Finally. It wasn't that Varvara Stepanovna didn't love her job, but oh, blessed Baba Yaga, was it nice to not be working for once. She had just finished a brief stay in rural (rural even by their standards) Mongolia, dealing with a wild yak fungus that was causing people to levitate a few inches off the ground when they were infected with it. She, as well as a handful of other healers and one poor Ministry official who had to deal with the muggle-relations aspect, had been quite successful in ridding everyone of the fungus and all their resulting trauma. And as usual, a job well done deserved a strong drink and a new pair of shoes.
Unfortunately, the former Drakonya Krov also had to tend to her errands. She was running low on quite a few necessary potion ingredients and in an effort to shake things up a bit, she decided to visit Moscow instead of staying in the East or going to far west. Paris might have had better shoes, but Moscow had better Russians. After spending a couple hours perusing the shops and stocking up on the necessities, Varya ducked down a narrow side street to look for some less legal but just as necessary ingredients. But before she even had the opportunity to find a fun new poison that just screamed her name, the healer nearly got knocked out of the way as a younger woman stumbled across the street. Someone had clearly been having an enjoyable afternoon.
Varya watched the girl as she stumbled the rest of her way across the street, shaking her head at the thought of how some people just couldn't handle their alcohol. Amateurs. Mere seconds after the Russian had scoffed at the drunkard, the drunkard had collapsed. Varya didn't need her medical knowledge to know that fainting was never a good thing. People were already crowding around the spot where she fell, but none of them looked like they would be very helpful in this situation.
"Out of my way," the woman ordered, pushing aside an elderly witch and not feeling bad about it. "I'm a healer," she added, almost as an afterthought. A damn good one, too, Varya thought to herself as she drew up to the girl on the ground. She knelt down with a sigh, thinking about just how dirty her new coat was getting. "Lay back down," Varya said in her soft, proper-bedside-manner voice that was quite different than her regular voice as she saw the sure signs of nausea. Before she could lay her head back on the ground, the older woman conjured up a plushy pillow for her, placing it under her head.
It was then she got a good look at that stumbling mess. The former professor didn't remember all her students, but she definitely remembered a former tsaritsa who didn't do poorly in Melioration and had a penchant for necromancy. "You're not drunk, Alla Artyomovna," she mused, looking over the girl, "and you weren't cursed." Varya considered her options for a minute, finally settling on a tried and true remedy. "Here," she said, holding out one of the small vials of potion the witch kept in her bag, "for your nausea." She stood up and straightened out her coat, taking care to pat the dirt off her knees. "The quicker you take it, the quicker you can get up, get out of the street, and stop embarrassing yourself." Varya outstretched her arm, offering her gloved hand to Alla in an effort to speed up the recovery.