Jul 31 2021, 05:59 AM
"Necessity is the mother of invention," some had said--on other worlds, in other times. An old aphorism, but a true one; unfortunately for Oliver, in his case necessity wasn't quite enough.
Having hands would have been a nice start--not the half-grasping birds' claws that he had but real and genuine fingers. Or, perhaps, centuries of previous medical knowledge upon which to build. One couldn't truly figure out antibiotics without knowing what bacteria were, after all; and planning successful surgery was a little iffy when one was unfamiliar with internal anatomy and what each part was for. Oliver could look at a jumble of organs and know, vaguely, which went where--but what each one did? Bar the obvious heart, they were beyond him.
After the Deathmatch, and after seeing the truly grievious wounds that he now knew he simply could not treat (they were so horrific, so far beyond anything else he'd ever seen), the poor bird-dog had spent a few days just... thinking.
Some--like the strange vulture that sometimes lurked in Tunnel P--gathered up Lessers, and hurt them, and then tried to fix them. It mostly didn't work; but maybe the bird learned from the bits that did. Oliver... wasn't like that. He couldn't bring himself to hurt anything. Heck, he used magic so he could live off plants! No; he'd decided he'd have to find another way--any straws he could grasp at, really, for a chance at doing more than using plants to weave closed the worst of a wound and then hoping for the best. (Well, that was oversimplifying the bird-dog's abilities, but still.)
He knew that others had... more powerful magics. Yes, he himself had been granted--secondhand--the secret healing of a Master, through his father. But he could only do that once before near collapsing, and it hurt him, too. But the Collector..? He'd heard... things, about the Collector. Good things, bad things. He seemed a fickle sort, but strong: he had magical objects that could do wonderful, amazing things.
Oh, but--he had to call him first, didn't he? Maybe the strange figure had seen Oliver before, even--hard at work growing his garden, or tending to anyone who happened by and asked for it (very few, granted, but still). Or--maybe not, but... He was meant to call him. That much he had heard.
"Collector?" he called out, over the bones and into the dust. His tone was hesitant, and he paused, thinking. Was he supposed to say the Collector, maybe-? Was it part of his title?
"The-... Collector? Are you here?"