Nasrin, Virgilio


Just kidding. No kidding!

Clear references to natural biological phenomena involved in parturition.


It is evening of the twenty-eighth day of the second month of the seventh turn of the 12th pass.


Bazaar Pens

OOC Date 17 Feb 2016 07:00


"If your vivid language were paint, good sir, you would be an artist."

Bazaar - Pens

Here thar be pens, in a variety of shapes and sizes fit for all manner of beastie. The largest pens are those housing plump herdbeast for human or draconic consumption. A few of the smaller pens are unoccupied, though there are remnants of their former occupants still evident on ground and fence. The actual pens themselves are made of wood, stick, nail and twine. It's a slap-shod sort of place, kept together by dreams and good luck to hold fast against the winds. In each pen there are troughs for feed and water, and they appear again by the stableside.

Bright sun cascades over the scene, nevermind the bitter chill that cuts through the bones of anyone who is not occupied in physical labor for any length of time. The stables are often occupied by one or another of the animal owners - folks out exercising their racing runners, even in this bitter weather, or checking water and food, or hauling same, or.. Or attending the birth of goats.

Having finally moved his herd of dairy goats over from the Weyr stables (too close to dragons), the man who is oft referred to as 'the cheesemaker', though he has yet to make a single wheel of cheese, is now on his knees, stripped to the waist, and covered with the grey-mucus birthing slime that accompanies goats. A pile of rags and a basket is nearby, and a doe lay, straining in the straw, her head slinging around with the effort, accompanied by protesting sounds not normally associated with caprines. Other goats mill about, a few 'helping' with abject interest, by nibbling on the man's straw-hued curls. One has plopped herself down next to Virgilio, and two kids play chase around the older does, neatly avoiding the threatening head-swings of other does trying to relax.

What is this 'physical labor for any length of time'? Nasrin is certainly not one of those people, unless you count walking beside a housemaid for laps in full skirts around the bazaar. Today's guardian is her brother Ephrem who is currently engaged in a battle of wits and insults between some Weyrbrats, upon whose turf they've encroached. She's pretty sure she's heard herself referenced 'trade goods' and splits off with the adieu 'just over here' to her even younger chaperon. Black and deep blues constitute her garments for the day, veiled as the bargaining chip she is. It feels like she's interloping between a man and his caprines, but they are the dearest things. And the shirtless man himself is a tall drink of water. She doesn't appear to gawk, but then her face is veiled and she has the advantage.

Watching births has never, in Virgilio's experience, been a 'miracle of life' or some such; it's a highly stressful affair with a distressed animal in morbid discomfort punctuated by peridds of extreme pain, always with the specter of death from dystocia hanging over the occasion. No vets on Pern; the closest is a dragonhealer and they've never 'gone in' to solve a kid-wreck on the interior. The doe strains, with Virgilio's hand scratching her lightly, as he speaks in a murmuring baritone, little words that don't make much sense. Another strain and a bubble appears at the doe's vulva, which Virgilio pinches to break, even as he reaches in to try to catch something. Whatever it is, goes back in when the doe relaxes, and Virgilio, unaware that he has an audience, says something quite inappropriate to about anyone's ears, unless they've been raised in a gutter. But the doe strains again, and two tiny hooves make an appearance. The man grabs them, and there's a purely magical moment, and two more hard pushes on the doe's part, and there's a wet, wet, dark, slimy thing on the straw.

Nasrin is making every attempt to make this an educational gawking and not flat out leering. Aside from her family and second-string bazaarfolk, the male form is only the stuff legends are made from. Nasrin also has a certain decorum to propagate and so casts a furtive watch to where the man and beasts have recently had their numbers increase. Euskal, her shadow, flies on the wing out in this open, lengthening wings keeping aloft a lean form already thickening with maturity and muscle. She lands some paces away, eye colors and general trajectory indicating her desire for the cleanings accompanying every birth. Nasrin hasn't caught on, gets closer. "If your vivid language were paint, good sir, you would be an artist." Kohl-lined eyes flick to his face and hold, budding confidence in their blueness. "Felicitations," sighting the newborn.

"Blast! My apologies." Virgilio only sends the briefest of looks over at the woman, before he's gathered the squirming kid and he's got it upside down against his chest, while his thick fingers are pulling birthing slime from its open mouth, while it gags and coughs. Forefinger and thumb squeeze its nostrils and he's quick to grab a rag to start cleaning its face and pull more slime out of its mouth. "They always pick the damn windy cold days to do this. At least it's not dark and raining, though." Seems like he speaks from experience on this. The doe is trying to lean over and smell the new arrival, and she begins licking the mucus away from the kid, Virgilio and the firelizard, if Euskal gets any of that on her as well.

Nasrin softly shakes her head as it's pitched downward, her rendition of a laugh that isn't very audible. "I would peg you a seacrafter, but I've never known one, only their reputation. But I suppose swearing must be a language common to many careers." AKA shit happens no matter where you are. At a worthy cadence and known enunciation, her upbringing was not, it appears, in the stables. "Is it okay?" With the cursing and ministrations, perhaps something is amiss. Thankfully out of the spray zone, Nasrin still creeps closer, hands relaxing at her front. "Oh! Can she eat that?" Euskal has no scruples, zero, about trying to abscond with afterbirth.

The actual placenta won't emerge until all the kids have been born, as a rule. The exceptions are not usually pretty and generally involve dead kids. "The goo? I'm sure it won't hurt her. Lots of caprines have been eatin' it for generations, and they're still sound. —Not a seacrafter. This one," Virgilio swings a hind leg out to peer down, "She is hopefully OK, but at this point, they can't be chillin' down too much." Rough accent too, on this man. He's grabbed another rag and is vigorously trying to slick the persistent slime off, while the doe tries to manage the same with her tongue. Blood, mixed with slime, pools around the doe. Then she starts heaving again. "Damn. Here. Got hands?" Virgilio picks up a rag and proffers it at Nasrin, "Dry her off, will you please? Just keep her by the front end of this gal." Sure enough, with another groan, the doe strains and another something appears at the vulva.

Because Nasrin acted as a fence for Dustin's sheep, now every livestock handler wants her services. "I-" looking right and left to the better qualified person who just isn't there. "I have two, yes." No disability here, except if you count her utter inexperience. She goes where she needs too and crouches by the head of the mother caprine, wanting to see if those ears feel as velvety as they look. But the rag she takes runs over the newborn's topline. "Like this?" Euskal, the scents and sounds both alluring and repelling, stays put just out of reach.

"Rough is OK. Gets her woken up and moving." Absently answered; his attention is on the back end of the doe. This time, it'll be a couple minutes, before Virgilio can get ahold of anything (after popping another 'kid-bubble') and this time, there's a bit of an issue. The little hooves are pointing up, not down. The broad man's jaw twitches, and he'll time his pull this time, with the doe's next contraction. This kid seems to hitch, then hocks appear, then a tail, and then trunk followed by ever-so-long legs and neck and ears. Much quicker, with tension lining his frame, the man rises to his feet and hangs the kid upside-down by the hind legs, until he can get a hand under its chest. Then he, with a glance around to ensure clear airspace, swings the kid around in a circle.

Nasrin watches Virgilio as he talks in case she can better glean some understanding of this event. The kid's fine fur is a spiky riot, but she tidies the moisture further by his eyes and nose while trying to keep her too-long sleeve out of the way. At the mother's pained bleat with the latest twin's entry to the world, Nasrin looks up thinking to see the animal in a death spasm. But no. Eyes pinned on the goat, Nasrin tucks her bottom lip. "T'will be alright." And then a peer behind where the action is and Virgilio looks to be winding a discus toss, eyes stare appalled. "Is that… normal?"

"Breech. They tend to swallow the fluids and it gets in their lungs." This, as he has stopped swinging in circles and now jounces. The newest baby starts bawling in protest, and Virgilio grins, "He'll be alright, this one." The baby's racket is met with a rumbling-humming noise from the new mama. Another older doe starts the licking process, before Virgilio is able to apply rags to the new kid, in a rough-handed manner, mostly just trying to slick the wet off before the kid joins its shivering sister on the straw. "Throw a rag over that one, to keep the wind off her. Cold kills them faster than anything." All of Nasrin's efforts will be re-done by the attentive mama, as she chuckles with those odd noises that new goat mothers make, and her tongue licks the squalling doeling. "This doe usually has three, so we're expecting one more. Hi. I'm Virgilio."

"Breech." Nasrin mimics so she can tell Ephrem all about how she singlehandedly birthed two baby animals. Or, at least, in close proximity. Knowing this rag to be wet and detrimental to any efforts of warmth retention, she scoots to secure a fresh one and drapes it just behind its long floppy ears. "Another?" Slightly incredulous, Nasrin isn't registering the footfalls gaining from behind. "The Cheesemaker- why, I should have known!" His cheeseless repuation preceeds him. "I'm Nasrin and that," chin resting on her shoulder while looking at someone behind, "is my brother."

"Hello Nasrin." Virgilio intones. "And brother. Appreciate the help." He's actually an accomplished slime-remover… Something that no doubt belongs on a resume somewhere, as this is a valuable skill honed with practice. "And I've yet to make the cheese. Still workin' on milk production, as you can see." Several does do boast larger udders, and not as many kids are bouncing around as one might expect, "Selling excess milk at the moment. Too cold to make cheese yet." After another few moments, during which Virgilio surrenders the newest kid up to mom's ministrations, she will indeed produce another little one. The man seems pleased; two does, and one buckling. There's blood, but not so much, and the kid that Nasrin'd attended is already beginning to attempt to stand on precarious legs far too long for her, while her head swings around pendulously. It'll be another sevenday or so before the kids have the capricious grace exhibited by the other kids. But for now, Virgilio'll pull the last clean rag and use it to try to rectify some of the mess - slime, adhered straw, blood, on his own frame. "Appreciate your help. Nasrin and brother."

Ephrem is probably none to pleased at the status of his sister, but has the prudence to wait until they're no longer in Virgilio's company to let her know it. "Babies, Eph!" And not firelizards, he can't kvetch too much. "We'll gladly be among your first customers." They'll stay to see the last triplet, Euskal will whet her taste of afterbirth, and both Steens will bid adieu and likely not tell their father.

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