Logs:First Aid for Flesh Wounds
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| RL Date: 22 March, 2013 |
| Who: D'kan, Kazavoth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Vignette |
| What: Following the incident with Arekoth, D'kan focuses on Kazavoth and some first aid both literal and metaphorical. |
| Where: Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches |
| When: Day 22, Month 4, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: H'kon/Mentions, Meara/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions |
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D'kan returned with a bucket of water dangling from one hand, and a bucket of supplies from the other. Kazavoth stretched languidly as his rider approached, then sat on his back haunches, barely balanced, head lowering as the sense of grogginess grew. First, those messy feathers had to be peeled away and carefully set aside, so D'kan set to work. Trying to keep his dragon awake, and therefore make his job easier, he reached out with a gentle mind's caress. « You scared me today, Kazavoth. » The brown lifted his head to regard his rider with an almost dopey look, though his mind was anything but. « You should not worry so much, D'kan, » he said, words almost purred. « Arekoth would not have let anything serious happen to me. » Said the boy of his father. D'kan lifted one of Kazavoth's forelegs to get at a clump of feathers glued to his hide with a mixture of ichor and blood. « Oh really? » He didn't even try keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. « Did you see his leg? Do you think that happened because he was being careful? » With the last of the feathers removed, he got a washcloth good and wet with the water and began dousing the dragon's neck, shoulders and chest, creating a watery stream of reddish brown and inky green. Bewilderment answered via the link, colored by foggy greys and a low, elongated hmmmmmm. « I cannot say that I did. » There was a sudden intake of breath followed by a hiss as the water washed away the light scabbing and leaked into the cut. Irritated, red-orange slivers rushed into the blue of his eyes as he continued, the foggy greys now replaced by tarry smoke. « What does his leg matter, anyway? He can fly. He can hunt. Now I can hunt, too. And that hurts! » With a deep breath, D'kan drew the washcloth away and tried to control his own irritation, anger, and guilt. Sitting back on his heels, he rinsed out the cloth and regarded Kazavoth. If he'd only been awake. He had been having so much trouble in the middle of the night telling Kaz he couldn't go see the stars, or moon, or whatever other sharding thing had piqued his curiosity. To be honest, it was something of a thrill to see all these things himself, enjoying them for the "first time" along with his lifemate. Leaning back in, he set to work again with the water. « You got hurt because you weren't ready. I don't know why he brought you that broken thing. » « Broken? » Kazavoth asked in a thin, offended voice. « There was nothing broken about it but its wings, and-- » « And I thought the ability to fly was the important one, » D'kan broke in as he rinsed the cloth in the bucket again with a little more force than necessary. « Or are you changing that tune? » Silence greeted his rebuttal, causing D'kan to again draw in a slow breath. He didn't mean to get angry with Kazavoth. He was angry with H'kon, angry with Arekoth, but angry with himself most of all, and he tried as best he could to convey that via the link, drawing himself into that serenity that lived in the middle of Kazavoth's island. After a long moment, the brown also relaxed and met him in that place with a gentle touch, cool like a mountain spring that washed away the smoke, tar and blood, leaving only clear skies and clear thoughts. D'kan brought a candle over so he could better see the tear made by the wherry. It was more of a deep scratch, really. It started at Kazavoth's left and traveled cleanly to the right along the tender underside of the brown's neck just a hand's length above the heavier muscles of the chest, which probably explained the amount of ichor. Tenderly, the weyrling prodded at the hide on either side of the cut, looking for debris, ragged ends, bits of the wherry's offending talon. He couldn't see anything, but he wet the cloth again and squeezed it out just above the cut while trying to hold it open, hoping to flush out anything he couldn't see. Kazavoth tossed his head slightly but otherwise bore the discomfort in silence, then stepped out of the resulting puddle so D'kan could mop up what he could. When that was done, D'kan brought out the jar of redwort solution. He knew firsthand how this was going to sting, and tried to prepare Kazavoth for the experience. The thought of numbweed fluttered at the back of his mind, but as he looked at his lifemate, he kind of wanted Kaz to feel the sting. To remember and understand it. D'kan needed to understand and remember, too. The werylingmasters might punish him for this when he brought it to them, but at that moment, knowing what he was going to do to Kaz was like staring at the tip of a knife poised over his heart. So he plunged into it. A tiny sound escaped the brown as he held his head away from the redwort, but he stood his ground, and a swell of pride carried from D'kan to Kazavoth while the stinging sensations were fed right back to D'kan. After a few seconds, that initial burn began to recede, replaced by the numbing effects of the dragon's natural defenses, though the whirling eyes were now a mixture of reds and oranges orbiting around a core of molten gold. Then it was done. Hands shaking, D'kan wiped away the excess redwort from around the wound, replaced the cover to the redwort jar, then knelt in front of Kazavoth to press his forehead to the brown's. For a long time, they remained that way until the dragon began to relax again, until D'kan's knees went numb, until the red-stained hands at either side of Kazavoth's head started to feel chilled. It was time for D'kan to find Meara or Quinlys, but he just wasn't ready. Not quite yet. Kazavoth's head was drooping again, and his eyes had gone back to their sleepy blues, only occasionally shot through with a speck of dull orange. His wings were folded to his back in a loose clump, but the spars were beginning to slump as he fought to remain awake. D'kan took a last moment to bring the candle near again, giving the gash a critical eye before he pushed himself to feet that had fallen asleep several minutes ago. Silently, the two moved farther into the cavern and entered the barracks. Kazavoth waited just long enough for D'kan to pull the blanket from his cot, which was then draped over the dragon's rushes. Couldn't have one of them reopening the wound, after all. Within about thirty seconds of curling up on his couch, Kazavoth was asleep, overcome by the day's events with the rapidity of the young. The weyrling watched his lifemate sleep for a little while, pushing aside the new duties the day had added. Tears came to his eyes briefly, fueled by the remorse and guilt that lingered, but he scrubbed them away with his arm and turned to clean up the mess in the training cavern, the mess in bowl, then the mess that was sure to come. The one in his own head would have to be sorted out later. |
Comments
Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Sat, 23 Mar 2013 06:21:58 GMT.
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Awww. I feel bad for D'kan. I really enjoyed the bit about the redwort, about his wanting it to sting. ...something tells me that with an influence (and sire) like Arekoth, this lesson might be forgotten. >_>
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