Who

Ibrahim, Rielle

What

Wingleader and wildling cross paths in the infirmary, and a clue to Laeiva's potential location is passed along.

When

It is afternoon of the twenty-eighth day of the eighth month of the thirteenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Infirmary, Southern Weyr

OOC Date 07 Apr 2018 06:00

 

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"And if she has wandered off from there, I suppose you will be needing guides?


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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.


Winter in Southern follows its usual pattern of annoyances: colds, bronchitis, that lovely bout of mystery illness; Ibrahim will never hope for an interesting life again. Boring and routine produces less headaches. Indeed, he is even tired of preparing more herbs to ease the sore throat of some old granny in his corner of the apothecary. Occasionally, he runs a hand over the back of his neck beneath the mass of corded hair tied at its nape, relieving a cramp here and there, trying to ease the tenseness of being in such a cramped position for so long,, snipping herbs into tiny, manageable measurements. Mentally, he goes ove and over the information he'd recieved from that young weyrling now resting in the dragon Infirmary, sleeping off her tisane.

Rielle has been a frequent visitor to the infirmary, even more so than usual. She still has Serval riders down for recovery, and she doesn't shy from checking on those not in her wing as well. She's seen the wildling man around the Weyr and in the infirmary several times, though it took a bit for her to learn his name. "Ibrahim," she greets as she enters upon the muffled staccato of boot heels that quiet quickly the further in she gets. "Make sure you take a break; it looks as though you've been at that for a while, aye?"

Ibrahim has gotten used to various wingleaaders and wingseconds traipsing through the place, checking on their people — he's gotten so he just ignores them unless they speak to him directly. In fact, the man's well-nigh invisible to most, as he says little and often becomes one with the scenery, rather like a Pernese Jedi, while the Masterhealer on duty tends to watch the wildling man very suspiciously indeed; no matter how many months Ibrahim has been correctly dispensing herbs of various types — even those the Masterhealer isn't familiar with — he is under careful scrutiny, both covert and overt. So, when he hears his name called by a feminine voice, he very nearly leaps out of his skin at the unexpectedness of it, for women do not generally approach him. Uncoiling from his cramped position fluidly, he turns to eye Rielle carefully, frowning a little until he recognizes her for one of those many wingriders and wingseconds. "Wingleader Rielle. And yes, I have. It must be done, however."

Rielle isn't women in general, of course. She nods, but it's in a tilted sort of way - a partial concession. "True," she says as she slips into the apothecary section of the infirmary as well, crossing to one niche full of jars in search of a specific one. "Though the health-minded know it's not healthy in itself to keep going without a break. And they do say pushing through can sometimes be a sign of preoccupation." Which she is apparently sensing from the wildling man.

That she isn't — let's call her woman-adjacent, for the purpose; a woman attached to a rank might notice his presence and talk to him. His grin is wry, and somewhat sideways as he stretches his lean body, slowly working the kinks out of tired muscles. "Is that what they say?" He's amused, now; she sounds a bit like one of those old aunties who are forever lecturing him to settle down, marry, and have pretty children 'before it's too late.' "Well, in that case, you might be the perfect person to…. unburden myself, shall we say?" There's a sly innocence in his tone, for that impish part of him never could be tamed.

Being a Journeyman - and then a wingleader, arguably - probably tends to do that to people! Finding what she was seeking, Rielle pulls free a jar and unfastens the lid, carefully tipping some of the dried-herb contents into the smaller jar she produces from a pouch at her hip. Ibrahim's last earns a sidelong glances, a gently-angled brow arched high. "Aye? How so?"

"So, that weyrling — Luki. Last one who came in ill from that bout of… possibly poison." Does Ibrahim know for sure? He likely just has his own suspicions to go on. "She told me an interesting story, when she was well enough to talk." He'll cant his hip against a conveninet countertop, eying Rielle's 'poaching' of supplies with mild curiosity and no more. Whatever, she is unlikely to be running around doing something untoward, is she? "She told me she was on transport duty the day Laeiva disappeared."

Being that Varden could come waltzing in at any moment, it's most likely that the brown rider's poaching in certainly of the legal variety. Mention of the ill weyrling has Rielle sobering considerably, and she pauses any further searching to turn and face Ibrahim completely. "Transport duty…and transported Laeiva herself?" she ventures, not hesitating to jump on the apparent connection.

"She did," Ibrahim concerns, frowning a little. "To one of the little river holds, for supplies. She was already dressed for flying and had a backpack with her. She got a sticky bun for her trouble." And trouble is what the poor girl got, it seems. Ibrahim sighs, deciding to take the hair tie out and let the dreds fly free down his back, for while Varden is away, the wildling will look like a wildling instead of sort-of like a normal person. "Poor kid doesn't quite know what to do about it."

"Made with the poisoned sweetener," Rielle murmurs, and then groans, scrubbing her hand over her face. "It wasn't Luki's fault. A lot of us are going to have to reiterate that to her. Did she happen to say which hold?" Not that they couldn't just look at the duty roster for an answer to that, but at this point, a lot of sifting will have to be done.

"So I told her. Who would think a headwoman would do something untoward?" Ibrahim asks, shrugging. The girl is young; of course she thinks she should have known, somehow. Oh, how Ibrahim understands that feeling, for he's done it himself many, many times in his life. "And no, she didn't say. And I didn't think to ask her if she remembered which…" See, now's one of those times when he wishes he'd've done more to coax info out of her — but he'd been more concerned with making sure she got her medicine in her.

Rielle sighs again, nodding. It was probably too much to hope that Luki would be able to say, given her state. "Maybe I'll trying asking her if she wakes up again any time soon," the brownrider says. "Otherwise we'll be making a project of scouring the weyrling duty rosters. Even so…" Teal eyes fall upon the wildling man pointedly, and she inclines her head to him gratefully. "Thank you, Ibrahim. That'll help us narrow down where we're looking considerably. Provided the woman hasn't wandered off from wherever she ended up." Then they'll be looking for even more threads to follow. That's just the way it goes!

What's she looking at him for? Ibrahim eyes Rielle right back, just as pointedly. He's not badgering some poor sick kid stuck in the Infirmary! And he is so staying away from weyrling duty rosters. Nope, nope, nope. "Well, I'll be certain to let you know when she does." He's going to be just helpful enough, but that's all. "Huh. And if she has wandered off from there, I suppose you will be needing guides? Preferably native ones?"

Looking at him just to make certain he knows her thanks are sincere! Though since Ibrahim misreads her, she arches a brow at him and turns back to the wall full of herbs, looking for yet another jar. "We just may," she confirms, glancing back at him. "Is that something you'd be willing to help with? I'll let the Weyrleader know if you are; I'm sure we'll need all the help we can get if that's the case."

Ibrahim smiles a little. Women. Who can tell what they're thinking at any given time? Their brains are like beehives — so much activity, whether you can see that activity or not writ on their faces. But he'll happily go back to sorting herbs, now he's had a chance to stretch himself out. "Yeah, I would. Poisoning people… that's just not on. Especially some poor kid who hasn't done anything to anybody. She needs to be called to account for that, and all the deaths."

"Aye," Rielle agrees quietly to Ibrahim's last, finding her second jar and opening it with a thoughtful slowness. "If she ends up staked… I'd rather not think it's a possibility, but for the deaths, I can't see how it won't be." She tips the second bit of herbs into the same jar from earlier, then closes it up again and replaces what she'd taken down. She gives the smaller jar a few shakes once it's sealed. "At any rate, I'll make certain the Weyrleader knows you're willing to help search, if it comes down to it." By the weight of her tone, her gut is telling her it's a very distinct possibility.

"She'd deserve it —" Ibrahim growls softly, tugging at his hair absently. "Not that I like the idea, either. But what else can you do with her?" She could be sent to the mines, or to exile on an island, but still. He sighs, softly. and begins cleaning up the remnants of his last batch of medicines. And sighs. softly, at the thought of having to go hunt a woman down. "This… is not what I expected. Has this… anything to do with that kast wrecked ship and everything else that's been goong on?" He's dying to know, now, for these events have caused rifts.

Rielle frowns mildly in response to Ibrahim's first, though not because she disagrees. "Exile. Placed under the care of the mindhealers," she replies flatly. "I guess we'll see what the powers that be say, come the day. The wildling man's last earns a snatch of a rueful chuckle. "I think 'expect the unexpected' is Southern's unofficial motto. But if you mean the overloaded boat that brought the last batch of refugees in…I heard Laeiva had family aboard. And the way they were dealt with in the aftermath may have caused some sort of break for her. But not everything that's been going on is related. It's just…a perfect storm, that's all." When it rains, it pours. Nowhere has the saying seemed more fitting.

"There is that." Ibrahim acknowledges, though he's frowning a bit at the thought. "It's good for her that I cannot issue her punishment, isn't it." He heaves a soft sigh, finally finished with his quota of medicine making for the shift. "Ah, I'd heard about her family being on that boat." Unwilling sympathy rises, is ruthlessly squashed. She killed people — it's hard to erase the keening of dragons, of bereft family members mourning those lost. "Ha. How appropriate a sentiment." And he smiles at Rielle, his humor somewhat restored.

With a chuckle, Rielle steps away from the counter, carefully placing her jar back in her pouch. "Isn't it just? And continues to be. I'm convinced winter here is one long storm. And speaking of storms…" She pauses as the irate rumble of a male patient's voice drifts in from beyond the apothecary space. "I have a wingrider I'd best go check on before he starts hurling things at the apprentices. Good day to you, Ibrahim." With a bob of her head, she's out and off to make sure R'hel doesn't become a terror, but only for a moment. There's now a very useful tidbit of info needing to be passed on to those up the chain.

Oh, that guy! Ibrahim has already refused to treat with him, for having things flying past his head is one step too far for this wild boy. Instead, he'll offer the Wingleader a salute. "Enjoy your day." Or whatever she's planning to do.

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