Who

Catryn, Finn

What

RP Tag Round 5: CATRYN & FINN. (Backscene before Impression). Catryn falls for Finn.

When

It is evening on a day in the eleventh month of the second turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr

OOC Date

 

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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.


Oh the infirmary, the absolute last place Catryn wants or needs to be in right now. While standing on a step stool in the archives — in heels — and shifting books onto the highest shelf in the stacks, she managed to lose her balance and step awkwardly onto the floor. Needless to say, her ankle is puffy and tender to the touch. Those who saw her limping down the corridor must've thought she was a sight to see, mostly because she was too proud to ask for assistance from anyone. Now here she is sitting on an examination table, one leg crossed over the other and palms flat on either side of her. It’s always fun to hurry up and wait to see a healer. Sigh.

Nobody really WANTS to be in the infirmary, least wise, unless the alternative is, yanno, worse. But it holds a special horror for the young smith candidate who'd begun his day with PT, more PT, a shift in the bazaar hauling refuse and such debris as remained to the midden or the bowl. Then -importantly- baths. And then Harper lessons in the Archives. Finn had been late -don't ask- and slinking along the stacks to take a place in the back of the lecture space and hope no one noticed. Except… Except he'd literally had a woman fall for him. On him, really. Tumbled from her perch atop a step stool, narrowly saved from a nasty spill by the slinking bulwark of Finn's frame. Had Finn knocked into her? Or had he surprised her? Or had she simply toppled. However it happened, the momentum had carried them both to the floor, Finn knocking his head against a shelf. There was, uh, a lot of blood. Not a big wound, but scalp injuries… Whaddya do? He's sitting forlorn on a table next to Catryn, holding a bandage against the cut on his scalp. Candidates, the Weyr's deciduous slave labor and most precious commodity. The blood and white knot had seen him triaged right to the top. So, Finn's been seen already. The horror show of his face cleaned. In his free hand, Catryn's wadded, entirely blood soaked neckerchief. Brows cant towards Catryn, "Thanks." He gestures the neckerchief at her. He'd carried her while she'd pressed the rag to his head. Efficiency! Teamwork! Candidacy's lessons in action!

Catryn probably couldn't feel worse even if she tried. Finn is given a glance before her eyes lower to the blood soaked cloth in his hand, a breath hitches in her lungs at the very thought of his head injury. And him being a candidate, too! R'xim would never forgive her if she managed to maim one of the chosen few for the clutch of eggs on the sands. Oh dear, Faranth. It could've been a lot worse, but the archivist finally exhales slowly and quietly. Legs uncross and she points her toes downward since her shoes are off and set to the side of the examination table for the moment. No use wearing heels when she’s about to get her ankle looked over. "I'm so very sorry." she says to Finn, blue eyes peering sheepishly over her shoulder at him.

"Oh, shoot." Finn shifts on the table, eying the healers walking briskly to and fro with unease. He laughs, it's a watery thing. "I'm just glad I was there. Mighta been your noggin cracked and mine's a lot thicker." Rap rap. He raps his head with the bandage-hand and winces when he puts pressure back on the wound. Finn moves a bit to peer around his bandage bracing arm, "How's your foot?" He winces at the swelling that he can see from here.

"It hurts." Catryn says with a forced smile. "I think I can still walk on it, but I might have to get rid of the heels at least…for a while." Blue eyes flick down toward her black pumps near the table and she sighs with regret. It was only a matter of time before those sky high heels would get her because she's been wearing various types in the library for turns. Attention is then turned back to the candidate and a hand reaches up so that fingertips curl around her mouth, expression turning apologetic again: "But, darling, your head…"

The Candidate waves off Catryn's concern. "Not my business, Journeyman, Ma'am," brows cant towards Catryn again, "But don't you have folk to do the shelving?" Finn just volunteered. He gestures at those sky-high heels, "So you don't have to," he spreads his hand wibble-wobble miming walking in heels. Inasmuch as one can while seated, "on those." Clearly Finn is not an appreciator of finer footwear. Perhaps he hadn't gotten a look at Catryn in said wibble-wobble inducing heels. His mouth flattens as he puts the bandage back in place.

Catryn's blue eyes trail back to the heels on the floor again and she releases a defeated sigh. "Yes, I do. I was thinking that I would be able to do a faster job." Shifting a bit on the exam table, the archivist clasps her hands neatly onto her lap as some random healer across the room is focused on. "I…wanted to make sure that they," The books. "Were in the correct order. An apprentice managed to botch an entire section before I was able to catch their mistake. They were…shifting backwards." Library problems. Something the poor lad— wait, he doesn't look very young.

Pardon Finn, he might just have fallen asleep during that riveting description of library problems. Or… maybe he's got a concussion. Good work, Catryn. Ya broke a Candidate. "This isn't faster," he states. "Hey." He blinks, "You have any books on aerial geography?" What? Pull the reins, Finn. That sort of subject matter change is like to give you whiplash. "I got this journal, and I can't make heads or tails of it." That explains EVERYTHING.

Please excuse Catryn as she takes a precious moment to size up the candidate: tall, fully capable of carrying her a long distance with a head injury, therefore strong — even though she weighs all of 120lbs soaking wet — and he has beautiful hair. Very nice hair. With her initial assessment complete, she heaves another sigh of regret and is then pulled into the aerial geography direction. It's funny that he mentions such a topic: "Yes, I am in the middle of reorganizing the library's geography and map sections." Hello upcoming trip to Southern Weyr. "When your head isn't bleeding and if I ever walk again," Okay, there's some good ol' Harper exaggeration. "I can show you what I have." Pause. "What the library has…" Oh dear.

Off in the infirmary, someone groans. Finn licks his lips and turns anxious eyes away, shrugging those broad shoulders and running his free hand down his thighs. He swallows and looks up right into Catryn's assessing measure of him. He meets her eyes levelly, a rakish glint and the ghost of a smile overtaking him, before that groan comes again and Finn's eyes and head drop, giving a nice angle on his widow's peak and dashingly unkempt sandy do. Finn pulls the bandage away and peers at it. There's blood, but not much. By the time they'd gotten to the infirmary, Catryn's ministrations had done a good bit of the work. After the, uh, initial alarming spill. He straightens at her follow up, "Oh. When I can, I'd like to show you the journal." He grins, "Maybe you can request me for shelving duty." Because he'll do better than an apprentice trained for it who managed to mess it up. "Under your supervision, o' course."

"Perhaps I can." Catryn says, straightening her spine for better posture. Hands smooth the wrinkles on her pencil skirt and she clears her throat slightly, thoughts drifting back to the archives and the senior apprentice she left in charge as a last resort. Her expression turns a bit concerned at the thought of being slightly laid up and having the library still in chaos with full book carts everywhere and items that need to be— wait, he just said he'd help. Why's she getting all worked up? Oh yeah. OCD. "What's your name?" Her words are much softer than the frantic thoughts slowly dissipating in her mind.

"Finn, Ma'am." He opens his mouth to say something when a Healer and apprentice arrive to look at his scalp. Both are freshly scrubbed and smelling of redwort. The Healer rumbles at Finn, "Nasty cut. Bleeding's mostly stopped. Lehar here will stitch it up." He clears his throat and fixes the young man with a look, "And how'd you say this happened again?" Finn blinks at the Healer, looking away briefly, "I tripped, Sir. In the Archives. I was, uh, late to lessons and wasn't payin' mind to where I was going." All true. If incomplete. He clears his throat and is looking anywhere but Catryn-ward. The Healer asks more questions - Candidate health issues are closely monitored - and runs Finn through a quick series of tests to assess if he's suffered any sort of trauma. Finally satisfied, the man grunts, "You're gonna want to be careful, son. We need all the knots on the Sands we can muster. Lehar," the Healer nods his head and moves to Catryn, "Sorry to keep you waiting, Journeyman, what seems to be the trouble?" his eyes have dipped to Catryn's shed shoes and her swollen ankle, but he'll let the Archivist tell her tale.

Before Catryn can tell Finn her name, the Healer and apprentice show up to examine his wound and her ankle. The question has her heart thumping against her chest and her cheeks flush with a red tint that is normally unfamiliar to her — she rarely gets nervous, rarely even loses composure but this is almost too much. The candidate she fell onto just twisted the truth — oh sweet shells. Red continues to dominate her cheekbones as the healer's question snaps her back to reality. "Oh, dear me." she says with a breathy sigh, a hand fanning her neck. Toes point as her foot lifts a little for the ankle to be shown to the Healer. "I slipped off of a step stool in the archives and I think I twisted my ankle, sir." Her tone of voice is very, very innocent. Blue eyes lift up at him and flutter ever slightly: "Pardon me, but did you say that Finn will need…stitches?"

The Healer, a grizzled veteran of the infirmary, with bluff face, blocky build and solid hands -strangely gentle for all they look like he could hammer nails with them- glances down at Catryn's shoes. He has naught but a grunt for them. 'Sensible footwear is important' says that grunt. "Lucky you didn't break your neck." His hands move smoothly down her leg, from calf to ankle, testing tender spots and watching Catryn close for her reactions to the movements. "It's a sprain, not bad. You're going to want to stay off of it as much as you can and keep it elevated." Salt and pepper brows quirk at her question. "Mmm. Yes, he will. You were in the archives? Did you see him fall?" More information for the records - anything Finn may have omitted or not noticed or been unable TO notice could affect his health. Serious business, Candidate health.

Stitches. On a candidate. On a candidate she fell on, has that been mentioned before? Catryn stops fanning herself and pulls out a small, dainty kerchief from somewhere in the chest area of her blouse. It's then used to dab at her browline. "Uh, no—" she says, now looking a bit like she's going to pass out. "I didn't see Finn fall. I was…busy." Falling. Somewhere else. Hey, she might as well go along with Finn's story else they'll both get into some trouble. The look Catryn gives Finn is extremely apologetic as she continues to think about…stitches. "May I leave now?" Another look, though this time pleading, is then cast over the healer, even though she's barely been treated. "I really must be getting back to the archives…" And away from the pressure of all this.

Finn is squinting and scrunching his face, rolling eyes up as if he could see what the Apprentice is doing to his scalp. It's full of numbweed so not stinging or throbbing any more, just a weird dull tingling and pressure as the stitching proceeds. "Candidate, please sit still." Finn settles and looks at Catryn, eyes widening as he sees her face flushed, sweat standing out on her brow. Is she okay?! I didn't hurt her, did I?! The flop sweat has not gone unnoticed by the Healer. "Miss," titles and rank foregone, "Did you hit your head when you fell?" Dark brown eyes bore into hers, moving then along limbs, looking for injuries unremarked upon. "Or anything else?"

Aaand when the stitching begins, Catryn can't stand it anymore. Shimmying down to the end of the examination table, she hops off and onto the floor, barefeet and all. "I'm sorry, I really must be going. No head injury, just—" The lump in her throat is swallowed as she bends slightly to pick up her heels. "Just really don't want to see —" A hand gestures to Finn's cut and the apprentice stitching it, blue eyes not even looking at what exactly is going on. Squeamish much, Harper? "Thank you very much for the assistance, I'll just be going now. Clear skies." One heel is tugged on quickly as she balances on her good foot. In the process of switching over, she puts weight onto her twisted and ankle with a wince as the other heel is finally slipped into place.

"Miss. Journeyman!" The Healer calls after Catryn. He watches her in silence before turning to Finn, moving over to inspect the Apprentice's work. To his credit, Lehar doesn't drop a stitch with the formidable man looming. "Did you see her fall, Candidate?" Finn's brows raise, "Yes, Sir." Right up close and personal. "And she didn't see you fall?" Finn's eyes track a ceiling-ward arc, searching his memory for the smoothest true enough thing. "Um, I couldn't rightly say, Sir." Harumph. The Healer gruffs at that non-response. "Be on time to your lessons, Candidate." The healer rumbles. Because that's the real lesson of the day. Finn shifts to try to catch a glimpse of Catryn and sees only a flash of fabric and blond hair before the woman vanishes around a turn. "Sit still, please." Not wanting to prolong his stay in the infirmary, Finn stills and tries not hear the cries of the wounded and sick. He tries.

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