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 Posted: Tue Sep 22, 2009 10:32 pm
Gentle landing, now, L'ior was thinking in the direction of Dioth as they burst from between. We've got fragile cargo, Dio, and let's try not to break any of them -- I'd not like to have my behind handed to me by a healer, of all things.
There was a pause, a pouting snort as the blue shifted, resettling his load, and making L'ior shift as well with a laugh. I would not break these things, chuckled Dioth, amused as he half-folded his wings, bringing them down toward a graceful descent into the Istan courtyard. The packages that L'ior was escorting were not overly heavy, but they were somewhat bulky, heavily padded against the jostling inherent in dragon-travel. The great wings had to flap, and subtle adjustments had to be made to carry added weight -- but they'd been doing this for turns now, and he'd learned no small skill in transporting delicates between. We are good at this, L'iormine. Are we not?
We are, replied the rider privately as he let his lifemate take care of the descent, closing his eyes and letting the wind carry his long, flagging braid outward as the sensation of weightlessness rushed over him, an involuntary smile on his lips. Someone would be waiting to receive these packages, large parcels wrapped in yards and yards of cloth for protection, and he would probably need help. Hell, L'ior had needed help just getting the things strapped onto Dioth.
As all four feet landed firmly on Istan soil, L'ior opened his eyes, features relaxing into his usual comfortable smile as he looked about. Someone had to be here to pick this up, right?
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Posted: Tue Sep 22, 2009 11:17 pm
A very important day was approaching fast, one of the few times when Cordel would see any actual dragonhealing on a large-scale; very, very soon, he knew that the last batch of Weyrlings would be learning how to fly. Soon, those young dragons would take their first glide and, inevitably, their first crashes too. In all likelihood, there wouldn’t be any serious injuries, but Cordel believed in careful preparation. Transfusions were rare, but there was always the chance.
He had seriously considered just sending La out for the delicate glass vials that the Infirmary so desperately needed, but she was needed here. And there was no question of Cordel going to get them himself, not unless he wanted to spend two days out of commission. Muttering under his breath, the Healer paced back and forth in the Weyrbowl, hoping that the delivery would get here soon. Waiting until the next tithe was not possible; they needed the glass now and that meant dealing with Igen.
Finally, a Blue dropped down from the air, as graceful as anything. Tribble, who watched the performance with wide eyes, hid her face in Cordel’s collar. The Healer ignored her for the time being and walked quickly towards the dragon and rider. “Are you the rider from Igen?” he asked, eyeing the packages with barely disguised glee. Or something that passed for glee for the Healer.
Mostly, this meant he was only slightly less annoyed than usual. “I’m Healer Cordel,” he said and then, after a moment of thought, added, “Master rank.” Just in case the man thought he was dealing with some Apprentice. It happened occasionally, considering Cordel’s young age.
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Posted: Wed Sep 23, 2009 1:32 am
As L'ior saw the other approaching, he thumped Dioth's neck affectionately, and began to carefully slide down the forelimb of the lazy blue, landing neatly on his feet and tossing the long, cabled braid of black hair back over his shoulder, blue eyes bright as he watched the Healer approach with marked curiosity. This was someone he had never met. Sure, and he'd had his run-ins with Igen's healers, but this one looked considerably younger, and looked slightly less like he wanted to brain L'ior with a bedpan or some other implement. Which, in the pleasant bluerider's estimation, meant that he didn't need to be overcareful to walk on shells around the man.
When the other introduced himself as a Master, however, L'ior's dark brows shot towards his hairline. "Well met, Master-Healer Cordel," he said with a broad smile and a bright twinkle of blue eyes, offering a half-bow. His recalcitrant braid slid back over his shoulder, frayed from the flight. He'd have to redo it later. "I am indeed L'ior, rider of blue Dioth, from Igen Weyr. I come bearing a shipment -- and if I don't mistake myself, it's to be delivered to you." Turning a bit, he gestured toward the weighty packages weighing down Dioth's body. "They are fragile -- I wasn't told what's in them," he added conversationally, "but I do know that it's glass something, and heavy as anything."
The smile didn't waver -- in fact, if anything, it broadened at the sight of the dainty little green flit hiding against the man's shirt as if L'ior or Dioth might suddenly catch a yearning for her delicate hindquarters. Which only reminded him that tucked away in the bag slung across his body was a fresh loaf and a few meatrolls, which he'd filched for lunch... "Though I'm certain we were very careful, it might be best for you to check on the lot of them before we depart." Besides, L'ior did enjoy the tropical ambience of Ista.
L'iormine, you must not worry, said Dioth lazily. It all made it safely, I am certain of it.
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Posted: Wed Sep 23, 2009 8:22 pm
Cordel’s expression at seeing the surprise on L’ior’s face could only be described as ‘smug’. While not exactly a proud man, the Healer took extreme pride in being one of the youngest Master Healers in Turns. He just didn’t often… wait, what was L’ior doing now? Oh, more bowing again. “You don’t need to do that. My own Apprentice doesn’t bow,” he pointed out, sounding only mildly annoyed by this. La was a… a very special person and he couldn’t ask for a better Apprentice. She was very perceptive. Indeed, one of the things she had very quickly perceived about Cordel was that he was pretty much all bluff. That he wasn’t much older than she was.
“Nice to meet you both, L’ior and Dioth. If the order is right,” and his voice held clear connotations that it sure had better be right otherwise there would be… Issues, “then the boxes should just have glass vials. We’ve been running low lately, especially on the big ones.” As it turned out, dragons very rarely enjoyed having something poked into their hide and tended to wriggle. And this tended to lead to things breaking.
“Especially since the weyrlings are just about ready for their first glides,” he continued, mostly for the sake of sounding important, or at least like he had an actual purpose. As he spoke idly, he pried up the lid on one of the crates, or at least tried to. It took quite a bit of effort, since the most exercise the Healer got was a morning run, usually after an unruly patient or away from an unruly Apprentice armed with a broom. “Do you have a bar or something?”
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Posted: Wed Sep 23, 2009 9:11 pm
"Ah! My apologies. I'd sooner tease a feline than forget the highest respect for the Healers," said L'ior with a chuckle as he turned to face the other. "The lot of you are the reason why the lot of us aren't a terrible mess -- though admittedly, we could do with a dose of prevention from time to time. Particularly the weyrlings, but then all riders now were weyrlings once. Pardon me, I'll pry the lids, if you like?"
One hand dropped to find the sheathed knife at his belt, and he approached the other where he stood beside the crates. Dioth stood patiently, lowering himself to make the crates more easily accessible, and L'ior stood as close to on tiptoe as he could manage in his heavy wherhide boots. It took a bit of doing, but he managed to get a couple of nails pried from the dry wood, bending his back to the effort. "Though," said L'ior, a little roughly, with his nose scrunched as he pulled at the last, stubborn spike with a little snort, "we -- ouch!" The spike came free, but it did so with a protesting squeak, pinging off head-first into the rider's jaw. One gloved hand clapped against it after a moment. "Sharding nails," swore Lior with great enthusiasm. "I should indeed have brought a bar."
Are you all right, L'iormine? Dioth's great head turned around to peer at L'ior.
"I do believe I'm fine," he announced sheepishly, though he was in no hurry to remove his hand, as if that might soothe it.
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Posted: Wed Sep 23, 2009 9:40 pm
Well, at least there was one dragonrider with actual respect for Healers. After spending most of his time with La, K’em, or W’ten, Cordel felt a little off-balance by L’ior’s deference. K’em never really deferred to Cordel with anything, unless the Brownrider was threatened enough in a very loud voice, which would then lead to week-long sulking. And W’ten would probably just laugh at the very idea, if he still had a heart that could laugh. La would definitely laugh. Cordel eyed L’ior the same way a zoologist would examine a new and unpredictable species, one that he thought was having a laugh at him.
Speaking of having a laugh… Cordel barely resisted the urge to facepalm as the nail suddenly came free from the wood and, in accordance to physics, continued to move until it smacked L’ior in the face. And this was one of the brave protectors of the sky and earth.
“You know, I AM a Healer. Let me take a look at that. Those nails are sharding rusty and you can get blood sicknesses from those.” In his usual no-nonsense sort of way, Cordel grabbed L’ior’s hand and tried to pull it away from his face so he could get a good look at the wound. It never occurred to him that the man might want to be looked at by someone else. “The vials can wait a little bit. It’s not like anyone’s going to run up and steal them, not with Dioth looking after them.” He nodded towards the big Blue, trusting that he would keep anyone away from the valuable crates.
Also, he was trusting that the Blue would agree with him that L’ior ought to be looked over at least. In injuries, dragons were often more concerned than the riders, he’d found.
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Posted: Wed Sep 23, 2009 10:25 pm
"Blood sicknesses?" Alarmed, L'ior's dark-blue eyes rounded like dinner plates as the healer mentioned that. "Well, and that doesn't sound good at all." Despite his frozen unsureness, the rider allowed his hand to be pulled away from the wound. Against the fair skin, marking it, was a somewhat smallish wound, a graze at best that had torn a furrow in the skin along the track the thing had taken, and it had just begun to bleed. There was, however, blood on the long fingers of the hand he had used to cover it. "Does it look all right?" He was quite sure he was never going to hear the end of that. How exactly did one manage to get wounded on a simple delivery? It was absolutely ridiculous, he thought, grimacing a bit, though that only pulled at the cut. "Ouch!"
You are bleeding, L'iormine, came Dioth's slightly distressed rumble. That is not good at all. You must go and let this one fix it!
I will, replied L'ior, a bit ruefully, to his dragon. Aloud, he said instead, "I suppose I'm a lucky man, at least, to have been wounded so close to a skilled healer." There was that slightly silly optimism again, and if it hadn't hurt to do so, the bluerider would have grinned sheepishly. Instead, he shrugged a bit. The errant nail, cause of his current troubles, fell harmlessly from the collar of his flight-jacket, dully and rather hatefully clanging on the stone.
I will look after the packages, mine. Rustling a bit, Dioth turned his head to nudge at his rider. It must hurt...
Actually, due to the surprise, L'ior hadn't really begun to feel it too much, yet... though he was certain that he'd be feeling it soon.
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Posted: Thu Sep 24, 2009 4:58 pm
“They can be serious.” Deadly, actually, but Cordel didn’t see a reason to set Dioth and L’ior worrying that much already. “Chances are, there’s nothing on the nail to infect you. Usually, they die in extreme cold, like between. It doesn’t look like you’ll even need stitches.” He moved the other man’s head this way and that, getting a good look at the small cut. It wasn’t really much, but, then again, there didn’t need to be much. “It won’t need stitches, if that helps.”
Tribble was not exactly happy about the sudden closeness of the other man. Briefly, she poked her head out of Cordel’s collar before letting out a quiet ‘peep!’ of surprise and diving back under the man’s shirt. After some wriggling around, the firelizard managed to maneuver everything so she could just barely peek out with large and wary eyes. “Chirrup?” said Cordel’s shirt.
Cordel ignored his shirt’s yammerings for the most part. “Don’t mind Tribble. She’s like this with most people,” he said. “Right. Well, you’ll need some mosstea for that. Come into my office and I’ll give you some. Don’t worry, Dioth. L’ior will be fine.” Most likely, although the Healer didn’t mention that part. He finally let go of L’ior’s face long enough to pick the nail up off the ground with a handkerchief. Hey, you never knew; it might come in handy. “Just follow me.”
There wasn’t much of a question in the tone. While Cordel hadn’t been a Master Healer for long, he had already gotten a hang of telling others what to do.
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Posted: Thu Sep 24, 2009 5:59 pm
"Well, and I'd like to avoid being infected, though I admit it's a good thing that it won't require stitches," L'ior said, sheepishly, biting at his own lower lip a bit. "While I've gotten them when necessary, I'm not overly fond of the whole process..." His nose scrunched a bit, but he allowed himself to be manipulated as was necessary, feeling a bit like a weyrling himself under the Healer's scrutiny -- it was like a damned memory of being small and accident-prone had surfaced out of the depths of his past, and L'ior was faintly amused despite the dire warning. "I doubt there could ever be anything pleasant about sewing up flesh, though I suppose I wouldn't know..." Admittedly, it wasn't entirely an unpleasant sensation to be closely inspected, and the concern was a bit nice... In general, people tended to benevolently edge around the pleasant, often-smiling rider, as if his lack of ambition might rub off on them like some sort of unpleasant brown fungus. It was refreshing to meet someone who didn't seem to want to keep him overmuch at arm's length.
However, when the little green lizard made her chirpy little noise from where she'd buried herself in Cordel's shirt, the rider couldn't help a little chuckle as his mouth turned up in a smile. "Her name's Tribble, then? She's a timid little creature..." Offering Dioth a comforting pat on the nose, to which the blue whuffled softly and seemed to relax a bit, L'ior rather amenably nodded when he'd been directed to follow, and fell into step behind Cordel quite neatly. "Quite a few of the ones at Igen seem to think it funny to pinch my recipe hides, and I've woken up more than once to find them playing hide-and-seek on Dioth... which I take to mean they tend not to be afraid of me." A little laugh escapes him, sheepish, as he scratches at the side of his nose with one gloved hand. "Well, that and the fact that I'll share my lunches if they look at me sideways."
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Posted: Thu Sep 24, 2009 8:16 pm
At some point in Ista’s long history, it occurred to the Healers that it was too sharding hot for patients to heal properly. With this in mind, the Infirmary had been built deep into the rock of the extinct volcano, where the cool stone offered some respite from the heat that dogged the rest of the island. Cordel was actually pretty pleased with this; Ista was much warmer than his birthplace, and the Infirmary felt more like… well… home, when you got right down to it.
“It is good news that you don’t need stitches. With this particular illness, stitches seem to encourage it. It doesn’t seem to last long in air, so your shallow cut should be just fine, but it pays to be careful.” Now that he was back in his element, Cordel felt a bit more pleasant, or at least somewhat open. Just getting out of that blasted sun was good for his mood and hopefully Tribble’s too. “Yes, that’s Tribble. Don’t mind her; she’s always shy around new people. It’s not meant as anything against you. The good thing is that she never tries stealing anything. Dioth seems to be very good-natured, putting up with them like that. I’ve seen a few dragons try to snap at Tribble before, although, in all fairness, they are usually injured.”
Not that it inclined Cordel towards the dragons’ riders, of course. The man was rather protective of poor little Tribble, who seemed unable to do anything without bungling it. Eventually, after wandering through a few hallways and into the Infirmary, Cordel led L’ior to his office. Or at least what passed for his office. It had once been an herb storage room and was still one now. The main change was that it also housed a very wobbly desk, a few chairs and, most strangely, a broom hanging over the door.
“Take a seat, L’ior. Mosstea would be the best for that. You should drink it and put some on that cut for seven days at least. And if your neck starts to hurt at all or if you suddenly can’t move your jaw, get to a Healer immediately. And don’t bandage up that wound. It’s shallow enough to go without one.” While he spoke, the Healer moved among the shelves, looking for one jar in particular. “So, you cook? Anything in particular?”
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Posted: Thu Sep 24, 2009 10:02 pm
"I wonder, if it heals well," L'ior mused quietly to himself, with a sheepish smile, "if I'll have an interesting scar?" The coolness was nice, he thought as they moved forward into the dim stone-lined depths -- it was pleasant in a way that no place in Igen really was. The hot desert sun baked the ground with bitter, searing rays all day and the nights froze, but this was just pleasant, like those few moments right after sunrise when the sun burned away the frost of the night, or right after sundown. "Every other rider my age seems to have some sort of intriguing scar, and I decidedly lack such a thing." His nose wrinkled, and he chuckled, sheepishly. "I don't mean that as disrespect, Healer!"
Besides, it would probably be better if it didn't scar, because then L'ior would have to come up with some sort of story about it. There was nothing at all impressive about having been retaliated upon by a rogue nail. "Dioth is good-natured to a fault," agreed L'ior with a laugh. "If he were any less tense, he would be a dragon-shaped pile of blue dough without any bones at all, I think... which would not at all be good for flying." A low laugh escaped L'ior as he moved to take a seat for himself, stretching out his long legs before folding them a bit, pushing his frayed braid back over his shoulder to keep it out of the cut. "If you think it'd make her a bit less shy, I've got a meatroll in my bag I'd intended for lunch?" Despite himself, the rider did have a soft spot for the little creatures.
Making a note of Cordel's instructions and nodding when it seemed appropriate, L'ior brightened when he heard the other ask about his cooking. "Ah! Yes, indeed I do! It's my favorite thing to do, though I suppose it's second to riding. While I'm best at breads of all sorts, I do enjoy experimenting with other recipes. I make a particularly delightful stew, though some people seem to find it a bit spicy." His shoulders rose, and he chortled. "I can only rarely get into the kitchens to practice, though."
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Posted: Thu Sep 24, 2009 10:47 pm
“Well, yes, I suppose it would be an interesting scar,” Cordel conceded. “Mostly, people would be incredibly interested in how you managed to scar yourself while shaving. If that’s what you’re going for, I could certainly help. I’ve got a scalpel around here somewhere.” No, he was joking. Mostly. Probably, anyway. There was a ninety percent chance he was just joking, but you never knew.
Ok, so, in this case, a person would know, provided they were familiar enough with the Cordel personality; while he threatened people, he had never actually directly harmed anyone. At least not while acting as a Healer. Once he found the jar, Cordel washed his hands in some redwort. Only then did he start preparing the actual tea. Since L’ior was here now, he figured he might as well give the rider a cup of tea before leaving, along with some dried mixture to boil up later. Sure, he could just ask the man to ask a Healer at Igen, but…
Well, he was here and this was now. Why wait? “Huh. Would it damage your ego beyond repair if I told you about my interesting scars? They’re from treating a wher,” he said helpfully, possibly making a little nail-scar seem downright pathetic. “As it turns out, when your Master says, ‘and whatever you do, don’t do Insert-Something-Here’, you should probably actually listen. Very important. I hope my Apprentices learn that better than I did. Yes, feel free to try and feed her. She’s about due to eat her lunch anyway.”
At the mention of food, Tribble chirrped again and poked out of Cordel’s collar. Very slowly, she emerged completely, calmer now that she was back ‘home’. She fluttered up to her usual perch, the broom that hung over the doorway. It gave her an excellent vantage point of the room, after all.
“Yes, I know that story. I cook a little myself, although one of the cooks in the kitchens here has taken offense to that.” He snorted at the very thought of it. Imagine, a Master Healer being pushed around by some Journeyman cook! The very nerve of it! He was very glad that he never allowed it to happen to him, since he only cooked at times when he knew Mirelle wasn’t in the kitchen.
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Posted: Thu Sep 24, 2009 11:47 pm
"Hah, a shaving scar," snorted L'ior, shaking his head. "Though that one'd be easy enough to explain away. A stray flit with a vendetta against razors, perhaps, or a miniature natural disaster -- " But when the other mentioned the scalpel, his laugh turned a bit sheepish. He was fairly certain the healer wasn't about to come after him with a blade... "If I ever have need of an interesting scalpel wound, I will most definitely come and ask you. You seem like you might be able to inflict some interesting ones, the sort that wouldn't look like shaving scars." His nose wrinkled, and a little shiver forced its way up his spine. "Then again, I think you'll be waiting a long while if you wait for me to show up for that one."
Absently de-gloving his hands, L'ior scrunched up his nose, gingerly prodding at the slightly-swollen area around the wound while making quite certain not to stick a finger in the wound. He had at least enough sense not to do something quite that foolish. At least not in the presence of a healer, who would probably tell him that now he was in fact going to get a full-body infection. He did listen, however, watching the other as he worked. A good, hearty chuckle escaped him. "What did you do?" The question was almost strangely admiring despite his own pathetic failure of a wound as one brow rose. "To the wher, that is? And where did it get you?"
At the permission to try feeding the skittish flit, the rider seemed to brighten, slightly distracted. His hands dropped from their bothering of his jaw, and he shifted in his chair. At his side, he was carrying a pouch, and carefully he flipped the top of it open, retrieving a little parcel wrapped in a red handkerchief, tied rather neatly in a pretty knot. Propping the parcel on his knees, he carefully undid the knot, and unfolding it, revealed his lunch. A quarter of a loaf of bread, slightly squished, was accompanied by a small, neat stack of meatrolls and a wedge of cheese. Carefully, he picked up one of the meatrolls, grinning a bit as he broke into it. Pinching off a corner, and making sure that the cooled meat was poking out, he turned his head to look at Tribble now, mimicking a flit's little chirp with surprising skill, as if to call her over for a moment.
"When I was first sent to Igen, quite a few years ago," replied L'ior, though he was peering hopefully up at Tribble, "my mother -- a journeywoman Baker -- was stationed in the kitchens there. And before that, my father in the Hold was a kitchen drudge, so I learned a good bit there, too. Still, now that my mother is gone, I have to do some creative maneuvering to get in some days." Chuckling a bit, the rider peered over his shoulder at Cordel, beaming. "What's your favorite thing to cook, then?"
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Posted: Fri Sep 25, 2009 8:41 pm
“Well… you have to admit, trying to explain to others that there was a very localized natural disaster on your face would count as ‘interesting’.” Also an insult, Cordel thought. He knew he didn’t want to be told he looked as if there was a tiny typhoon on his face, but people were strange things. Like take L’ior’s perfectly sane reason to turn down facial surgery. “Actually, I pride myself on being able to reduce the possibility of scars. For the most part.”
While the water worked itself up to a boil, Cordel carefully measured out a bit of dried mosstea, filling the air with a distinctly medicinal scent. It smelled… clean, for lack of a better word, and sort of tart. “You’ll be able to get this in Igen, but I figure I might as well give you some now. We just got some new stuff in yesterday so it’s not like you’ll be taking much. Right, the wher. Well, I was healing it, that’s what I was doing. The blue had been injured during a mating run and was rather… snappy, especially since he lost. He got me right in the arm. Still, I learned something useful. Even if a wher is lying down quietly, he’ll still try to rip your arm off and beat you with it.”
At the amazingly life-like sounds, Tribble let out a startled, “Chirup?” and peered around for another firelizard. She fluttered down to the table once more, to the corner opposite of L’ior. Sidling closer to L’ior, she judged him carefully with wide, fascinated eyes. Was he hiding a firelizard somewhere? Somewhere that she couldn’t seeee? “Chrrp?” she said again, creeping closer, her head canted to one side. It gave her a distinctly lop-sided look, like she woke up with a crick in her neck. The food offering was ignored; other firelizards had always interested her more than food anyway.
But, when no flits appeared, the little Green seemed to decide that someone was just playing a trick on her. Well that wasn’t very nice! Huffing quietly, she decided she’d get revenge on those hiding flits by having all of this lovely food all to herself. Then they’d be sorry! Creeping forward, she snatched the food from L’ior’s fingers and skittered back to the edge of the table to nibble on her delicious foods. Mwahaha. She’d show those naughty little hiding firelizards!
“I’ll cook most things, really. I don’t like baking much. I’m not patient enough to wait for dough to rise or anything.” The water bubbled and was carefully poured out to a cup, to which the dried mosstea was duly added. “Wait for it to cool and then drink up,” Cordel said to L’ior, giving him the cup of tea.
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Posted: Fri Sep 25, 2009 9:37 pm
A little laugh escaped L'ior as he tried to imagine explaining -- with a straight face -- that there had been an extremely tiny sandstorm, localized mainly in the lower left region of his face, and the reaction of any given rider in Igen. They were all so... serious, after all. Half of the riders, L'ior thought, must not even have the necessary muscles to smile. They must have simply withered away in the lack of use, he imagined. "Honestly, I've not had a reason to be under the knife," said L'ior, wrestling his amusement under control as best he could. "But if I did, I think I would wish for someone like you. I would rather not look like a pincushion."
As the other arranged the things for the tea, L'ior snuffled appreciatively at the somewhat pleasant scent. He was much more used to the usual scents of Weyr life, and that came as rather nice. "I do appreciate your taking the time to treat me and my miniature natural disaster, though. And I do not intend to rip your arm off like an ungrateful wher," quipped the rider with a warm smile. "You've a fair bit of nerve, though -- I wouldn't get near one in that situation for a handful of marks and then some. Though I suppose as a healer it's your responsibility, it's still admirable, I think."
Soon, the rider became distracted by the little flit investigating his noise, a rather hearty little laugh rumbled in L'ior's chest. Lifting one hand, he covered his mouth and shaped another little chirp in response, amused at little Tribble. He was trying not to laugh outright, because that might frighten her, but admittedly he was just pleased the little creature would take food from his hand.
When he was handed the cup, he gently cradled the warmth of it in his large hands, wrapping long fingers around it with a nod of thanks. "Well, I suppose part of it is that I like getting my hands a bit messy," said L'ior with a gentle grin. "The whole flour and water and whatnot... Perhaps someday, I'll bring you a fresh loaf in thanks, if you'd like?" His smile turned a bit cajoling, cheerful. "Mine are particularly good, I think. And my stew, of course."
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