He'd been shot... Again. It was dark out in the desert, the only light provided by your home up on the hill, overlooking the vast red rocks and sand; far from town. San trudged along to the light, a great bonfire blazing, the silhouette of you dancing in some great ritual just barely visible. And if he couldn't see you, he could definitely hear you.

"Curse them bandits..." He muttered, gripping the leaking wound on his shoulder, blood seeping through his vest.*

You were stepping in great strides around the flames, hands dipped in alcohol to set them ablaze, just as your deity intended. Cow skulls hung around, clattering in the gentle breeze, ochre and blood marking your skin. In the midst of your performance, however, you heard a groan, the sound of heavy footsteps on the rocky hill catching your attention. You couldn't tell if it was trouble. The town sheriff seldom came up here to talk to you about hunting the coyotes terrorising the ranches or for your methods of healing the sick, and bandits definitely did not want to mess with a shaman. And who would need your help during this time?

Carefully, you walked closer to the sound, before seeing the wounded cowboy before you.

"Shaman... Please help me, I don't mean no harm, I just want this darn bullet out my shoulder," San winced, leaning against the dry tree nearby, headless chickens tied to the branches. "Please, witchy woman?"