Logs:Preventative Measures
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| RL Date: 29 November, 2015 |
| Who: Jocelyn, Madilla |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Following a healer staff meeting, Jocelyn and Madilla take a moment to check in. |
| Where: Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 28, Month 5, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: C'ris/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions, Jounine/Mentions, Lilabet/Mentions, Lys/Mentions |
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| On her third straight seven of attending the morning briefings for High Reaches' healers, Jocelyn has at least become more familiar, even if not more friendly to those other somber faces which gather in the council chambers to disseminate information before another day of standing against the plague begins. Despite having been met with more than one wary look and lifted brow after grimly marching in one morning near the beginning of the month on what was confirmed to be Irianke's orders, the weyrling maintains an even, if cool manner during the proceedings. She asks for clarification often at first, and ultimately spends more time making copious notes than attempting to contribute, perhaps to some relief. This morning, as has become her usual habit, she's taken a stiff seat as far from the others as possible without being out of earshot, keenly listening and observing after briefly passing on an item or two from the headwoman's staff. Once the meeting has adjourned, she lingers as the cavern begins to empty and, as usual, takes the time to review her sharply-written lines for missing information before everyone has quite departed. Madilla is not, officially, one of High Reaches' posted healers, but as the most seniorly ranked of them-- that stupid Mastery-- eyes have fallen to her during this time of crisis, including those of the actual weyrhealer. Coordinating things is something she's taken to with a grim determination, and though High Reaches' count has been far more restrained than that of Fort, it has plainly been an exhausting remit. Madilla's been friendlier to Jocelyn than most; the weyrling may have noticed the way her gaze lingers on her, sometimes, over the course of meetings, though her smile is never less than polite, and frequently warmer than that. Today, from across the table, her low alto lifts to carry: "How are you holding up, Jocelyn? I keep meaning to ask." "I'm - " And Jocelyn lifts her light eyes to Madilla after some minutes, forehead pinched. She looks tired, although not quite in the manner of someone who hasn't been sleeping well. There's a heaviness to her expression that these meetings and her increasing responsibilities have put in place, one which she doesn't bother to try to smooth away as the last of the other attendees departs. " - fine. Well enough, at least, since I've yet to become a patient." It's a wry, if brisk response; her attention falls to squaring the stack of her notes soon after, tapping them sharply against the table. Her "It's good of you to ask, " sounds forced, but perhaps she means it as it's followed up with a matter-of-fact, "I know some of your colleagues wouldn't." "They don't mean to be--" Madilla doesn't quite manage to put words to what her colleagues are, though there's quiet acknowledgement in her expression that suggests she's well aware. "They're tired, and they're overwhelmed, and they feel like everything they do is on display; that they will be judged. That they're being monitored." By Jocelyn, untrained as she is. "And they're afraid." In none of this does it sound as if she's making a excuses; if anything, there's faint disapproval in the voice of the former weyrhealer. "Will liaising with the crafters be part of your duties post-graduation, do you think?" What the other healers may or may not be; the concerns that they're being watched, weighed, judged: well. Those words elicit a flat smile which presses all too thinly until it no longer exists. "I'm not unaware of how they feel, Master Madilla. Contrary to what they may assume, I'm not a spy sent into their midst to serve as eyes and ears for the Weyrwoman. My reports are for High Reaches' benefit." It's a definitive, firm delivery, even as Jocelyn raises a considering glance to the other woman. "I don't know, " she answers frankly while securing her notes to her clipboard. "It isn't my call to make. She, " Irianke, "seems interested in having two ambassadors at her disposal once my training is complete." Never mind that she's hardly diplomatic material just yet. "But perhaps, " the redhead allows after, "liaising with the crafters will be part of that. The weyr will need to keep good relationships with the crafthalls as much as the holds and other weyrs when all of this is over." Firm delivery or no, Madilla's expression contains some suggestion of sharpness-- she may not vocalise it, but it's there nonetheless: perhaps they can all serve to be more understanding of each other, then. "No weyrwoman," the healer supposes, more gently, "can afford not to learn the entire job. If there's one thing the past twenty turns of High Reachian history can remind us, it's that. I've spent the last couple of turns of my life attempting to improve understanding and communication between my craft and the Weyrs, and it's not been an easy task. An important one, certainly. At least," she concludes, abruptly, "this crisis seems to be towards its end. No new cases in four days." It's a start. "No. Especially with the current state of - now, " is Jocelyn's grim affirmation as she leans back slightly in her seat to better observe the healer while she listens. If there's some measure of relief for the more positive tangent with which Madilla ends, it may be the impetus for that low exhale she gives; the quick nod which follows. "I'm sure Jounine and her staff will find that part of the report most encouraging. The cross-contamination prevention, " a now somewhat-familiar term over which the weyrling hardly stumbles in contrast to her first meeting, "has been - still is a chief concern." It is, after all, harder to keep a cavern feeding hundreds free from exposure than ensuring one's visitor brings their own dishes and utensils. "I still can't believe that stupid wing shared a mug to drink themselves silly," is Madilla's tired-- no: exhausted-- comment, wry and disapproving all at once. "Or all those people who seem to think visiting the infected is a wise idea. I know people are struggling with the boredom of quarantine, but that's no excuse to be stupid, or to take unnecessary risks. But," she inclines her chin into a jutting nod, "Four days is a good start. Five will be even better. I have high hopes that we're over the worst-- it sounds as if Fort is in recovery, and that's certainly good news." Jocelyn's little laugh rings mirthless; there's a negative shake of her head for the provided examples, lips pursing with nearly equal displeasure. "One of the greenriders who bunks next to me took it into her head to go visit one of our instructors while he was still obviously fighting the illness. I still don't know what possessed her to do such a thing, but we - all of us - thankfully seem to have dodged whatever could have come of that." Her chin dips into another, sharper nod; the news from Fort is very good in the wake of what's been conveyed by drum and dragon alike over the past few months. "Hopefully we'll soon get similar reports from the rest of the world. This plague, " spoken with distaste for the term, or more likely the necessity for it, "can't just keep going on forever, can it?" Madilla admits, with an air that suggests she's not sure she even wants to put it out there, but can't help herself: "My eldest daughter's a harper apprentice. I've not heard from her since..." since the plague hit Fort Hold, probably. "I'm looking forward to it being over everywhere so we can all get back on our feet and figure out what the next steps will be." She presses her lips together, tight and then tighter still, and abruptly nods. "Because you're right: it can't go on forever. I know we covered infectious illness management when I was apprentice, with the whole... isolate it, so that there's nowhere for it to spread, and then it has to die out. Circles of protection. It's much more difficult in practice, of course." Jocelyn shifts uncomfortably in her seat, fingers silently tap-tapping the space just above her clipboard. "I - hope you hear from her soon, " is offered up awkwardly at some length, expression firming soon after. "Getting back on our feet and figuring out what 'normal' ought to be again will be as much of a task, " she opines decidedly, frown deepening. "I imagine that'd be impossible to try to coordinate on such a large scale between how quickly things can spread and - human nature." That last is wry and almost amused. "It's a wonder you and your fellows still have hair left." And no, she doesn't envy them their jobs in the least. Madilla presses her lips together into something that might, in another life, be at least distantly related to a smile; she appreciates Jocelyn's awkward offering, even if she doesn't say anything. "'Human nature,'" is what she says, instead, with a wry little wrinkle of her nose. "It would be so much easier to be a healer without it, don't you think? But," and this comes with a sigh, "I think the same can be said of most occupations. I don't envy those who need to figure out what comes next. The harvests, for example. But--" She breaks off. "We'll manage, I'm sure. One way or another." "I think you're right, " says Jocelyn drily as she stands, tucking her clipped notes securely into the crook of an arm. "But I suppose one could also argue that without human nature, we might not manage, particularly if the will to survive is what directly influences our resilience." There, finally, is a genuine curve at the corners of the weyrling's mouth before it gets couched once more into a careful neutrality. More briskly: "Jounine will be expecting me. Good morning, Master Madilla." Her stride to the exit is clipped and purposeful, energetic in a way that her entrance earlier wasn't. "Good morning, Jocelyn," trails after the departing weyrling, Madilla's tone as thoughtful as it is warm-- she will no doubt not be far behind the weyrling, but for the moment she remains where she is, staring resolutely towards the door. |
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