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 Posted: Tue Dec 27, 2011 12:16 pm
---
Doctor, Doctor
---
with
Wickwright Finch and Hopkin (kotaline), and Coyotl and Lucky (Hedjrebl)
on
a chilly morning in early autumn
in
Shyregoed.
--------------------- "Hold still, please."
"YEEOWCH!"
The shout of protest that echoed down the street was more a wordless yelp than anything else. It was early enough in the morning that the sun had not yet begun to melt the frost from the ground, and in one small community in Shyregoed, the townspeople were experiencing a great deal more noise pollution than they were used to. The few early risers and travelers who were out and about stared in mingled confusion and annoyance at the home of one Eliahu Mott, as, for the very first time, in a pair of wooden chairs outside the good doctor's residence, they watched him consulting with a patient.
Coyotl's hands flew up to bat the other man's away from his face, then immediately covered his nose, which had begun to bleed again.
"That hurts!" he snapped, looking affronted, and not moving his hands, as if expecting another attack to follow at any moment. "What kind of a doctor are you, anyhow?!"
"I'm not," Mott replied mildly, with the air of someone explaining something for the fourth or fifth time at least. "Not the kind you're thinking of, at any rate. I'm an anatomist; you want a physician. Though, to be frank," he added, plucking at the fingers of one of his gloves until it was loose enough to remove, "I don't think one of those would do you much good either. How long ago did you say it was that the break occurred?" Without waiting for an answer, he shook his head, sitting back in his chair. "No, it's long set by now, I'm afraid. A displaced fracture like that, there's nothing to be done. Stop scratching," he commanded. Coyotl frowned and drew his hand away from his face. The skin at either side of his now visibly crooked nose was itchy, and scratching at it with one blunt, chewed fingernail provided some temporary relief, but whenever he got too close to the break, a twinge of intense pain forced him to stop.
"If you can't help fix the damn thing, I don't see as how me touchin' it's going to harm it any," he muttered darkly.
"You'll only irritate the skin further that way. Count yourself very lucky there doesn't seem to be any infection present, or you'd be in real trouble. Just let it alone, there's nothing to be done, as I said. Of course," the anatomist added, "I could re-break it if you'd like, and set it properly this time." As he said this, he inched his hand toward the small mallet protruding from the valise at his side, eyebrows raised in inquiry.
"NO," came the unequivocal reply. The mailman cupped his nose with one hand again, glaring at Mott, who shrugged and tossed a clean cloth at his "patient".
"I thought you might feel that way. Clean yourself up a bit-- tip your head forward, or all that blood will run right down your gullet and you'll be sick all over my humble property. I'd like to avoid that, if it's all the same to you."
Coyotl glowered, but did as he was told. He hadn't told Mott just how his nose had been broken; he'd simply found the nearest available doctor and pestered him for an examination, to make sure that his nose was not in imminent danger of falling off or something equally dire. Now he was sitting in a wooden chair, outdoors, bleeding, in pain, in the cold, and uncomfortably aware that he'd been making something of a spectacle of himself.
If he'd known things would turn out this way, he wouldn't have bothered seeking out a doctor at all.
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Posted: Thu Feb 16, 2012 12:22 am
The morning was crisp and cold as Wickwright Finch and his plagued book awoke groggily in the room Wickwright had commandeered for them by means of Jawbone hospitality. Nearby, there was a Paxton girl cooking something savory, and Wickwright sniffed the air, as mendicants had lived in hope of free food since time immemorial. The girl glanced at him as the blankets he nestled in rustled, and set a plate of what looked like boiled meal down in front of him. It wasn't what he had been hoping for, but it was good enough, and it was warm, so he gestured his thanks and set about to eating it, dropping a gob discreetly into his bag for Hopkin, who was beginning to be restless at the sight of a food he had not tried before.
"I was thinking perhaps that I might stay and rest for a few days," Wickwright offered over the porridge. The girl nodded, and he clapped his hands together, grinning over his breakfast. "Excellent! My true gratitude. What might there be to see around here?"
"Nothing, Finch" she replied.
"Anyone I should talk to?"
"Not that I know of, Finch."
"Upcoming festivals?"
"Not during this season, Finch."
"Weddings? Funerals?"
"No, we're all quite alive and married, Finch."
"Rudely shaped vegetables?" Wickwright asked, scratching his chin and at the same time scraping the bottom of the barrel for possible amusements.
"Finch!" the girl replied, blushing crimson. She bit her lip and stirred the porridge a bit more intently for a few moments, then, to get him out of the house, perhaps, offered: "Perhaps you should speak to Mr. Mott."
"Mr. Mott?" Wickwright queried, pleased to have at last elicited a suggestion. He shoved the blankets off of himself and collected the book bag, hearing a surprised noise as Hopkin tumbled around inside it. "A rude vegetable cultivator, perhaps?"
"I'm sure I don't know," the girl stated primly, "But he does look at peoples'... bits. And he draws them! An-And if you're going to be like that, you may as well talk to another one."
"Observer of human nature?" the mendicant replied with a grin.
"No, pervert," she said scathingly, and Wickwright took his cue to leave.
Outside, the old Grimm stretched in the morning air, hearing his limbs pop and creak in exciting new places, but also hearing a thin, reedy voice pipe up from nowhere. "What shall we do," it asked, "And in what manner are you perverted?"
"I look at crooked vegetables," Wickwright answered wryly, letting the statement fly neatly over his burden's head. "As for what we'll do, why not scout out, Mr. Mott? I suppose that in small towns like this, the passing nude artist is the best we can hope for, strange as it may se-"
A scream pierced the air.
"What was that?" the voice from the book bag wailed.
"Entertainment, I believe," Wickwright hazarded, heading towards the noise.
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Posted: Sun Apr 01, 2012 11:30 pm
The bleeding from his nose had nearly stopped by the time Coyotl chanced a look down at the rag he'd been pressing to his face, but unfortunately, he hadn't been able to staunch the flow altogether. A few bright red splotches had joined the older terracotta stains on his shirt, and he made a sour expression as he wiped at them to little effect. Before long, he gave up, and flung the cloth at Mott, who caught it clumsily with one hand. The anatomist wrinkled his nose in distaste and held the cloth at arm's length with the tips of his fingers.
"Thank you," he said, in a way that was really not a 'thank you' at all. Then, airily, "Now there's the small matter of my fee."
"Your what?" Coyotl blurted. He sat up straight, looking very obviously flummoxed. "You didn't even do noth-- anything!"
"Whether I did anything is incidental." Mott draped the bloodied cloth over the back of the chair he stood behind. His tone was casual and unhurried, but quite serious all the same. "You'll be paying me for my time-- that is, the time I could have been spending inside, asleep, rather than standing out-of-doors and examining the broken nose of a rather poor-tempered little man. Really, I think it's only fair that I be compensated for my trouble." Coyotl's face darkened with agitation, and he shot to his feet, preparing to fume and swear at the doctor-- hardly a doctor at all, more of a swindler than anything, a con-artist if Coyotl had ever seen one. But before he could speak, something else caught his attention. There was a figure making its way toward Mott's residence, one he thought he recognized... but what were the odds of that? Nevertheless, as he squinted, he could see that he was correct. His jaw hung open slightly.
"I'll be damned," he muttered to himself. He started forward, then stopped and looked around quickly, as if he'd forgotten something. The worn bag he typically used to carry small mail parcels was next to the chair he'd been sitting in, and Coyotl grabbed it, taking care not to jostle its contents too much. Then he rounded on the anatomist. "You," he snapped, "you wait right here." Mott made a slight grimace, but didn't attempt to stop the postman from rushing off. (He'd had an inkling from the start that he might not be paid for his services, but Panyma smiled upon the charitable, he supposed.) Without any further ado, Coyotl started at a light jog toward the approaching figure, waving one hand above his head.
"Finch!" he called out once he was close enough that he wouldn't have to shout at the top of his lungs to be heard. He couldn't keep from laughing slightly, though he wasn't entirely sure why. Of all the people he could coincidentally have run into in the vast expanse of Shyregoed, he was glad it was Wickwright-- for one particular reason, especially. His hand found the satchel at his side and held it steady.
"'Morning, Finch," he greeted his fellow Grimm as casually as he could, a ridiculous grin splitting his face as his breath steamed in the morning air. "How've you been faring?" Coyotl was making a tremendous effort to be as casual as humanly possible, and it showed, in that he completely failed to come off as being casual in any way, shape, or form. He was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with the air of someone who was waiting to be asked a very specific question, and his hand kept returning to the letter-bag he carried, fiddling idly with the flap. Clearly he was fit to burst with some sort of news, but he was determined to wait diligently until the appropriate time to share it.
Maybe.
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Posted: Wed Jun 13, 2012 4:13 pm
Before Wickwright could reply, a wriggling came from his bag, and Hopkin burst out at the sound of the familiar voice. "Wickwright, it's Coyotl Coyotl!" he exclaimed, examining the man up and down. "And he has red on him. That is a very pleasing shade of red, Coyotl Coyotl. I am glad that you have taken my advice to put brighter colours on yourself, you lack them most dreadfully."
Wickwright himself put on an air of mock surprise for his Plague, as the morning was good enough for him to feel up to humouring the pedantic book. "Why, so it is! By the bone, I should have known that if I followed screaming, I'd find Coyotl." He cracked a pleased smile and reached to grasp his postman's hand in greeting. "I fare quite well, but how fare you, my friend? We parted in terrible circumstance, yet I hope your fortune has improved as mine has."
"Yes, Wickwright has not approached the verge of death once this whole trip," Hopkin reported dutifully on his Grimm's behalf, "But he has not been keeping his nose out of trouble! Or indeed, any of the rest of his body!"
"Oh, I've kept it clean-ish, haven't I? Clean enough for a Finch!" He pushed Hopkin back in the bag, and inside, a small thump and an "Oof!" could be heard as the book boy was rebuked. Undeterred, soon the Plague's small head popped out of the opening again.
"Clean-ish noses are not the same as noses that are not in trouble, Wickwright," Hopkin rebuked.
"It's a figure of speech, Hopkin. By the bone, how can you have gotten the hang of the nose in trouble one and not this one?"
"Because it makes no sense, Wickwright!" Hopkin wailed, clutching at his bandages. "How is being clean related to being out of danger? I have no desire to learn such confusing statements! But I suppose that you have done adequately for a Finch, if I understand your meaning." he admitted, folding his arms across his chest. "I simply wish that we could stop using such nonsensical terms to say so."
"Now then, Hopkin, even turns of phrase have truth hidden in them. Thank you for understanding mine, there's a good book," Wickwright retorted and Hopkin couldn't help but puff his chest out at even that small, joking piece of praise. "Now, that we've established that my nose is clean, Coyotl, I could hardly say the same for yours. You know, there are easier ways of pleasing my damned Plague than bleeding yourself dry!" There was a small protest from Hopkin that now they were confusing figures of speech with actual factual statements, but it was overruled and his Grimm reached into his bag, pulling out some leaves. "Have you tried mint for that? Could get nasty." A glance at his friend's face preceded an amendment. "Nastier."
"Yes," Hopkin chimed in, as the appearance of their company briefly overruled the trials and tribulations of semantics in the discussion. "Your nose is crooked and such an asymmetrical look will distract from the red you have donned to improve yourself. I suggest changing things back immediately."
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Posted: Wed Jul 11, 2012 2:27 am
Coyotl wasn't at all surprised to find that, once he'd drawn within conversing distance of Wickwright and his book, it became very difficult to get a word in edgewise between Grimm and Plague. It was nothing he wasn't used to, and truth be told, it was almost comforting; it was familiar, at the very least, like a messy room he'd visited many times before. He listened to the two argue about words and figures of speech back and forth for a bit, not bothering to follow the exchange very closely-- but when talk turned to the subject of his nose, he frowned. Well, it was bound to come up at some point.
"This ain't for decoration, you know" Coyotl addressed Hopkin, dabbing gingerly at the blood on his face with the back of one hand. It was mostly dried by that point, but a few smudges came away nonetheless, and he made a face. "I had a... err... had an accident." That was more or less the truth about what had happened; he certainly hadn't meant to have his face smashed in by a crippled woman, so on his part, at least, it had been an accident. Besides, he reminded himself, he was the only one who knew what had actually happened that day. For all these two knew, he could have had his nose broken in a very impressive barfight or something like that. Bearing this in mind, he squared his shoulders a bit. "Nothin' I couldn't handle, mind. Thanks," he added, regarding the mint that Wickwright was offering him with slight confusion, but accepting it all the same. (What was he supposed to do with it? Eat it? Chew it up and make a poultice out of it? Stick it up his nose? Eventually he settled on stuffing the herb into his bag, one end of it protruding from under the flap. He could deal with it later.)
"And I can't just put it back how it was, not without having it broke again. S'what he said, anyway." He thumbed over his shoulder at where Eliahu Mott was beginning to collect his chairs, puttering about sleepily and not paying much attention to his "client". Coyotl leaned a bit closer to Wickwright and adopted a ridiculous stage whisper, as if Mott could possibly hear him from where he stood, even if he'd been listening. "Between me an' you, I think he might be a crock. I never heard of an atomist before." Seeming pleased to have gotten that bit of suspicion off his chest, the postman straightened, brushing off the front of his shirt as if washing his hands of the issue. "But I mean, y'know, except for the, uh-" he gestured briefly at his face- "this... I'm farin' well, all told. The Council's got me running letters and things back and forth, small parcels, that kind'a thing. Just like old times. And," he continued with a trace of smugness, "I'm traveling lighter these days, too." Carrying a large jug of water on his back everywhere he went was not something he would ever grow to miss-- not when he still woke up with stiff shoulders months after he'd ditched the thing.
(Meanwhile, after a few moments of wiggling, the sprig of mint seemed to have slipped the rest of the way into the bag, disappearing from view. Whatever medicinal purpose it had originally been meant to serve, it was now becoming something more along the lines of breakfast.)
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