Logs:(1) Sick and Tired
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| RL Date: 9 February, 2014 |
| Who: Lilah, Viephale |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Lilah's not feeling well and just wants to get her work done and go to bed. Too bad Viephale has knitting and unsolicited advice. |
| Where: Nighthearth, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 14, Month 13, Turn 33 (Interval 10) |
| Lilah looks miserable. She has for the last few days, starting to come down with a cold that was worse yesterday, thankfully, than it was today. Her nose is still raw and red, eyes watering and puffy, and prone to the occasional bouts of wracking coughs or violent sneezes. Right now, she's dragging herself through the nighthearth, picking it up and dusting it off per Candidate duties, which she hasn't missed through this illness nor has she been absent from her shifts at Dice. Right now she is folding one of those afghans that frequent the area, trying not to get snot on it. Viephale would be displaying all the classic signs of an old auntie if he weren't so youthful and in possession of man-parts. He's slouched into one of the leather chairs, ankles crossed and pointed toward the hearth, klah at his side and knitting in his lap. A black, vaguely sock-like mass of yarn on his needles commands most of his attention. He possesses enough situational awareness to notice some movement and sniffling noises coming from somewhere in his periphery, and he looks up to catch the source, curious. "Oh!" comes his light exclamation of recognition. Unfortunately, names have never been his strong suit. "Hi, there... you. How are you feeling?" His voice is kind, and he respectfully lowers his knitting to regard Lilah. "I'm fine." She doesn't sound fine, and though Lilah tries to say it forcefully, it manages to come out sounding congested, nasally. She sniffs sharply, as if that will help clear her nose, and shakes her head. "I just have to--get this clean. And then I can go back to bed." She attempts to focus on folding that blanket, fingers fumbling slightly with it. Viephale frowns. He's not buying it. "You don't /look/ fine," he says warily, observing the redness, the puffiness, the... snottiness. "And you sure'n shards don't /sound/ fine, if you'll pardon my language. And you know what they say--if it walks like a wherry and squawks like a wherry, than it's probably a wherry." Pause. "Not that I think you're a wherry." He puts the knitting aside and pushes the chair nearest him in Lilah's direction with a booted foot. "Why don't you have a sit-down for a minute? If you rest a bit you'll have more energy to finish the task, eh?" Lilah shakes her head again, this time stubbornly where she makes the last fold of the blanket before shoving it onto the stack of other afghans. Her next step, apparently, is to gather up those used towels and mugs and other things left behind and start tossing them into a basket to be taken away. She says slowly, sounding clear for at least the moment, "I don't want to sit down. I want to get this done, so the weyrwomen or the Headwoman or the next dragonrider can't complain at least about my /chores/." But then, glassy, wet eyes fall onto Viephale's knitting as he sets it aside, and she adds, non-sequitor, "Are you /knitting/?" Viephale holds his hands up, palms out, as if to ward off an attack. "Fine, fine. But you're just going to make yourself worse if you don't rest." This last bit is added as a mumble--he knows better than to press an argument like this if the other person's not receptive. As to her question, he answers at first with a huffy little sniff. "Why yes, I /am/ knitting," he replies as he picks up his needles, gaze now pointedly focused at the black mess and /not/ at Lilah. "I need socks and I'm thinking after this I might attempt a scarf. Or a blanket." Not that she asked--he's just excited, his expression brightening as he considers the possibilities. "I don't like borrowing from the stores if I can help it." "Maybe you should." Perhaps some mercy can be spared for Lilah's bluntness, given the fact that there is certain signs she might be suffering from a low-grade fever, at least. But, her gaze catches on the mess of yarn, and she can't quite help the words that slip from her lips. She adds, pointing out, "If you have marks for yarn, you might as well have bought yourself some socks from the weavers, then." She punctuates her point with a sudden sneeze, burying her face briefly into the crook of her arm. Viephale's excited expression cools right back up at Lilah's honest appraisal of his efforts. "Everyone's entitled to their opinions, I s'pose," he muses in an offhand sort of way as he knits and purls. "For me /personally/, I'd rather teach myself a useful skill than constantly rely on others. I mean, clearly no weavers are going to be scoping me out for an apprenticeship, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't make the effort to better myself." He raises an eyebrow and shoots a sideways glance at Lilah. "Not everyone can afford to simply buy their way through life." "Are you feeling like a better person?" Lilah questions dryly, or what would be dry if ten pounds of snot weren't clogging her head and making everything come out in the same stuffed tone. But, she has at least stopped sneezing, and lifted her head to continue stubbornly gathering up things that have been used and left around the hearth. Viephale pauses thoughtfully in his work. "I... guess not," he finally admits, but then he resolutely returns to the task at hand. "But I'm still pretty awful. I think when I've gotten the hang of it, I'll be able to look back at what I've accomplished and be pretty satisfied. If not, well." He shrugs absently. "At least I'll be warm." Enough about his shortcomings, though; let's redirect this conversation back toward Lilah. He regards her shuffling with a critical eye. "You could at least get something warm in you t'knock the crud loose." There is a sharp sound of one mug hitting another mug where Lilah drops it into the basket that may have resulted in a crack, but likely not given the sturdiness of the earthenware left here. She answers, even as she moves to get the cloth to clean off the surfaces she has now decluttered: "Warm drinks don't work like that. I've already taken the appropriate healer herbs." She shrugs a shoulder upwards, dismissive. "You could help me, instead of giving me advice. And then I could get back to bed, which /does/ help for sickness." "I was under the impression that I /was/ helping," Vie grumbles crossly. The clinking of ceramic reminds him of his own neglected drink, and he sets the needles down long enough to grab at his mug, lift it to his lips, and eye Lilah over the rim. "Do the candidate coordinators know that you're touching your paws all over public places while you're gross and sick? Seems odd that they'd approve of potentially spreading illness around like that." As far as actually helping her goes, he makes no effort to move from his seat. "I'm not contagious at this stage," Lilah snaps back, for all that a sneeze follows these words, leaving her momentarily helpless. When she does recover, she scrubs angrily at the surface she had been working on, before moving on to the mantle. Viephale narrows his eyes and sips, deliberately as noisily as possible, at his beverage. He places it carefully back on the stand beside him. He picks up his needles. "Sounds just like something that someone who's a workaholic and doesn't care about the health and wellbeing of everyone around her would say," he sniffs. "I bet you haven't even gone to the healers. I bet you're trying to tough it out because you think that means you're stronger or something. 'S'what I would expect from someone who scorns someone else for trying to make his own ruddy socks." The frustrated noise that Lilah makes comes out more as a sniffle, clogged as she is. Instead, she simply says flatly, "Well, that goes to show how much you know. That's something I would expect from someone who can't even /make/ his own socks." She flinggs the rag over her shoulder, apparently deeming the mantle is clean enough, and moves to retrieve that basket pointedly. "Excuse me, I can make socks /just fine/." Lilah must be getting to Vie; he is now glaring at the candidate and waving his be-socked needles around for emphasis. "They may not be winning any Gather awards but you know what? They're socks same as any other socks and they'll do just fine." He recoils back into his seat, needles clacking together with a sullen fury. "They'll be going in boots anyway, 's'not like anyone can see 'em," he mumbles. Lilah's nose starts to scrunch up, though whether from holding in a sneeze or from some expression of opinion, it is unclear. "You should get some help," she suggests instead, picking up the basket and hitching it against her hip before she moves to leave with those last words of advice. Viephale grunts, scowling after Lilah's retreating figure. "Yeah, well, so should you!" he wittily snaps. Incoherently mumbling under his breath, he returns to his lumpy, malformed sock. However, in all of his indignant rage, he's forgotten his place. There's a twitch to his features at first, and it seems for a moment that he might chuck the whole thing into the fire--but then, he calms himself with a sigh and starts counting stitches. |
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