Who

Selaine, T'ral

What

T'ral tends dragons in the yard. Selaine tends T'ral.

When

It is afternoon of the twenty-fifth day of the fifth month of the ninth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr

OOC Date 12 Nov 2016 08:00

 

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"An order? To my Weyrsecond? Never, sir."


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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.

It is the fifty-fifth day of Spring and 91 degrees. It is overcast and cloudy.


Today is a tragic day for Igen… a full-strength wing down to barely anything. Igen is a whirl of activity, especially the dragonhealer yard, as injured dragons and riders fill it en masse. It is not a pretty sight. Ichor stains the ground, with riders standing by their bonded, faces haggard from the rough 'Fall, some scored, some not. Selaine is running about, helping where she can after all was said and done. The dragonhealers were, understandably, quite shorthanded. Her own Akitith had gotten away -mostly- unscathed, with only one threadscore after having had to veer away from a wayward rider mid-air. Weary dragons and weary riders… tension was high.

T'ral is numb, working by rote, more detatched than usual from the insults to dragonflesh as his mind yet buffers him from the disaster whose implications are playing out in his head. Scenarios. There is scant good news save that of those surviving none of the wounds are severe. He can still hear the crunch of breaking bones, the broad and strong bones of wings splintering on impact, the dull thump of huge bodies hitting the ground. Documentarian Harpers and Healers have already been dispatched to Keroon to take best advantage of a rare thing: a dragon's corpse. The aching of loss. He has never witnessed anything like this. He's never heard of anything like this. He can scarcely wrap his mind around it. And so, just now, he doesn't try. This dragon's wounds are complete. T'ral ambles, stiff, kinks in his back siezing, as he winces laving hands in a bowl of redwort. He takes a towel without thinking from someone standing in periphery, "Who's next?" He looks up, seeing Selaine. He'd sent her some time ago to Catryn, to check on her and tell her that he'd survived. T'ral's eyes go wide and he refrains — just — from grabbing Selaine's arms and requiring him to scrub again. "Is she okay?"

It's chaotic, that yard. Selaine runs without question, grabbing this or that for this healer and another. Redwort, numbweed. The scents intermingle with each other. She's ordered to check up on someone. She runs to the nursery to check up on the pregnant archivist and her young son. Survived. Yes, he survived. T'ral is alive. Relief is apparent on the other woman's face. Other worried weyrfolk look to her, ask about this rider or the other… but she can't answer them all. Too many. She's sorry. She runs back to the yard. In the midst of it all, she almost forgets to report back to T'ral, until he sees her again to inquire. "Oh! Yes. She's fine. Very relieved to hear you're okay." A pause. "Are you okay?" That's not a question of physical condition, obviously.

T'ral closes his eyes for a moment, a relief that weakens his knees washing through him. He draws a breath, centering, and opens his eyes, "Good. Thank you." Dark eyes lift from Selaine's to scan and he moves out to his next patient. "No." But how he is scarcely matters in the moment. Enroute, dark humor asserts, "I envy Healers sometimes. Their patients get wheeled to them." So lazy, those Healers. The bluerider leans in to begin a visual assessment of the 'score he'll clean and cut and knit. "How is," barely a beat, "Akitith?"

Selaine's gaze is assessing, watching T'ral's expression. "You're welcome," she responds, understanding this concern for his family. As for his actual answer to her inquiry, the greenrider merely purses her lips. Dark humor gets only the slightest of twitching of her lips. Yea. Those lazy Healers. Selaine follows T'ral for the moment as her gaze falls on the dragon before them and his 'score. Her eyes drift to the dragon's rider, looking somewhat distraught as he sits near his bonded's head. She glances back at T'ral. "She's fine. Nothing she hasn't handled before, just a minor 'score." Nothing that won't heal in just a few days. "It'll take some time for all these dragons to recover…" And surely there was going to be movement amongst the wings, what with Hogback down in numbers.

Pieces of the day are sinking in. T'ral doesn't have to remember what he can't erase. Flashes. Hot and cold. Scores. Between. Screams. He closes his eyes, palms flat to the hide on either edge of the 'score he's tending, "Get me some snips." T'ral takes a moment to compose himself. There's a cart near, the snips are relatively obvious amidst the cruel-looking array. "If we can be counted fortunate, those who live aren't gravely wounded. We'll all be needed soon." In two days.

Selaine remembers it all, too. Too clearly. One would think that eventually you get used to it. But you can never forget the screams. She shakes her head and does as T'ral asks of her, moving to the nearby cart in search of snips. It takes her but a moment to find it and return to the bluerider, handing the object to him. Her expression is rather grim with him pointing out just how quickly they'll be needed again. "And what of Hogback?" she'll ask up front now. "Will the rest of them simply join Whirlwind for the time being?"

"V'ard will decide." Snip. T'ral trims away burnt flesh to create clean edges in the ugly wounds so he can suture. Snip. The dragon's muscles twitch, shuddering local flesh in pain response. "Sorry. This'll take a little bit." There's an eloquent grunt from the exhausted green, whose head thumps to the ground from where she'd raised it to give T'ral the stinkeye. "R'xim has lead 'Fall in the upper tier, I will suggest that Parhelion move up to the top and Oasis move up to the middle-" Snip. Shiver. T'ral reaches a hand back, ichor smeared snips held loose for Selaine to take, and replace with the requested, "Suture." Threaded strands sit ready. "-and Hogback take to the lower tier."

Selaine listens quietly, watching T'ral work. Seeing the dragon's muscles twitching causes her to wince slightly. She nods slowly in response to what the bluerider will suggest. A hand reaches out to take the snips from T'ral, placing them on an empty tray on the cart. The suture finds its way to T'ral's now empty hand. There's a soft sigh from the greenrider. "How did we let it come to this…" she mutters softly. There had been so much confusion during the 'Fall, as if riders didn't know left from right. It certainly wasn't boding well for morale, especially with such a huge loss. "Do you think we'll be okay during the next 'Fall? Might we have to resort to requesting help from another Weyr?"

T'ral flicks a glance at Selaine, "Please be sure to write out your account as soon as you can, we'll want every perspective, any details you can recall." The bluerider works steadily, hands weaving a familiar rhythm, the doubled stitches that are his signature. "Yes." There is no other answer to give, they will give everything to protect Igen. It's the 'Fall after that. And after that. And that. How many Turns will they be recovering from this one day? From that brief and brutal quarter candle? "We might. Again, V'ard's call. Requests are drafted and we'd use whatever aid they may offer, but we'll stand on our own if we have to." T'ral's expression is grim set, his lip curls as he tenses to punch through some dense tissue. "Ready the numbweed, if you would."

Selaine nods in acknowledgement. "I will, as soon as we're all done on this end." It's not like she's not accustomed to writing reports… just not… ones that are so negative. Her expression remains as neutral as possible with T'ral's reply. Her thoughts are along the same lines… how long will it take them to recover from this one day. One 'Fall. Another nod. Surely the other Weyrs wouldn't let them down.. though she knew they had to focus on their own areas as well. Still, whatever help they could get at the point would be better than nothing. Turning back to the cart, she does as asked and readies the numbweed, holding it in her hand for as soon as the bluerider needs it. "You should take a break after this one. You've been working nonstop since you returned. Go see your family."

T'ral blinks and freezes, hands arresting in mid suture. He grins, the first real smile of the day and for that he will ever be grateful to Selaine, "Is that an order, Wingrider?" Very dry, the tone. Dark eyes glitter with the smile directed towards finishing the work he's doing. He blinks, looking off in the direction of the nursery. The numb pang of shock is lifting. Anger. Hunger. Weariness. The teeth of the toll he will pay are snapping close. He nods. "Would you see that everyone eats when the food gets here? You too." They can spare Selaine to wrangle the food the cavernsworkers will bring, the 'healers and trainees, less so. Sage and smoke waft up through the 'link to Esanth, Zsaviranth's soothing touch on the minds of the dragons in the yard. The wave of ease she spreads is palpable.

"An order? To my Weyrsecond? Never, sir." Selaine responds, mock surprise in the lilt of her voice as her expression remains as serious as possible. "Merely a suggestion." A much needed one. For all that they had gone through that day, family was always a big solace for many. She can see in the way he glances in the direction of the nursery that he'll likely take her suggestion. "I will," she replies. As Akitith's mind is calmed, Selaine, too, can feel it. Her gaze takes in the sight of all the dragons in the yard relaxing. Tension noticeably less than it had been not long ago. And as soon as he's done with the suturing, and applying that numbweed, Selaine hands him a clean, wet cloth to clean his hands. "Now go on and say hi to your family for me."
She tacks on a "Sir." and a salute after a brief second.

T'ral straightens from the wound, knuckling his back. A trainee hustling by is snared and given a set of low-voiced instructions. He nods and hurries on about his errand. "You're all done," T'ral calls to the grizzled green. "Sit tight and you'll both be out of here soon." He leans around to look at the rider, nestled against his green's chest, exhausted by pain and fear, rendered numb by the flask overturned in his limp hand. No drops spill from a flask drained. The green grumps and curls tighter around her rider, wings fluttering uncertain at the strange pull on her haunch. "It's okay. Rest easy." T'ral thumps her hide and looks at Selaine taking the cloth gratefully, "Yes, Ma'am." He looks at her, eyes flickering, recalling, putting face with name. Selaine is a mother, by Arroyo's wingleader. "You too." He almost gets away clean, drawn in for consultation as he weaves a path through the remainder of the injured. They're on the downhill slope. Today. When finally at the door, T'ral turns to seek out Selaine in the milling bustle and points firmly at the greenrider, mimes eating and points again, looking stern. When he feels the message is recieved, he nods once, spins on a boot heel and limps off. There are families he has to visit, sad news to deliver if it has not yet been relayed, condolences offered before he allows himself to bring together all his scattered pieces, flizzen, Esanth and his growing family… the holt and haven of his heart.

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