Vergora, Yukie


A pre-hatching scene of the well-meaning trying so hard to help the lost.


It is evening of the twenty-second day of the fifth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.


Infirmary, Igen Weyr

OOC Date


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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.

OOC: This log happened a while back. We never really got to finish it, so I've added a FTB sort of pose to the end. The time is set immediately after 'Cause She's T.N.T.

For a relatively middling candlemark of the night, the Infirmary is pretty desolate. Like the desert in which it sits, the furniture is the still life set against a barren and empty area. Outside, night may have fallen, but inside the few healers on duty barely seem to notice. One healer — an older journeyman — is busy with one patient who's adamantly explaining that the food he's eaten has caused his guts to reverse course into a progressive series of vomiting. The other healer is a young woman in a white dress with leather braided belt. Austerity clings like a shroud; sunlight-blond hair is plaited in a ribbon down her back, tendrils escaping to messily frame her sweet face. Youth's blush is tempered by lingering air of an auld soul that peers from the depths of limpid, dark blue-green eyes that seem caught by the slant of books on various Healing topics. Fingertips run along the spine of one, a tight — nostalgia? — expression bowing her lips into what could be a frown. The Candidate is lost to her thoughts. A hush has fallen as if a breath has been taken and held. The weyr knows, the rocks and inanimate objects holding onto the rage of the ill in jealous, clinging grip.

That hush is shattered when the doors from the dragonhealing area are thumped open by the shoulder of a young Healer journeyman. The tail end of his growl toward his flailing charge is garbled, then drowned out by the shriek of an outraged woman. Vergora is no longer trying to speak, thrashing against her warden and beating her fists against her own legs, pinned as they are by the burly man's arms. Both her shoes are missing, which has thankfully deterred some of the harder kicks. When she realizes where he's dragged her, her eyes go wide, pale face blanching further. "No… no no no," she begins mumbling, suddenly limp in the man's arms.

Torn from her reverie by the explosion of sound, Yukie whirls around with eyes wide from the startle that one only gets when the perfection of silence is so thoroughly ended. The older journeyman almost comes to the rescue but his patient takes that moment to suddenly lose the contents of his stomach. Yukie waves the man off and walks quick, brisk steps towards the young journeyman. "Vergora," the soft tranquility of her voice is unruffled as the clinical assessment already begins. It's not a coldness that lurks within the Healer-Candidate's eyes, however, but the opening of curtain of the girl's defenses. A depth of caring emanates that's heartsick at the broken image held before her. "Be at peace. Let your mind rest beside the still waters." Encouragement is the hearth fire that lights the soft soprano of Yukie's natural voice. She flicks her eyes to the young journeyman and indicates he should try to get Vergora moving to one of the cots. It is not pity that Yukie exhibits, but a depth of emotion that's barely contained by the vessel in which it's housed. "What happened?" Pitched quietly, her voice holds the same gentle monotone born of an inner tranquility of a quiet soul, but it's directed to her fellow healer; a quiet demand for answers.

"She bit me," the journeyman answers first from behind gritted teeth, Indeed, one of the hands gripping Vergora's arms shows a clear dental impression. The change in his charge is so vast, however, it might almost be hard to believe the bite came from the same woman. Almost. This time, the Healer is forced to haul Vergora around because she can't seem to stand on her own, though with the lack of struggle, he's far more gentle in steering her toward the cot farthest from the vomiting patient. "I thought she might want to see the eggs," he continues after Vergora slumps to a seated position. "She was fine, started talking to another candidate. Mayte, the one from that wine stall. Then Vergora here just goes sharding crazy." Said crazy woman has withdrawn to some inner place and is staring at nothing on the far the wall. The journeyman mutters something about redwort and having to recover the supplies from the galleries. And the missing shoes. He soon disappears again, apparently quite content to leave Vergora in Yukie's hands.

The look Yukie delivers to the young journeyman is as calm as ever, murmuring to the man's gritted out admission, "You are a healer." Which could be taken many different ways, but there's censure in her voice. With her craft, Yukie's expectations are high. "Insanity is different from senility and you should know that. Even I know that and I am not a mind healer." But the man's already gone and Vergora is a sad reflection of what she once was. Once settled, she sweeps the curtain around the cot to give the woman her privacy from the sick one in the corner. Yukie's approach is soft, but confident. Gentle hands attempt to make contact with Vergora's. "Dear one," she whispers after the cool, dry hands attempt to take the former senior's. The heartbreaking picture in front of her does not curry pity, but an unbridled love that's akin to one animal caring for an injured one. It is not necessarily traditionally human, per se. "Close your eyes, and it'll almost feel like nothing's changed. Feel the floor beneath your feet and the air in your lungs. Hear the quiet of the night. Hear the silence of the shadows. The world is here, fractured, but here. I am here. You are here." Her words may fall on ears that do not understand, but the cadence of her quiet voice is smooth and gentle. "Your shoes will be here soon, but in the meantime I will get you a hot toddy to warm you from the insides. Spices, mulled cider, and a hint of honey. Can you smell the hint of cinnamon? Will you stay here while I get this for you?"

While Vergora does not do quite as she is told, with her eyes remaining hazily trained on the far wall, she does seem to return to the here and now. It is gradual, but pronounced. Widened eyes relax, shifting to focus on Yukie's face, while a glimmer of her old spirit becomes barely visible as her sepia brown eyes clear. There is a brief hint of a frown that barely creases her forehead before she slowly lowers herself onto the nearest cot, her once statuesque body now frail as it melts into the mattress. She does not slouch, but her shoulders stoop and her arms go limp, like the suddenly slack appendages of a dropped marionette. "She made me stay," she murmurs, just above a whisper. "Made me stay, made me stay, made me…" Lips move, but her voice fails her, consciousness once more retreating to her inner demons, leaving Yukie to tend a soul adrift.

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