Who

A'lira, T'ral, B'arl (NPC by T'ral) || Kyprioth, Esanth, Tantryth

What

T'ral and A'lira give Tantryth an enema, and it's nowhere near as cute as they would have liked it to be.

Results of an enema — pretty gross.

When

It is afternoon of the seventh day of the second month of the twelfth turn of the 12th pass.
In Igen: It is the thirty-seventh day of Winter and 40 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.

Where

Dragonhealer Yard, Igen Weyr

OOC Date 02 Oct 2017 05:00

 


igendragonhealeryard.jpg

Dragonhealer Yard

Painfully elegant, a stubborn brand of cleanliness is retained in the gentle colors of faded murals and various curtains hung from the rusted metal poles meant to shelter injured dragons on spacious couches lining the permanently soot-stained limestone walls. Of a dusty no-color somewhere between brown and gold, the floor extends onward, fading beneath ragged cabinets built to withstand anything from lashing draconic tails to various medicinal spills.


Bundled against the cold, T'ral makes rounds in the 'Yard. It's sparsely occupied, the dragons most injured in the recent Threadfalls ensconced in the more comfortable - and warmer - nearby groundweyrs. The bluerider, hands tucked into his armpits, moves from couch to couch. A low and bone-rumbling moan issues from nearby and he ducks beyond the curtain to see Sandblaster B'arl grimacing at his blue, Tantryth, who crouches, uncomfortable, tail extended awkwardly. His whole posture is awkward. Stiff. T'ral's brow furrows, peering around to see if there's a healer or trainee in attendance before he barges in.

Oh, one's in attendance all right; as it so happens, A'lira has an interesting cure for just such an occurance. After conferring with the resident Beasthealer, A'lira's back in the Yard, trudging along with a bucket of warm soapy water and a long, long coil of stiffened ovine intestines. He's wrapped up nicely against the cold, and is wearing the equivalent of wellingtons and fisherman's gear — you know, the kind that repels water — to protect his clothing from the treatment that's about to follow. As he passes T'ral, he offers the man a peculiar grimace of acknowledgement. "Ey. Want t'help hold 'is tail? We gotta clear the poor thing out." Kyprioth's lurking — somewhere. Usually, he's at least willing to sit and entertain a dragon being tortured, but not this time.

"Is that what it looks like?" T'ral has seen that particular hunched posture on enough occasions to have a pretty good idea. The grimace of acknowledgement is returned. "Sure, let me clean up." He disappears briefly and returns, with his own 'protection' engaged, a heavy sleeved canvas apron, and also a spare folded over his arm. Esanth stretches and ambles up, low rumble of greeting reaching out the the miserable blue. He'll play nurse today in Kyprioth's stead. The other apron is offered to B'arl who takes a deep breath and works into the garment. He takes up a position near the midpoint of the blue's tail, running hands along it. "Where's the worst of it?" The question is directed to dragon and rider and trainee alike, for any to answer. He's making an examination of his own in preparation to assist A'lira with the treatment.

Oh, Kyprioth's playing nurse: from afar, for there are times when he's even more reluctant than usual to enter the Dragonhealer Yard, and this would be it. He's lurking like a nervous canine just at the edge, where he can see, and come to the assistance of, his rider, without getting too close to that… treatment. Meanwhile, A'lira will smooth his hands over the end of the tail, where there's more thickness. "Looks like most of it's got lodged here — " He indicates the last third of the tail, but follows that line back up to where T'ral's feeling around. "Though I'm pretty sure there's a bunch back in there. Good thing he ain't got it all the way up the tail, or we'd really be up the proverbial creek." Well, isn't he just downright cheerful about this. Considering it's not his dragon, he's DEFINITELY cheerful. He gives B'arl a sympathetic look, and beckons him on in. "Well, you might as well hold on to this part'a the tail. You ain't ready to see what I gotta do to get this in him." Meaning the slippery, oily water. "It'll help, though."

T'ral nods, "That particular creek is rather more relevant today than usual." Running banter, the hallmark of medical professionals worlds over. "Let's do our best to stay out of it." Good luck with that, A'lira, on the business end. T'ral begins a soothing stream of calming words, backed up by steady pressure of his hands. By no imagining is he or any other human strong enough to manually treat thicktail, but touch is soothing in creatures small and large. A litany of ease in words and touch and will is directed at Tantryth and amplified by Esanth in the wheel of stars and nebulae a sense of serene suspension. « Tantryth. Big breath in. » Esanth fills his bellows lungs, wings lifting slightly as they inflate. Kyprioth is welcome to get in on this, too.

There's a wash of wildflowers and sunshine and lemongrass over it all, the languid sounds of summer rampant in the mind: noises of small creatures, and fresh spring winds bringing the promise of pure warmth. There might be a crooning coming from the brown, wordless and hypnotic, too. Think of anything but the smooth insertion of that tubing into the tailtip, carefully lubricated to allow for comfort (as much as one might have in this kind of deal) as A'lira heaves the last bit of the tail straight up, having hooked the bucket up against a wall, higher than his own considerable height. Easier to allow the mixture to pour downward into the blue's innermost crevices than struggle to push anything up there. He's likely already in quite a bit of pain, even with numbweed applied to keep it to a minimum. "All right, you," He murmurs to the blue, softly. "Almost over with. You doin' good. I know it feel weird, but it'll getcha cleared up." He squints at T'ral and B'arl, then withdraws the tube once half the mix's in the tail; he keeps it upright — mentally thankful he's gotten pretty muscular, for that tail is super heavy. After a considerable amount of time has passed, he lowers the tail, and offers the bad news: "Well… here's the part where I gotta go in." Thank Faranth he has an elbow length rubber glove on, or this could get even worse.

Bad news for A'lira, certainly. T'ral keeps up his steady stream of easy words to Tantryth who inhales and exhales and inhales and - hnnnngh - stiffens. A querulous warble creaks out from clenched teeth. "B'arl." T'ral's tone is flat, uninflected, "You're fixin' to owe A'lira a stiff drink. Or three." T'ral straightens. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. A'lira. Weren't you 'scored last 'Fall?" Uh oh. There may be more bad news.

"On my back, well covered." A'lira confirms, though the idea does give him pause — the possibility of infection might be a very large risk, here. But does he want to give even the slightest chance that he might end up with some nasty infection because of this. "Well — I can't go stickin' my arm in there, yer right. Guess that means it's all you, boss." A'lira is highly relieved — until magic happens and the blue's tail begins to leak — well, poo. The stuff's begun to do its work. Quickly, A'lira gets that tail down, or it'll leak all over their heads. "Eh, mebbe we ain't gotta, after all… 'less you wanna feel around for shit." Literally.

T'ral shakes his head, "Nope. I got this one." Yay. A'lira's dodged a bolt today by not dodging one. And by T'ral's reckoning, in this moment, the brownrider got the better end of the bargain. "Gin and tonic," T'ral directs to B'arl, with a wink as he makes his way to A'lira. B'arl is working mostly to keep his distressed blue calm, but cuts a wry look between the dragonhealers. T'ral reaches his neck to undo the stays of his heavy canvas cover and lets it hang forward over the belting, sleeves tucked into the waistband while he gets ready to put on the long glove. There isn't really much he hasn't seen or done in over a decade of dragonhealing, but really there's no nice way to put it… what he is girding himself to do is nasty. The pungent scent of liquified carnivore feces begins to perfume the cold air. "Let's give it a bit. I'll go in if I need to." He works into the glove and slips the canvas cover back up. He works at rolling up the sleeve, "Get the stays?" He turns his back to A'lira, so the brownrider can settle the fasteners. "Who trained you on the rig?" He gestures with a toss of his chin to the bucket and length of intestine still hanging high on the wall. Tantryth grunts and more effluent oozes out.

If nothing else, A'lira is willing to take on all manner of dirty, dirty jobs — even jobs that get his boots all grody. Good thing these particular ones are made for working on cases just such as this. "Gin and tonic, eh? Sounds like a plan." He kicks off the effluvium of carnivore to prevent tracking it all over the place, and readily allows T'ral pride of place: he'll even help with the stays to fasten the man back up. "Beasthealer Carokle. Ask't him t'show me a lil bit back. Figgered I'd better get my practice in on lesser critturs so I knew what to expect in our partners. Figgured it wasn't gonna be the same's a human. The which I got shown in Fort." And if that wasn't gruesome enough, there's more, but A'lira isn't telling. Now's not the time. He eyes Tantryth's tail with a cant of his head, then smoothes a hand down the length. "Yeah — it's softenin'. He may be able t'pass a bunch on his own. Ask 'im if he feels up to a short skip ::between::?" He puts to B'arl.

B'arl gives A'lira a nod and after a moment of communion blinks at the healers, "He says yes, but…" the bluerider's face scrunches, "He's still pretty uncomfortable." T'ral nods to B'arl and murmurs thanks to A'lira for the assistance. He crouches, hiking up the hem of the canvas so as not to trail in soapy foul sludge. "Carokle, can't say I know him." He sights along the end of Tantryth's tail and peers at a particular spot. T'ral feels along it and makes a noise in his throat. "Feel that." He smoothes the spot with his non-gloved hand, showing where A'lira should palpate. He squints while A'lira makes his assessment, fingers of his gloved hand flexing and stretching.

"He's over in Keroon most of the time." A'lira smoothes the blue's hide again, gently trying to keep the poor, uncofortable dragon soothed. And then T'ral finds something interesting — and likely not in a good way. A'lira gently palpates, and frowns heavily. "A-yeah. Somethin' there, and it ain't what I'd expect…" He eyes T'ral consideringly. "Wouldn't have felt that before — too much around it." He looks over his shoulder to B'arl and Tantryth, his gaze sympathetic. "Maybe we gotta hold off on that skip for a minute or two more." Poor dragon, he just wants to poop already.

T'ral nods and pushes that turned up sleeve just a little more up. "Okay. Tantryth, keep breathing slowly." The dragon moans and shifts weight from foot to foot. T'ral eases back to stay clear of the leaking fecal matter squeezing around the obstruction in Tantryth's tail. "Okay, steady now. This will feel strange." He fits a spreader into the fork of the blue's tail and ratchets it open. Okay. T'ral takes a deep, careful breath faced away and turns back to the fork. Here goes nothing. With questing fingers he pushes in, grimacing involuntarily, his eyes looking off, unseeing as he directs his senses to what he can feel. Nothing yet. Nothing… unexpected. "It's warm, at least." Nice and warm. There. He stiffens a bit as fingers make contact with something. Very, very carefully he works whatever it is, some hard bits and some yielding bits, into the clasp of fingers. "Okay. I've got it." He begins to work it out slowly, ready to spring clear when it gets to a point the dragon can push it out on his own.

A'lira is basically straddling the poor dragon's tail, holding it as steady as he might; he can feel the poor dragon trembling with the effort not to clench or kick. Kyprioth's managed, somehow, to get nose-to-nose with Tantryth, crooning and thrumming for all he's worth, keeping the blue focused on him, and not what's happening with that tail of his. Here's to hoping T'ral can get out of the way fast enough, for here it comes: the ball of hair and splintered, partially digested bone and gristle is out, accompanied by a wash of fecal matter and water and oil. The tail sems to practically deflate before their eyes, giving little warning of its explosion. At least the worst of it's out, now; as sore as he's going to be for awhile, at least he can poop freely. At least that speculum helped open the way quite a bit. "Warm, he says." A'lira snorts, watching the river escape them. "Well. What say you, T'ral? Anythin' else in there?"

It's a close thing. T'ral nearly bathes in that 'proverbial creek' and nevermind being sans paddle — he doesn't have a boat! He sags with relief at the same time both B'arl and Tantryth do. Though all three for different reasons. He huffs out a breath when it seems that most of the debris is clear. With a glance at A'lira, thrumming Kyprioth and Esanth, the blue has cozied up, but not as close as the brown. "Good work, folks." The dragons and B'arl are all inlcuded. A'lira particularly. The brownrider gets a nod as T'ral calls up, "Tantryth, you might feel a little pinch." Sometimes the device squeezes as its mechanism releases. And with a click and a squish, its all over, except the clean up. T'ral surveys the mess. "We should consider doing this at the Lake Shore in the future." He works the glove off with his off hand, shielded from effluvium by the thick canvas of his coverall apron. With hands freed, he undoes the ties and shrugs out of the spattered canvas. "How you feelin,' Tantryth?" The dragon slumps into Kyprioth and groans his relief.

"Then we'd foul the water." A'lira points out logically, eyeing his boots with wry amusement, for they're kind of brown to the ankle where they used to be black. "Mebbe we can get an old wine barrel or two …" He's thinking about it, all right? There has to be a way not to befoul half the Dragonhealer Yard. "Mmm… or mebbe make sure we got plenty of shavin's or straw under to soak it up." Kyprioth takes his brother's weight with no sign of disgust at the messiness of what comes out of the poor creature; instead, he curves his head and neck over Tantryth's neck, snuggling him close, making comforting little noises in the back of his throat. Poor guy. A'lira offers T'ral a soft little grin, and shrugs. "You did the hardest part." And dang near got baptized in the unholy river.

There's an indistinct grunt at A'lira's counter. T'ral might be weighing the associated risks. But given that he didn't let A'lira do this bit of nasty business with a well-covered minor Threadscore, it's not starcraft to figure out where he'll land, even in jesting consideration. "Straw I think. And then a trip to the middens. Or burn it." He purses his lips, "There are some desert clans that dry bricks of dung for fuel…" Maybe the weyr can save a mark or two from misfortune by making straw 'logs.' "Though, that's mostly herbivore dung." His nose wrinkles. Burning carnivore dung is a wholly different proposition. Esanth is already relaying the request for shavings to soak up the mess. T'ral kicks apart the tangled mess that is just what it appears to be, some bones and bits of beast that by some ill-luck were protected from a dragon's impressive digestive capabilities. "B'arl, do you want us to make up a cot for you or are you two headed home?" Esanth adds his own thrumming and a nudge to the blue's shoulder. They got 'im.

"That'd work." A'lira agrees with a smirk for his dragon being all super-cuddly, when generally he can't be bothered with such niceties. Perhaps having witnessed the unholy mess that came out of the blue, Kyprioth is willing to extend some love. The idea of burning carnivore feces makes him gag, just a little bit. "Enh, if we take it well outta here. Can't imagine any lady in the Weyr lettin' us get away with that. I ain't got a weyrmate, but you think you gonna survive Catryn if she finds out it was your idea?" In the meanwhile, he's gotten a clean bucket of water and some rags with which to clean off Tantryth's tail with — to be followed by aloe vera to soothe all that irritated skin. "There you go, Tantryth; that oughta feel betta soon, eh?" While it doesn't need to be sterile, it can't hurt to keep the area clean. "Think we betta keep him down here just for t'night, to make sure he passed everythin'. 'Sides, I think he might be too tired to go flyin' anywhere right now, less he really wants his own place."

T'ral offers a rakish grin, "We're upwind." The ghostweyrs are in a place with predictable wind patterns, most of them leading into the Weyrbowl, howling down over the sheltering lip and then over the lake. With all the thrumming and the sudden release and relief, it may not be too surprising when the buzz of dragon snores lifts above the thrumming and clucking of blue and brown. "Normally, aye. He's a homebody. But, uh, a cot I think." B'arl lifts a finger in request with a wry look at his snoozing dragon. He looks to A'lira and T'ral, "Thanks." A beat, "Lemme help with that." The mess. The bluerider, now that his dragon is not in extremis, rolls up his sleeves and readies to help, just as trainees arrive with the requested shavings in wheelbarrows. Now that Tantryth is mended and tended, it's time to clean up. T'ral leaves the cleanup in the hands of trainees (and B'arl). The bluerider given an admonition, "Watch closely what he eats for the next two sevens. Careful of bones and hide. Good chewing." Weyrling stuff, sometimes reminders are required. "He's going to be tender." At the wash station, T'ral slants a sidelong A'lira as he scrubs, "You're good at this." He waves off any harumphing A'lira might do, "Really. Kyprioth, too."

A'lira is all to willing to let the others handle the cleanup, figuring he's done all he needs to, and follows T'ral over to the wash station to relieve himself of the muck — such a mess he's not seen since his own dragon's early days. There's a gentle smile for Kyprioth, who's managed to gently shift the blue onto the stone bed, and has nudged him safely into a comfortable position. "Considerin' he hates gettin' checked over, or comin' here for same, I'm surprised he takes t'helpin' the others." As for himself, A'lira decides demurring again; T'ral has a point, he reckons. He scrubs at his arms to rid them of anything that might be clinging. "Thanks. It's so new t'me, but… I like it. Keeps me busy. And usin' the skills I got, you know?"

"Maybe because he hates it. Empathy." It's a key skill for healers. He looks over to where the two dragons are hovering over the third. "Helps that they're connected like they are. Can you imagine what you could do as a Healer with that kind of insight?" He blinks at the dragons, considering this (not for the first time). They do have a good idea — both of them — linked peripherally as they are through their bonds to their patients. "Aye. It's a bit more of a stretch," understatement, "but Harpering's come in handy over the Turns." He takes a breath. "How's Sirocco?" He glances at A'lira's shoulder. It's what he can see of A'lira's back, shoulder-to-shoulder as they are. He shakes scrubbed arms free of excess moisture and breathes through his body's alarm at the temperature. He finds a towel and pats dry, skin pebbled with avian flesh. He squints at the shadows falling over the wall, "My shift's over. Whaddya say we jaw somewhere warmer." The baths. The caverns. Anywhere.

"Good point." A'lira concedes without a fight; now that he's free of all that rubber, canvas, and crap, he feels much better and cleaner. It's on with the layers of hoodies, now, and the thick, fleece-lined gloves are covering fingers stained with redwort — though it's harder to see over most of his hand, save the palms and the beds, giving them a slightly creepy effect. "MM.. maybe. Always was good at convincin' kids to take their medicine. Mostly cause I was always half kid myself." He admits this, too, without rancor. "An' I'm always checkin through Kyprioth, without even thinkin' about it." At the mention of going somewhere warm, A'lira brightens considerably. He doesn't notice T'ral's glance at his back, for he's making sure his pockets are closed, else the new little trinket he bought will fall out. "Sirocco's doin' pretty good. Couple dragons had some ash needed cleanin' outta their eyes, a few light hits here'n there. Igraine 'bout tore fifteen strips outta me for gettin' anodda scar on my perfect hide…" He chuckles softly, eyes T'ral. "Never mind how many she put on me. But we can talk it over somewhere warmer. Last Call, mebbe."

Hand health is hard to maintain in bitter winter months. T'ral laves salve over chapped hands and is similarly happy to bundle up. "I didn't see or hear of a head injury. Crossing my fingers we've made a step there." He shrugs. It's hard to know how much impact the helms will have. As they make their way to the dragons, T'ral laughs, "Igraine may want to reconsider her disciplinary methods if she's worried about scarring." It's said in all seriousness, though if A'lira looks, he'll see a spark of mischief in the bluerider's eyes. He's nodding at Alira's suggestion of 'Last Call' and then pauses, checking the sun again, "Just one for me. Catryn'll be ready to head home in a candle or so and with her expecting-" Again. That may be news to A'lira, it was news to T'ral not very long ago, "-she's a little green around the gills." So he likes to be close. They've drawn up near sleeping Tantryth and after Esanth reports him sleeping comfortably, the bluerider clambers up onto Esanth's neck. "I can give you a lift if Kyprioth wants to stay."

"Nah, me neither." A'lira admits, giving his gloves one last tug; he'll see to his chapped hands later, when he has time to let the oil sink in in grand style. "Aye, me too. Rather not have more scars on my head. Got sufficient, thanks." Considering his face looks like a feline's scratching post, he's got a point, maybe. Kyprioth most definitely does not want to stay; now he's certain 'his' patient is sleeping comfortably, he's reverted to slinking, nervous canine amid veternarians, and keeps looking toward the exit, wanting to get out of there as fast as his wings will carry him. "Ah, don't you dare suggest it to her." A'lira is all wicked amusement at that, hooking himself up onto Kyprioth's neck despite the jerky hop-sidling away from the view of healers. The news of another baby causes A'lira to grin at him. "Well done, there, T'ral. Just a toast, then it's off to see she ain't throwin' her guts up. And I'm off to my just punishment for ditchin' that woman at the wrong time." Yeah, right. He's going to enjoy every minute of her annoyance, since it never lasts long, and she never really gets upset at him for putting duty ahead of dalliance. Most likely she'll demand he talk shop. And so off they go, to celebrate the new life T'ral and Catryn are growing, and whatever else springs to mind.

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