Logs:Shanlee Visits the Infirmary
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| RL Date: 28 June, 2008 |
| Who: N'thei, Shanlee |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| When: Day 28, Month 11, Turn 16 (Interval 10) |
| Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr(#855RILs) This smaller cavern serves as the infirmary at High Reaches Weyr. Immediately upon entering the room, the pervasive smell of numbweed and other medicines nearly overwhelms you. There are a few pristinely made cots lined up along the walls, some occupied, and supply cabinets flank the sides of the doors leading into the medicinal storage room and the Weyrhealer's office. Large vats of various sizes line another wall, containing solutions such as oil, redwort and numbweed, among others. A door to the south leads out to the lower caverns. Last night, it was all pain and blood and babbling incoherence. Not just from N'thei, but from the dozen riders confined to the infirmary in various degrees of scored-and-burned. By morning, things have quieted, the healers have found time to rest, and there's a trolley of breakfast wheeling among the cots to tempt capricious appetites. After her presence last night, it's no surprise that another patient has the presence of mind in the morning to send dragon-to-dragon a quiet word to Kaylith, N'thei's awake, sitting up even. Enter the rider of said green dragon; face carefully schooled to betray no inkling of thought or emotion by what she finds in the infirmary. Business as usual so to speak. The one or two awake enough that greet are met with a nod and a respectful salute for the sacrifice made by them. A trolley that looks to be heading in the direction of the downed Weyrleader is commandeered amidst dirty looks from the aide who'd been pushing it. It's behind this she arrives at N'thei's bedside, "Breakfast in bed. What a life," she quips dryly. In his hands, a flask and a note; then Shanlee is coming, and N'thei puts the flask on the tray next to his cot, loses the note in the folds of sheet pooled over his lap, lifts intentionally bleary eyes to meet her cleverness. "No mirth to match yours, afraid, pretend I said something witty in response." Hoarse from morning, the gravel-voice matches the look of him-- patchwork stitches down from his temple to his jaw, bandages taped down his left shoulder and arm and ribcage and disappearing into the blankets. It's the right arm that aims toward the bland beige smock folded up at the foot of his bed; "Give me that before you get too excited with admiring my physique, neh?" Shanlee titters out a laugh a little on the scratchy edge of things, then turns a deadpan expression back onto N'thei, "That work for you? I just laughed at the imagined witty response you didn't make." The flask is noted with vague interest, it's the note that disappears, because it disappears that holds her attention for longer. That is until his last. Green eyes drag away from the injuries he's taken, not that she'd been staring, mind. A slow smirk imprints on her mouth as she reaches for the smock and holds it out to the Weyrleader, "I prefer knowing the marks on a man are of my own doing." Tough luck to anyone nearby that heard that remark. Noting the flask's interest-- "Want it? Probably good brandy." N'thei gingerly, meticulously, with commendable restraint for winces and ground teeth draws the smock across his right arm, winds up just laying it across the left side so it drapes loosely over his back and shoulders. Leaves him decent but not dressed. "Without a mark on you. Impressive." So saying, he reclines into the pillows there to prop him up, attempts placidity beneath a mangled visage. "Far be it from me to deny an injured warrior of the skies his small comfort," Shanlee responds on the offer of the flask, she even tries tacking a smile onto that but it likely comes out skewed. Watching as N'thei attempts to don the smock, a hand reaches out, "Want a hand with that. Promise, I won't look at your butt." That comment from the battered bronzerider draws it away quickly and she blanches, "Terribly sorry to have disappointed you," falling back on tight sarcasm. N'thei shakes his head at her hand, sober denial of the offered help. Settled, he's not about to suffer the prospect of pulling on that sleeve, not even with Shanlee's help. "Defensive." Simple, blunt assessment of her sarcastic reply, too battered to really bait her this morning, but there's a question writ in the change of his expression, the bloodshot gray eyes that lift toward her green ones: Why defensive? Slight shoulders lift and fall as N'thei refuses her offer of help. Jaws tighten at his return and the flask on his bedside table finds her interest as she looks away. A moment taken for composure and she meets his look squarely, "Would it make you feel better if I was in that cot next to yours? Some kind of justice meted out?" he may be injured, but he's touched on a nerve. N'thei watches Shanlee through her distraction, through her composure, and is still watching when she gets around to looking back at him. What's meant to be a whimsical smile is hampered by the row of stitches down his cheek and jaw, but his eyes stay soft anyway. "Wasn't criticizing you. Relax." His tone holds suggestion, not commandment. Fine brows knit, criticism she could have handled, this from N'thei leaves her simply turning a haunted look on to him, "I'm sorry." For the snip, for his injuries, for the deaths...for her failure. Treading away from such dangerous topics she flips a hand over at the flask, "Was going to bring you something," a clatter at the end of the infirmary flicks attention that way briefly and then back to the Weyrleader his injuries easier to look at then his face. "F'rint's squaring all the reports away. Rilsa's on top of the dragon infirmary," of course, "Hayda's sorting the stores..." her voice trails off. Awkward. Here, a sharp remark for Shanlee to sink her teeth into-- "Hate apologies." N'thei reminds this with his nose flared. Business is easy, and he nods at the reports like he has the faintest interest in them, like he's actually listening more than just watching the greenrider. "Well-oiled machine. Do we need to talk?" One thought has no bearing on the next, but the awkwardness attracts his attention the same way the clatter pulls at hers. And just as sharp a comeback from Shanlee, "Tough shit." He got one anyway. Fine brows arch upward, "Figured that's what we were doing. You say words, I say words. It constitutes us talking." Business dealt with her expression draws tight, "Fed by the blood, sweat and tears of the Weyr," she finally retorts grimly on the well-oiled machine. "Figure we should add extra tithe for each lost. Make it hurt them too," the cot holders. In that lies some of the woman's true thoughts on the chaos of the previous day. N'thei starts to argue it, his head shaking and his lips forming around a 'no' that ends up unuttered. "Their fault we weren't ready? Can see that." False. Facetious. Pause. "No one will blame you, you know. Interval? Pass? Can't settle comfortably into one or the other, not your fault." A shrug lifts his right shoulder, the left stays immobile. Eyes narrow at first for the facetious words coming from N'thei, then Shanlee's fixing it up behind a bland mask once again, "Did what we could," she pauses in the glossing over of who's fault it was, "Shouldn't have slacked off drills," she'll admit to that much. "Can't ask people to stay sharp after months of false alarms." N'thei shakes his head with commitment now, all this time never wavering in heavy-eyed focus on Shanlee. To the previous matter-- "And we can't ask cot holders for more tithes because we got lax. Not their fault Hailstorm wasn't ready, Juinth couldn't dodge fast enough," N'thei broke formation, etc. "Aye? And are you going to look Viviana in the eye when she gives you that 'I told you so' look for not keeping things tight?" No, she affords no forgiveness there. "Either way. What's done is done. Maybe if you show that heroic face of yours to a few Lord Holders they'll add it in anyway," the bitterness aimed less at N'thei and more out of a sense of impotence. "You going to eat that?" neatly turning the conversation over to the plate of food she'd scooped up on her path in. Honestly? "Yes." N'thei, unwavering. "Can look you in the eye, can look her in the eye. Will you? Just one more reason for her to hate me, but she actually likes you, neh?" The plate meets a curl of his lip, a turn of his nose, little green around the gills when he remembers its presence and its purpose. "You eat it. Too skinny anyway, girl needs a little padding." Stock response, no oomph. And there's that tight little expression that answers for Shanlee - 'no'. "Good. Then you do it," face Viviana and any others of a similar mind, "I'm done. Don't give a shit who likes me and who doesn't. It's about the job first," light shoulders attempt a nonchalant roll, "You don't like me and yet here we are staring at each other and saying nothing really." She glances over at the food when N'thei offers it to her and blanches. Shaking her head, "Not hungry. You should eat. Back on your feet faster that way." "Shan--" N'thei exhales, what he meant to say expiring into the redwort-and-numbweed air between them. He leaves off the subject of toast and porridge, easier than passing the buck back and forth between them. "You're right, I don't like you, but I still care about you. And we're not really saying anything because what is there to say? I can't make you feel less guilty, and you can't make me feel less hollow, and that's the way it will always be between us." In point of fact that plate gets carefully pushed further away favoring the scent N'thei exhales through rather than that of what's on the menu for breakfast. Wrinkling her nose, "Stuff'll kill you if thread doesn't" Shanlee quips absently on the porridge and toast. Then the Weyrleader goes and gets honest on her and she finds his mid-section to drop her eyes to in silence, letting him finish what he has to say. Hands clasp behind her back and her chin lifts up, meets his eyes, "Pity that." Just those two words in response to all of his. N'thei, placid; "No pity." True. Nearby, tears slide down a face marred by thread, and a greenrider stares aimlessly into space in an attitude of abject misery, but there's no sorrow in the clear gray eyes that long ago settled on Shanlee and have stayed there since. "You need your guilt and self-loathing. I need my detachment and emptiness. What's to pity?" Aside from the glaringly obvious. Its likely Shanlee has noticed the tableau nearby and is steadfastly choosing to ignore it for her attention now stays locked to N'thei. The weyrsecond winces at his words on self-loathing and guilt, "No. No more," she gives with low certainty, "That's not a life I choose any more." A hand strays to her pocket slips inside and then stills there at her next words, "There's more." to life by her reckoning at least. "Is there." Laughing would probably hurt, ribs and all, so N'thei settles for a dry exhalation that sounds a little like a single chuckle. "Why don't you tell me what more there is," he invites with a pleasant-seeming thread to the words. Like he's settling in for a bedtime story, he sinks down some against the pillows, leans his head into them, drifts closed his eyes. An oddly soft smile touches Shanlee's mouth as she nods, "Aye, there is." As he settles in against the pillows she takes that as a signal for her to be leaving soon and takes a step back. Her tone turned rueful for the truculent man, "And I hope some day you've got the courage to find out what it is." Behind closed eyes, behind an expression purposefully slackening, N'thei registers nothing for her tone. "Thank you. I hope some day we can stop saying horrible things to each other." But that's a far-off distant hope, like hoping to win the lottery. "Ask Milani to find out which one of those boys in the lower caverns is Tr'sim's, can't remember the kid's name. Send a bottle of Benden to every rider in Avalanche and Snowstrike, F'rint knows where my money is, have him get it for you. And pull the papers in the stack marked 'too boring' off my desk, Glacier work in there needs doing." Drivel drivel drivel. Regret shows in the expression Shanlee turns down onto the lidded N'thei for the trading of cruel words. A soft sigh next as he turns back to the guards of business to hide behind once again, the ones they both do. There's a light frown as he asks after Tr'sim's son, "You want to see him or to have a bottle Benden sent to him?" confusion as she tries to work through that one. Each item in need of tending to is mentally squirreled away and the weyrsecond nods unseen, "I'll have it all taken care of. Sleep now." Steps backtracking away from him may or may not be heard as she makes her getaway. N'thei doesn't answer the first, which is for the best. Not-your-business never goes over well anyway. A nod for her departing words, for the idea of sleep maybe, and grimness fades to placidity. Very fast, he falls to the rough-breathed sleep of recovery, wakened only in time to change bandages however many hours later. |
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