Logs:Belly-Flops On Ice
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| RL Date: 11 November, 2013 |
| Who: G'laer, Teisyth, Leova, Vrianth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Teisyth has a bad morning. Leova patches her up. G'laer might have emotions. Vrianth definitely has energy... delicious energy; yum. |
| Where: Dragon Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 25, Month 3, Turn 33 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: U'sot/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Backdated. Done mostly on game and then finished off to accommodate my (G'laer's) crazy bout of RL. Some poses ended up a little more vignette-y, but... whatever. |
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| Dragon Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr The vast cavern has much the same odor of redwort and numbweed as the human infirmary, though here it's seasoned with coppery ichor rather than the iron of blood. It's also laid out similarly though on a much more massive scale, its walls lined with a number of places for patients, in this case large dragon couches recessed into the floor for ease of access; nearby cots provide space for riders. Tucked into the western curve is a huge circulating pool of warm water, by which are kept vats of oil. The healers' duty station is a counter on the north side of the room, a checkpoint before the storage rooms behind it that are now shared with the human infirmary, hosting supplies that are as neatly labeled and carefully scrubbed as the rest of the infirmary. The senior dragonhealer has an office there as well, and human-sized double doors have recently been built as a direct route to the human infirmary, while opposite a wide winding tunnel leads to the east bowl.
The experts run a tight ship: one that's got to be easier in Interval than Fall, though it's also true they aren't staffed as highly now. It's a bright morning, well-lit. A rangy green dragon soaks in the pool that young dragonets have also been allowed in, for all that it's much smaller for her than it is for them. Her eyes are darkly attentive when the new pair arrives. No coincidence, then, that the greenrider with the short, dark-auburn hair looks up. Sets aside what she'd been working on behind the counter. Strides, swiftly, to meet them halfway or more. "Ma'am," G'laer greets, but doesn't salute because, well, he's got an armful of dragon. "Shh, Teis, it'll be alright," He has to interrupt whatever he was going to say to the dragonhealer next because another hiccupy creel had started from Teisyth. "There's been an incident." He reports solemnly. His expression is much the same as it usually is, serious, neutral, although, there's something to his blue gaze that speaks of distress, a rounding of his eyes, and the tightness in his jaw. That tenseness carries over into his frame; it's not just from holding the dragon, "Where-?" He starts looking to see where the dragonrider wants the dragon deposited. Perhaps it's unlikely once he sets Teisyth down that she'll move on her own. Most commonly, better light gets moved to dragons and not the other way around, but the dragonhealer takes advantage of this while they still can. Amber eyes narrow, gauging. With her attention comes another's, dark with energy barely muted for the dragonet's sake. « Teisyth. » The name lasts though the woman's crisp nod, through her turn, her gesture beckoning as she lengthens her stride to move ahead of them. Maybe the table that she folds down from the wall near the counter is used for other things, studying, poker or whatever esoteric game dragonhealers like for slow nights. Today it'll serve for a still-small dragonet, and there's a ratty-but-clean length of felt that she tosses over the top, practiced movements securing the hook-and-loop tape for purchase. There's no lip to the table, but, "Settle her here. What's she got?" Not: what happened. Teisyth's inner idea of tears is like oil leaking from somewhere it's surely not supposed to. « It huuu-uu--uuurts! » The mind of this green is so usually light and excitable that the sheer force of her feeling might be overwhelming, if not to Vrianth, to G'laer. She feels pain! And sadness! And he's mad at her about something, isn't he? No. Not mad. Disappointed, and that's worse! It's all bad. All of it. Right now, it's awful. If Vrianth's paying attention, G'laer's mind can even be sensed through the green who's certainly not paying attention to silly things like privacy right now. First and foremost there's distress that he's controlling, but that rises and ebbs like the rise of rivers with snowmelt at lightspeed. There's agitation under that, and yes, the worst one: disappointment. G'laer sets the green down on the table, helping her position on her side so that her stomach can be seen, his hand reaching to carefully hold her top paw up so it doesn't obscure the view. "Her belly had a run in with a bit of bowl not covered in ice." The cuts are light, but they're all over, and there's bits of dirt and maybe even some tiny rocks imbedded in the hide. And. Well, G'laer looks to the dragonhealer, she'll know best. How can she not control herself? « Teisyth. » That name, again, and a sense of leaning. Vrianth's no instinctive ally to her chosen as Olveraeth is to Quinlys, not in this. It's honed instinct that has her seek to channel away all that urgency just as fast as Teisyth can create it, to drain its energy even as it pours away: the more force the littler green has, the more she can take for herself. Certainly she pays attention, though at a remove, no wish to immerse herself in the mess. Disappointment. She does not blame him. Though, neither does she blame Teisyth. Not unkindly, « Shush. He will get over it. » She, Teisyth, is being tended to. As her rider examines, her brief nod marking G'laer's description, there's complete assurance: « Stay still. We can fix it. » At least, the surface hurts. If they choose. "Nothing looks deep. I'll wash up. Good job holding your cool." It won't take her long, at least: enough to get the job done, and return with her implements if there's no cataclysm in the meantime. Energy! She has it. And then it's gone. No, not gone. Diminishing. That's confusing! As babies are wont to do, Teisyth responds by pouring more force, more angst, more upset into her touch. Only to have that leeched away, leaving her feeling woosy and empty. The fact that she's feeling somehow weakened, even if that wasn't Vrianth's goal, has G'laer's agitation hiking up to a new elevation. "Training." Beat. "Is she supposed to feel out of it? She hasn't lost too much ichor or something, right?" He can't imagine. Those little scratches, only some of which have any ichor at all. Maybe something worse is wrong on the inside. His hand moves to stroke the underside of the green's chin, gently, rhythmically, soothingly. To Teisyth's credit, she is staying still, mostly confused now, though still, she knows that she feels pain, only she doesn't have the needed energy to continue to tell everyone else that she's feeling it. Tasty, tasty energy. And it's quiet! Win/win. But Leova, carrying a tray with hands redworted past her wrist, gives her now brilliant-eyed dragon a long look. "We'll work on that." She explains what she's going to do, including how the numbweed spray doesn't keep like the salve does, but how it can make the irrigating and the tweezers and the alcohol a little easier. "Does it help her," or him, trained though he is, "to hear what I'm doing. What I'm finding. Whether it's just dirt or what?" For all that it's a question, her smoky Tillek-accented alto stays level, easygoing, slower than her quick hands. And meanwhile energy gradually begins to siphon back to Teisyth as though completing some circuit. It's only a little at first, to see how she takes it, cleansed of those emotions except for the warmth of a living being. « Good. » Vrianth. « Good, Teisyth. » Vrianth approves. If she's not getting loud again, at least. G'laer is at least half listening to Leova. For all his training, the feelings are still distracting and he's therefore not the most teachable in this moment. "It'll be alright," He assures softly, tenderly. "You just lie still and dragonhealer Leova'll fix you up." Once he's made these assurances, and the fact he did so outloud speaks volumes to how deeply affected the pair are, he answers Leova, "I don't know if it helps her. It'll probably get her telling the story. Though, that might be unavoi-" His word hiccups but finishes, "-dable." Because it's overlapped with, « So there I was, waitin' for G'laer an' the others t'finish their exercises. Only it's so boring when he's all the way over there » Which is anywhere more than five feet away as far as Teisyth's concerned, « And he leaves me alone. » Any emotion she says comes with a wave of what that feels like. Boredom. Loneliness. Half's better than some manage, though a large part of explaining's how it can reinforce that there's no reason to panic, if only through the regular rhythm of the dragonhealer's voice. This is something that's being handled, says the subtext. This is nothing new. Those who want to listen, can. Those who don't, don't. The initial numbweed-spritz may help the most, though even that very physical relief isn't as deep as the salve will be. Leova employs the tweezers deftly, bracing her elbow on the table where necessary and possible, going in for the larger bits first and dropping them into a little dish. As she does, "Reckon that helps, if it doesn't work her up." If it don't work her up none, it could have been. « He. Left you alone. » Tsk. Vrianth filters the waves for what she can get out of them, too, but to a lesser degree this time. « And... what did you do? » It comes less as interrogation than intrigue: was it interesting? Advantageous? Worth it? Even fun? Numb. « Hey, that feels funny! » Teisyth's story is interrupted at the first spritz. Then Leova, despite immediate discouraging from G'laer, has a tail to contend with, because, of course, Teisyth wants to touch her tummy where it's numb. Maybe it's the green's first time with numbweed, or maybe she just doesn't remember the times before. This is a distraction to whatever G'laer might have said to her as he unintelligibly tries to restrain the tail with half-formed words alone. In the meantime, as if there weren't attempts being made to dissuade her, the story continues. « Well, naw. I mean he was right there. With the rest of them. Doin' the stuff they hafta do. Anyway, I saw there was some ice not too far away an' I thought, 'Hey! Wouldn't it be great if'n I could sliiiide across that?' Only then the ice ended too soon, an' well, then it hurt. » And we're back to the pain, although it's now the memory of the pain. She's not creeling. She's not bleeding out ichor, not substantially enough to bother Leova; in fact, "You can let her poke herself a couple of times, get it out of her system." Hopefully. "Won't do worse than she's done already." Vrianth, if and when Teisyth's gotten a chance: « Teisyth. This is not wiggling time. This is hold still and be fixed time. » Also, after a wince from the return to pain, « There is other ice to be found, ice that goes and goes. Only, it is not here. It will wait for you to get bigger. » Probably. Vrianth also neglects to specify Teisyth's getting bigger in the natural course of things, as opposed to, say, eating extra. Leova's hanging in there meanwhile, waiting for a chance to work. If she can get to a bit that isn't right where she'd planned, that's the part she gets, but by way of explanation, "Better to wait than poke her wrong." So when Teisyth and G'laer end up back at the healers because of repeated cases of thick tail, it's all Vrianth's fault. You saw it here first, folks. Vrianth's other words, about what time it is, get disagreement from the usually agreeable tyke. No, it's definitely time to wiggle a little. At least enough that G'laer keeps grabbing at her, that's fun! G'laer, however, seems to recognize this much and with Leova's blessing, his hands draw back and he's folding arms across his chest, nailing the green with a purposeful look: see? Not touching you so long as you're naughty. Teisyth huffs, but she's got the freedom to poke at her tummy now, the numb bits and then the not numb bits. It does get boring quickly, so maybe that's out of her system - although with dragon memories being what they are... there's no guarantee it's the last time she'll want such a diversion. Now she yawns, flopping her head back to look at G'laer. She's still now, see? He can touch her again. Though he doesn't. He looks instead to Leova, to watch her work. Vrianth can be patient, or at the very least can seem patient. They wait. Or, at the very least, Leova waits. Vrianth may have other things on her mind. There might even be a tantalizing sense of another's cooler energy, and another beyond that. Leova, though, nods once. She gets to work, efficiently. The little dish begins to fill with what the tweezers can gather, and after that, there's irrigating with warm, clean numbweed-laced water, if only she'll stay settled that long. "The alcohol will sting," she says matter-of-factly for what will be the step after that. "Then the real numbweed will take that off. Reckon it's shallow enough that it shouldn't get infected, normal days. But. Since they can't go between," those amber eyes lift from her work to G'laer, checking that he comprehends the possible contaminants. "Care at all about lineage, by the by? She has half-siblings as well as full-." Teisyth was good until the stinging. But, « Whaaaaa! » and a creel express her displeasure, tail and head jerking. This brings G'laer's hands, working clumsily free of the cross over his chest, to land on the green's neck, a new distress in his blue eyes and a tension in his frame. It's not that the stinging is really that bad, but Teisyth is a baby and one given to feeling things strongly (and perhaps, occasionally over-reacting). "Lineage is interesting," comes G'laer's distracted answer. "I'll try to keep her clean. What do I do about oiling? Do I oil there or avoid or-?" Still distracted, but these are questions that he needs answers for, if not in this moment, then soon enough. Occasionally. "Later, then." Enough to hold onto now, literally or otherwise: for him if not Leova, who gives Teisyth a breather and no more before continuing to spritz, aiming to get it over quickly without amping her level of distress too high. "Once the salve's on, shouldn't need oiling for a couple days. After that, oil away, just take care with what scabs as are left." « Almost done, » Vrianth, dry. Her rider doesn't hesitate to apply the salve with bare hands, redworted as they have been, just as soon she's done with the sting. « There. She helps you, does my rider. » That part where Teisyth's feeling better again, at least if she's let herself be salved? All because of Leova, or at least that's the connection that Vrianth would like to make very, very clear. Leova helps Teisyth. Leova makes things better for Teisyth... and, as it happens, Leova is hers. Vrianth's. It's all very beneficial. The tail doesn't cease it's lashing, looking for something, anything to latch onto. It's instinctive, to latch with her tail, not practical. The continued discomfort has G'laer bending to where Teisyth's head has risen to, and his forehead touches the top of the green's head, knobs resting in his hair. If he were thinking properly, he'd probably actually flush, for the gesture, for all it's simplicity, is intimate, and he's not given to shows of intimacy, especially not where others can see. But these are unusual circumstances, and the touch, the proximity, the fact that he's doing it even though Leova's right there, and Vrianth's not far away... all of these things together calm the little green enough to get to the point where the numbweed can be slathered on. G'laer remains poised a moment longer than needed and then straightens. "What if she gets dirty between now and then?" He asks of Leova, as if he'd done nothing out of the ordinary at all. It's probably a legitimate question for Teisyth's lifemate to ask. "'If'?" The dragonhealer glances up for the first time in a while, and with a one-cornered smile before she returns to her task. Though cautious of the tail, Vrianth might be more cautious than she. "Wipe off the grime. Remove as little of the salve as you can get away with. If she starts bleeding again," for all that it's ichor, "pressure's good, just like humans. Too much, let me know. I'll give you a little pot with more salve. Use common sense with that, though: if she's reminded it's there, might slow her down a hair." Might. There's that one-cornered smile again. "Good job, Teisyth. Taking it easy. Things going all right otherwise? Stopped everyone waking each other up, yet?" G'laer frowns at the single syllable word. The expression concedes the point. The frown only deepens at the idea that it might slow Teisyth down. That shows how much confidence he has in that. Teisyth's tail has begun to sway on the table and especially where it hangs off the table's edge. Maybe there's something interesting down there she can touch because this is boooring. She starts to squirm and a small sound of complaint slips from her throat. "No, stay put til she says." The greenriding weyrling instructs without emotion. His distress has visibly started to lessen for those with keen enough eyes to mark the subtle differences in the muscular tension of his shoulders and jaw. "Things are-" G'laer hesitates, "-challenging. She's a hands full kind of dragon." This description seems to please Teisyth and simultaneously the sensation of a blush is available to Vrianth. « Shucks, he says the nicest things. » Except, this is Teisyth, so it's not tongue in cheek. She really thinks so. « As he should. » There's a prickling of energy, fine barely-there impulses, like the occasional strand of steel within supple velvet's nap. It's something like pleasure for Teisyth and her chosen, but it also has something to do with focus upon the younger green. Her rider's focused on the job. But, straightening with another look to the man beyond those that have lifted now and again, "Something you want to talk about, can. Otherwise," a one-shouldered shrug before she collects the gear: evidently he seems to be meeting those challenges passably well. That, or she's just not that nosy. "She's free to go, far as I'm concerned. I'll get you the jar to take with." Teisyth waits until Leova's clear before she rolls off the table, flumping gracelessly down onto all fours and giving a nose-to-tail-tip shake of her body, wings shifting experimentally, as if Leova might have done something to them while she was distracted. G'laer watches, possibly mulling over the dragonhealer's words, because he does give answer, "Maybe another time." He might have questions later. Or something. But later. Not when little ears are right here to listen in for all that she seems to take even his exasperation as a complement to just how ebullient she is. And so he waits for the jar as Teisyth starts nosing around the area; lots to explore here! It's all new! Okay, not actually new, but she doesn't seem to remember the last time they visited, so... same thing! Later. Later is fine. Leova's got to wash up before even the jar, though that doesn't take long; she glances back at Teisyth occasionally, more often before Vrianth deigns to keep an eye on the littler green for her. There's not much left out at dragonet level, so mostly it's fair game, including the large-scale couches that may well have interesting smells from other dragons about them. And! There's a whole lot of room to run and skid and slide into wallows and even crash into walls if she's of the mind. As for the jar, Leova's matter-of-fact about handing it over once she's signed it out, adding, "Just remember to apply it with a cloth so's you don't get your hands numb, hm?" It's with a one-cornered smile that suggests ordinarily she'd expect him to know, but given dragons... "And bring it back when you're done." They, now, are free to go. Teisyth is oblivious to her audience. There are more interesting things for her to observe. Even if there isn't much she can get into trouble with, the young green has the uncanny aptitude to find just about anything dull interesting (it's the truly fascinating stuff that sometimes bores her). It's not so much these words that are available to Vrianth, but the series of sensations and unguarded reactions and half-formed thoughts make it clear enough, if Vrianth cares enough to draw the conclusion. G'laer's eyes follow the rust bucket as she wanders, his frame tensed as though prepared to spring into action to prevent yet another mishap should the need arise, but it doesn't, at least as long as Leova's talking. No running or skidding or sliding, and definitely no crash-courses; not that it's obvious from G'laer's wary gaze that these things are not currently in the cards. "I will," He answers the matter of the rag, a twitch at the corner of his lips and a shift in his eyes giving him a briefly wry sort of look, "Learned that lesson when I was twelve. Tying boots is a lot more difficult with numb fingers." It's not a whole story, but more than he volunteers most of the time. "With her, I'd get numb fingers and try to feed her, then the numbweed would be on the meat, then her tongue would go numb..." He can see it all unfolding, one thing after another. He shakes his hand. "I'll remember." That might be about the rag or about bringing back the jar. Never let it be said that Vrianth's reluctant to draw conclusions, for all that in some cases there may be quite a few possibilities for each venture. Her rider's got a muted chuckle for that quip... that becomes a low but outright laugh, if only the one. "Don't want to see you," the two of them, "back with a bitten tongue, no. Good luck." Parting words, for with that the dragonhealer heads not only back behind the counter but towards the office farther in. U'sot's voice may be heard, deep, interrogative, meeting the beginnings of her calm, altogether too reasonable reply before the closing door cuts off even that. G'laer and Teisyth aren't quick to move along. It's likely because of Teisyth's recent pain, which if she had any guile, she might bring up as leverage for his patience, that G'laer indulges her curiosity. He keeps her out of trouble, of course, and that patience does come to an end when suddenly she's so itchy, well, in the spots that she can feel anyway. So it's with exasperation and a quick-step that G'laer and his lifemate are heading back to the barracks before too long. |
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