Logs:Lycinea and the Leper-Boy
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| RL Date: 25 September, 2014 |
| Who: Lycinea, Rh'mis |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Lycinea tries out her new bedside manner... on a leper. |
| Where: Rhey's Place (Keep Out), High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 9, Month 12, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: Silliness. Back-dated. |
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| Rhey's Place (Keep Out) It's not a large ledge, sized to let a small-to-middling dragon land while another is perched, but it's pleasantly situated: about a third a way down the Bowl wall and thus out of the worst of the wind, and moreover, positioned to catch some of the northern sun that slants down towards the craft complex below. It even has an angled view of the greenhouse's roof and, more distantly, a glimpse of the lake. Not that this ledge shades the greenhouse, the angle's wrong, but it does shade a nearby ledge on the other side at certain times of day-- a ledge too far for a human to jump to, but close enough to be tempting. Its only other obvious feature is a deep bowl carved into the raised waist-height rock just at the edge of the overhang, which can catch rain or snow or even hold ice in the summertime to keep drinks cold. Past the heavy curtain of the entrance, the weyr is simple enough, a pair of oval caverns joined at the entrance: one for the dragon, with a series of hooks and shelves for straps and other gear, and a smaller one for the rider that comes equipped with a large if creaky bed and a gigantic carved armoire that must have been assembled in place. There's enough space for a small table by the hearth, which seems plain and utilitarian... until one looks at the ironwork inside, cleverly made to not only toast bread but serve as a rotisserie when desired. Opposite, in the deepest and most shadowy part of the weyr, hangs the walls' only decoration: a tapestry that's dull and faded with age to match the place's air of general disuse... but behind it is a latched door, low-linteled enough that a petite woman could only barely pass through without ducking her head. Behind that, an equally low-ceiinged staircase spirals down.
The ledge is empty, and the weyr - from what Lycinea will be able to see, anyway - dim and dark and cold. Perhaps Rhey's not about? That would certainly explain Rosvelth's absence. When she calls out, though, there's a shuffle of something within, and then, abruptly, there's the brownrider: wide-eye red-rimmed, face flushed, a blanket pulled close about his shoulders. "What the fuck do you want?" It comes out muffled, through a nose that won't clear, and in a voice that is scratchy with disuse. "Faranth!" The swear pops out of Lycinea's mouth, sounding more of a ward against evil (or in this case, plague) than surprise as blue-green eyes find Rh'mis in all his blanketed glory. "Are you dying?" clearly, they sent the girl for her impeccable bedside manner; either that or Lya is the most expendable. Dying? Rhey looks as though he might be; wishes to be, probably, if it means ending this misery. "Does it matter? Fuck off and leave me to--" Only he has to stop there, to cough and cough and cough, until he's winded, leaning up against the wall to try and recover himself. The girl considers him with her nose wrinkled and lips pursed, "Well, it matters if you're going to give me what you have and then I'll die of it too. You didn't go to Igen, did you?" Lycinea peers at him suspiciously now; maybe those blankets are covering up the leprosy underneath. "Maybe," answers Rhey. Maybe he has been to Igen. Maybe his skin is all falling off... maybe other things have already fallen off. The sneezes, though - they're probably not indicative of Igen. "What are you doing here? Leave me alone." To die. "If I get back down there and it turns out you made me a leper, I'm coming back to strangle you." Lycinea says it so matter of factly as she now shifts the box she'd been resting on her hip and pushes past the curtain. She's already infected, right? "Why is it so cold in here? Did you even bother to make yourself a fire?" If not, she's going to try to move right past him to do that very thing. "I was told to bring you food." She'll repeat her earlier explanation, slowly and with more volume, in case the leprosy claimed his ears first. His ears look more-or-less intact. He's probably hiding the leprosy damage; you just don't know what a man is hiding beneath his blankets, after all. Rhey opens his mouth to object as Lycinea pushes past, but then she's inside, and what's he supposed to do (sneeze, apparently). "It went out. It's fine." His blocked nose makes the words sound funny. "Who told you? Why? I'm fine." Does Lycinea need to do more than snort derisively at those last two words to make her opinion known? "Is that why your dragon isn't here? He doesn't want to watch you die a slow, painful death from incurable stubbornness and stupidity?" She doesn't bother to look back at the blanketed leper as she sets the crate on his table. "There's a brothy soup and a heartier stew you can keep near the fire for later. No one could say how sick you were so they didn't know what would be best." There's also, should he choose to explore the crate, some fruits, cheese, bread, and vegetables all of which will keep relatively well without minding, and some packets of tea. Then she sets about building that fire, a task every kitchen aide is well-versed in. As she does, she offers the following unhelpful answer, "I just get the orders and sometimes follow them. My boss marched me out to the dragon," else she probably would be having herself a pleasant picnic right about now. "He's busy," is clipped. Rhey lets the curtain fall back down, shrouding the weyr in a doom that is at least partially ameliorated by the fire Lycinea is working on. He doesn't inspect the crate; he moves back towards the bed (unmade, a tangle of what are no doubt sweaty, fever-stained sheets), hovering there awkwardly. He has a snort for her last few comments, but then, it's not as though he can talk. It probably doesn't matter to him, either way. "Well. You did your thing. Go away now." Sniff. Cough. Sneeze. "Or you'll get sick and they'll quarantine you up here." "Uh-huh," Lya sounds like she-- no, she doesn't believe him at all. Maybe she doesn't even care enough to disbelieve him in actuality, but her standard response is one that could easily be interpreted that way. She pauses as she reaches for a water jug from the crate, "You know it smells like you're dying in here. When was the last time you changed your sheets? Or took a bath? And I'd rather pass leprosy onto the whole Weyr than stay up here." Where it smells gross, as they've just covered. Nevermind the one unpleasant occupant of the weyr who's probably peeling flesh under that blanket like a putrefied sunburned ginger as they speak. "Where are your pots? Do you have a kettle?" Obviously, she hasn't finished doing her thing. She is looking around more now, probably but maybe not certainly just looking for the pots. There's actually not much of anythingd up here, really; what furniture there is is pretty bare, and even places that seem clearly designed for things have, well, no things at all. Rhey hovers beside the bed, scowling at Lya with all the ferocity he can manage (it's not much; he just looks miserable and pathetic). He adjusts his blanket coverings, and says, "Just leave it. I'll do it. They shouldn't send people here. Don't want people here." At least Lya doesn't snort this time; she rolls her eyes. "Please. You didn't even make yourself a fire and you're sick and this is 'Reaches," which should, in the one word, indicate why a fire is advisable. "I think you don't want my help because you're afraid I'll discover your secrets." Nevermind that she looks wholly disinterested and unimpressed on the whole. "Do you even have pots?" Apparently, she's given up on her hope of a kettle, though she doesn't seem disappointed. "And anyway, I don't count as people. I'm just Lya," which doesn't, as it happens make it sound like, she's some shiny special snowflake freshly fallen from the wintry sky, but rather, "I'm just the help." A fact that she also doesn't sound like she's much prone to weeping about. It just is how it is. "As if I'd keep anything important here." Rhey glances around, as if to demonstrate: there doesn't seem to be much to find, unless it is really well hidden. His next coughing fit has him sinking back down onto the bed, clutching at the blanket as if it is an act of near-desperation. Perhaps his lack of comment on the pots is answer enough on that front. Or maybe he just got distracted by the coughing - who knows! "As if I even care," Lya mimics his tone. "That's always the trouble with you 'mysterious' types," she makes the air quotes before her hands settle on her hips "You think everyone who shows any kind of kindness or interest," not that she is! "-is just trying to unearth whatever mind-numbingly dull stuff you're into." Her voice has risen in the course or her 'and that's what's wrong with the world today' harangue (Lya Edition). "Now where are your sharding pots so I can make you some tea and get the shell out of here since I'm not wanted anyway!" She probably has no interest in stay, really, aside from her bizarre notion that she needs to make him tea or it won't happen. "Do you like being sick or something?" It's added on the heels of her demand, tone half-incredulous at the very idea. Wheezing breaths make it distinctly more difficult for Rhey to get his words out; still, they're clipped enough for his mood to be pretty clear. "I don't have any fucking pots. Get out." Tea will not be necessary. Lya looks unamused. "My ride's not here." She folds her arms, "And if I'm already exposed to whatever's killing you, I'm not going to help it along by waiting on the ledge. If you want to do something to speed me along, you can tell your dragon to tell my ride to bring up some pots with him when he comes, or I'll only have to come back." Beat. "Or send a healer," this seems to brighten her souring mood a bit. Rhey looks immediately stricken. "Don't you dare come back," he warms, one fist raised. It's not a terribly intimidating sight: he's still not tall, and he's all hunched over and miserable. "Who told you to care, anyway? You can tell them you did what you were supposed to," cough hack sneeze sniffle, "and I won't tell." "Stop being unhelpful about me making you your stupid tea and I won't." Lya retorts, evidently unshaken by the appearance of that mighty fist. "I'm practicing my bedside manner." She folds her arms across her chest now, because isn't she just waiting on pots? "You really do want to die, don't you." She's frowning now. "I thought getting a dragon was supposed make everything sunshine and rainbows or something," did she think that? Living in a Weyr? Almost decidedly not, but it's a good enough question to ask right now. "Does your dragon know you have a deathwish?" It might be arguable at this point which of them (if not both) has that. "I don't need tea," says Rhey, launching himself off the bed (probably not his smartest move) and striding towards Lya. He is, she'll be glad to know, wearing a shirt and trousers beneath that blanket; the blankets are falling away. He grabs for her shoulders: "Get out. He's getting your ride back. Stay the fuck away from me." If he can, he'll march her towards the door. "Oh, ew," Lya cries out after a failed attempt to duck his grab. She's quickly trying to pull out of his grip, though, "Don't touch me, leper boy. I will send a horde of healers up here to poke and prod you with every instrument they have," she threatens, and since her time shadowing Oliwer, she's learned a few new, and very unpleasant ones. They'd give him nightmares, really! "Then get out," suggests - commands? - Rhey. He'll go in again with those hands, those filthy, leper hands. "Out, out, out." Now, plz. "Ew, ew, ew!" Lya bats at those hands with her own, but clearly these are desperate times and desperate measures must be taken. She reaches for the box she brought and a moment later, she's brandishing a peeled fingerroot at him as though it might be a sword! Well, a knife, but an implement of self-defense anyway. A... fingerroot? Rhey stares at it for a moment, then goes back to trying to push Lycinea out of his weyr. He's dropped the blankets altogether, now, and is shivering madly, but that's clearly not the point: "OUT," he yells, literally yells. "FINE!" Lycinea yells, literally, yells back, dropping the fingerroot between them for one final plant of her hands on her hips, "But I'm sending a healer, you ungrateful leper!" Will the use of leper as a derogatory term ever get old? Probably not. She turns and stomps out to the ledge to shiveringly wait for her ride. |
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