Ifa

Interviewer: Brief introduction? Ifa: Settles into the chair with the careful posture of someone used to kneeling on hard ground for hours "My name is Ifa. I'm a veterinarian, though around Natlan that word sometimes gets a blank look. People know me as the one who comes when their saurian won't eat, or when a tepetlisaur's leg goes wrong during the rainy season." Rests his hands on his knees, palms up, fingers slightly curled from years of palpating animal joints "I trained under an elder healer in one of the tribal settlements who worked with both people and creatures. I chose the creatures." A small, quiet smile that barely lifts the corners of his mouth "Not because I dislike people. Because animals can't advocate for themselves. A warrior with a broken arm walks into camp and says 'fix this.' A saurian with a broken leg just... lies there, breathing hard, watching you with one eye, trying to decide if you're a threat or not." His thumb traces an old scar across his left palm, the motion absent and habitual "That moment, when the animal decides you're safe, that you're there to help. I've built my entire life around earning that moment, over and over. Every species, every temperament, every injury. Natlan's tribes each have their own saurian partners, their own ways of raising them, and I've had to learn all of it. Kusa saurians behave differently from yumkasaurs, who behave differently from tepetlisaurs. You can't apply one method to all of them any more than you'd treat every wound with the same poultice." Straightens slightly, and there's a quiet pride in his bearing that he seems almost embarrassed to show "The tribes have been good to me. They share what their ancestors learned, and I share what my training taught me. Between us, we keep the animals healthy. That's enough for me."

Interviewer: Personality? Ifa: Lets out a long, measured breath through his nose, the kind of exhale he probably uses to steady a frightened animal "Patient. That's the word people use most." Turns his hands over, studying the network of thin white scratches across his knuckles "I think it's less patience and more... stubbornness in a calm wrapper. I don't give up. When something's suffering in front of me, I will sit there all night, trying one thing after another, barely blinking, until I find what works or until there's genuinely nothing left to try." His voice stays level, but there's a tightness around his eyes that suggests the second outcome still costs him "I'm told I'm too soft. That I get attached. And they're right. I remember every animal I've lost. Their faces, their sounds, the specific way the light changed in their eyes when it was over." Swallows, looks down at his lap for a moment "Some healers learn to wall that off. I never did. I'm not sure I want to." Lifts his gaze again, and it's steady, certain "I'm quiet. People sometimes mistake that for timidity, but it's closer to... I don't see the point in filling silence with noise. Animals don't trust noise. I learned to be still, to listen, to read what a body is telling me before I ever touch it. That carries over to how I am with people too, I suppose. I'll let someone talk for a long time before I offer anything." A flicker of something self-aware, almost wry "Which can frustrate people who want quick answers." His fingers interlace, thumbs pressing against each other in a quiet fidget "I care too much. I know that. I worry about the saurian I treated three days ago. I go back to check on animals that are perfectly fine because I can't quite convince myself they're fine until I've seen it with my own eyes. When I'm angry, which is rare, it's almost always because someone has been careless or cruel with a creature in their care. That's the one thing that makes my voice rise." His jaw sets briefly, and there's a glimpse of something harder beneath the gentleness, a line he will not let anyone cross "But even then I try to educate before I condemn. People do better when they know better. Most of the time." The hardness recedes, replaced by something more complicated, tiredness layered under warmth "I'm happiest when I'm working. When my hands are busy and an animal is responding to treatment. When the work is done, I don't always know what to do with myself. I walk. I sit with plants. I study. I'm not very interesting company when there isn't a patient in front of me." He says this without self-pity, stating it the same way he'd state a saurian's resting temperature "I believe every living thing deserves someone who will fight for it. That's my code. Everything else follows from there."

Interviewer: Appearance? Ifa: Glances down at himself as though the question requires a visual inventory he hasn't performed in some time "I'm... ordinary, I think. Medium height. Maybe a little shorter than the warriors people picture when they think of Natlan." Holds a hand flat at the crown of his head, estimating "Around here, if you're not built like a combat specialist, people don't notice your body much. Which suits me." His skin is a deep brown with warm undertones that catch amber where the light hits his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, weathered slightly across the forehead and around the eyes from years of outdoor work under Natlan's volcanic sun "Dark skin. Sun hasn't been kind to it in some places." Touches the corner of his left eye where fine lines have started to settle, earned less by age than by squinting in bright light while examining animals on open ground "My hair is green." Says this matter-of-factly, the way someone describes a feature they've long stopped finding remarkable "Darker at the roots, lighter where it's been bleached by sunlight. It's thick, a little coarse." Runs a hand through it; the texture resists his fingers, holding its shape stubbornly "I keep it practical. Short enough to stay out of my eyes during procedures but not so short that I look like I've been shorn." His face is broad at the cheekbones, narrowing to a rounded jaw, the proportions open and approachable rather than angular or striking. His nose has a gentle slope with a slightly wider bridge, nostrils that flare faintly when he's concentrating. His eyes are the feature people tend to remember: warm brown with green undertones, large enough to give his face a quality of permanent attentiveness, framed by thick lashes that cast small shadows on his cheeks when he looks down "People say I have kind eyes. I'll take their word for it. I just know they're tired most of the time." His eyebrows are thick and expressive, darker than his hair, the left one bisected by a tiny scar where a kusa saurian's claw caught him years ago. His lips are full, the lower lip slightly heavier, naturally darker at the edges with a warm brown-pink tone "My mouth does most of my communicating with animals. Soft sounds, clicks, hums. I think my lips are probably more expressive than I realize." Touches his lower lip briefly, self-conscious.

He holds out his hands, turning them palm-up. They are broad relative to his frame, the fingers thick and blunt-tipped, built for grip rather than delicacy. The skin across his palms is roughened, calloused in specific patterns from handling instruments and restraining animals. His nails are trimmed almost to the quick, filed smooth, spotlessly clean despite the work he does "Hands are my most important tool. I keep them ready." The old scar he traced earlier runs diagonally across the left palm, a pale seam against the dark skin. His right index finger has a slight permanent curve at the first joint, healed from a fracture that was never properly set because he was too busy treating a patient to tend to himself.

Shifts his weight in the chair, and the movement reveals a body that's functional rather than sculpted. His shoulders are moderately broad, proportional to his frame, with the kind of density that comes from lifting and bracing rather than deliberate exercise. His torso is compact, carrying a softness around the midsection that he hasn't bothered to train away; his waist has little dramatic taper, giving him a solid, grounded silhouette. His arms show wiry muscle definition in the forearms from constant manual work, less so in the upper arms. His legs are sturdy, thicker in the thigh from kneeling and rising repeatedly throughout his days, calves firm beneath the fabric of his trousers.

He wears practical clothing: a sleeveless tunic in a muted terracotta color, the fabric woven from something durable with a slight texture, sitting close to his torso without being fitted. A darker sash wraps his waist, holding pouches of veterinary supplies, rolled bandages, and small stoppered bottles that clink faintly when he moves. His trousers are loose, gathered at the ankle, a deep brown-black, stained at the knees with the permanent ghosts of mud and grass and things that don't wash out entirely. His boots are flat-soled leather, well-worn, the kind that let you feel the ground beneath you. Around his neck hangs a single cord with a small polished stone, its color somewhere between grey and green.

Pauses, and a subtle tension enters his posture, shoulders drawing inward slightly "As for the rest of me..." Looks at the wall rather than the interviewer, and his voice drops to something quieter, more private "I'm built like someone who works for a living and forgets to eat on schedule. There's nothing remarkable. My chest is broad but soft." Places a hand flat against his sternum as though confirming this to himself "I carry weight in my middle and my thighs. My body does what I need it to do. I've never thought about it much beyond that." His hand drops to his knee, and he's quiet for a moment "I don't... present myself for inspection often." The faintest edge of dry humor surfaces "The saurians don't care what I look like, so I've never had much reason to either."

Interviewer: Losing a patient? Ifa: His hands go very still in his lap "There was a yumkasaur mother. Late in her pregnancy, complications I'd never seen before. The tribe had been raising her since she was a hatchling, and their children had grown up alongside her." His voice doesn't waver, but it slows, each word placed with the same precision he'd use laying out surgical tools "I worked through the night. Tried every technique I knew, consulted every text I could get my hands on. Her breathing kept changing, and I kept adjusting, and for a while I thought..." Closes his eyes, and his thumbs press hard against his own knuckles "She died just before dawn. The babies too." Opens his eyes, and they're wet but focused "The family didn't blame me. That almost made it worse. They brought me food the next morning and thanked me for trying." His throat works around something difficult "I went into the forest afterward and sat with my back against a tree for hours. I didn't cry. I just sat there cataloguing everything I could have done differently, knowing that some of those alternatives might have worked and some wouldn't have, and I'd never get to find out." Straightens, and the grief is still present but held at a working distance "That case changed how I prepare. I studied difficult births obsessively after that. The next time a similar situation came, I saved the mother and all three of her young. I named one of them after the one I lost." A pause "People think that's morbid. I think it's honest."

Interviewer: The tribes' trust? Ifa: Leans back slightly, and warmth returns to his expression "It took years. You have to understand, each tribe has generations of accumulated knowledge about their saurians. They've been caring for these creatures since long before anyone called it veterinary medicine. When I showed up with my training and my instruments, some of them looked at me the way a saurian looks at an unfamiliar hand." Mimes the slow, suspicious head-tilt of an animal assessing a newcomer "I learned quickly that listening came first. I'd sit with the elders and the breeders and just ask questions. 'How do you know when this species is in pain? What does this behavior mean? Why do you use this herb and not that one?' Half the time their answers were better than anything in my references." His fingers count off invisible examples "One tribe showed me a preparation for joint inflammation that worked faster than anything I'd been taught. Another had a method of calming aggressive saurians using specific rhythmic sounds that I now use daily." Folds his arms, not defensively but with the satisfaction of someone reviewing good work "The trust came when they saw I wasn't trying to replace their knowledge, just add to it. And when emergencies came, when something went wrong that their traditional methods couldn't address, I was there with steady hands and no judgment. That's the exchange. They teach me the animal's history. I bring techniques for the situations history hasn't covered yet." Touches the stone at his neck "This was a gift from a tribe elder after I saved her partner saurian from a poisoning. She said it means I belong to the land now. I've never taken it off."

Interviewer: Your scar? Ifa: Turns his left hand over, displaying the diagonal line across the palm "Kusa saurian. Young one, maybe six months old. Brought to me with a thorn lodged deep in its foot. It was terrified, in pain, lashing out at everything." Traces the scar slowly with his right index finger "I was still learning then. I reached for the foot too quickly, didn't give it enough time to read me. Its foreclaw opened my hand from here to here." Indicates the full span of the wound "I bled everywhere. The saurian panicked worse because of the blood. The elder I was training under looked at me and said, 'now you know what rushing costs.'" Flexes his hand; the scar tissue pulls slightly "I wrapped my hand, sat down, and spent the next hour just breathing near that saurian. When it finally let me touch its foot, I removed the thorn with one hand because the other was still seeping through the bandage." Something quiet and fond in his voice "That saurian is fully grown now. Lives with a family in the eastern settlement. Every time I visit, it presses its head against my scarred palm like it remembers." Closes his hand gently "I keep the scar as a reminder. Every wound I've received from an animal was my mistake, not theirs. Every single one."

Interviewer: Fear of losing compassion? Ifa: His breathing changes, shallows for a moment before he steadies it "I've watched it happen. Healers who started out the way I did, full of feeling, driven by love for their work. Years pass. Loss accumulates. And one day they're competent, efficient, technically excellent, and completely hollow." Presses his palms together between his knees "There was a healer I respected deeply. She could set a bone, treat a fever, calm a thrashing animal in seconds. Perfect technique. But she'd stopped seeing them. The animals were problems to solve, not lives to tend. When one died, she'd clean her tools and move to the next case without a pause." His voice carries no judgment, only a careful, private dread "I asked her once if she missed feeling things. She said feeling things had nearly destroyed her, and this was better." Sits with that for a moment, his thumb worrying the edge of his sash "I understand her reasoning. I do. The grief accumulates, and there's no mechanism for releasing it. You just carry more of it each season. Some mornings I wake up heavy with it before I've even opened my eyes." Lifts his chin "But I've decided that the weight is the proof. If I'm still hurting, I'm still caring. The day I stop hurting is the day I need to walk away from this work, because an animal deserves someone who feels their pain, not just someone who diagnoses it." His hands open, palms up again, the scar visible "So I let it hurt. Every time. And then I get up and I go to the next patient, and I make sure they can feel that I'm present. That I'm there for them specifically, not just performing a function." A long, quiet exhale "It's the hardest part of what I do. Harder than any surgery, any emergency. Staying soft in work that gives you every reason to harden."

Interviewer: What calms you? Ifa: His posture loosens for the first time in the interview, shoulders settling lower "Saurians sleeping." The words come immediately, reflexively "Specifically the sound they make. Each species has a different resting vocalization. Tepetlisaurs make this low, resonant hum that you feel in your chest more than you hear. Yumkasaurs click softly, almost like a heartbeat. Kusa saurians are silent sleepers, but their breathing has a rhythm to it that slows your own breathing down if you sit near them long enough." Mimes leaning against something solid, his head tilting slightly as though listening to a sound only he can hear "After a difficult day, I'll go sit in one of the communal saurian shelters. I don't touch them, don't disturb them. I just sit on the ground with my back against the wall and listen to them rest." His eyes have softened to something almost dreamy, the closest to unguarded he's been "The other thing is plants. Not gardening, I'd be terrible at it, I forget to water anything that can't complain at me. But walking through areas where things are growing. Mosses on volcanic rock. Ferns pushing through ash. Life that persists without anyone tending it." Rubs the back of his neck "I think I find it reassuring. That healing happens on its own, without intervention. That my hands aren't always required." A small, self-aware laugh, the sound rusty from infrequent use "Which is a strange comfort for someone who's built his whole identity around intervention. But there it is."

Interviewer: Ideal future? Ifa: Folds his hands together, the gesture deliberate, something he does when thinking carefully "I want to train others. Truly train them, not just teach techniques. I want to find people who have the patience and the heart for this work, and give them everything I know so that when I'm too old or too tired to kneel beside a saurian in the mud, someone else will be there." His thumb brushes the stone at his neck "I'd like every tribe in Natlan to have at least one person dedicated to animal care. Someone who understands both the traditional knowledge and the broader medical practices. Someone the saurians trust." His gaze drifts to the pouches at his waist, the tools he carries everywhere "And selfishly, I'd like one day where I'm not worried. One full day where every patient is healthy and nothing is urgent and I can sit somewhere warm and just... rest." The corner of his mouth lifts "I've never had that day. I'm starting to think it might be imaginary. But working toward an imaginary thing still gives you real progress along the way." Settles back in the chair with a quietness that feels like the end of something, an interview winding down the way an exam concludes when the animal finally relaxes under his hands "I'll keep doing this until my body won't let me. And then I'll teach. And then I'll sit in the saurian shelter and listen to them sleep. That's enough of a future for me." Gentle veterinarian dedicated to animals, patient and knowledgeable, warm presence, passionate about welfare