A Fortuitous Visit

Igen Weyr - Infirmary
The Infirmary is a huge cavern that can hold several large dragons on one side. There are hoists to lift the cumbersome splints used on a dragon's wounded wing. There are also cubicles set off to the other side of the room where one can examine injured or sick humans. These are all well equiped and contain everything a healer might need to diagnose and treat wounds, injury, or sickness. There are also a couple doors leading into back rooms in the middle of the cavern. These are the offices of the healers posted here, and allow for a private room to talk to patients in.

It's not actually night; it's only edging on towards evening. The bulk of the Weyr is in the Living Caverns, eating, but some few are to be found within the Infirmary - healers, patients, and one visitor from a distant land Weyr. The young man with the Xanadu badge and the knot of a Healercraft Journeyman is leaning against a counter, grinning at the infirmary aide as she prepares a small packet of medicines. "You know," he drawls, his accent more Istan than Xanaduvian, "I have no idea how long my ride's going to be at his card game, if you know a place we can… get to know each other better." The aide smirks at him and shoves the packet in his hands. "Your medicines, Journeyman," she replies pertly, before flouncing away. He sighs after her, shaking his head. "And now to find some salve for that burn." Humming in his throat, he begins to poke curiously at some of the jars on the counter.

It's busy in the kitchens and Living Caverns - and then there's the Infirmary, where people are either supposed to be working, or land themselves there by accident (or illness). Ligeia's reasons for being here are obvious enough, with a thick, crude bandage of some sort wrapped around her forearm and hand. She's being trailed by an anxious lad around her eyes, with wide eyes and worry in his voice, "I said I'm sorry! That's why I wanted to walk you here, to make sure you're okay and-" She snaps a sharp look the lad's way, "I told you, I'm fine. I don't need you getting all of your worry in the wound, or it'll get infected. Now go. Leave me alone!" The lad quails, hemming and hawing, but not yet skittering off - maybe he's chosen this to be the day he finds a spine?

Hark, what's this? Distracted from poking through the various jars and containers on the counter, Kyszarin turns, mild surprise flashing across his features before the mask of a healer - empathetic, but unaffected - falls into place. A quick glance around shows him that no other knotted healers are in attendance at this precise moment. Shift change, perhaps, or simply busy with other tasks, so he steps forward in their stead. "Here now, stop hovering," he says briskly to the young man, even as he reaches to scrub his hands in the redwort that can be found in any Pernese infirmary. "What happened?"

Relief is quick to settle into her visage, though it's only there for a second before she rounds on the hovering lad and stamps a foot at him. "You heard him, now go." The young man scarpers off with a vague noise of dismay and Ligeia turns to look at Kyszarin with only the barest ghost of a smile - gratitude, surely - twitching at the corners of her mouth. "He was trying to show off some stupid trick with knives," she explains while she starts to unwind the bandage some; there's a bit of blood dappling through the thick fabric. "I told him they weren't sharp enough and he didn't know what he was doing. He threw it too hard, it bounced, and got my arm."

Blue-grey eyes go stony. "Wait, call him back, I'll show him the right way to handle a knife." Probably not the best idea; Kyszarin does not look like a Happy Healer (tm). Despite the simmering anger in his eyes, however, the Journeyman is naught but gentle as he reaches out to take ahold of the bandage. "Let me finish that," he suggests as he finishes tugging free the bandage with brisk, careful motions. "There are many myriad and sundry ways to impress someone," he remarks absently as he cradles her arm in one hand and studies the wound, prodding gently at the edges of it, "but I have never found that causing injury without knowing if that is a person's particular prediliction is one of them." Given her reaction, he doesn't seem to need to ask if that is to her taste.

"Ugh, no. He'd just tell you about how his dad's a butcher and how he knows how knives work and that's the first time he didn't land it where he wanted it." Cue an eyeroll from Ligeia, who blows out an agitated breath. She holds her arm out for him to get at the bandaging; it's too big for the injury, a further sign of overcompensation on the nameless youth's part perhaps. It's not long, but it's deep; the meaty part of her forearm near the elbow caught the attack, which spared her tendons. But, it might need stitches and it's bleeding a fair bit. "I just wish he listened when I told him I wasn't interested in the first place, but- here we are," she snorts softly. Her gaze remains firmly averted and, likely, it's the reason she's still got some color in her face.

"Here we are," Kyszarin echoes as he places a light hint of pressure on her elbow, enough to guide her towards one of the sinks set into the counter. "Let's get this washed out so I can make sure there's nothing in there," Faranth only knows what was on the knife, "then we'll see about stitching you up. If nothing else," he adds, a hint of amusement in his voice, "should offer a nice story to impress someone you're actually interested in - at least for a little bit. Perhaps involving wild felines, or wild women, or both at once." You know, maybe some kind of travelling caravan… "Or if you really want to do a number on the ass, I can splint you up and give you a sling and you can make noises about amputation."

To her credit, Ligeia bears up well under the painful parts of things; it doesn't seem to bump her in the slightest, but Kyszarin will have the benefit of proximity to see a slew of scars on her arms and hands that speak of plenty of experience with the nicks and cuts that one incurs through a less-than-charmed life in the kitchens. "It's okay. It doesn't hurt too badly," she reassures. "I've done worse to myself in the kitchen on accident." Her mouth pulls to a side. "Ugh, no. I don't want to deal with him making woeful canine eyes at me and begging forgiveness. I'll stick with the stitches and wild women and felines story, thanks." The pull of her mouth curves into a properly tilted smile. "Let me guess, that's something you have some experience with?" Otherwise, it is an oddly specific suggestion!

The grin he flashes her is full of white teeth and maybe even a little charm; when all is said and done, Kyszarin is a scion of his particular family. "I've often found the kitchens a mysterious and dangerous place filled with more peril than the deepest Neratian jungle," he confides in her. "All sorts of sharp implements and hot pots and the ever-present threat of…" He trails off, then whispers, "turnips!" His eyes laugh at her as he sponges clean the wound and begins to apply redwort to it to sterilize it. "Do I have experience with wild felines and wild women? Alas, not together. Do I have experience of using such a story to explain away some mundane injury? Of course." Just don't ask him if it worked.

She goes appropriately wide-eyed, if indulgently so, as he spins his words jsut so. Would that she had pearls, she would clutch them in mock-horror. "It's the parsnips you really need to worry about," Ligeia opines with a slanted, sidelong look at the Healer. "But turnips are pretty dangerous, too." Her grin persists throughout while she's otherwise a fairly placid patient; there might be a hiss of breath at the sting of redwort, but she's quick to bite that back. "I guess that's for the better," she figures after a moment, "That's a lot of, um-" oh, wait, no, bad Ligeia. She catches herself before she skews too far into ribald territory and clears her throat. "Just a lot of wild stuff all at once." Lame? Yes. "How does it look?" Because gaping injuries are much safer to discuss!

Shame. Once Kyn has ascertained that the wound is clean, he finally breaks out the numbweed salve, applying it carefully along the edges of the cut. "Alright, just rest it here on the counter and hold it steady," he advises her as he begins to rummage around, looking for the waxed thread and needles he needs to stitch the cut up. Hey, he knows what he needs - not where it is. Patience, patient. "Parsnips are high on my list of Vegetables to Avoid as well," he agrees. As she fumbles, he casts her a sidelong look, wide mouth curving slightly, but he leaves the conversation in safe territory. For now. "It looks fine. Shouldn't scar for long, if at all; depends on how easily you scar as a matter of course. You'll want to go easy on the arm for a sevenday or so, though," he cautions as he finds the drawer with all of the tools for stitching with a soft, "Ah hah!"

Safe forever! Or, at least, for now: some kinds of banter are for friends, not some poor rando that's stitching her arm up (no offense, Kyszarin!) "What are your feelings on radishes?" As if everyone should have an opinion on the most deceptive of vegetables. Ligeia is otherwise compliant, holding her arm steady and waiting while he goes about getting the tools of his trade to stitch her up properly. "Oh, I scar pretty easily. Not sure if you saw all of this," she wiggles her free arm a little, laced as it is with scars of all sorts, "but it's why I don't actually work in the kitchens. Also, I have no talent for it, but Faranth knows I tried. Just like I tried the Healing thing for a little while, but I just- can't. I'll leave that to people with capable hands."

Kyszarin threads the needle with the waxed thread, then places one hand on her arm, gently testing the edges of her wounds. "Radishes are tasty when baked or roasted, but not when boiled," he asserts. Then, "I saw them, but I don't presume that that means you scar easy," he replies as he sets the needle against her skin, prodding very gently once while watching her face for a reaction. Testing, perhaps, the efficacy of the numbweed? "I can imagine all sorts of tales - mundane and otherwise - that might result in such… badges." A rather neutral term for that sprinkling of scars upon her skin. "And I'm sure your hands are quite capable, in the right capacity. What is it that you do do?"

No reaction, fortunately; either the numbweed works or Ligeia has a good tolerance for pain to balance out the fact that a stiff wind will bruise her. "Radishes raw in a salad are the best," but that's just a detour on this particular adventure and she hums a little, with a slight nod and noise of agreement and understanding. "I'm just boring. All of these are boring stories." She lifts her shoulder - not attached to the arm he's working on - and continues, "I learn a lot? I like to write and make stories and, um. I don't know. Whatever else they need me to do here between clutches, I suppose."
No reaction means that Kyszarin begins to stitch, drawing the black waxed thread through her skin with small, neat stitches. "I'm a simple salad man, myself," he admits. "Lettuce, cheese, maybe some seeds, crackers or croutons. Start adding things like radishes and exotic greens and I start to wonder who you're trying to impress." He grins as he says it, though. "I doubt you're boring - I've met boring people. They don't usually have me stitching them up after some idiot with a knife has a go at impressing them the wrong way." He listens to her speak. "Considered going for Harper? They're not just about music, you know."

She scoffs softly, a slight shake of her head following before her gaze tips toward the ceiling. "See if I ever bribe someone to make you a really nice salad sometime, then. The kind with edible flowers and shredded fingerroots and all." Ligeia focuses largely on keeping her arm steady. She hums a bit, mouth tugged to a side. No confirmation or denial here, though, and she falls quiet for a time until that last. "I did for a while, yeah, but-" she chews a little on the inside of her cheek "-I don't think they'd like what I do with words."

"What, pray tell, do you do with words?" Kyszarin asks as he steadily stitches his way up the wound, his focus on his work, but a sliver of attention on her. Someone has, apparently, had a lot of practice at this. "Also, who eats flowers? Besides bovines. And ovines. And apparently you. For that matter, what makes a flower edible?" He pauses in his work, glancing up to check her face, though whether searching for a reaction to his questions, or a reaction to his stitching is hard to tell. Then he returns. Poke. Push. Tug. Repeat.

"Inappropriate things," is hushed, with a blush that rises despite her best attempt to play things cool. Ligeia winces at something or another, but there's an equally quick shake of her head, as if to preempt any actual worry. "Maybe I'll join up with them if I get too old to Stand, though." And that, perhaps, might be her real reason for not joining up. "Flowers have to taste good and not poison a person to be edible," she figures, turning the conversational tables a bit. It's a clever trick on his part - if, indeed, it is one - because it does keep her focused on the words, rather than the disconcerting feel of a needle pushing through numb skin. "Clover and dandelions and marigolds… all of those are really nice! Maybe I will have to make you a salad," rather than bribe someone. "Did you always want to be a Healer?"

The needle pauses briefly, and Kyszarin can't help the charmed grin that crosses his lips at the sight of her blush. But he brings no attention to it, and his stitching resumes. "Ah, now, I think you're doing the Harpers a grave disservice. There's a market for those things as are… less than ideal for public perusal. To be sure," he adds as he ties off the last of the stitches and sets the needle and the last of the thread in a shallow dish to be disinfected later, "I imagine they'd expect you to also write appropriate things, but there's few out there less prudish than a Harper." But then. "Ah, wanting a dragon, are you? I can hardly blame you. I'd not mind Impressing myself." He wipes down the wound and turns her arm lightly between his hands, studying the stitching carefully. "Did I always want to be a healer? Aye, even when I was at my most dragonmad. The Weyrhealers fascinated me."

She scrunches her nose a bit, "I'm sure there is," which means she knows there is and that might well be what started her on that particular path, "but- well." She has nothing to add there and, instead, Ligeia huffs out a bit of a breath and waits until that last stitch is done and the needle's put down before she dares to look at the injury. The sight of it is enough to drain the color from her face but, to her credit, she doesn't pass out. "Does that really go away? That- um. Well, that yearning for it?" She worries at her lower lip a bit, turning her attention on Kyszarin directly. "I guess it's weird to even think about. My mom didn't want to, but- she did. My grandma, too. Neither of them were really- dragonmad, as you put it. And then there's- me. I wish I had something else to focus on, like you do. What do you like best about healing?"

"Chin up. Look at me. No hardship now, is it?" Kyszarin's words - and tone - might be flirtatious, but he has an ulterior motive that doesn't include acting out one of her stories. Or, at least, that's not the only motive on his mind. "Now where - ah, here." He pulls out a roll of bandages and begins to carefully cover the wound. "I'm not the one to ask. If they asked me tomorrow to Stand for any clutch, I'd say yes in a heartbeat. My father's a rider. My mother. My sister. Probably several of my siblings - I have no idea. I've only met a few. I love to heal. I need to be a healer, but I can be a healer on a dragon. Indeed," he adds as he seals the bandage shut and smooths it down with gentle hands, "I'd say with a dragon I could be more effective than ever."

She does lift her chin and look at him - and unflinchingly so, with a confidence that her fading blush might not have hinted at before. Ligeia remains still while he finishes working on her arm, with the bandaging process seeming to help calm her somewhat. There's something familiar to it; something ritualistic that settles her. "My mom, my grandma, my grandpa- but I think that's all of them. My uncle was never interested and my dad wasn't, either." A much smaller family, admittedly; goodness knows she'll boggle if she ever gets a full sense of Kyszarin's lineage. Fingers wiggle when he's all done, though she doesn't pull her arm back. "I'd ask. I would ask, if they hadn't asked me before," at Igen, anyway. There's a slow, thoughtful nod for his words, though, the tip of her tongue briefly peeking out. "I can see that with you," she says after a moment. "Though you're already pretty good, I'd say. Would you do dragonhealing if you ever Impressed?"

Once the bandage is secured, Kyszarin's hands slide up her arm, fingers wrapping about hers if she doesn't pull away. It may be the flirtation is knee-jerk, as much a part of him as breathing - or it may be genuine interest. Hard to tell at this point. "I've stood a few times at Ista - my mother's insistence," he admits, "whenever she's got a clutch on the Sands. But nothing's clicked, obviously. I may or may not be rider material; it's not herditary, though it does have a tendency to run in certain family lines." Someone's made a bit of a study of it, it seems. "Still, I don't mind trying again. And again. It's an experience, if nothing else." Her question elicits another of those flashing grins. "Oh, I'll study dragonhealing regardless - but yes. Dragonhealing fits quite neatly with my own specialty of trauma."

Fingers wiggle against his, though that might be as much to test her finger movement as it is to tease against his hand a little. She doesn't pull away, but Ligeia's not the type to back down from any situation, not really. "I stood here," she muses, "and a few other times, too, but-" obviously, she's still here, as unclicked as he is. There's that scrunch of nose, that thoughtfulness, that silence that suggests her thoughts are just grinding away on something. In the end: "That's good, even if it sounds stressful." She tugs his fingers a bit, though more to indicate the arm he's just repaired. "I should probably leave you to it, eh? And maybe wish you some good luck, next time you Stand." Since it does sound like he does so with some regularity. "Maybe it's in the blood, maybe it's not, but- maybe it's just a matter of timing and that's it."

"They say the dragon chooses," Kyszarin replies carelessly, not giving up his hold on her as she's not made any real effort to free herself. It should be noted that his own grip can be quite easily broken with a simple tug; he's not that much of a cad. "I just like to think that my dragon has not yet been born. And, with luck, when it is it won't be at Ista." But he says no more on that. "As for leaving me to it," and now the flirtation comes back in full force, with a flash of white teeth and a gleam in those blue-grey eyes. "I'm but a simple visitor to this Weyr; 'twas my luck and yours that I was here when you needed help. The only thing you'd be leaving me to is the boredom of waiting for my ride to finish whatever trouble he's getting into." Again, that flash of teeth. "You wouldn't want to abandon me to loneliness, would you?

"Maybe that's all there is to it," Ligeia muses and, finally, moves to push to her feet. Yet, her hand remains persistently connected with his, a testing wiggle confirming something or another before her grip shifts, threatening to properly take his hand. She'll surely regret moving her arm like that later but, for now, numbweed is doing what it does best. "Fiiine," is drawn out with a slight roll of eyes, only for his grin to be answered with one of her own, in kind. Her cheeks pinken nicely again, despite herself. "If you don't actually have work to do here," teasing, teasing, for he's done his share already on the Igenite's arm, "and if you have some time, I can show you the greenhouse?" There's a beat, then: "Orrr, I can show you some of the inappropriate things I've done with words and you can tell me what you think." Either way, he won't be left to the scourge of loneliness!

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