Q'fex, Kraakenaeth, T'ral


Q'fex attends Kraakenaeth during cast removal. T'ral is on hand to deal with the cast off bits, former-Weyrleader included.


It is noon of the sixteenth day of the tenth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.


Southern Weyr

OOC Date


q-fex_default.jpg kraakenaeth_default.jpg t-ral_default.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.

It is the seventy-sixth day of Spring and 94 degrees. It is sunny and bright. White fluffy clouds drift lazily across the china blue sky.

Kraakenaeth is all but becoming the mascot of the dragon infirmary, with the teetering back-and-forth of the delicacy of his destroyed wing. A senior dragonhealer has ordered the whole semi-cast removed today, and the scarring tissue beneath it carefully sopped with a tincture of redwort. Three dragonhealers labor to carefully check the still-hot flesh, checking for blood-poison streaks of yellowing ichor or any other spreading infection. Q'fex flinches visibly during one prodding, Kraakenaeth himself shuddering a'over like a flybit runner.

T'ral, still a trainee, is given the task of breaking down the cast into bits managable hunks so that other trainees (or likely him) can haul them away. The bluerider works to some internal rhythm, stomp, stomp, stomping a piece before saw, saw, sawing it. He's working his way Fexershins down the cast off, uh, cast. He straightens, wiping sweat from his brow in the crook of an elbow. That flinch is not missed. He clears his throat, "Q'fex, Sir," T'ral has the benefit of not 'knowing' Q'fex as long as he might have to break down a habit of Turns calling the man Weyrleader, "Can I get you anything?" Distraction the name of the game today.

In moments like this, it is best to focus on some menial fact — therefore Q'fex's eyes turn towards T'ral in his breaking-down of the cast. Something easy to comprehend. Easier than other things. "T'ral," the bronzerider replies, inclining his chin in a brief nod. "Distraction?" is his humorless response, one calloused palm still stroking down Kraakenaeth's craggy face. "How are you and your Esanth?" The bronze himself releases a slow exhalation and shifts eyes whirling fired-orange pain to the trainee.

"That transparent am I?" the bluerider gives the Weyleader -like former-Presidents are still President, right? Right- a rueful grin an scratches at the short crop of beard over his jaw. "Fit as flits, Sir." The 'Sir' still seems appropriate. Turning back to stomp more cast bits, arms flaring to keep his balance as he leans into it, "He's close to, hgnhh," crrackk-unch, "Being able to fly a full Fall." Stomp. Crack. A bit with ichor stains is rather less crunchy and T'ral crouches with the saw, tensing as he leans into long-toothed strokes, "Still rotating out at the halfway mark to take shifts here during." Emphasis falls on the outbound strokes. "Sir, do you mind if I ask a question that's not any of my business?" He looks up at Q'fex, a brow quirked, "'Fuck off,' is a fine answer." He wobbles a bit as the last bit comes free with unexpected ease. Whoa.

"I've had a bit of time to see through the tactics," Q'fex drawls back, voice wry. "Really, now? That's excellent. That endurance will do you both well." He pauses to observe the sawing of the cast, and T'ral's wobbliness and question and there's only the faintest lifting of his eyebrows. "It seems as though you plan on asking it regardless." However his words may SEEM to be, there's the faintest hint of laughter underneath — a good distraction T'ral is, for even Kraaken himself seems curious (until a particular flexing has him twitching like a cat against a cattle prod). Fex turns his dark eyes back to his lifemate for a moment and then to the trainee again — "Watch out," chin-nod towards the cast. "You don't want to break anything." See: Q'fex's arm, still in a sling. "What's your question?"

"I could zoom around like Nika?" T'ral makes little zoom-y handwings and swirls his head around, grinning. He shrugs, caught out. Recovered from the wobble with an outstretched hand, T'ral feels those great pain-touched eyes on the back of his neck and peers over his shoulder, squinting at the enormous beast. He may have stuck his tongue out. Only Kraakenaeth knows. And Q'fex, if Kraaken's in a sharing mood. He winces at that sharp shudder from Kraakenaeth and then looks back to the Weyrleader (of his heart). "Why did you step down? Acting Weyrleader Ja'kai…" the title carefully given, "…He's no more… he…" T'ral stops, brow furrowing. He pauses to stand and work on the next section, "He's not doing anything you couldn't." Weyrlingmastery aside.

Q'fex's voice is carefully neutral, his face falling from the semblance of openness it was before. "I was advised," he states, his voice brusque, "By the dragonhealers," with an eye to the three that yet work on Kraaken's wing, "That any further attempt on my part to keep up would likely cost my lifemate his chance of ever recovering from this injury." There's something stormy behind those dark eyes, though: something unvoiced. Or maybe he just wants to punch T'ral in the face. It's kind of hard to tell.

"Oh." T'ral's voice grows small. His ears red. "Sir, I didn't know. I just," he gestures at the line of cast bits weakly, head bowed, Do this stuff. "There's no better reason to do anything," another look over his shoulder at Kraakenaeth. Sorry, pal. GREAT DISTRACTION, T'RAL. "He's a good patient." At least, from what T'ral has seen.

"I know. I apologize," Q'fex returns, after a moment to compose himself. "It's just … not something that is easy to comprehend, sometimes, when you realize how much they do rely upon us to be there for them. They are always there for us. It… makes me feel so insignificant. So small. That something so awesome," he lays a hand on Kraaken again, pronouncing that last word as something which inspires actual, near-worshipful awe, "Can rely on something so frail." He lifts that hand from Kraaken and moves it in a non-flourished gesture to himself, touching two fingers to his own breastbone.

T'ral's mobile face stills, smoothed carefully blank. "They ARE," the word embodied with all the freight of presence. Of awe. He looks up Kraakenaeth's great and humbled frame, the cavernous hollows and lines of his monstrous face, noble and fierce in his pain. "Small we are, but it is not a small thing we do," T'ral's voice catches and he coughs before continuing, "Remembering." T'ral's focus is on the cast pieces, they're very important of a sudden, "Knowing. So that they don't have to."

Kraaken has mostly eyes for his lifemate, pinning his attention to the man to avoid the very last bit of the scouring of his wounds. Q'fex roughly scrubs his hand straight down the massive bronze's nose then takes a step back to keep a better eye on the process that they are into now — resetting the half-cast's frame, preparing the clay mixture that will seize it firmly. It is as such that he listens to T'ral thoughtfully, and turns his eyes onto the younger dragonrider to only state, simply, "Yes."

T'ral catches the bronzerider's look, straightening to bear up under that inscrutable regard, eyes widening a bit and feeling suddenly very young and very foolish to be trading wisdom with a man twice his age in a position he himself had never been in, could only understand in the abstract. He nods, ears coloring slightly as he turns back to his work leaning hard on a thick cast chunk, grunting as it snaps under his weight, working in silence.

Such is the grace of youth. Maybe Q'fex doesn't notice the sudden industriousness of his companion. Maybe there's some oceanfront property in Igen he could toss at T'ral, too! Ahem. His dark eyes contemplate the bluerider's shoulders for a moment or two, a continuation of the look a moment before. His voice is solid, when he speaks. "Thank you, T'ral. For your hard work and your efforts. I'm sure you get far more curses from your clients than gratitude, but you are appreciated."

T'ral, still focused on breaking things, flicks up a dark-eyed glance at Q'fex, "Curses? Not so much, Sir," saw deployed as he crouches, "I'm usually doing scut work." His mouth twists, "Or candystriping," he glances up, a brief flash of teeth and devilry, "You should see the little number I wear for that." He grins down at the stubborn bit of cast, sawing, concentration, or something else, stealing the humor from his face. He looks up at Q'fex from his crouch as the last bit comes free and the cast hunk breaks apart under its own weight, a solemn little smile on his face, "Thanks." He stands, beginning the process of sorting the chunks into two piles. With a look at Kraakenaeth and the healers then back to Q'fex, T'ral asks, "Now, really. Can I get you anything?"

"You will when you get into the real work," Q'fex somewhat-cryptically states, his lips twisting into a dry little smile. He chuckles, to himself, at a random moment and pats Kraaken once more before stepping off. "No, I think they have everything well under hand. I'm going to go take a walk, I think. Thanks, T'ral. Have a good afternoon." The bronzerider nods once, obviously distracted already, and takes a step towards the exit.

Nothing somewhat-cryptic about it. T'ral had heard the invectives hurled by worried riders. The snapping teeth dragons, driven half mad by pain and the worry rolling off of their riders. He'd seen a LOT of it. Just not really been the brunt of it. Yet. It'd come. Stars and shards, it'd come. T'ral makes a point to learn the food and drink preferences of the riders and dragons staying long term - Candystriping is serious business, yo. When Q'fex returns from his walk he'll find a covered tray: sandwiches (cut crossways, of course) and a crock of milk sitting in a bucket of ice fresh from the new Hold.

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