Logs:I'zech is the Best Assistant Weyrlingmaster Ever
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| RL Date: 24 April, 2013 |
| Who: I'zech, Sabella |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: I'zech takes Sabella to the infirmary to get her arm looked at. It could go worse. Except for I'zech's face. |
| Where: Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 6, Month 8, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Quinlys/Mentions |
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| Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr Two sets of double doors, one from the the inner caverns and a recently built set from the dragon infirmary, lead into the unnaturally hushed human infirmary. Despite fastidious cleaning, the scent of redwort and numbweed has long since soaked into every smooth-carved surface, along with other, subtler medicinal smells. Pristinely made cots are lined up against the walls; most of them are left open to view, but some in the back are surrounded by curtains for delicate procedures or critical patients. 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. It's not like a scene from one of those ER shows, thankfully. A rider and I'zech are the ones to bring Sabella in, she's able to walk but she isn't quite with it. Falling a good distance in the air and crashing into the ground is pretty good chemistry for being well shook up and useless. That she's been crying and hyperventilating a bit is probably not much of a shock either. The healers that are on duty are quick to kick the extra guy in their trio out, but I'zech is allowed to stay given his knot. Isn't he just so glad? They're ushered into one of the exam areas where a dizzying amount of questions are asked. Can you move your fingers? Move your toes? How's your vision? How many fingers? Did you hit your head? No really, are you sure you didn't hit your head? And then of course, the forearm bent a most unnatural angle has to be addressed. And someone is grabbing it and trying to straighten it out and Sabs is pretty much the worst patient in the world at this point. Because she begins to pull away and bitch and generally be a pain in the ass. There was probably plenty of 'Don't move her' at the scene, but it's not like Sabella would listen to any of that and when she pushed herself up, it was unlikely her neck was broken. That extra guy really is of no use, though at least he's the one who tried to pick her up instead of letting her walk, and so I'zech doesn't have to be screeched at for that particular mistake. And where's the weyrlingmaster who was supposed to be checking her straps so this shit doesn't happen? Well, I'zech's terse, 'You've done enough' was suitable to make them stay behind and tend the upset kiddies. He's not glad, no, he's glaring. At the healers, at Sabella. A stare violent enough to make one of the nurses cower rather uselessly against the wall. But now the healers are talking about setting her arm, among themselves rather than to the, well, slightly hysterical weyrling. I'zech takes one dark glance at them and then leans in to get in Sabella's face, on the less damaged side. "You fell." As if she doesn't know this. His voice is flat and stern. "You're fucking broken. Do you want to stay fucking broken forever?" He puts a heavy hand on her shoulder, one that grows heavier, until the weight behind it is painful, though perhaps not compared to the way the healers gently try to extend her busted arm. He looks at her as if he might be able to stare her into submission. In other times she'd probably greatly appreciate that little memo. But for right now she's likely more than aware that she fell from her dragon. Even if the arm is the only part of her that sustained any substantial damage, there's probably bruising and pain just about everywhere anyway. So the heavy weight of his much stronger arm on her shoulder elicits a quiet hiss and an overall silence from her. Which is about the only warning I'zech will get before she strikes out with the heel of the palm attached to the unbroken limb, aiming right for his face. Probably the nose. Maybe wherever she can make contact really. If she does manage to hit him, it comes with a surprising amount of force for a skinny girl who looks like she catches spiders in a cup and lets them go outside. And if it's a full on a miss, expect some disgruntled noises. But meanwhile the healers have managed to get that arm extended out while she was distracted. Though there are some definite annoyed looks at I'zech for the fact that the girl is trying to inflict violence on him. Great bedside manner, pal. I'zech is not the only one holding her down. An orderly, of sorts, shows up to try to lean on her bad side, to brace her arm at the elbow. And in that momentary beat of quiet that follows her hiss, the bronzerider flicks a pointed glance at the healers. Do it. Maybe it just means that he doesn't have any idea her attack is coming, trying to give them this silent order. She strikes; she makes hard contact that cracks his nose and splits his upper lip. But in the second that follows, as her blow retracts and the blood starts flowing on I'zech's face, he leans harder on her, brutal, though nothing compared to the way the healers suddenly yank hard on her arm, sliding mangled bone apart within spasming muscle and swelling tissue, and attempt to gently let it pull back into place as best as they can. Leaning over her, I'zech drips blood on Sabella's shirt and grinds out between his teeth, "Don't move." Somewhere, Rojeth says the same to Ghislaith, the same low command, the same pressing weight, like it might tranfer to Sabella for just a moment, so that the healers might be able to complete their task. There's a kind of feral satisfaction on her face for the blood that spills from his split lip. She's still not at the point where she's ready to talk to any of them yet, but the struggle against having her arm pulled on begins to cease. And she remains pinned between the orderly and I'zech, though her face-striking hand ends up on the bronzerider's arm somehow. Squeezing and digging her pointy little nails into his skin. Her eyes are shut tight until they're done manipulating her broken arm, until it's set into place the best way that they can. Once that happens, she's significantly more comfortable despite the overall pain she has to still be experiencing. Sabella exhales slowly, getting a grip finally on breathing normally. The grip she has on him decreases by degrees until eventually her hand is just some limp thing she's forgotten to move. Meanwhile, Ghislaith has been largely useless this entire time. But the press of Rojeth's mental weight is enough to calm the cartwheeling hysterics from the upset dragonet. Rojeth leaves his fog around the perimeter, a touch of weight to help keep Ghislaith calm. It might not be the most comforting thing, all that clammy vapor, but its contact, he's there, and she can shake him off when she wants. Meanwhile, as that moment passes, the excrutiating manipulation of busted bone, the tight-breathed stillness, digging nails and the slow drip-drip from I'zech's face, he just stares at Sabella, doing his best to ignore the pounding he has in his head now -- thanks very much. And when it's done, someone is stuffing a wad of cloth into his free hand, so he can stem the flow and stop puddling on Sabella's chest. As her breathing eases, so does the rude press of his weight on her shoulder, and his hand slides down her arm as her grip relaxes, taking the limp curve of her fingers in his grasp and giving them a squeeze. Somewhat contrastingly, he lifts his glare to the nearest healer and barks impatiently from behind his blood-rag. "Can we get her some damn fellis?" What is wrong with these people? His voice is quieter, but no less hard, when he tells Sabella, "You did good." There's a crinkle at one punch-watery eye that suggests he might be smirking weakly behind that wad of cotton. Or sneering. Whichever. Ghislaith isn't just shut windows and locked doors right now. There's boards all over everything, she's a rickety but protected fortress. The fog can roll around outside on the lawn all that it wants, but she's not paying it any heed except perhaps, in the permeating silence that she exhudes. At least the panic seems to be ebbing. Later on, she'll probably be a little put out that there's all this blood staining her shirt. But really, it's probably not in her topmost thoughts just yet and it's not like she can complain about it either. Her shoulders relax, easier to do now that there aren't two men holding her into place. Sabs' gaze wanders from where she's left deep cresent marks in his skin up to the wad of cloth that's covering his face. There's a wince that's almost apologetic. "Sorry." Comes out quietly as she begins to sag a little, watching warily as the healer with the fellis approaches. "If I fall asleep you'll stick around for awhile, until they're done?" She asks, a certain strange tightness entering her voice while she accepts the glass, not drinking it yet. There's been a bit of a flurry about her arm, wrappings and splints and cast preparations, plus they keep asking about other hurts, so they can check out the rest of her. And when someone comes by with a chair, I'zech sinks down to sit with knees spread and his hand still tucked around Sabella's, whether she notices it or not. Some nurses start to fuss about him now, telling him to put his head back, to lower the rag so they can see what's going on. And while they poke around, he ignores them, slanting his dark glance toward the weyrling. "Don't worry about it." He jerks his fingers over hers, a reflexive grip. "Yeah, I'll stick around." The nurses eventually proclaim that his nose isn't broken and he doesn't need stitches. He will, however, have some nice bruises. They aim some numbweed at the nail-gouges on his arm, but he waves them away and another sharp look convinces them to leave him alone. He lifts his chin toward the greenrider and glass, threatens a little, "If you don't drink it, I will." She's answering them, rather dully and with a suspicion that's not like her usual self. Perhaps she's just not enjoying all of these people touching her. So, no. For the umpteenth time, she did not hit her head. Her spine feels just fine, thank you. And great, you have seven fingers held up. Sabella blatantly ignores the last healer that asks her something and turns away, still cradling that glass against her. "Good." She responds to his assurance that he's going to stick around until they're finished with her. Twisting her neck, she glances out of the corner of her eye at the man that's wrapping the splint tightly into place against her arm. Attention shifting slowly around and back to I'zech again, considering. Reluctantly she pulls her hand out of his fingers and lifts the fellis to her mouth. It goes down quickly and with a shudder. He might be able to get away when she goes down, but for now she's awake and she takes up his hand again. "Do you want to break my other arm? I know you have a reputation to maintain." It's the first sign of a return to something more like normal. There's no resistence. It's her hand. And now I'zech can alternate which hand is holding his blood-catcher to his nose, though the crimson leak appears to be subsiding now and it requires just dabs of cotton instead of steady pressure. It just means she gets his other hand when she reaches again. He watches without comment as she drinks, and there might still be a little something glaring about his gaze, too hard, maybe angry. It's turned on the healers again, like if they aren't actually working on her arm, they should leave her the hell alone. "Is that my reputation? Breaking little girls' arms?" This time it's more clear that expression he wears really is riding the line between smirk and sneer. A snirk, perhaps. A smeer? "At least I wait for them to get drugged." Good to know. He rubs a quick thumb over her hand and jerks his chin at her again. "Is Ghislaith gonna be okay with you getting all knocked out?" There's some implication that she should maybe try to prepare the green now. "Well, I didn't want to tell you. I thought it might hurt your feelings." Sabs hazards the remark with just the faintest upturn of her mouth. Just the barest curve. There's been a healer nearby with a clipboard, he's the one responsible for most of the repetitive question asking. "I just want to make sure she doesn't have a concuss-" But by now the weyrling has already swallowed down the exact sort of thing one shouldn't drink if they had a concussion. And he's looking between the empty glass and I'zech for a couple of moments before silently deciding to just... get away. And quickly. She watches as she goes before turning to the weyrlingmaster and just laughing. "At least. Very noble." She squeezes his fingers and relaxes again. The man that's actually working on her arm is beginning to apply some sort of rudimentary Pernese plaster substance to the bandages now that he has the underlying splint in place. "She's better now. It's my fault that she was like that, I couldn't get myself under control and if I'm not than she isn't either." There's a self-aware grimace for that. "She knows. She's going to be quiet now." I'zech gives a sniff at the tickling trickle of blood in his nose, the awful stuffed feeling of swelling and throbbing. His face is all red and his lip is getting puffy, but at least his eyes have stopped watering. One more dab and then he's done with the rag, and he uses it to try to blot a bit of his blood off Sabella's shirt, eyes narrowed and dark and the touch of the towel blunt rather than ginger. He doesn't apologize for it, though, bleeding all over her. "Nothing you won't survive," he grunts for her loss of control and Ghislaith's, his glance cutting back toward the progress with her cast. "Shouldn't have happened, though. It's not your fault." He chucks the bloody rag toward the foot of her bed, where someone else can deal with it. And there's still something bristling behind his expression. "How's that fellis feeling?" The impact the heel of her palm has had on his face makes the weyrling grimace a little. The fellis has begun to ease through her system while they talk, while the man smoothes the outer surface of her cast. She glances away from him and seems to not be paying particular attention when I'zech starts to dab bluntly at the front of her shirt. The blood there is the least of her concerns right now. "It shouldn't have happened. It is my fault, somehow. I want the straps from her, I want them back. I want to see them." And if her voice is starting to sound a little disoriented, that's probably the drug kicking in. Especially evident in the way she begins to blink and roll her eyes, fighting off its influence for a couple of more minutes. "Strong. Not used to it." Obviously. And for awhile her fingers have a stranglehold on his hand, maybe she doesn't believe him that he'll stay while the healer fixes up her cast. Doesn't trust it. Or these people or anyone. But she's growing steadily weaker and passive too and there isn't much, if any fight left. "It's not your fault," I'zech says again with a shake of his head. "You're learning. Some things aren't supposed to be trial and error." And that other weyrlingmaster had better bit a pitiful blob of sorry, better still be wearing the shame of Quinlys' tongue lashing, when I'zech meets up with them, because he is still pissed. Surely, that's a lovely thing to fall asleep to. The grip of her hand remind him of his promise. He leans in a bit as she starts to drift off, so that he can tell her more quietly, "I'm not going anywhere. Wish I'd brought a book, though." There's humor in the twist of his voice, maybe a wry smile on his face if her eyes are still open to see it. But he's silent after that, aside from errant sniffles at his blood-clogged nose. And when she wakes, he's gone, though some nurse is quick to inform her that he stayed until Quinlys came and sent him away, that he came back later at what was presumably the end of his shift. Which is probably when he drew on her cast. It's a triangle with a pair of boobs. It's right on the back of her wrist, too. Where everyone can see it. Maybe she can just pass it off as some kind of archaic symbol. Heck, maybe she just sees a triangle with two circles and dots and a bit of, well, cleavage. Also some 'jiggle' lines. Maybe it just looks like eyes. Who knows. He does sign it 'apex' though. So that was just a joke when someone said today's lesson was: Fly or Die - ? Sabella is officially out of the running for any coherent conversation after a couple of more minutes. But she doesn't manage to crack her eyes open long enough to catch his wry smile, one that gets a weak round of laughter out of her before she closes them again. It's not long before her breathing is easing out and she falls asleep, reclined back on the cot. After she wakes up and receives the messages, one of the infirmary aids points out the drawing on the wrist portion of her cast. A quiet, tired giggle is choked back with one hand to her mouth. The woman doesn't seem to understand why it would be so funny, but it doesn't seem to matter. Because she's not exactly refreshed from the fellis nap and ends up falling asleep again, without any good explanation. I'zech is the best assistant weyrlingmaster ever. Okay? Oh yeah, totally the best. I'zech wants it officially recorded in the log. You got it. |
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