guard from the hooves of the runners.

Sivve herself, however, was only barely aware of this. Later, she couldn't recall how she got to the track, she just remembered being there, and then a frenzy of fingers, blood, and the battered body of Koran. Ten minutes later, it was all over.

She placed bloody fingers on his neck one last time to confirm what she already knew. "He's dead," she announced to the small crowd which had gathered around her as she worked.

Sajag was still growling, but now got up to come over and sniff at Koran. Whatever that sniff told him, he found it very depressing, for the canine sat back on his haunches and gave an eerie wailing howl that sent shivers up the spine of all who heard it.

"He can't be dead!" Terre insisted, shoving his way through the crowd to get to Koran. "C'mon Koran, wake up! Wake up! You've got to finish the race!"

Koran didn't wake up, didn't even stir. A breeze Sivve hadn't noticed before ruffled his hair, but that was all. A woman who must have been his mother started bawling and was led away. Another woman, much younger with a young boy who couln't have been more than two clinging to her skirts came forward.

"He's not really," the woman choked out the words in disbelief, gazing at the already pale face of the dead jockey.

"Your husband?" Sivve asked. The woman shook her head.

"His son was here to see him for the first time in a turn," she explained. "And now he'll never have a father."

"I'm very sorry," Sivve replied. "He wasn't in very good shape to be riding, and I tried to warn him."

"You didn't do enough!" Terre snapped suddenly. "Why did you let him ride if you knew he would die?"

"I told you what would happen, but you took him anyway!" Sivve snapped back. "His death is your own fault! He should be lying in his bed in the infirmary right now, getting better, not lying here, dead."

"You could have saved him just now!" Terre growled. "What good are you as a healer if you can't save people when it really counts?"

"Terre, lay off the poor kid, Koran's death is your fault, just like the dozens of other jockies' who have died on your runners," a man remarked.

"She could have tried harder!" Terre insisted, whirling on the man. From the knots on his shoulder, he was a Master healer, though not one Sivve had ever studied under.

"The Journeywoman, as I understand, specializes in repairing damaged muscles," the Master replied. "Not mangled bodies that have been thrown onto the track and left to the mercy of racing runner hooves."

Terre opened his mouth to say something, but simply closed it with a humph and stormed away. The Master turned to Sivve, pointedly ignoring Terre's departure. "I have to admit though, it must have taken quite the stomach to run out on the track like that," he chuckled.

Sivve smiled grimly and tried to brush it off."I didn't really have a choice, Master..."

"Ortov," the Master replied. "And you, according to the rumors, are Sivve, one of the best healers specializing in the healing of muscles."

"So I keep hearing," Sivve replied.

"Don't be so humble about it, muscles are a challenge to specialize in," Master Ortov reminded her. "And that is why I am here to see you."

"I'm famous," Sivve sighed. "Perfect."

Ortov chuckled. "You'll be happy to know then that I did not come just to meet you, I came to offer you a post at Falas Weyr. They just recieved a Candidate who was formerly a racer until he lost a leg. We need a healer of your field there to help him out, and you are our first choice."

"At Falas Weyr, hmm?" Sivve repeated. "Well, I've worked plenty of places, but never in a Weyr. I guess I can't refuse, can I?"

"I had orders to drag you onto the dragon's back if nessecary," Ortov replied.

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