====November 9th, 2013
====Jhael, Zalara, Syteran
====Zalara brings the mail, Syteran is a bastard, and Jhael gets a bath whether he wants it or not.

Who Jhael, Syteran, Zalara
What Deliveries, discussions, and a diabolical deluge.
When It is the twenty-first day of Spring and 52 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.
Where Igen Weyr Infirmary



Igen Weyr Infirmary
From the astringent smell of redwort, to the gleam of counter and cabinet, this place positively defines the concept of antiseptic cleanliness. Despite the yawning exit to the Dragonhealer Courtyard, the floors remain scrupulously swept of sand and particulate matter. Back behind the counter where the healers usually are, are shelves full of bottles and jars, as well as cupboards hiding away more delicate items that shouldn't be exposed to too much sand. Beyond the counter, there is the Desk, where patients are checked in and taken to one of the examination areas by a healer. The windows are usually kept open for the flow of air, but there is both shutters to shut out dust storms, and curtains for other occasions.

Spring has barely sprung at Igen, and — in the manner of such things — the infirmary's stores are looking awfully bare. With Senior Journeyman Syteran on duty, nobody's allowed to lollygag about, even in the absence of any new casualties — the windows are open to let in the bright, sunny — cold — fresh air, apprentices are scrubbing manfully away at invisible stains on stone floor and cabinets, and there is, overall, a sense of vicious productivity about. Syteran himself is sitting calmly behind the counter, inventorying what's left of the infirmary's supplies, spread out all about him.

Zalara comes in with a package that she's going to delivering to the infirmary. She looks around and she spots Syteran, "Hello there I have a delivery from the forge."

"Oh, so?" Syteran, in turn, hasn't looked up — yet, at least. He's busy writing things down, making faces at the blunted-tip pen he's got to work with. "You don't happen to know if it's pens, too, and not just scalpels, do you?"

Zalara shakes her head, "I don't know what is in the package I was just told by the journeyman to bring it here and deliver it. My name is Zalara, I'm just an apprentice smith." She puts the package down on the counter.

"Well, hello, anyway, Zalara," Syteran answers courteously, finally looking up at her, eyebrows rising slightly when he realizes a) that's a girl and b) a very, very young one, too. And a Smith apprentice? How fascinating! He sets his blunted pen down without further regard for it and leans forward on the counter, elbows braced on either side of his paperwork. "If I may be so bold, child — are you from now, or before?"

Zalara smiles, "Hello. I am from now, my father though is very progressive though and he raised a big stink to get me to be an apprentice. Now it's my job to be the best smith."

Jhael, barefoot and dirty as sin, strolls into the infirmary. Somehow he has managed to make it this deep into the weyr without being turned back, and wears the air of one who owns the place though obviously he does not at all fit in. His eyes skim all over the CLEAN area, and at the apprentices working to make it even more so. If there were not really cool things to look at, he might turn around and leave.

"Progressive indeed." Syteran's eyebrows stay raised, especially as he sees a hobgoblin of grime amble in like he owns the place. Well. Raised, knitted together in a frown — same thing, right? Leaning slightly to the side, he calls past Zalara, "Can we help you, young …" Hm. "… Sir?"

Zalara smiles, "As am I." She looks over at Jhael and she frowns deeply at him, "You aren't supposed to be in here if I remember correctly a Weyrwoman told you to stay out of here."

Jhael takes another moment to look around the room. "Must be lost. Could've sworn they told me to turn right back there, mayhap it was left." He says this with a vague amount of what could be called respect towards the journeyman, though Zalara totally earns a glare, and he doesn't bother to answer her question. Already the boy is turning around, this is NOT where he needs to be, not if that annoying Smith Girl was going to blown his cover. Mentally he notes to DO SOMETHING about her.

"Well, where were you, and where were you trying to go?" Syteran asks, with only a little bit of impatience — the impatience of those who always know where they are, and learn their way around a new place within days, really. That's all. "Rather than wandering around aimlessly, you should get some better directions."

Zalara glares right back at Jhael, "Didn't one of the Weyrwomen also tell you that you needed to go wash your legs." She reminds him and has no problem with him just walking out. She turns back to Syteran and gives a smile, "If I could just have your mark here that I delivered the package." She holds out a scrap of hide.

Jhael waves in the general direction of somewhere else as he sticks his tongue out at the backside of that annoying Smith Girl. "She only said I had to wash if I was gonna stay in the kitchen, and I ain't in the kitchen am I? Cool place." Turned he has to walk out when something shiny, perhaps those really sharp knives which healers are so famous for, catches his eye. Instead of leaving the room he wanders over to the shiny.

The dull pen gets picked up long enough for Syteran to scrawl on the quickly-grabbed-and-returned hidescrap, and then he's stolen off his stool with surprisingly silent steps, to hover juuuuust behind Jhael's shoulder. And, after a few seconds of watching him stare at the just-sanitized metal, clear his throat. "Don't even think about touching it if you don't intend to become an apprentice in order to learn how to sterilize such equipment," he told the lad, all friendly-like. Looming over him, as he is.

Zalara smiles, "Thank you." She says as she carefully folds the hide and she puts it in her pocket. She rolls her eyes, "It's even more important to not have dirty feet and legs in here then in the kitchen. People come here to get better, not worse."

Goodie Two Shoes. Jhael would roll his eyes at the Smith Girl AGAIN, except, wait, there is a healer loooming. Upwards he looks, innocence written all over himself. "I wouldn't touch someone else's tools, sir," GENUINE drips from his lips as he even clasps his hands behind his back to SHOW how he isn't touching anything. "They're just pretty looking." He slips sideways, to try to go around the healer, oh, look, over there… another shiny. This time, Jhael's eye is caught by a line of vials holding liquids.

Uh-huh. Uh-huh, suuuuure you're genuinely well-meaning and innocent, Jhael — just remember, Syteran was a young boy once, himself! Which is why his gaze narrows as he watches Jhael, and then he glances over at some of the older apprentices, summoning their attention with a Look. A quick jerk of his head at the filth-ridden boy has them quickly and neatly putting their floor-polishing kits away. Syteran steals over to Zalara, for all that he's keeping a close and steady watch on the boy to make sure he doesn't steal any of the few medicines that are still efficacious. "What were you saying about a Weyrwoman ordering him to bathe?" he mutters at the tiny apprentice smith.

Zalara grins brightly at Syteran, "Well the Weyrwoman said that she didn't want to see him wandering around with dirty feet any more as they were mucking up the kitchen. He looks like he could have those headbugs too, you better check him for those as well. I'm not sure he's had all his shots either…he is one of those wandering people."

Sadly for the sake of Jhael's nameless fleas and headlice, however, the oldest of the apprentices present is on the doorway side of him — and goes for a flying tackle about the midriff just as Jhael makes his break for it. "Thank you for your advice, Zalara," Syteran tells the apprentice smith courteously, with a barely-mischievous grin. "Feel free to stop by again, some time, or if you're ever having trouble with muscle growth — come talk to me about it, hmm? My specialty." More or less. Right now, he has a Lesson in How To Bathe A Recalcitrant And/Or Unconscious Patient to administer.

Zalara smiles at Syteran, "You are welcome. What do you mean muscle growth? I would like to get stronger so I can get one up on those stupid boys, you aren't helping those other apprentices are you?" She asks curiously.

"OMPH" Jhael's breath is knocked clear out of him as a rather large apprentice manages to catch him just as he hit his stride. "I ain't done nothing wrong!" He calls out as he begins to struggle. His arms are still free and he begins to use them to as much effect as he can, aming his blows at the apprentices who are attempting to restrain him.

"For whatever reason, chemically speaking, men are prone to grow more muscle than women," Syteran semi-lectures, offering Zalara another quick smile. "Which means you're going to have to work much harder than the other apprentices will, for every muscle you gain, I'm afraid. But no, I'm not helping them — none of them have stopped by for an offer, and likely none of them would think they needed the help, either." Speaking of needing help: the apprentice healers are not entirely sure if they're supposed to be holding their vict— er, patient, or actively restraining him, or flat-out knocking him out. As a result, they're getting a lot more hurt than he is, so far. Syteran doesn't seem to think they're in trouble, though. (Not yet, anyway.) They're slowly piling more bodies onto the tackle heap, so long as Jhael remains at the bottom of it.

Zalara nods, "I work very hard all ready, it wouldn't have any side effects would it? I don't want to become a boy." She sticks out her tongue, "Maybe I just better grow stronger naturally, I wouldn't want to be accused of cheating or anything like that."

Zalara's worry about muscle growing would bet met by mocking, if only Jhael wasn't getting SQUISHED by a round dozen of healer apprentices. Jhael isn't allowing anything to hold him back, as he punches, kicks, bites and scratches at the apprentices. His body is much smaller then a majority of their own and he even manages to escape completly once, before they snag his foot and yank it backwards. The gypsy cannot quite manage to not bash his chin onto the hard ground, and he lays stunned for a long moment, giving them time to catch him.

Zalara shakes her head a little bit as Jhael struggles so much. "I don't know why boys want to be so dirty. It's just gross, don't they know they can get sick by being so dirty."

Meanwhile, not one but two Healer apprentices are stumbling to their own feet, stanching bloody (broken?) noses. Syteran, seeing that they've got matters more-or-less well in hand, turns the rest of his attention back to Zalara, as the other ten apprentices bodily lift Jhael and cart him off to a tub, to pour bucket after bucket of variable-temperature water over him. "You misunderstand — I'm not offering you any sort of drugs," he tells the girl gently. "Simply, male bodies make those chemicals, and female bodies don't, so much. So you'll have to actually lift weights, and potentially change what you eat, and be very aware of your efforts, in a way that most boys won't."

Zalara ohs, "Well I lift weights all the time in the forge and having to pump the bellows. I do my best to eat healthy and only occasionally have dessert, but I'd be willing to learn what you have to teach." She winces a little bit, "Boy he really didn't want to take a bath."

Over there, beyond talk of muscles, Jhael still attempts to escape from his bath. Each bucket of water has the kid yelling bloody murder, and cursing each of the apprentices in turn, and indidually, with everything from broken bones to outright murder in the middle of the night. An amazing amount of dirt swirls off of the boys body and dirties the tub right away, leaving it brown and muddy looking. "You can't do this to me! I ain't one of your weyr people!"

"You probably shouldn't have been lurking here, then!" Syteran calls over to the tub-dirtier, who will probably not have to clean the tub out in exchange for making it filthy, later. (That would just get all the filth back on him, after all!) Instead, he gets doused with ice water — to stun him — and bodily lifted from the tub… just to be plunked right into another, full of cleaner water, and thoroughly scrubbed within an inch of his life, top to bottom, with every harsh soap in the infirmary. (Well, maybe not the floor cleaner.) "Would you like to come back tomorrow, perhaps, when it's quieter?" Syteran asks Zalara, ignoring the furor behind him.

"Ain't my fault I got lost! Ain't you a healer, not a torturer? Ain't no one in the bazaar gonna trust you now to get healed by!" calls the voice between yelps at the scrubbings.

Zalara wrinkles her nose as she sees the brown dirt and she turns away before she has to see anything else. Boy parts icky. She nods, "Sure I can come back tomorrow after I get done with my apprentice duties, probably won't be til after dinner. That's the only free time I have."

Jhael manages to see an apprentice carry off his clothing, and he yells out, "Oy! I ain't go no other clothes but thoes! I didn't steal nothin of yours!" Mid yell he gets a bucket of water right in the mouth, and goes under sputtering.

"Then I'll meet you here, if I don't catch you in the caverns over dinner," Syteran instructs/offers/answers. "I promise not to take up too much of your time." Yet, anyway. Maybe in another year or two, when she needs more help, he'll take up more of her time — or maybe not. It remains to be seen. Kind of like whether or not Jhael actually comes up clean, at the end of his torturous bathing. Syteran stands over him, armed with another bucket of ice water, a moment later. "Shut your mouth," he says mildly, "and you'll be less likely to get water in it. How old are you, boy? Ten?"

Zalara nods, "I'll be here then. It's all right if you do, I mostly study after dinner anyway and this is a different kind of studying in a way. I'm preparing my body so I can grow stronger."

Jhael glares upwards at the large healer, but exercising his vague smarts, does keep his trap shut this time. Puberty has hit Jhael, and even a healer should be able to tell that.

"Exactly right," Syteran says calmly to Zalara, before matching Jhael (did anyone actually get the dirt-spot's name, anyway? Outside of narrative, obviously) glare for glare. "Better," he allows grudgingly. "But believe it or not, lad, even if you're son to the leader of the entire Bazaar, there's plenty as would rather have a healer tend them than worry that you got a bath when you didn't want one."

Zalara has her back to Jhael so she doesn't see anything. "That you so much healer…" She waits for him to insert his name, "I'll be by tomorrow." She says as she starts to head out.

Off Jhael is carried, naked as the day he was born, wiggling against the grip of the apprentices all the way. The venom in his look backwards belies his young looking body, there is pure hatred there.

"Syteran," says the same absently, before waving a farewell to Zalara and heading off to write a note with his nice new pens, about the need for a thorough de-lousing of some scraggly rags pretending to be clothing — and the requisitioning of a fresh, clean, only-slightly-patched set of actual clothing in approximately the same size. It's hardly the first time one of his patients has hated the healer, after all. At least he's got a new lot of scalpels, too.

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