Difference between revisions of "Logs:Just Check"

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.

For a sixteen turn old girl, Lycinea has a firm grip, then again, she's surely had the task of whisking for endless eons in the kitchen more than a time or two. It wasn't so much an ambush as an impulsive abduction when the blonde walked past where Oliwer was talking with an infirmary aid and latched 'round his wrist to pull him along behind her into one of the curtained alcoves. That's when things get weird. Letting go of Oliwer's wrist is a necessity as she turns to pull the curtain closed and then immediately starts stripping out of her clothes, shirt first, without giving so much as word of hello or explanation.

Oliwer is not very resistant about getting pulled off to the alcove, but as soon as Lycinea starts pulling clothes off, his eyes go wide, he flushes awkwardly and he turns his head away from her as if that will give her some privacy. "Lya, what are you doing?" Sure, Oliwer is a journeyman healer. But giving a gay holder a little bit of warning will go a long way.

"I need you to check me," Lya sounds quite sincere, and maybe, just maybe there's the tiniest edge of panic. "I don't want my skin to fall off." That last is plaintive. If this is a joke, she's really committed to it.

"Check you," Oliwer repeats like he's not sure he's quite following Lycinea the way she intends him to. He's not looking at her yet, either. "I'm quite sure your skin is fine, Lya. Will you keep your clothes on, please? You're not... under the influence of something, are you?"

"What? No." Lycinea scrunches up her nose at the very suggestion. "It's just that I might have-- maybe-- well, I think he's probably a leper. And he touched me, and I don't want my skin to fall off." She's emphatic about that. The girl's hands are on her hips; at least she's wearing a bra? Albeit one that is a bit on the small side.

Oliwer glances at Lycinea and, seeing that she's not completely nude, the uncomfortable flush remains, but so does his attention. "A leper," he repeats, much like before. He's playing catch up here. "You want to make sure you don't have leprosy?" The emphasis is not because of some seriousness of the disease so much as the ridiculousness that she might have contracted it.

Lycinea senses that feeling and folds her arms across her chest, defensively. It has the (for Oliwer) unhappy effect of pushing her breasts together and up a touch. "It's not funny. He looked and sounded like he was dying, shut up in his frigid weyr. And then he touched me," she whines. "Just check, will you?" A 'please' might go a long way here, but it doesn't seem like one is forthcoming.

The healer's expression tightens as his gaze shifts away again. At least he's not entirely turning away, though. "What were you doing-- never mind." Oliwer looks back at her, more stern now. "Leprosy is not as infectious as the tales would have you believe. And even if you had somehow contracted it, it could take turns and turns before you had any visible symptoms."

"I was sent. You might want to go check on him, too." Lya pauses, "Although, he might deserve to die. He seems like he wants to. He wouldn't even let me make him tea. It barely looks like he lives in his weyr at all. And I'm pretty sure he's about to lose a lung through his mouth." At least for this last, she sounds serious. Then she makes a plaintive sound and flops down on the edge of the clean cot (Lycinea, best friend of infirmary aides everywhere!). "So you're saying I might not know for turns if I'm a leper? This is awful. Now you have to go see him and check him," since obviously he has symptoms, "So you can tell me if I'm dying too. I have things I want to do before I die. Like-- maybe someday sleep with someone, ideally in about ten turns." Or more. She doesn't sound all that excited about it, but it's the kind of thing that a girl should have on her bucket list, right?

"I will check him," allows Oliwer, who is not a man that is prone to lying. "But I'm really quite sure that you'll have decades to do everything you want to do before you die." He'll also leave out that it could even take that long before she shows any symptoms. That wouldn't help anyone at all. As for the actual things she wants to someday do? Oliwer doesn't have much opinion on that. Just that uncomfortable, lingering flush to suggest he'd rather be trying to keep someone from bleeding out than talking to a teenage girl about her future sex life.

At least Lycinea is reaching for her shirt now, to pull it on. "His name is Rh'mis." She says it with distaste. "And you'd better take some pots and pans up with you. He has almost nothing in that weirdo weyr of his. I took him soup and tea and stuff, but he'll have no way to heat any of it. I think he's trying to kill himself. It'd be easier just to take his dragon between, I'd think." Because dragons have no will of their own to assert in life or death situations, surely. Especially not Rosvelth. Not that Lya would know.

"I'll keep that in mind," Oliwer says to Lycinea, sounding a little doubtful about, well, everything that's been exchanged between them since she dragged him into the alcove. "Anyway, I wouldn't worry about anything, Lya, okay? Is there anything else?" Hopefully not.

Well, that won't do. Lycinea's arms fold across her chest and she rises. "Promise me," she demands. Nevermind that Oliwer is sort of a little like her pseudo-boss for the time being. (In addition to her regular boss, who, let's face it, probably doesn't get any more respect than the healer. Maybe less.)

Oliwer, who probably doesn't remember what he's even promising at this point, says, "Of course. I promise. Rh'mis." See, he was definitely paying attention to everything the whole time. "I'll check on your friend. Everything will be fine." How he decided that they're friends is anyone's guess, but he follows up with, "If that's all, I have work to get back to."

"He is not my friend." She says vehemently. "He is a disgusting, ungrateful, leper-boy and--" Lya makes an annoyed sound. "Nevermind." Because obviously Oliwer's been paying attention up to this point. It's the right moment to storm out as dramatically as she arrived, though with no dragging of unsuspecting healers this time.