Dragon Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr
The vast cavern has much the same odor of redwort and numbweed as the human infirmary, though here it's seasoned with coppery ichor rather than the iron of blood. It's also laid out similarly though on a much more massive scale, its walls lined with a number of places for patients, in this case large dragon couches recessed into the floor for ease of access; nearby cots provide space for riders. Tucked into the western curve is a huge circulating pool of warm water, by which are kept vats of oil.
The healers' duty station is a counter on the north side of the room, a checkpoint before the storage rooms behind it that are now shared with the human infirmary, hosting supplies that are as neatly labeled and carefully scrubbed as the rest of the infirmary. The senior dragonhealer has an office there as well, and human-sized double doors have recently been built as a direct route to the human infirmary, while opposite a wide winding tunnel leads to the east bowl.
A new morning, fresh and bright and rife with... uncertainty? Sure. That. U'sot has called in inspections of all non-triaged dragons involved in either of the gold flights, and so Ainslee finds herself working, finishing out with one greying bronze who's quite fine except for a bit of aching in old joints. He's sent upon his way with a bit of salve and strict instructions to stay out of the cold winds as much as possible. U'sot takes this moment to step into his office, leaving Ainslee to catch the next vict... scheduled dragon. Are they scheduled? It seems more like a free-for-all.
(The greenrider is seated on a makeshift seat, going over numbweed and redwort, bandages and implements to poke and prod and measure; she waits, productively.)
Arekoth was more than involved in a flight, thank you very much. And he's happily regaling any dragon who will listen with tales of his prowess. « She wasn't expecting the winds, » precedes an easy, and dramatically slow stretch of his wings, that get in another dragon's way, of course. « Wasn't just her it caught by sur- » is when his rider, who has done his best to stay to the sides while waiting with his dragon, shoots him a look of daggers. « Rocked her world, » is finished with a hint of primal growl to his vocal tones. And he sidles forward, at H'kon's urging, to take the place of next vict- whatever. Which means his rider needs to step out of the (mostly proverbial) shadows.
Kh'mic was not involved in the debacle people are calling a 'flight.' So there's no sign of Temarth at all, just Kh'mic using the dragon infirmary as a pass-through from the human infirmary to the bowl: shortest distance between two points is a straight line through the aftermath. It's the 'aftermath' that has him pausing, hand still on the doorknob, to sweep a look over the activity of the infirmary. Mr. Keep Your Head Down & Mind Your Own Business starts to rethink this plan, but curiosity exists in the hearts of even the best of men (which Kh'mic is not, just to clear that up), and - with Temarth waiting just out in the bowl - what snippets of Arekoth's tale are being shared has him looking abruptly and, yes, accusingly toward H'kon. 'WTF' is written all over his face, even if he never gets around to voicing that particular sentiment.
The rustle of ethereal wind amid a field of stars that spins about an invisible axis, dizzying, disorienting: « I'm sure. » Kalaith's tone is dry. Ainslee, prompted by this, glances up as H'kon and Arekoth arrive; her face smoothes of initial surprise. "Good morning," she greets H'kon, mildly, her eyes already passing him over to check the line of wing-stretch, the intriguing twist of leg. "He's feeling his oats, so-to-speak?" A flash of smile which then includes Kh'mic as he steps into view; she includes him in her brisk introduction: "Ainslee, green Kalaith's." To the first brownrider: "If you would have him center up?" She gestures into a square subtly marked off for examinations. A curious edging of gaze passes to Kh'mic, after, but then she's all eyes for Arekoth.
As all eyes should be. Arekoth steps into that square, swaggering some, as if he was much bigger than just some medium-sized brown. Isn't he, though? He caught Iesaryth, as everyone has heard countless times since its occurrence. H'kon, probably frustrated by his dragon's very aura at this stage, raises his chin faintly to the dragonhealer, securing his arms crossed over his chest, compact frame made all the more compact. "He is in good spirits," is somewhere around the same time of, « Wasn't the only one feeling my oats, you know what I mean? » Is that a vein that throbbed on his rider's forehead? Kh'mic just gets a flat look before he turns back to Ainslee, turns a shoulder to the other brownrider's gaze. "His shoulders are tired, but I don't believe he's injured."
Under other, better circumstances, the nod tipped from Kh'mic to Ainslee would probably have more tinge of friendliness to it, but things are hardly in tip-top shape 'round these parts. So it's really just a cursory thing, bolstered by the addition of, "Kh'mic. Temarth's." There's a measured pause, one that lasts just long enough for Arekoth's addition to make the rounds, and he adds, "Brown Temarth's, that is." Like everyone will just put it together that he's a /good/ brownrider whose dragon isn't being swaggery. Regardless, he looks awkward just standing by the door, neither coming nor going, but he keeps on doing it for a little while longer, morbid curiosity waiting to see if anyone jumps H'kon.
There's an element of sympathy in Ainslee's expression, as attention flickers from Arekoth to H'kon. She understands. The greenrider lifts her implements of tortu--dragonhealing, and begins the process of poking and prodding, feeling for understated injury or overstrained physical elements. She's thorough, taking her time. (U'sot watches from his door for a moment, to likely reassure himself of the competency of his latest addition: after a moment, he slides back away.) "Please let me know if any of this hurts," she directs to Arekoth himself, a tendril of starborn fog - nebular dust, the clouds of the stars - reaching out as a silent extension of Kalaith. The human element of the pairbond will glance up to smile (quite whimsical, all things considered) to Kh'mic. "Temarth? Strong name. Are you--" and here she includes H'kon, not a bit deferential, "--either of you /long/ locals?" She is obviously not: the charming east-coast lilt of husky alto, that burr of Bitran influence limning her lines.
Strained, there certainly is. Overstrained, maybe; the dragon was, after all, flying acrobatics before he found his gold. But the brown shows no real signs of discomfort, if there is some tightness of muscle. Of course, that could just be on account of his oats. Kalaith draws his attention, but not enough to prompt any of his own imagery back, not yet. And that deference, that makes H'kon's frown deepen. "Yes." Informative.
Even Kh'mic will smile, albeit thinly, at a compliment for his dragon, a momentary lapse in his awesome glowering that's gone tout de suite. He takes a breath to answer the question, holds it for three seconds like he expects H'kon to elaborate (No? Nothing?), and answers Ainslee on the exhale. "No. No, only long enough to feel entitled to some explanations, not long enough to get them, it seems." He shrugs, moving away from the door and toward the bowl, finally remembering that he's on his way somewhere.
Oh, H'kon. Ainslee's glance shifts to him again, but no need. "Doesn't seem to have any /wing/ issues - that I can see. Sometimes those take longer to emerge, especially when he's feeling other things. I'm going to give you something to add to his oil that will help his blood come up - he may complain of tingling, but it's /good for him/," emphasis with a Look. "Don't use it on his wings, though. Just the shoulders, haunches. Avoid delicate areas. Wash your hands afterwards, or they'll burn every time you come close to water." Instructions for H'kon will be written shorthand, later; but for now, she stands, a critical eye on the brown. She purses her lips, considers, baldly continues. "Do you recollect how long the flight lasted?" Once a scientist, always a scientist, as rudimentary of one as she may be. Kh'mic's statement pulls a thoughtful look from her, and a nod; she hasn't much to say about that. Who does? (Apparently not H'kon.)
"Little can be explained when there is much that still needs deciding," isn't exactly a snap, but it is sharp, and curt, and spoken all too fast to the retreating brownrider. H'kon's arms flex in their crossed position, and his shoulders rise and fall in the intake of a breath, it's slow exhalation. There's at least a forced calm to him when he looks back to Ainslee, only now seeming to replay her instructions, head giving minute nods. "I'll see to it. And I am not certain. It's a difficult thing to judge."
Kh'mic stops something like halfway across the room, arrested by H'kon's snap. His face turns upward, eyes seeking the edge of the room where ceiling meets wall, like inspiration is writ in small print somewhere in the corner. There's no telling who else is clued in to this conversation now, but extra spectators don't stop him from taking the bull by the horns, turning to again address Ainslee and H'kon. "'Whoops, I fucked up,' would probably work in the meantime," in a 'just sayin' tone.
Eyebrows raised for the first retort of H'kon to Kh'mic, Ainslee gives Arekoth one last pat - a silent congratulations, as a verbal one would be inappropriate - and moves off from the verbal sparring to collect medicine and jot down short instructions to go with the vial. That /snorting/ sound, half-choked and strangled above anything else, certainly didn't originate from Ainslee's corner. Certainly not. The draconic chuff of laughter *definitely* came from Kalaith, though. Ainslee, strategic, remains with her back to the scene of dueling disgust.
"And there are circumstances that you are unaware of. But please," and his head tilts, a bit too violently, off to one side, his own look hawkish for the moment and much like his dragon's, words still coming too-fast, "continue speaking in this way. The Weyr certainly requires more division than it already experiences, when there has not even been the time to set things aright." Arekoth, having received his pat, adjusts his wings along his back and puffs his chest, the better to look imperiously at Kh'mic. H'kon just glares a moment longer, and then turns to find Ainslee's retreated form. "If that is all, healer, there are things I must attend to."
Kh'mic holds up his palms in a gesture of surrender, one that infects his tone. Not that it's at all believable, this sudden shift in his understanding. "You're right. I didn't know about these circumstances that somehow make it all right for us brownriders to be fuck-ups. My bad. I'll just take my uninformed opinion and - " His thumb cocks, pointing toward the exit where he'd been headed before he had to get all up in H'kon's bizness. He nods to Ainslee, sorry, and leans into his retreat.
In Ainslee's mind, there's less division than everyone seems to espouse. But then again, she has pretty clear-cut views on what happens elsewhere and outweyr. She turns, a package wrapped up and in hand. Kh'mic's reply cuts her off from saying what she has to say, and she holds her tongue as he does: a passive facade to the interplay between the others, a touch of thought as she nods after Kh'mic. To H'kon, her instructions have little speed, regardless of his impatience: both eyebrows raised a bit, if anything. Listen. "Don't use it more than twice a day," she instructs. "If you get any on his wings, soap and water as soon as possible. If he starts to report any wingstrain after his afterglow has worn off, let us know as soon as possible." A hesitation, again, thoughtful: then, despite rhyme or reason, "Good luck." You're going to need it.
The cool that was lost is, at least superficially, regained. H'kon manages to simply glare after Kh'mic, and keep his tongue still, throughout the other brownrider's departure. Another rise and fall of his shoulders as he looks to Ainslee, forcing himself to listen, nodding along. "What must be done is clear," is given as acknowledgement, maybe, probably, as he reaches for that wrapped package she's brought. The wish of luck just brings a twist to his mouth, not a smile, not a frown, certainly strained. It cuts off with a nod, and he, too, turns to take his leave. Arekoth will follow, even if it means leaving his adoring (right) public.
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