Logs:Was it That Bad?
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| RL Date: 1 March, 2009 |
| Who: K'del, Leova |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Leova tends to the fall-out from Yyth's flight - or, at least, Cadejoth's physical hurts. |
| Where: Dragon Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 26, Month 1, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: L'vae/Mentions, P'ax/Mentions |
| 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. Clean, even to the point of having a fresh shirt, K'del is nonetheless groggy, and obviously hungover, when he arrives in the dragon infirmary, first thing in the morning. His entrance is made through from the main infirmary, and he's joined promptly by Cadejoth, the two meeting near the bowl entrance. Whether or not it's too early for there to be someone on duty in here, they're oblivious to anyone and everything for several moments, as K'del inspects with obvious anxiety the relatively shallow scratches that run down his lifemate's flanks, one on each side. The others had shown up hours ago. Angry. Chastened. Disjointed. Just plain out of it. All are gone except for Bridanth, soaking, his body kept warm while his wing's bandaged loosely, cooly, to support the pulled muscles. His rider dozes by his side. That was a different shift. Then came another, night duty, these days more or less a sinecure barring another flight like this one. Now it's a third, dragon-warned Leova emerging with a bowl of dried-berry oatmeal in one hand, a spoon stuck in her mouth, the sort of thing that makes interrogating a young rider not the easiest thing in the world. Of course, when she lifts her eyebrows like that... It's Cadejoth, not K'del, who notices the greenrider first. The bronze doesn't seem too concerned by his own injuries, and lifts his head to rumble - softly, very softly; it's still an infirmary, after all - in greeting. The bronzerider turns a moment later, just in time to catch that eyebrow lift, and his cheeks turn flaming. Quietly, one hand lifting to run through his hair, the other still lingering upon Cadejoth, "He got scratched. Don't think it's too bad, but..." Such a blush, such a /rewarding/ blush, though mostly Leova's got eyes for Cadejoth: "Welcome back, you." A closer step, an assessing eye, Vrianth a muted sense of energy flowing in the background, "Just on this side? This one's not bad, best get it washed out in any case. Who knows what was on those claws. Entrails. Worse." This, while she's circling around. "Mm-/hmm/." That would be his other flank. "Anything else going on? ... Yes, you're holding good and still. Thank you." A blush that fades, but doesn't disappear entirely, despite K'del's best attempts, his head lowering, gaze grazing his shoes, except that there's Cadejoth to consider, so it doesn't stay lowered for long. No doubt Vrianth will be able to sense how hard Cadejoth is trying, to keep himself still, despite weariness, and the aches of those marks - and his deep satisfaction with himself. K'del grimaces for mention of what's been on those claws, or perhaps just for mention of those particular claws at all, nodding. "Just-- mm, just those two. No, that's all. Says it doesn't hurt too bad." She's matter of fact about it, for the most part: it could as well have been a clash of weyrlings who didn't know their own strength. Or playfulness. Not that the young bronze's young rider doesn't get the occasional sideways glance, and one corner of her mouth even tilts up right before she mentions as how Cadejoth can wiggle now if he needs it, she'll just wash up and gather things up. The oatmeal bowl's first, stolen back with its spoon from their so-brief spot on the shelf, just so she can grab a few more bites en route to washing hands, arranging tools, filling syringes, the usual. "Lucked out, compared to some of the others: don't think /he'll/ need stitches. Hope she doesn't keep it up, though, hm?" K'del is doing a pretty good job of making himself awkward, despite the on-the-whole matter of factness, feet shuffling, gaze lowering, his hands keeping very close to Cadejoth. Given leave to wiggle, the bronze does just that, nearly dislodging his rider in his enthusiasm. "Some of the others did?" It's news, if not terribly surprising news, to the bronzerider. "Oh. Uh. Right, hope not." Unspoken, but oh-so-obvious: I don't care what she does, so long as she stays away from Cadejoth, next time. That satisfaction of Cadejoth's must be entertaining for Vrianth, in a merry sort of way, and she can share her pride in him too. Except. The injuries. Those, she notes, he needs to work on. In the sense of not having them. Her rider: "Some scrapes, the odd slash, one pulled wing." It happens, says her tone. And since he's drawing attention to himself... "Was it that bad?" Cadejoth turns his head attempting to angle it back to inspect his own flanks properly. The injuries, yes. /Not/ what he'd intended, but for /her/... Worth it. Whatever his rider thinks. It may happen, but K'del winces all the same, turning his gaze flatly back towards Cadejoth, not that the bronze is paying him much attention by now. A deep breath follows, audible and lengthy, before, "It was... Awkward. And the drinking... Thought it would make it easier, but it didn't. Wish he didn't..." Each pause is lengthy, and the final seems a conclusion, despite the lack of actual sentence ending. An ending's easy enough to assume, rightly or wrongly. Leova just nods, and as the last preparation she does, drags over a stepladder to Cadejoth's side. Murmurs, "Time to hold still again, please. Won't feel good, but it's good for you, so do it anyway." And no knocking her off the ladder, Vrianth notes over the deep flow of energy that says, /worth/ it. Some things are. Except then the dragonhealer asks after all, "Didn't... want it so much?" No comment on drinking. Not then. If K'del's expression, turned away as it is, shows some faint sign of relief that the answer appears to have been accepted as is, no doubt that's forgivable. He shifts, moving to stand in front of Cadejoth's head, instead of to his side, reaching up to cradle it within both arms, albeit awkwardly, as the bronze tenses again, trying /sosososo/ hard to be still. No knocking her off the ladder, right, he agrees, through a mind stiffened to match his physical stance. /So/ worth it. Another sigh escapes from K'del: so he hasn't escaped further questioning after all. "Suppose so," he agrees, finally. "Couldn't ever ask him not to do something he wants that bad." "If it were... getting him out of there before he started really wanting," Leova speculates as she climbs, basket safely clipped to her belt, and looks down Cadejoth's neck at the man for just a moment. But then she's back to work, efficient and careful when it comes to inspecting the edges of the wounds on this side, the touch of redworted fingertips unfamiliarly delicate. "Going to sting," she warns just before getting into cleaning out the wound with squirts of water. Routine. "Don't /see/ anything embedded, this side. Next is going to be alcohol, going to sting, but then there's numbweed right after. No stitches. Shouldn't scar." "He really wanted her all day, yesterday," reports K'del. "She's all he could think about. Other greens, it'd be no problem, but Yyth? Reckon it'd be as impossible as trying to get him away from Peirith was." The slightly bitter note in his voice is indication enough: flights have not been as he expected them, either. Nothing works out the way he wants it to, whinge, whine. Cadejoth's head squirms into K'del's grasp, but the rest of him remains /mostly/ still, as Leova works, aside from distinct twitches every so often, and the quiet slinking of his tail. "It won't? Good. /Good/." It lifts her head, though just that instant, and then Leova's back to work. "See what you mean. Giving in. Not as though he knew the Fort queen, though," her voice lifted just slightly at the end: hadn't /thought/ he'd been sniffing around Fort. But had he? In any case, she rides out the twitches the way she might gusts, getting it all good and clean before the promised alcohol. And then the promised numbweed, to soothe it all down. That part, at least. There's a side, and a rider, to go. "Not from a bar of soap," K'del confirms, answering the inflection as readily as if it had been spelled out. "Didn't think he'd do it, that time. Until he did. And then... Hope he doesn't make a habit of it. But Yyth... Can't deny him something he wants that badly, you know?" The words escape more freely, now, if still in an unhappy, awkward tone. Cadejoth has a more intense twitch for the alcohol, his flank positively shaking for a moment, though the numbweed does as advertised; his shoulders lower, a deep breath escaping. "He says that wasn't so bad. He's being brave." And K'del? Proud. And still anxious. It got a laugh amidst the cleaning: bar of soap, indeed. And then a nod, her head still bent to where she works. Now she says, "Very brave," calmly, gently, her palms staying on Cadejoth until he's good and settled. Then she can wipe her hands, then she can explain how she's going to haul the ladder around to the other side shortly before she does it, without more than a glance to her poor abandoned breakfast-bowl. As she climbs up, while K'del doesn't have to look at her, "Seems like it's still troubling you, though." Not like it's a surprise, just like it /is/. "That you went along with it? That you did it. How it felt..." She trails off into cleaning out this flank, too, the slightly deeper mark and its barely-there neighbor, the latter scabbed over but she has to clean it out anyway. K'del doesn't so much as crack a smile; it's all far too mortifying, really. Cadejoth draws his head away from K'del, so that he can watch as the ladder gets moved, huffing out a long breath. The young rider buries his face into the warm hide beneath his neck instead, holding in as a reminder to the bronze to stay still(ish, at least). It muffles his face, when, several seconds after Leova speaks he manages his answer. "All of that. Don't... Figured I wouldn't have a problem with flights. But. Gets easier, doesn't it? Simpler?" His head appears around the bronze's side, lifting to watch her, as he asks his, expression suddenly very young - and very hopeful. Watched, she keeps working, teasing apart the bits of hide that want to grow back to each other as though it were the most important thing in the world. Grit gets washed out, followed by some more from the slightly deeper injury. "Think so," she says finally, not distracting herself with more than a glance at that boyish face before hers sets again. Fingertips trace hide. "Wouldn't assume there's never going to be anything to throw a body, though, even after a while." Fingertips find tweezers. She leans in, works deeper, prying at... nothing, at first. She tries again. "Because that's what they're all about." This time she gets it: a sliver of something like bone. Or talon, it could be. She maneuvers it to get the angle, draws it out. K'del keeps one eye on Leova's face, waiting for her response, the other on her hands as she works, while his trace loving spirals upon warm hide, soothing the, ultimately, very cooperative bronze. "Suppose," he allows, for her answer, shoulders sloping in what must be relief, though his expression remains strained and tense; then again, that's probably because he's watching intently at what she's doing with the tweezers. Cadejoth shivers, as the sliver is drawn out; K'del holds tight. "Got it out? Got all of it?" Then, under his breath, "So brave. Cadejoth, you're doing so well." "Going to see," Leova aims to reassure, and there's a clink of sliver hitting metal within the confines of her basket before she roots around some more, with the aid of the syringe and its water to clean things out that much more. "You're good with him," she says plainly, tugging out a second, smaller bit. Clink. "Cadejoth? Flex your muscles in that area, would you please, and share with your rider. He'll be able to tell what's cut and what's anything else." With this to deal with, there's nothing else on the earlier topic, not yet. K'del's head nods slowly, lingering up against Cadejoth's side as he continues to watch, one arm curling up about the bronze's neck again. "He's Cadejoth," is his answer to her compliment, his concern masking usual bravado, leaving only this simple answer: as if he could do, or be, less, when Cadejoth is concerned. With a low rumble of agreement, the bronze does as requested, muscles flexing; his tail is wiggling again, unable to remain completely still, never mind how hard he tries. "I think there's one tiny bit more," K'del reports, brow furrowing as he matches his lifemate's concentration. "Up a bit. That's good, Cadejoth, really good. Just a little longer, and then you can wiggle all you like, promise." Up a bit. Leova closes her eyes, lets her tweezers be her guide between yielding flesh and the harder intrusion. Her tweezers, and their answers. "Which way," she asks when it isn't immediately found. "This..." a pat of a fingertip, rather than moving the implement, rather than hurting him further. "Or that." Another pat, on the other side. Cadejoth barely breathes; K'del, when it comes down to it, barely does either. "This side. Closer to me. Think it's at an angle. Kind of... nudging the muscle, as he tenses it." He draws his eyes open again, his head tilting briefly away from Leova to allow him to look at Cadejoth, giving his best encouraging smile to the bronze, then turning back to the action at hand. It's such a subtle, small-scale motion. Just a fraction, and then a little further, and then something that resists: "That it?" Leova asks, but calmly, like they're going to figure this out and stop hurting his dragon to help him, very soon now, and then it will all be solved. "Or is that just part of the muscle." Part of the tension. K'del shuts his eyes to concentrate, now, his face tensed up as, no doubt, he works through the sensations in his own mind. Even Cadejoth has shut his eyes, all three sets of lids, his tail briefly (very briefly) more slowly in motion, even deliberate. His breath comes out like a yelp, and his rider nods. "That's it. Right there." Hers catches at Cadejoth's reaction. She doesn't answer his rider's words with more, though, not until her tweezers catch around the little bit and guide it safely and only-just-slowly-enough out of the wound. Clink. /Then/, "Try it again. Feel all clear?" Cadejoth yelps once more, as the piece is extracted, and K'del's face relaxes slightly, though his his remain closed; a breath is released. It takes the bronze a few moments to push his muscles into action, but they do, eventually, tense as requested, and the response is a relieved, if tired-sounding, one: "All clear. It's sore, but there's nothing in the way." There's a however-unseen nod from Leova, a, "Hung in there /real/ well, Cadejoth. Almost done. Little more water, alcohol, numbweed." Glorious numbweed! She'd opened her eyes to get the last sliver into the pot, and it's the work of moments to finish cleansing the shallow wounds with water, only a little longer to get the alcohol where it needs to go. And then... the numbweed. Numbing. As she applies it, "There, that's better, hm? Don't go swimming until it's good and closed up, and afterward, rinse with cool boiled water before putting on some of this oily cream to take home with you. Keep it supple. Just like we talked about, back in the barracks." Which doesn't mean they can't stand the reminder, given the givens. "Should be just fine, but you see signs of infection, the swelling, darker green streaks, deeper ache, come back. Want it written down?" "You really did," puts in K'del, echoing Leova's praise, his head turning back once more so that he can look his lifemate in the eyes. "/Real/ well." He holds on tight, bracing for the anticipated - and recieved - twitches for the water, and the alcohol, and then there's the release of the numbweed. "No swimming," K'del repeats, his attention back on Leova now that the work is finished. "Cool boiled water, oily cream. Supple. Watch out for swelling, darker green streaks, deeper ache." Although the repetition is by rote, his head nods forcefully for each. "Think I got it. Can ask, though, if I'm not sure, right?" Cadejoth gives an experimental wiggle, then another. Relief! "Can that," Leova agrees, not stopping her quick descent down the ladder: Cadejoth needs his wiggleroom! It doesn't take long to wipe her hands, and hopefully not too long to get the ladder folded back up and dragged back out of the way, either, even with that tail of his. "They really weren't deep, and that last splinter was only tricky being against the muzzle like that... You want to keep them? Or I'll just set them aside to be burned." Time to wash up, time to get tools put away, time to start writing up what she'd done in the ledger. K'del, too, draws back now that Cadejoth has begun his wiggle, reluctantly severing physical contact so as to avoid any inadvertant crushings. "...Keep them?" The words come out of K'del's mouth as though he's tasting them, and finding them utterly foreign. "Er. No. No, I don't think I need to keep them." His hands slide towards his pockets, as he turns his attention directly towards his former teacher. "Thank you. Know you were eating; sorry about that. He's... never been hurt before, you know? Suppose I should get him home." Not to mention himself. She glances up from her writing, says mildly, "It's what I do. Tell your wingleader," not L'vae, not here, and Leova's back to writing again already, "The dragonhealer recommends your taking the morning off. If you want the time. Want to throw yourself into the work? That's fine too." A last jot, and the greenrider rises. "Just going to get you the jar. Smear a little extra on if you're going to be sweeping somewhere sunny... There." It's a little thing she's gotten from the shelves, sitting on her outstretched palm, but it has its very own label. Above it, amber eyes lift. "Anything else for you, K'del?" She doesn't weigh the pronoun too heavily. Quietly, in a level tone: "Doesn't mean I don't appreciate it, all the same." For most of the rest of what she has to say, K'del simply nods, already - if his expression is anything to go by - debating the merits of both alternatives. As she returns with the jar, he reaches out, but his hand hesitates as her eyes lift, his pale blue ones meeting hers. His shoulders jut back, straightening his posture, and it's almost as if there was never any insecurity or concern. "Thank you, I'm fine," he tells her, the too-cool teenager once more. Now, his hand drops, taking the little jar, and there's one last nod. "Thanks again." And they leave. She doesn't ask which he's going to pick, doesn't question whether he really is just fine. "Of course," is all Leova says instead, the better to make it all easier, stepping back once he's gotten the jar squared away and maybe the rest, too. It's after they leave that she lets one corner of her mouth turn up. Reclaims her congealed oatmeal. And gets back to the rest of her day. |
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