Logs:Medical Mint
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| RL Date: 2 July, 2015 |
| Who: Dee, N'rov, Taeliyth, Vhaeryth |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: When N'rov and Hematite are ill, Taeliyth provides distraction for Vhaeryth while Dee brings aid, then flees. |
| Where: Bowl and Lavatory, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 26, Month 2, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Cece/Mentions, N'muir/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Back-dated! |
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| The bitter twist goes far beyond his gut. It clutches tighter in dense, rolling aches that give way only to stabs and what he's given up trying not to smell. When it isn't so bad he can be with Vhaeryth, stalking along the Rim, refusing to fly, claws biting into rock and swooping only past the deeper fissures the dragon refuses to go around. When it is... he tries not to make it too loud. It had been a good long day. Not so much for Flint, but Hematite was above all that, arguably cohesive despite N'muir's difficulties; he'd laughed at 'team-building exercises' even as he threw himself into them, but maybe they had helped. He'd hoped. That led to hanging out at the Fountain, and after that... Cece had watch, but more of them flew, raucous and shouting, out into the cold Fortian night. They could have flown forever. Vhaeryth hadn't wanted to turn back, ragged with their shared wanting to go. But he'd realized all of a sudden that he shouldn't between, he really thought he shouldn't between with the ache that had crept up into his head. So some of them flew back, straight, and a couple of them went back to his weyr but he realized that wasn't a good idea either so the privies it was. It was almost fun for a while, sitting instead of standing in a row and snickering (one of them was hiccuping) and how crazy was that. That didn't last either. So he holed up, so to speak, in an out-of-the-way latrine that didn't see much use. The stone was cold on his butt. He should have brought something to drink. He wants to swallow, but there's nothing there. That Taeliyth is watching is unsurprising. Vhaeryth has been watched before by the tiny gold; something beyond his bronze coloring has peaked her curiosity. She watches him now from where she is on the bowl floor. It's probably an odd introduction that her first direct contact comes with concern, « What's wrong? » The sense of watching fades in this closer contact, but for a moment, her nearness makes her seem less real somehow. Perhaps the young queen's concern is a figment of the bronze's imagination. Watching him, not just watching, brings a sense of sharpness and planes, of dull heat that won't sit still; that's from a distance, and closer reflects itself and what approaches it, irregularly. Closer yet resolves into a metal fretwork, not a true grid but pierced at steeper angles, oblique deflections, the occasional intemperate curve. Two of them, at least; there's no direct look in, but there's movement from within at that greeting of hers. She's watched now. There are other things, more important things, but... « Taeliyth, » Vhaeryth says. She's a little distraction. He looks out and it's less metal now but glass, less latticework than an overhang. « They're sick, » he'll give her, with an all-too-real sense of miniaturized, internal explosions. Little, she may be, but distraction she's not endeavoring to be. « Sick? » It narrows her attention. Suspicion is heavy. Some might call it paranoia, others... would also call it paranoia. « Where? » It's a pointed demand; this fact finding mission includes a hook cast out from her mind seeking the clue she needs to be able to act. If she's a distraction, she won't be for long. « They'll get over it. » Is that rattling, hands against fretted bars? Shoving, shaking? Callous maybe; concerned... well, she is a distraction, just now, for now; distractions from distemper aren't always to be disallowed. He'll even bait the hook she sends, less what's caught than something clinging, writhing: not just explosions but a tunnelsnake up the gut. And down. That's where. « You're not worried? » is both challenging and disapproving. « Is N'rov...? » Sick. Taeliyth surely has a good guess about the answer but that doesn't change the seeking of confirmation; every question offers an opportunity to learn more, even things a dragon or his rider wouldn't want known. The hook shakes, her annoyance making the point of it all the sharper. « Where, Vhaeryth? » The question is infused with her warning: he's not that dumb and she knows it. Perhaps she's watched long enough. Perhaps she only wills it to be so. Either way, she believes, in the dangerous way her lifemate does. « Quaking. » Him? His rider? Vhaeryth watches the shaking of the hook, and its contents that writhe that much more, as though it were a tiny pompom. It's a good distraction. Especially that bit that just flew off. « What'll you do about it? » at least allows that, maybe, she could. The hook jerks back. « Cute. » Not. Taeliyth reaches out to wipe that hook where it will be unpleasant (if not the most unpleasant place she could've chosen). « More than you, prowling that rim like a lost porcine, » it's only sort of an answer. « Dee will go. She'll help if she can. » And find answers, that much must be inferred, but it shouldn't be so far a stretch as to guess, not since her name is Taeliyth. « Oink. » Cheerful. As for the rest, there's something of a pause, a delay that has the bronze-on-the-Mount scraping his wings back and looking up at the larger of the moons; who's that 'Dee' character again? someone might be wondering, whether for effect or otherwise. Maybe it's to smooth her path... or otherwise. « It smells, » Vhaeryth is pleased to warn her. « He might growl. » Surprise? And, after a huff of breath that shows teeth to the night, « Bring something to drink. » It's the lowest, truest thing thus far. She probably wishes she weren't amused by him, but she can't seem to help herself. The sense of a cheeky smile surfaces, but only briefly, like something light bobbing to the surface of the dark world they're all apart of before it dives to plumb the depths. Her amusement resurfaces too soon, though without the cheek. This time with just the smallest bit of pride. « Dahlia, » she'll clarify for him, « says it can't be worse than manure. » Can it? « She'll chance it. » Now the amusement is wry. She considers him above in the moment when she could simply fade back to her distanced observation, but something prompts her to offer, « Would you like company? » She offers him the mental image of a flying porcine joining her below even as Dee moves from the Weyrling Complex toward the lake and the Herb Garden, her pit stop before daring to approach the growling beast in his smelly lair. Dahlia. Vhaeryth doesn't say it, that's for her to do as she has done, but there's a rolling, florid sense of intonation. With it, he'll guide her: that way, this way, in what really ought to be a maze. Maybe it is; maybe it's just, now, known. The path stays out of the mainstream for the most part, except when it would verge on skulking, and two brief detours that stay inexplicable. It's near-seamless, just the one pause for her offer; then, briefly, « I won't go down there. » `It isn't her. « 'One is not sleeping, does not mean they are awake.' » « One is watching, does not mean they are seeing. » She mimics his delivery, in part, her attention distracted from him, perhaps bored by him? If so, it doesn't seem it's a reflection of Vhaeryth, but rather Taeliyth's focus on following Dee as she takes the delivered turns. « How good is your eyesight? » she queries, in a way that might seem to be assessing what use he might be to her later. Dee last bracing breath in the next to last turn has to come and has to go, and then it's time. She slips through the double doors and calls, "N'rov? It's Dee. I have mint and water." Peace offerings, plainly. Close enough; Vhaeryth's back to pacing again when, without stopping, she speaks and he glances over and down. « What do you need looked at? » His rider, well, his rider's boots are visible from behind the used-to-be-emerald curtain, the one nearly all the way to the right. From behind it is audible, also, the laugh he manages to summon: rough and pained, but there. "For my sins? Don't come too close. You might dissolve. Miasma." Rough words, too, the spaces between them broken. « I'm a female of varied tastes. » Taeliyth quips almost idly toward Vhaeryth, still paying much of her attention on the human elements. « What's your expertise? » What does he like looking at? "For your discomfort," Dee volunteers, "I almost thought to bring booze, but I wasn't sure if that would just make things..." messier "worse." "Reach your hand out?" The sounds from without the curtain is a bit of clattering, a bit of arranging, but should the hand come out, there's a waterskin and a packet of fresh mint leaves to be placed into it. Of course she is, is the bronze's lack of disputation, or else he's moved on. Visually, he's anything but the latter, having found a... rock, or something, to sniff: the sort of thing he'd have overlooked not long before. « Hm? » Then, as though scandalized, « Are you assigning me to a wing, Taeliyth? » What would Bijedth have to say about that? "Better. Definitely better." A man can hope. The curtain doesn't move immediately; there's an involuntary sound that's best not listened to too closely. Then there's the hand, up to mid-forearm; his palm's up but slantwise, spread fingers stiff, and he retreats swiftly with the heavy waterskin before returning for the mint. "Thanks," he says abruptly. « Perish the thought! » Could she ever? Would she? (In a heartbeat. But that beat of the heart isn't now.) Taeliyth effects, nicely, a mimic of his sense of scandal. « Are you saying the only way you're useful is in a wing? » Would he believe she's baiting him when there's that sunshine filtering so pleasantly through the boughs of the wood now in focus in her mind touch. "I could try to get some?" She offers, apologetic. "Let me just get you these cloths first." The sound of water into a bowl and then the small splash of rags being plied into it. "When I'm sick, the worst is feeling gross." She murmurs this nearly conversationally. "I thought it might help to have something cool and wet. Hand?" She requests, prepared to deliver a trio of dampened rags. Sunshine's nice and all, but Vhaeryth's, « Useful, » carries a rider-like dubious drawl. Said rider really shouldn't take advantage, but, "Yeah, that'd be," another of those noises gets stifled, not just because he's reaching for the rags. "Great." Afterwards come different and, for the moment, better sounds: rubbing, wringing, drips. He tries, "Get sick much?" "Only when my nerves are bad," which lately means more frequently than anyone would like. "This isn't about nerves though, is it? Vhaeryth told Taelyith 'they're' sick. Is it more than just you? I can get more mint." Already she's thinking of what she can do. Meanwhile, her lifemate is left on her lonesome, retiring from the bowl to go into the complex and make her way to the sunroom where she can seek to see him through the panes. Does seeing him through the glass make him appear differently? Does the glass offer a view of him? « I wish I could say I'm surprised, » by what she infers from that dubiousness, feigning some mental tsks. It doesn't seem to bother her in truth. "Hah." Nerves. "Yeah." More. "No." Mint. They're labored words. Vhaeryth's rumble is closer to humor, if nothing so human as a chuckle; but then, "You... might want to go. Before," the next smell hits, which is about to be right now. "Going!" Dee may be altruistic, but she's not a martyr when it comes to keeping her own dinner down. "Let Taeliyth know if you need something else!" is clearly called over her shoulder even as the door opens and she finishes beating a hasty retreat, the bowl with its water for those rags left just outside the curtain for him. |
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