Who

Ebben, T'ral

What

The light Fall over the Azov sees a wounded Seacrafter brought to Southern for emergency care. Ebben and (Dragonhealer Trainee?!?) T'ral catch their first trauma.

When

It is late afternoon of the tenth day of the third month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Weyr

OOC Date

 

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Infirmary

Sterile and scoured, the surfaces of the infirmary, well-tended and beloved by the complement of Healers due a weyr of Southern's size. Soothing tissane simmers at the large hearth, while comfortable chairs circle that particular feature in a waiting-room of sorts. Tables of dull-gleaming oldtimer metal lie as examining slabs, neatly lined in rows with pull-curtains enabling full privacy as needed. A low wall separates the southern half of the room from the rest, and those practicing the apothecary's trade can be seen compounding medicines under the watchful eye of the posted Master.

It is the tenth day of Autumn and 83 degrees. The rain has calmed, but the sun is still hidden behind heavy clouds. A light rain falls, keeping everything wet.


Infirmary

Ebben is currently making his scheduled rounds under the watchful eye of the Journeyman-on-duty. There's a tattered bit of hide held against a tablet that the apprentice is scribbling on as he asks the few patients in attendance-which would be exactly two: one lower caverns worker for a swollen pinky due to a kerfuffle with a splinter; the other a middle-aged hypochondriac nanny who's convinced the gray in her hair is actually a symptom of Southern Rot-about their healing. A few potted plants sit on one unused table to which Ebben appears far more interested by his continual glances. A bit of a pet project, you might say. The apprentice heads over to pluck a leaf from one of the small greens, returning to rub it quietly along the splinter site which causes an excited titter from the fellow. "Ooh, it tingles!" Ebben looks pleased.

T'ral hustles in from the passage to the dragon infirmary, swift strides, voice raised to pitch over a (non-existent) din, "Incoming wounded. Threadscoring. The dragon is inbound." He's just reporting the event. Heads come up in response to the call, orders barked out by the senior Healer on duty, "Ebben, get a stretcher. You," he points at T'ral, "Go with him so he knows where to go." T'ral looks at the healer. The quiet of the Infirmary is gone, replaced by a steady thrum of energy, activity. T'ral hurries to Ebben's side, "They're gonna land in the lower bowl. How can I help?"

Ebben is startled, as is everyone except those of rank who've been drilled more than a few times on how to react to this precise situation. The two patients are quickly bustled away in lieu of the gravely wounded. "S-stretcher?" Ebben stammers, still taking in the sudden commotion. As he watches two of the dragon-specific apprentices jog out, grabbing their medical bags and following the sudden arrival of their superior, Ebben snaps to. "Grab that end," he commands of the rider, an order he hadn't exactly seen coming on his suddenly soon-to-be-expanded list of experiences. "Help me get him in here, and we'll get him to there." Hand darts out to indicate the table with the plants aligned along it. They'll figure that out when they get back. "Ready?"

T'ral nods and grabs the end of the stretcher hurrying off towards the lower bowl and the incoming wounded. The SHOD paces alongside the stretcher, letting T'ral direct them to the best spot to meet the landing rider. Eyes glazing, T'ral points up and off and, soon, a dragon appears suddenly in the skies, turning in tight spirals down to the waiting infirmary staff. The wounded man is bundled against :between:. The rider unclips a man-shaped bundle, the dragon settling with a low croon and flattening himself to the ground so that the patient can be more easily accessed. T'ral and Ebben shuffle forward, angling the stretcher to ease the man down. The SHOD undoes the bundling as the rider briefs him on the wounds. Unwrapped, the man is shocky and pale. T'ral isn't in a good position to see, but turns to look, just as the SHOD hollers, "Back in, go!" Ebben is driving now and the two hustle the wounded man into the infirmary as quickly and carefully as possible, the SHOD pacing alongside. They hurry to the table Ebben had indicated, several apprentices wait nearby, tense looks on their faces. Some T'ral recognizes, others he doesn't. The dragonhealer trainee holds the stretcher steady as two other apprentices, "One, two, three, go," transfer the wounded man onto the table. T'ral backs away, taking the stretcher from Ebben and lifting it upright, so that he can manuever it by himself more easily. He stays nearby in case there are other wounded who will need ferrying. None so far. The young man's face is tense, worried.

Ebben pauses only for a moment as they prepare to move the seacrafter to the table. The slight catch of breath, the barely noticed wince, and Ebben's arm launches out, knocking all the potted herbs to the ground in a clatter of ceramic and soil. As the injured man is scooted centrally, Ebben spares a moment to glance at T'ral with an in-the-moment-bond. The look says as much as it needs to: thank you for helping, do as I say. "Numbweed," Ebben barks, though the Journeyman has already rushed a few of the bigger containers up for addressing the wounds. "Let's see what we're dealing with." Ebben mutters, motioning for T'ral to peel back to the clothes and expose the extent of the damage.

T'ral leans the stretcher safely out of the way, stepping forward to meet Ebben's in-the-moment look. He'd been training for this already -albeit for larger patients- but he knows the drill. He nods, sleeves already pushed up and hands dunked near to the elbow in a shallow tray of redwort. Drying them on a clean towel, T'ral slowly unbundles the shocky Seacrafter, carefully peeling away the fabric he's been dressed in. It's a good thing that, since weyrlinghood, he'd practiced compartmentalization. The wound -wounds- aren't pretty. Jaw muscles bunch as he works carefully. Unwrapping complete, T'ral looks up to Ebben, eyes clear, hand ready. Your show.

Ebben catches his breath as the first of the side-swiped and tangled patterns emerge. The left shoulder is severed in two places, nearly an inch down. Ebben is pale but set, his jaw rigid as his fingers move towards the wound, their tips still dripping with redwort cleanse. He prods lightly-causing the seacrafter to yelp—shooting a hand out in a silent request for a sterile pad from T'ral. Once given, Ebben slowly begins to clear away the smeared ash and get a better idea of the size and breadth of the scores. Thread burns are grotesque, but they do self-cauterize, and for that the seacrafter can be thankful. He motions T'ral to bring over and administer the numbweed while he turns to find a roll of bandage and some sutures. "Was it windy?" Ebben asks as he turns back around and watches the face of the patient begin to slacken as numbweed is applied and shock begins to drain into exhaustion. "His scores are all left to right, like it caught him at an angle and burned across."

An apprentice bustles in with a broom and a dustpan to sweep the pot shards and dirt and plants up. He's careful to stay out from underfoot. T'ral shakes his head, eyes studying the wound as he moves to the patient's head near the tray arrayed with instruments and supplies. His stomach drops at the extent. A beat of hesitation at Ebben's extended hand and he finds hands over the sterilizing pad, lips pressing together in frustration at his hesitation. "Focus," he mutters quietly to himself. T'ral tilts his head as he considers the wounds, a numbweed pot in hand, a paddle in the other. "Sir," he addresses the patient, "We're gonna fix you right up. You're in good hands." Carefully he begins to administer the numbweed, there was already some at the worst spots, applied by the rider before the dressing, but it's rough working in field conditions. "Windy or he was prone," T'ral murmurs.

Ebben frowns as he readies his needle, peering down at the two shoulder scores with an intensified degree of hesitation. "I think because these are so deep we'll need to do an initial sew, just to keep it as closed." He reaches down to grab a redwort-soaked strip of fabric and slowly wipes away the chunky slather of numbweed. Ebben takes the bent needle and moves towards the wound with a grimace. "I don't want to risk infection, and in this damn jungle…" he trails off to himself as he looks up at T'ral. "I need you to hold him down." Ebben is afraid, and he's more than a little unnerved by the fact that the Journeyman is letting Ebben take the lead. Ebben casts his eyes towards the doorway where no Journeyman appears, he then peers over at the small handful of Jr. Apprentices tittering and grabbing things at random that they think may help. With a deep breath and shaking hands, Ebben holds the threaded needle above the man's shoulder and waits for T'ral to get into place.

T'ral nods. The man's eyelids flutter, a low groan escaping his lips. He meets the eyes of an Apprentice who takes the man's feet. T'ral fits a bite block between the man's teeth, more redwort, a quick scrub, and then settles his hands onto the wounded Seacrafter's shoulders, belly tensed to absorb and stabilize any thrashing that occurs. He takes a deep breath and gives Ebben a nod.

Ebben presses the needle into the shoulder and pulls together the first suture. The man is mumbling and pushing against the restrainers with animal discomfort. Ebben grimaces as he surveys the first stitch with a self-admonishing shake of the head. It's crooked. Any notice can see that. Narrowing his eyes further, Ebben leans intently over the torn and cauterized skin and knocks off three descent sutures in quick succession. The sewing up is not perfect, but the slight gaps are intentional. This is the first in what will be a two-part stitching, and as the man gurgles around his bite block, Ebben quickly and a tad more confidently finishes up the worst of the procedure. "Clean and numb, please." He asks of T'ral as he pulls away, forehead filmed in sweat and hands induced with tremor.

Still, weak and shocky, the man's primal struggles are not terribly difficult to contain, but not pleasant to witness. T'ral watches Ebben's stitching go from shaky to sure. He himself had not stitched on a trauma yet. He takes note of Ebben's steady movements despite the tremor in his hands when he stops. T'ral, with a wadded up bit of gauze dabs the sweat from Ebben's forehead. Come to think of it, T'ral hadn't attended a trauma either. At Ebben's command, he readies a strip of redwort soaked cloth and cleans along the fresh, oozing sutures, wincing when crusty bits of charred catch on the loose weave. Jaw muscles bunch as T'ral focuses on completing the work quickly. Numbweed follows, the man settling as the numbing dulls the pain. T'ral pauses, placing fore- and middle fingers along the man's throat. "Pulse is thready," he reports.

Ebben nods with a quiet exhale and turns towards the two apprentices who have crept forward in the aftermath of the operation. "See to his vitals, and be sure to keep him hydrated. Pimben, eyes on those sutures, if there are any sign of infection you come to me immediately. The pus is fine as long as it is cloudy and without scent. Remember your studies and let me know if the consistency changes." He steps away from the patient after a thankful, if thin smile to T'ral as he seeks out a chair to collapse into. The Journeyman, for his part, seems pleased enough, and leaves the Sr. Apprentice to his devices. Ebben snorts and peers up at the rider. "Guess I swam."

T'ral backs away, holding his hands before him and, snagging a towel, wipes them clean. He listens to Ebben's clear instructions to the Apprentices and backs away alongside the younger man. His eyebrows climb, "Was that your first trauma?" He seems surprised.

"Indeed," Ebben says after a moment, a smile slowly blooming along his lips and giving the young man a far more charming appearance now that the worst of his anxiety seems to have melted away. "I'm an herbalist by specification. I tend to be in the infirm only during rounds as those with surgery-specific paths are a bit more typical in attendance." A little shrug as he raises his hands in front of him, surveying the slight tremors with detached curiosity. "I don't think I've the stomach for emergency medicine. I find plants a bit more predictable."

The dragonrider's eyes shadow, "I haven't caught one yet, though I think I'll see more than my share soon enough." He looks sidelong at Ebben, "You did good." The Apprentices swarm attentively over the man who has lapsed again into unconsciousness. He shakes his head and sticks a hand out in greeting, "T'ral, blue Esanth's. Dragonhealer trainee."

Ebben looks a bit surprised himself as he takes T'ral's hand. "Dragonhealer, I should have known. You were more help to me than half the apprentices around here who actually work in the infirm." Ebben looks pleased. "Not the greatest circumstances to meet you, T'ral. But I couldn't be happier you were here. Thanks for that." A relieved grin and the healer pushes himself up with a small nod and clap to the bluerider's shoulder. "I have to assist in a forage class, but I'm sure I'll see you around." Ebben starts the door but pauses, mid-stride, hand catching the rocky frame as he glances over his shoulder. "Remind me to buy you a beer when I walk the tables and can actually have one." And he's out.

T'ral watches the apprentices. "Some of the kids I oversaw at Harper seemed hopeless." He huffs to himself in recollection, mind rolling back, back, several years now. He shakes his head, brows raising, "Give 'em time. They'll surprise you." He takes a deep breath and nods a farewell at the Healer, "Have a good class." T'ral turns to make his way to the Dragon Infirmary and pauses when Ebben makes his offer. He sketches a salute, "I'll take you up on that."

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