==== December 20th, 2013
==== Cerise, D'cen, T'ral
==== D'cen and T'ral help Cerise with Jiamoth. Esanth has a Quest!

Who Cerise, D'cen, T'ral
What D'cen and T'ral help Cerise with Jiamoth. Esanth has a Quest!
When There are 0 turns, 5 months and 0 days until the 12th pass.
Where Southern Weyr

cerise.jpg dcen1.jpg t-ral_intent.jpg


Dragon Infirmary
An exceptionally large cavernous area is set aside for the dragons of the weyr to convalesce. Immediately adjacent to the ground weyrs, it provides some privacy for those pairs whose injuries require more silence and solitude for recovery. But there are also a number of dragon wallows here for triage and diagnosis; those with the worst injuries have the wallows nearest the open air exit reserved for them until they're well enough to be moved further in. Bins, shelves, and locked cabinets store all of the medicines and raw ingredients the dragonhealers will need for treatment, as well as things like blankets and 'medicinal whiskey' for the riders of the afflicted. A lettering system applied to the shelves above one lone desk hint at a filing system used by those who work here.

First D'cen walks in. He's a little wary honestly. All the injured dragons and riders and the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth still going on. But still, he would be remiss not to come and visit. It's important. Raxsonath…. well, he swaggers in like he owns the place. « Heyyy, that's going to be one sexy scar. Rworl. » That, imparted to a .. brown, actually. He flicks a talon up like he's giving the other dragon a thumbs up, and then continues his path up to where Jiamoth is so he can deposit his tribute of a fat wherry in front of her. « For you, sweetness. » To which the former starcrafter just sort of sighs, and scratches the back of his neck. Why'd he get stuck with the cheesemaster dragon? WHY?

This is the worst place for Jiamoth to be. Nevermind that she's direly wounded- people keep insisting she eats and she has a figure that likes to keep those extra pounds in place! At least… normally she does. All right, all right, so the belly is almost gone, leaving her normal green shaped instead of voluptuously padded, and that's cause enough for concern. But when a limp wherry plops down in front of her where she's stretched on her side in a wallow, it's not the meal prospect she looks to with a welcoming rasp of voice. She does not mind Rax's style of cheese at all. « So very thoughtful, Raxsonath. You should have some? » "After you blood it." And that would be Cerise, coming up on the other side of the wallow with a water-heavy bucket dangling from each hand. These are set down with a clunk clunk, her breath huffed out in a weary gust as she wipes her hands on the seat of her pants. "D'cen, Rax. How's tricks?"

« Only after you blood it, of course. It would be terribly ungentlemanly of me to do otherwise. » Raxsonath points out, sprawling out in the way best possible to show his bad self off. D'cen nods at Cerise first, and then the bucket. "Giving her a scrub-down?" he wonders, rolling up his sleeves like he pretty much intends to help whether it's needed or now. "Just checking in to see how you two are doing, and if you need anything. I can liberate some food from the living caverns. Or play courier for you if you need to get anything from your weyr."

« And you are always a gentleman? » Jiamoth is just asking. She isn't at all briefly and mildly cross that the male is deciding to back up Cerise on this point. But fine, she'll blood it even if she isn't hungry at all. Doing so does unfortunately require her to roll from side to belly, however, and that is going to take a helping hand. Her bandaged limb is held aloft on a stand to help its draining- so much draining eww- but every little shift aggravates it. The little green sets her jaw, gritting her teeth, as Cerise slides down into the wall beside her and headjerks to invite D'cen in to help with the rolling process. Velveteen hide has dried to a coarse and chalky texture with those grey undertones; oiling is greatly needed. "That was the plan but food's good too, her appetite is off. Help me move her over and you can lend a hand with that next, aye?" Someone forgot to tell Cerise the polite thing to do with offered help is to protest at least once before accepting.

Esanth, decidedly not looking his best, pads in ahead of T'ral. He grinds a hoarse greeting to Raxsonath and Jiamoth, stiffening and then hurrying forward as he spots Jiamoth gathering herself. He shifts from one foot to another, standing next to Raxonath. « If I can be of assistance…? » Little guy that he is, he might be able to get in there. T'ral ambles in, leaning on a cart of used bandages. He nods a greeting at Cerise and D'cen, collecting the Jiamoth's used bandages and chucking them into the bin. He straightens with concern, "Need another set of hands?"

« Of course I am. » Raxsonath, while exuding charm and appeal, is also -male-. And bronze at that. He doesn't clue in at all to undertones there. He's too busy preening for the lady. « Is there anything else you need? ». Else he will just provide his own special brand of companionship. Really, his ego is good company all on its own. Wasting no time to slide in beside Cerise, D'cen waits for her signal before helping to roll Jiamoth. "I'll go get some oil for her hide when she's done eating if you want. With more of us… hey T'ral!.. we can get through the whole routine pretty quick for her yeah?" « Lookin good, Esanth. »

« You can share this wherry with us once they have me righted? » the green suggests with Esanth's arrival. "Another set'd be great," Cerise says, shuffling down to make more room. Jiamoth isn't tall but she is rather long so there's plenty of potential spots that those seeking to help can position themselves. "Just mind the tail and wing as she goes over, she gets a little flaily." « Do not. » "Y'do, but you're allowed. Hold your breath now, lovey. On three, boys?" The greenling will count down for the other two before getting her shoulder wedged against dull hide and digging in with her feet. As promised, Jiamoth tries to help but it's more a weak thrashing that leaves her wing partially extended and slapping air- and a wave of white noise pain rolling out over the sensitive minds in the area, as her limb turns against the stand. The convulsive heave aided by several strong sets of hands leaves her simply resting limp on her belly for a moment, lungs working like bellows, while Cerise straightens up and passes a hand over a face gone chalky. "…right. Fucking Thread."

« Not hungr- Er, thanks, ma'am. I'd be happy to. » T'ral hops to, taking up a position on Cerise's left. Esanth croons as Jiamoth goes over, his wings fanning and fluttering in sympathy. He wilts and collapses next to Raxsonath, wedging himself against the sprawling bronze. « Yer eyes workin'? » T'ral ducks the flailing wings and looks at Jiamoth's hide. Sitting still for so long can cause bad sores, nothing he really knows how to look for, but he looks all the same, in case he spots something. At Cerise's comment, he snorts. Then looks curiously at D'cen, "What did happen?" Like D'cen would know. Come on, STARCRAFTER. This was your thing.

D'cen runs a hand through his hair when this exercise in painful dragon manouvering is done, leaving it even more scruffy looking then usual. "You sit." He points at a nice spot right up against Jiamoth. "Fucking thread sucks wherry nuts." he agrees, imperturbably. "I've been trying to find time to get to the crafters area, go through the star charts… try to find, I dunno, something that explains how this happened." He's as baffled as T'ral is honestly, and it pains him right down to the very core of his nerddom. "And for the past turn I haven't been able to chart or check." His shoulders slump, unecessary guilt starting to eat at him. "I'll go get that oil now."

Cerise can sit. Without protest but with an allowance of, "Just for a moment." Too much to do, too much fretting left to be done. She does sink to her rump, shadowed under the tucked, papery angles of Jiamoth's wing. Thankfully, no signs of sores have appeared yet on the green's hide; she's just dry, and losing weight faster than is healthy, contributing to some sag. "Maybe it was just Keroon who fucked up?" she suggests, though too faintly for it to be something she truly believes is possible. "And maybe they thought maybe they were wrong, which is why they had all that firestone, aye?" Having recovered wind and coordination, Jiamoth lifts her head and tweezes the wherry closer by clamping down on a wing. Once it's angled just so, those same teeth crunch through flesh and cartilage at the throat to begin the draining process. « …my eyes are fine. It is only my paw which has decided to stop working. You are both fine? And your boys? »

« I meant Raxsonath. » The blue watches attentively as Jiamoth bloods Raxsonath's gift. A little blue swirls into the predominant yellow-gray of his eyes. « T'ral's tired. Worried. » T'ral makes a circuit around Jiamoth, practicing looking her over. Distractedly, he adds, "Good that they did. Troubling. But good." He takes a deep breath and blows it out. He looks at Cerise as they wait for D'cen to return with the oil. How you holding up? You need anything? How's Jiamoth? None of the niceties… fit. So. "Your gown was lovely." Stupid.

« My eyes are just fine. » Rax sends out waves of encouragement, apparently just content to be here and help out in whatever little way he can at the moment. « As is the rest of me. D'cen is uninjured. » He gives no clue as to his rider's state of mind however. « We missed the gown. Sent an image, Esanth. I want to see. » Likely so he can make more flowery comments. It takes a few moments for D'cen to return; though eventually he arrives with oil and more cloths. Having no idea, of course, how smooth T'ral just was.

Blooding is kind of icky, particularly on a beast dead for several minutes now. Jiamoth finishes with a little snort and a muzzle-shake, but there's a little more color in her hide now and an increased sparkle in her eyes. She draws her head back, smacking her lips together while tilting a look at the boys. « You are worried too, » she points out, of the blue's eye-tint. « You should not be. It looks horrible and smells worse but the healers have a plan. » Raxsonath's interest in clothing earns him a soft, forceless snort of amusement. And T'ral? Well, it's fortunate for him that Cerise is a little out of it. Low on sleep, with a diet consisting of klah and fellis, the lines of what's smoov become blurred. "It was, wasn't it? Gone now. Four hundred Turns old and poof…ah, D'cen. Thank you." She struggles up to her feet. Work to do! "I'd love to be a vtol on the wall for that meeting, between Keroon's Lord and the mountain they've got in as Weyrleader at Igen, aye?"

Raxsonath is obviously a metrosexual. On the cutting edge of fashion and… kissing up to the ladies by admiring their outfits, really. Alas, his muzzle lifts and his head tilts a little to the side before he whuffs a sigh. « D'cen and I are required to help sort more firestone. But we will be back. » he promises, pasing along the news to his rider who makes a face. An ugh face. "Oh hey, my favorite. They've been rotating us in and out to do the sorting. I didn't realize how much time passed. But… right. I'll be back soon. I promise." he swears, fervently. Before jogging out. Because you do NOT keep the Weyrlingmaster waiting.

T'ral shrugs at D'cen. Sucks to be you. He sketches a salute at the departing bronzerider. 'Cause it's awesome here with the groans and bellows and the stink of redwort. Esanath grinds a goodbye at Raxsonath, flopping over when the bulk he'd been leaning on vanishes. The little blue scootches closer, eyes darting to and fro for Caelth. The tip of his muzzle is touching the wherry, breath from his nostrils fluttering its feathers. He'd crawl right into the wallow with her if he didn't think he'd be banned from the infirmary all together. « I reckon I'll worry less when you're out of here. » T'ral grabs a towel, wadding it to toss at Cerise. Hopefully she's not to fellis-addled to catch it. He takes up another one and soaks it in oil, wringing the cloth out and moving to Jiamoth's far side. His side burns. Flipping Jiamoth over had stretched his score pretty bad. He'd probably need to look at it later. Strangely, the burn is… reassuring. Still, he sops the oil carefully onto the dull hide.

Raxsonath and D'cen are seen from the infirmary with a rusty croon before Jiamoth lowers her head, chin propped on the wallow's lip to rest. « That might take some time, » she is reluctant to say. There's no putting a good face on that fact. « In three days they will know what course of treatment to pursue. But it will still be months until I am allowed to fly again. All of our training…I should have been more careful. » The bandwidth is private between the dragons; her sigh is not, and earns a pat from Cerise, mistaking the cause. "It won't take but two shakes of a tail, lovey, and you'll feel better," she says, only fumbling a little with the towel. It connects with her shoulder, which helps. Then it's onto dipping up oil and painting the green with it. Just between the two of them, she mutters, "Esanth looks like he's gonna make himself sick."

« Poppycock. I saw. I was further back the whole time. I saw everything. If you'd been any slower… » Esanth's mindscape goes dark and he whistles a low almost unvocalized keen. « I couldn't get to you. To help. » T'ral looks worriedly at Esanth, "Gonna?" He leans into rubbing a particularly dry spot, wincing a bit, "He wants to help." Just between the two of them, "He's feeling pretty helpless. Useless." And T'ral is feeling so much better.

« It would have been far worse, it is true. But it is what it is, Esanth. Even if you had been right there…better to think ahead, yes? » The blood has given Jiamoth energy enough to tilt her head towards the blue when he keens. Her eyes spin slow and tired but they understand too. « I will need to consider how to live with three limbs instead of four. I am too sick now, to think of everything I will need. Perhaps you can help me in that. » On the other side, Cerise is likewise engaged in working the oil in deep but she grunts softly at what T'ral shares in return. "Helping is staying hale and hearty, to keep a Weyr over her head for the Turns she's likely to be out of the fight. You wanna talk about helpless…"

Esanth croons, eyes going blue, as he siezes on the idea offered by Jiamoth, stars winking back into the darkness of his mind, « We're the same size. If'n they have ta take your paw, I'll learn all I can about what you'll need to know. So I can tell you when you're ready. » T'ral nods mutely, eyes dark, "Tell me what I can do. If there's anything." He looks at Esanth and puzzles at the blue in his eyes, sudden and swirling. "Eh. Lookit that." He gestures with a rag at Esath's eyes. "What're you two talking about?"

Jiamoth has no stars to offer, no waltzes or dancers to spin through them. But she's pleased with the reception to her little idea, and offers a wan rumble to mark that pleasure. « That will be so very useful, thank you Esanth, » she says as if it were his idea all along- a born diplomat, this little green. Even ailing! Cerise is slightly less accepting and zen of the whole situation; she almost spills the oil bucket, shoving the towel back into it with the force of a brief display of frustration. "If there were anything I'd do it but…" No, no. She stops herself there. Not in front of Jiamoth, who is surely listening in. A deep breath is taken and the young woman returns to scrubbing oily terrycloth over hide. "She's better at this than I am."

Esanth makes dancers for Jiamoth, constellations of them, drifting slowly, wheeling over a great cloudy plume of very distant stars -a bridge- a long, narrow boat passing beneath them. T'ral comes back around to Cerise's side of Jiamoth, ostensibly to dip the towel, which he does, but also to lean in close, close as she'll let him, to Cerise. Eyes concerned, voice pitched very low, "What?"

Jiamoth has no stars to offer, no waltzes or dancers to spin through them. But she's pleased with the reception to her little idea, and offers a wan rumble to mark that pleasure. « That will be so very useful, thank you Esanth, » she says as if it were his idea all along- a born diplomat, this little green. Even ailing! Cerise is slightly less accepting and zen of the whole situation; she almost spills the oil bucket, shoving the towel back into it with the force of a brief display of frustration. "If there were anything I'd do it but…" No, no. She stops herself there. Not in front of Jiamoth, who is surely listening in. A deep breath is taken and the young woman returns to scrubbing oily terrycloth over hide. "She's better at this than I am."

Esanth makes dancers for Jiamoth, constellations of them, drifting slowly, wheeling over a great cloudy plume of very distant stars -a bridge- a long, narrow boat passing beneath them. T'ral comes back around to Cerise's side of Jiamoth, ostensibly to dip the towel, which he does, but also to lean in close, close as she'll let him, to Cerise. 'But…' But what? Eyes concerned, T'ral's voice pitched very low, "What?" He looks back and forth between Cerise's eyes. Ah. He knows. "Do you want to talk?" The mental facepalm is instant. Like they're girlfriends. They can braid eachother's hair and paint their toenails and Cerise will unburden herself. His ears color, and he drops his eyes, squeezing the excess oil out of the towel. He looks back up giving her a moment to reply. Or not.

"What's to talk about? I went and got us maimed the very first chance we had to do what we were trained to do." Cerise's frustration doesn't translate into the care being given Jiamoth. Even as the green protests the ex-performer's assessment with a low groan, the young woman continues to work the towel into those places where oil is most needed, into the tiny creases and folds under her elbow, beneath her shoulder joints. She doesn't look at T'ral as she works. "And now, when we're needed most up there, we can't go. Not much to say after that, aye? Except good job, and at least we're still alive."

"If we lose you for turns now or ten years from now, makes no difference. You'll be missed up there. However long you're out." T'ral stays on this side of Jiamoth, working a different quarter, "The things the healers learn from you two now will save lives." He leans into another dry patch, eyes tripping out to Jiamoth to see if the pressure alarms her in any way. "And for the record, you were both fantastic." Right up to that bit at the end. The last isn't probably going to make Cerise feel any better, given that she's bitter about not being up there. But it bore saying. He'd been in awe of the greenpair.

Cerise slowly begins to draw a breath. There's no telling what she intends to spend it on- likely a retort- but she is interrupted by the green shifting beneath their hands. Juuuust enough that a rough whimper is pulled from the dragon, her head creeeeakily turning to eyeball the pair of weyrlings. Cerise ends up dropping the towel instead and going for one of those water buckets. Someone's thirsty! The bucket is trapped between her arm and her hip, help steady for the shove of beaky muzzle into the drink. "Aye, well," she finally gets around to saying, "if we survive the next sevenday, maybe I'll start thinking about the little scraps of good we can pull from this. Right now…I dunno. Never did need a clear path ahead but this is just shite all around."

That little 'if' tossed out there is the sort of thing that T'ral's not ready to deal with. Of course you will. Everything will be fine. She's tough. You're tough. You'll get through this. All the things normal people say. He believes them to be true, but it's not based on anything he can point to other than strong, strong bone-deep hope that they will. Saying it would make him feel better. Not her. Or maybe her. She didn't really seem to need anything from anyone. He agrees lamely, "Yeah." He dips the towel again, wringing it and moving back to his side of the dragon. "It is. It really is." T'ral couldn't be more terrible at this. Nika and Arianne were gonna kick him right out. Unless they needed someone to roll bandages and get klah forever. Which they very well might.

And that, oddly enough, is what tips things into acceptable for Cerise. He agreed with her, listened rather than offering platitudes or solutions. She sighs, she nods and she gives him a glance that might well show a glint of gratitude. And, after that, she carries on. The bucket is held until Jiamoth has emptied it, the other lifted in its place- the green is small but even a small dragon needs a lot of fluids. "We'll know in another two or three days. She's not getting any stronger, and if they have to take it off, she needs to be strong. Oy, you finish, drink it all down." That last is for the dragon, whose gulping is slowing and whose head tries to withdraw before the bucket's done. Reluctantly, Jia complies before dropping her head back down against the wallow's wall and lidding her eyes. "The starsmiths better figure out if this is gonna happen again. I mean, off schedule."

The stars in Esanth's 'scape drift and shift returning to their resting positions, wheeling slowly. Esanth sends a gentle thrum to Jiamoth, echoing it deep in his chest. Hip deep in planning his un-career in dragonhealing, T'ral almost misses Cerise's look. It's so quick it seems he'd imagined it, but…Cerise has relaxed a bit. "Off." He looks at the bandaged mess of Jiamoth's foreleg. "We'll keep bringing her kills." For strength. He nods his head ruefully at her exhortation of the starsmiths and stands back, surveying Jiamoth's hide for any dry patches. He closes his eyes hard, "I hope we have months ahead instead of-" he looks at Cerise, "-who the fuck knows how long." He closes his mouth, jaws bunching. He tosses the used towel in the bin and scrubs hands through his hair. Really gotta stop doing that. It's all oily and gross now. "Do you need anything?"

These days, it takes nothing at all for Jiamoth to slip off into something resembling sleep. Before, she'd never be caught dead dozing on visitors but times do change. And with her drifting off? It doesn't take long before the effect spreads to a similarly exhausted Cerise. She scrubs her forearm across her brow, leaving it also streaked with oil. "Thanks…don't think so. Think I'll…dunno. Nap, maybe. Before they have to change the bandages again." It's a struggle but she wipes her hands off on the towel and tosses that after the other discard. Really, she should go wash off but it's all she can do to ease herself to a seated position beside the green, fetched up against her shoulder.

T'ral grabs a clean towel and douses it with some of the water there for Cerise to drink. He holds the mostly full cup out to Cerise, "Thirsty?" giving or returning it either way. He works the towel into suds and hands it to the drowsy greenrider.

The cup of water might be brushed away but Cerise has consciousness left enough to accept the towel. It's sort of roughly scrubbed over hands and face, and miraculously misses getting suds in her eyes. Then that too is slopped up over the edge of the wallow. "Just gonna rest," she mumbles, stretching her arms and twisting sideways to curl them around Jiamoth's neck. The green's slides lift shallow and rapid but they do lift, gleaming now under their fresh coat of oil.

T'ral looks about and spots a blanket, unfolding it to lay over Cerise, tucking it around the edges. T'ral nods and straightens up the wallow and the accoutrements of Jiamoth's care. Bowls rearranged and restocked. Dirty towels binned. Clean towels fetched, folded, stacked. Water buckets re-filled, standing by. Some fruit. Time to get back to rounds. He stops on his way out and brushes hair out of Cerise's face, smoothing the tangled curls back over her head for all of the two seconds they'll stay. A touch for Jiamoth too, fingers spread, silent support. Esanth lifts his head, « They sleep. » He nods again and chucks Esanth on the shoulder. He's glad to see the good color in Esanth's eyes. With a final look to see that all is settled and neat, T'ral moves on about his rounds.

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