Logs:Bedside Manners
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| RL Date: 19 November, 2014 |
| Who: A'rist, Farideh |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Farideh is red and white and sore all over. A'rist and Lythronath were most definitely not hunting things they shouldn't have been. |
| Where: Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 20, Month 4, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
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| Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr About halfway between the two entrances is the counter for the healers on duty; it guards the entrance to the storage rooms just beyond, their shelves and cabinets lined with meticulously labeled bottles, boxes, jars, and even vats of supplies. The Weyrhealer's office is also here, along with another side room for mixing up medicines and the like. If nothing else, repeated exposure to this sort of thing has made A'rist patient. Seated on one of the cots nearer the entrance to the dragon infirmary, he holds out his arm, docilely, and answers the sting brought on the apprentice cleaning a rather long scrape on his forearm only with little twitches of the muscles in his cheeks. Just another day (afternoon?) in the life. Same, no doubt, for the bronze currently being seen to by a dragonhealer. The rider's toe taps, occasionally. He waits. The pungent smell of medicinal ointments precedes Farideh's arrival to the cot abutting A'rist's, and the source is plainly evident when she does move past the useless curtain on the other side and flops onto the clean cot. She's covered in reddish splotches - a keen eye and nose would pick redwort - and holds her left arm close to her chest. Her attending apprentice is spared no wrath, from the furious look she's been holding on him as they've walked. He's quick to make excuses and disappear, under some ruse to collect a healer. Lucky for A'rist and his apprentice, that is, because that's exactly who she turns her dissatisfied attention on. "What did you do?" she asks, not holding back the surly notes in her voice, as she flicks a sideways glance and brow arch his way. A'rist turns to Farideh, slowly, the warm, zen centre of the universe. His shrug is placid. "Dragon." The non-scraped arm lifts to indicate the dragon infirmary, where there are mumbled words and the occasional tick-tick of a talon, but no roars or screaming. Yet. He wrinkles his nose just a little, and just briefly, the way one might twitch to try and get a fly off of his face if both hands were occupied. "What about you? Healer stores explosion?" All sleepily spoken, sleepily paced. Her eyes follow the path to the dragon portion of the infirmary, and while it's not spoken, the inferred "oh" moment is there. "Delivering fresh linens to the infirmary is dangerous, because apparently apprentices don't ever watch where they're going and they might just slam into you while they're carrying boxes full of medicine and jars and ruin everything." Yeah, she's staring the apprentice working on A'rist down, so what. "They think I might have sprained my hand when I fell, and all of this," with a gesture to encompass her lovely red-stained self. She sighs and slumps forward, obviously bummed, but spares the sleepily-looking bronzerider another look. "Did they give you fellis?" A'rist follows Farideh's gaze- or, glare- to that apprentice, offering a semi-sympathetic crooked frown to his attendant. "Did you like... hook your fingers on something?" His non-scratched arm is raised, and his hand demonstrates willingly, ring and little finger hooking on his knee while the rest of the hand carries on. It's not at full speed. It's not at full extension. He doesn't hurt himself just to illustrate a point, no this time. "No. No fellis. Just... works better if I kind of settle back with these things." Tick-tick, go the talons in the dragon infirmary. "Hook my.." Farideh's thin brows come together over puzzled eyes, but it smooths soon after and she waves her free hand in dismissal of that idea. "I fell and I tried to catch himself with that hand. It all happened so suddenly and it wasn't the best idea," punctuated with a petulant rolling of her eyes. Those damn apprentices, causing redwort disasters and sprained wrists. She sighs, heavily, and swings one of her legs that are dangling over the edge of her cot. "Did you fall?" she asks, obvious curious as to why, more than simply dragon; curious minds and all. "Was it a flight?" He's got her full attention now, despite the dastardly apprentice still lingering about. "Tuck and roll," A'rist advises, the nods seeming almost sage, for the calm on his face and the slowness of its execution. The crooked little grin comes after, in that same, steady manner. "No, not a fall." One option taken away. "And not a flight." That brings the grin back. "If it were a flight, the scratches would be somewhere else." It's only when he's started to smile and enjoy his own comment that he thinks of what he's said. The calm is fractured, eyes widening, cheeks turning a bit more pink. "Faranth, sorry." A'rist's suggestion earns him a suspicious stare, one that morphs from suspicion to incredulity. "What are you even sorry for? It's not like everyone doesn't know what you riders do during those things." Farideh purses her lips and narrows her eyes, giving the bronzerider a slow once-over. "Everyone makes such a fuss about them, it's hard not to." She sighs and flexes her toes in her boots, in a bored-girl type of way, but don't think he's off the hook for a second: "You still haven't said what happened." "Well- wait." A'rist tries to focus, eyes narrowing a bit, a sharper look on Farideh. "So even if you've never been in one, you think it's just fine for people to come and talk to you about them? People you've never even met?" But there's a throat-click from the dragon infirmary, and he leans back again, idly flexing the arm, now bandaged, his apprentice now away, all but unnoticed. "Anyway, people make a big deal about them, 'cause... they are a big deal. In the moment. That's all." And then, "Right. Hunting." Farideh matches his narrow-eyed look with a sardonic one, nose wrinkled in distaste. "I work in the laundry. All they ever talk about is flights and who is sleeping with whom," she points out for the dragonrider, "you just have to listen, around here, and you can hear plenty of things from plenty of strangers." She, at least, doesn't seem fazed by this particular topic, and moves right along to the next, oblivious to what any of the dragon sounds coming from the outer infirmary mean. "Mhm, hunting," but by her expression, she's not believing that one - even if it is the truth. "What did you hunt? Wild felines?" "Uh," says A'rist, staring flat-faced at Farideh. There's no answer, as to their quarry. But what he does is look back over to the dragon infirmary, and take a breath, and eventually look back to his cot neighbour. "So do the laundry girls ever talk about the riders they get after the flights?" His calm is trying to crack again. And even with his apprentice long gone, Farideh's - or a healer - still seem to be absent. "Of course," Farideh replies with a faux-saccharine tone, cocking her head to the side, whilst a smirk tugs the corners of her mouth up. "What, are you worried? That someone said something about you?" Her smirk hedges into a grin, purely devilish as she continues to regard A'rist, this time with brimming amusement. "Didn't you know the laundry has the best gossips in the whole Weyr." She seems proud of this fact. "Uh," says A'rist, again. And again, he looks toward the dragon infirmary. And this time, he stretches out on the cot that he's taking up, starting with just his legs, and then, slowly, sinking backwards, until he's fully horizontal. "So it's just your hand that you sprained?" Without looking at her. And, without any further clicking from the infirmary over. Disappointment flickers, briefly, and disappears just as suddenly, on the brunette's round face. To divert her attention, Farideh starts inspecting the nails of her uninjured hand, unhappily rolling her eyes in response to his prone positioning. "Just the hand, but I'm going to have to scrub for days to get this other stuff off," she says, flipping her hand over to now examine the splotch just above her wrist. "And I smell like a healer's cabinet." A'rist shrugs, but it's not much of a change, for a guy who's now lying down, bandaged arm wresting over his belly. "At least," he says, the calm back, the slowness back, "it's a scrub you're mostly covered in. Really all you need now is some water." Turning his head so that his cheek is on the pillow, and he can look at the girl next to him: "Some people might like that." There's a dragonhealer coming into the main infirmary, now. It makes A'rist lift his head off the pillow and peer. "I have no hope left," Farideh says despairingly; dramatic much. "I shouldn't be covered in it at all, I should be-" She lets out a long exhale and frowns at him. "Yeah, a healer might, but I don't want any of their attention." One trip to the infirmary is enough. "I'd much rather smell like flowers. Or the ocean. Or pastries. Than medicine." Then, her gaze, too, lifts to take in the dragonhealer, and her demeanor, immediately, becomes more docile. "Maybe," suggests A'rist, his head still craned up from his otherwise flat position, "you should think about moving from the laundry into the kitchens." His words are taking on a more regular cadence. And, a few seconds after his suggestion, he dares to dig an elbow into the cot behind him, propping himself up some. "I have no desire," Farideh punctuates this with a pointed look at A'rist, "to work in there. And, I don't know how to cook, besides. I could easily burn the whole kitchen to cinders." She's giving him a contemptuous look while he's trying to prop himself up on his elbows, all the while not even offering to help. "Oh. Then... never mind." The prop turns into a push, legs swinging out to either side, and A'rist is sitting up all at once, straddling the cot. "I don't know. It's not the end of the world. At least it's not blood, right?" He tries that smile again. All of his maneuvering gets another stare; what is he even doing? Farideh flicks her hair over her shoulder and shrugs. "It could be worse. I could be stuck in the infirmary from a hunting accident," she says, and it could just be that her lips twitch, or maybe it's a muscle spasm. She tucks her ankles together and holds her bum wrist snuggled closer to her torso. "What's your name anyway?" "It wasn't much of an accident, compared to other ones," A'rist shrugs, leaning forward like to stretch something in his back, and then, with another swing of his leg, turning fully to face Farideh, both feet in front of him on the floor. "A'rist." He'll even lean forward and brush the curtain some to offer his hand. Hazel eyes fall to the offered hand in mild scrutiny, and her own hand follows not too long after to shake his lightly. "A'rist," Farideh repeats; if she recognizes the name from laundry gossip, she doesn't say so, and instead offers a fleeting smile for the greeting. "Farideh." "Hey," A'rist offers, smile broadening over his face, for all that the word isn't particularly suave or graceful. "Well," when he withdraws his hand, leans back, and gives his feet a little lift and drop before hopping up onto them, "hope you get out of here soon. We," and he nods toward the dragon infirmary, though if anyone were to go check, it would be found vacant already, "gotta go make sure the paint's all dried properly." "Oh," Farideh turns her head to look towards the dragon infirmary, then back again with a slight inclination of her head, "thanks." She shifts on the thin cot padding and lifts her shoulders in an indolent half-shrug. "I'll be fine. Worry about yourself and-your dragon." Her smile slants somewhat more mischievous as she taps her lips, making the universal quiet gesture. "I'll keep an ear out for any new gossip. Nice to meet you, A'rist." A'rist is firing off a salute to that laundry girl when she mentions gossip. It makes him tuck his head down a bit, and twist his face into something like a wince. He's got nothing more to add, though; the healer is (finally) approaching, which is surely more his cue than anything else to take his leave. |
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