====December 20, 2013
====Cerise, Jiamoth, Qianvaelth
====Qianvaelth visits Jiamoth in the infirmary to pass a little time.

Who Cerise, Jiamoth, Qianvaelth
What Qianvaelth visits Jiamoth in the infirmary to pass a little time.
When There are 0 turns, 5 months and 3 days until the 12th pa…ahaha…ahahahahaha.
Where Dragon Infirmary, Southern Weyr

cerise16.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.


-- On Pern --
It is midmorning
It is 10:49 AM where you are.
There are 0 turns, 5 months and 3 days until the 12th pass.
It is the fifty-seventh day of Winter and 70 degrees. It is partly cloudy, but still warm and bright. Clouds have started to drift across the sky again. The jungles are almost dry.


Day in, day out, and Jiamoth's condition remains as it was- bedridden, leeched of color and sparkle, her bandaged limb immobile. She switches from lying on one side to the other side at the behest of the dragonhealers, bloods the kills brought to her, and generally attempts to be a decent patient. When the pain gets to be too much, she does keen softly to herself but Cerise is a constant present, doing what she can to lessen that discomfort- whether it is taking fellis, so that Jiamoth can share a sense of fogginess, or massaging her with oil as the dragon's hide fades and flakes and chaps, or even trying to play the gitar brought to her by one of the other weyrlings to keep her mind off of things. It was the downing of fellis that Cerise has most recently attempted, imbibing a larger dose and curling in a nest of blankets against the green's belly, under the shelter of her limp outstretched wing. No one has said anything but the smell in the air around the little green has taken on a new dimension, a sweetness that bodes ill for the sanctity of her paw. But though Jia remains awake in spite of Cerise's fellis cloud, she doesn't complain. Her jaw rests against the lip of the wallow and her hollowed eyes are fixed on the figures visible in the bowl just outside of the infirmary, just watching, just surviving, as best she can.

With the constant rotation of dragons and riders that have come in and out of the infirmary, it would be of no real surprise to find Qianvaelth here. Some days he accompanies his rider, who from time to time will sit vigil with a fellis-dazed Cerise to keep her company. But today the bronze dragon is alone, shuffling into the cavernous infirmary with his tell-tale bull-awkward gait and settles himself along the edge of Jiamoth's wallow, spynxish as he settles down haunches to paws, to giant wedged head to the ground, eye level with the green's resting muzzle. It's only then that he gives the briefest of whistles, a low, soft sound that is pushed through a barely parted maw. That would be the greeting to Cerise, as he is too reserved to invade the greenrider's mindspace. «I am here. » He imbues to Jiamoth with the soft rustling of bare trees, his deep bass somber with the touch of bare, winter trees. «Mine sends his regards. He is too worn to sit company today.»

Cerise is only barely cognizant of what is going on about her. One moment, she is aiming glassy eyes at a wall and suddenly bronze. She hardly stirs when Qianvaelth gives his whistling greeting, except to slowly blink at him. Small wonder E'don was exhausted if this is the caliber of company he's been subjected to. But Jiamoth is more receptive and though the signs of that are subtle, she trusts that this dragon, of all of them, will be able to perceive them. A deeper breath is taken and expelled slowly to ruffle against his muzzle, her eyes roll towards him and the touch of her mind is there, flat but welcoming. The pain she surely suffers is hidden behind a screen of embroidered silk, drawn forward to separate one side of a deserted ballroom from the other. « It is good you are here and your boy should take his rest where he can. He works hard, the poor dear. » A pause follows, drawing out in relative stillness and silence. Then, quietly, « The wing? »

Qianvaelth is tentative to invade Jiamoth's mind with his presence, a soft waft of earthy, after-rain smell permeating first, and then slowly, the cool, soft wisp of snowflakes begin the dot the green's unoccupied ballroom, a soft dusting that begins to fall with a steady increase. There's the creak and groan of trees moving in the background of Qianvaelth's forest, as if the giant oaks are shifting to accommodate Jiamoth's presence to a cozier, more comfortable glen. « He is not yet equipped to weather the storm. » The bronze musters this with a thoughtful, audible wuffle that belies a deeper concern. He is quick to change the subject. « My wing is strong. Sore as well, but of no concern. » There's a reassuring rustle of old, oaken boughs. «You do not feel your limb, do you not? »

« So few of us are, » Jiamoth says to the remark about E'don. She means it as humor, something to keep the tone light-hearted, inoffensive. Unsurprisingly, it fails at presenting amusement. But she doesn't mourn the lost opportunity. Instead, she lets membranes slide over her eyes, dulling their listless spin, and rests in the snow-dappled glen created for her by the bronze. Another breath is taken in, as if she could smell the coolness on the air, the rich perfume of leaf litter and loam under frost. « But you are better equipped than most. I knew you would be strong, Qianvaelth. They say it is the nerves that have been damaged in my paw. That is why I cannot feel it, nor move it when I try. They are waiting to see if it improves at all but…I can smell the rot setting in. Cerise says no but I think they will have to take it off. »

For a moment, Qianvaelth is silent, but his presence is steady and serene as the soft pattering of snow that continues to fall within his mind's glen, the creaking and groaning of trees now completely still. And then, with just the briefest of rustles in the underbrush of his forest. «It is a shame but a minor setback. » He says matter-of-fact, even in his words as he mulls over the implications of Jiamoth's condition. « May I tell you a story? » The normally aphoristic bronze is suddenly heading straight into a sage's monologue. «When E'don was a boy, he had a tree he climbed in the Boll forest. It was his favorite. » The mindscape changes, with a flicker of heat and muggy humidity, the smells of a floral tropical forest edging the dragon's voice. «One day, lightning struck it and split the tree in two. Mine, being a boy, was devastated. His favorite tree was no longer climbable-it even looked dead. » Though somber, Qian's mindvoice is still light with the airs of wisdom. «Turns later, he came back upon the tree again; it had not died, and while it had split in two, it had begun to sprout edible fruit, something it had not done before. Much to mine's surprise. » There's amusement laced with a forceful lesson, and then suddenly, the forest dulls back into the wintery glen. «You may not be original to your design, but your utility will not be lost.» A beat. «Just changed.»

The story is accepted in the spirit it is offered, as reassurance and philosophy and even humor. There's hardly a whisper, something meant to go unvoiced, but when he finishes Jiamoth just barely murmurs, « If I began to sprout fruit I suspect they would be even more concerned than they are. » If would just kindly ignore that, she would appreciate it; it was meant to be a private thought. The rest, however, is appreciated and certainly nothing that the green can argue against. Though it could also be argued that she is simply too ill to muster disagreement. Still… « I am not so very worried about the loss of one paw. Were it my tail, or an eye, or a wing, or even a rear paw… » But. There is most definitely a but lurking there, though it takes her some time to get around to it. In the interim, she shifts carefully in the wallow, and though her mind clamps down on the throbbing pain that is the cause of that movement, some of it bleeds through to stain the snow blanketed between them. There are shapes beneath the snow, serrated blades with chipping handles, and wickedly curved knives pitted with rust. « …I worry for Cerise. I cannot keep the hurt from her. She feels all of it. »

If Jiamoth was meaning to keep those internal thoughts unvoiced, Qianvaelth plays the ignorant who does not notice her admission. His physical bulk shifts, and he moves to adjust his wings, which cause a ripple in the peaceful glen of his mindscape. There's a crack of distant trees falling, and the soft, audible groan of discomfort as raw wounds rub against hide. He does his best to sooth the throb of the green's pain, the whispering rustle tree branches clattering in a light tattoo. «Your rider suffers much. But you should not feel guilty for that. We are here to support you.» Whatever Qian means, by 'we' be it E'don or the weyrlings, or the Weyr as a whole is undefined, but there's a force in the bronze's voice that is reassuring. The collective we, indeed. «I will let you rest, now.» He finally states softly, his mindscape slowly retreating from Jiamoth's own, trees slowly fading away.

Sadly Jiamoth can't offer the same comfort, the strength needed to help ease a hurt. She can't even lift her head or extend her neck to offer a touch, muzzle to muzzle. What she can offer is soft gratitude. « I am most fortunate. Thank you, Qianvaelth, » she tells him. As he fades, so too does she. The transition from waking to dozing is so difficult to mark; her sides still lift with shallow breaths, her eyes are already closed. Perhaps there's less tension to the grey-draped hide, a sense of drooping that isn't present when she's conscious and aware of the pain. Most telling is the fact that Cerise seems to fall asleep as well, the weyrling sliding from dazed and glassy into unconscious under the blankets in the blink of an eye.

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