Logs:A Few More Days
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| RL Date: 17 November, 2015 |
| Who: Alida, C'ris, Ilicaeth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Alida decides to stop by C'ris' place with dinner. |
| Where: Tiny, Tidy Weyr: HRW |
| When: Day 19, Month 4, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Snow flurries. |
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| It's dinner time, but the Healer staff are *always* swamped right now, so *their* meals are often delivered to them between treatments (and wash-ups). This has also been happening more and more often with the dragonhealing side of the complex, too, given the half-handful of sick riders housed in them so their dragons can be as close as possible. These meals are left just inside the arched entrance, covered and piping hot, a human call or a firelizard held back from fully entering the signal for those who tend the ill (and their dragons) to come and get it. Alida, done with her shift in the dragonhealing area...doesn't do more than wash her hands, for once. Instead, the blonde sidles out of there while others are busy (they trust her; she's excellent at maintaining quarantine procedures), nips up the tray meant for her, and meets Ilicaeth quite near the entrance. « No soup, right? » the blue rumbles with dark humor to his human, who smirks dryly, nods, then grabs a small sack off her lifemate's harness in which to settle, then tightly tie the meal. Ilicaeth doesn't want burning broth against his precious hide. As she settles things properly, climbs aboard, the woman notes briskly to her dragon, "All solids. Boy c'n have water from my skin, if 'e wants." Because the booze from her hip flask would surely finish him, in this state. And as the gritty blue finally launches into the air, gains height, angles towards the proper ledge, he finally has to outright ask his chosen, « Yer not just doin' this ta piss off Quinlys, right? » Because, now that they're no longer weyrlings, Quinlys likely won't give a damn. Snort. Her mind guarded, barriers up, Alida will allow her lifemate to stew in ignorance while he finally glides them in to a landing. Oh, hello Mivength! Mivength is always annoyed to have visitors, but the blue only falls off his own ledge in a plummet as the other blue approaches, winging his way to the feeding pen instead to peruse his own dinner. The occupant inside the weyr is sitting up, still in bed, with a book in his lap that he is attempting to read through with limited success. But there is some color to his cheeks and there isn't a mess immediately assailing anyone who might step inside. Well then. If Ilicaeth could browlift and snicker, he'd be doing so right now at the sight of annoyed Mivength. Instead, he'll settle for a loud snort of dark humor as he lands, the craggy blue's rasping baritone sand-swirling both laughter and a quick comment to C'ris' dragon « Aww, sugar! C'mon back so we c'n snuggle. » Alida, too, can't help but sniggering at her lifemate's response, the woman clapping her beast's neck before they settle fully, and she's getting down, then unpacking the chow. Give her about 2 minutes, and the blonde's stepping smartly inside, looking all around and wondering what she'll find. Alida's got a surgical mask type thingie on that covers her mouth and nose...and she's got her riding goggles on, to boot. Her own garb is utterly utilitarian, a little frayed in some places, and has seen quite a few Turns of bleaching and heavy laundering. "Well well, it's back from the dead..." her brisk alto comments, green eyes smirking behind their glass covering. If Mivength could be more of a brick wall, it'd be quite the feat. Perhaps he didn't even hear Ilicaeth. C'ris looks up at the sound of someone entering his weyr, frowning at Alida, before he tells her, "You were supposed to leave the tray on the ledge." His book is closed carefully, though, so that his full attention can be transferred to the other bluerider. "I'm-- almost out of the window, they say." "I'm 'supposed' ta do a lot uv' things..." Alida comments with mixed snark and indifference, the woman (who is also wearing new, thin cloth gloves, by the way) moving closer, and soon opening up the sack to withdraw the hot meal from within, setting it beside C'ris. "I'm just off my shift with the dragonhealers, so I did minimal decontamination" - cue a wiggle of hands upon the air - "before comin' up." Why do it twice, since she was already contaminated, and C'ris is, too? "Good," is grunted out by the woman, who starts looking around for things to gather and take out, from old clothes/bedclothes throug old trays/food, and even C'ris' bedpan. C'ris' bedpan is full, but everything else seems to be put together. "But I could still be contagious. They don't know," is the bluerider's soft addition, that frown lingering. He doesn't reach for the meal immediately, instead he watches Alida. "Hence the full gear..." Alida notes with mask-muffled practicality, looking down to her gloves, to the body-covering clothing...the blonde then cocking her head as she cannot point to her own plague-guarded face. As she carefully handles that full bedpan, settles it into the burlap sack, then knots it tightly closed again, Alida murmurs in her best dragonhealer-type fashion to the human patient, "Gotta be careful." Sorry C'ris...or as sorry as someone like her can get, anyway. "Only be a few more days, an' you'll be outta' the window." Sagenod. A longer, assessing look is offered to the bed-bound man, and finally the woman notes quietly, "Didn' think ta bring up some sponges, bathin' supplies." He's gotta be feeling scuzzy, by now. "I, uh-- That's fine," C'ris says with a hint of a flush, shaking his head quickly and not meeting Alida's assessing look. "Thank you, though. For dinner and--." Everything else, his trailing words seem to imply. Finally, he does reach for that tray, to show his appreciation by dragging it into his lap. Good thing her face is mostly covered, or Alida's own sudden blush might be seen. The woman gets quickly beyond it by pressing forward in her duties, standing up from her squat and making the rounds once again to make certain she's not missed anything that needs to be cleared around the weyr. "Yer welcome..." is grunted as the blonde moves around, while C'ris hopefully soon discovers the food he's getting is stuff meant for a non-sick person to eat: no broths, no gruel, none of what he was usually brought while he was much more ill. It's sliced up wherry breast with herbs and lemon, mashed potatoes and gravy, plus buttered carrots. And a dessert, too: a pair of berry bubbly pies! Just as Alida pivots around, she notes in that same functional fashion to the other bluie, "I'll leave a note fer the next person who attends ya ta bring up a bunch uv' towels, sponges, sandsoap." Because...ewwww. And not because Alida's being truly considerate. "That-- would be nice," admits C'ris with a quick, bright smile. And his appreciation for the food only keeps that warmth in his expression as he starts tucking into those mashed tubers with gusto. Oh! Almost forgot (in her small fluster). Alida soon hurries back out to Ilicaeth, returns with a new bedpan for C'ris, settles it where the previous one was. "Got enough water ta heat up?" is soon inquired to his smile and thanks, the blonde stepping over to look at the condition of the man's hearth. And if she's glancing over her shoulder to see the man tucking into his food with relish, smirk-smiling under her mask? He'll never know. C'ris nods, finishing off the bite in his mouth quickly and swallowing so he can assure her, "Yeah, the last person left a skin. I'm-- I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me." The hearth, though, is dead even though he has a fresh glow basket. "Oh, fer fuck's sake..." Alida notes in decidedly non-matronly fashion to that dead hearth, the woman eyeballing C'ris for a moment, then moving to start, feed the fire properly. She's won't scold him like a mother or an auntie, instead noting brusquely, "Fat lotta' good it'll do ya gettin' over the plague if yer di...bits die off from freezin'." His 'bits.' After she makes certain the fire is going properly, and will be burning low and long for some hours to come, the guard finally turns around, carefully gathers up that bedpan in a sack, and notes with some asperity to the bedbound one, "It takes a shitload more than a bedpan an' fire ta make *me* worry." Headshake, eyeroll. "Enjoy yer chow, toots." "Yes, but-- there are other people who need help, is what I meant," exhales C'ris in defense, his smile disappearing again. But he nods, an obedient patient. No disagreement from her. There's a small nod, and a silent study of C'ris from behind goggles, Alida soon lifting her burden in gloved hands, and stepping off towards the ledge, again. Over her shoulder is grunted a brisk, "Night, C'ris." If he knew more of the woman, he'd understand that expression from her was tantamount to another's warm 'Feel better soon.' But this is Alida, and she cannot be anything other than what, who she is. And if Ilicaeth gives his reticent rider a mental noogie-and-squeeze later on for her being so uncharacteristically kind to someone not in her small circle? She'll just chalk it up to the wonder that the heated pools of water not far outside of the Weyr work on her tense muscles. That, and the distinct pleasure of getting both of them scrubbed completely clean *outside* of the Weyr...and for 'accidentally losing' C'ris' used bedpan Between. |
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