It took a while, but word had gotten to Sappho that her best friend wasn’t feeling great. Her residue maternal instincts kicked in and she got to work making a large iron bowl to hold ... a chunky soup of sorts.
She’d heard that chicken noodle soup was given to humans that were sick, but as she was a cave dragon and not a human, she took a lot of liberties. Sappho couldn’t get noodles, and had to do uncharacteristically delicate work plucking the chickens and removing other undesirable parts from the carcasses. The birdmeat was grilled thoroughly on a hot, blue flame while the reject parts were steeped in water to make chicken stock, on the instructions of an old farmer that traded his chickens for pieces of Sappho’s treasury.
With a pot of the concoction safely nestled in a saddlebag and the bowl clipped on, she flew over to give it to the ailing nobody.
“Xigbar? You in there?” she called, hoping he wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t respond.