Avians and VTOLs

Xanadu Weyr - Infirmary
The infirmary here is intended for human care. It is regularly scrubbed spotless and smells of disinfectant, redwort and other herbs that are - if sometimes strong - preferable to the scents of sickness. Cots are lined up against one wall, with a set of curtains that can be pulled to give some privacy to the occupants of the cots if they so desire. They're mostly used for examinations of patients and the treatment of mild injuries that won't require long term care; near the back are some more private areas with folding dividers.

There's a number of cabinets that stand off against another wall, instruments and medications stored against when they will be needed, and a back room holds those supplies seldom required.

A desk with chair is set just off of the doorway to the caverns, meant for the healer to sit and catch up on record keeping after a long day's work or await patients. If things get too busy, the patients can do the waiting on a set of uncomfortable chairs set nearby. The other doorway comes directly from the clearing, wide enough for a team to carry a stretcher through.

It's the middle of the afternoon, and for once, the infirmary is quiet. Rukbat is well into her reign, sending shadows stretching across the weyr in pursuit of an escape, forming a caricature of shadow oases leading to here, to where Fioreyla is sitting at the front desk, a lone figure in white so utterly expected (in the hush and antiseptic smell of a sanctuary made for the sick) that she's hardly remarkable at all. The only shockingly diverse thing about her is how alarmingly sun-kissed her skin is, but even that fervent spattering of freckles is somehow less unexpected when you take note of the fact that her hair is a vibrant red (tied off though it is, in a spectacularly clumsy, messy bun at the top of her head). And she's young. Too young, maybe, for the Journeyman knot on her shoulder by first glance, and too tired to be as invested as she is in the chart she's staring at amid a layout of books that are all open to random pages in an absolute hazardous mess across her table, books that she seems to turn the scrutiny of violet eyes onto every now and again just long enough to highlight something or shake her head and turn pages until she's scanning that chart again. RUN ON SENTENCE, WHOOOO!!!! AT LEAST, IN THIS MOMENT, SHE LOOKS LIKE AN HONEST-TO-FARANTH RESPECTABLE HEALER. But don't do it, Stefyr. DON'T BELIEVE IT. IT'S A TRAP. THIS IS A MISTAKE. WEE-WOO-WEE-WOO. RETREAT, RETREAT. AWOOOGA, AWOOOOGA. EVERY KLAXON BELL SHOULD BE RINGING IN YOUR HEAD AND TELLING YOU TO GET OUT. GET OUT QUICK. Or don't. But it's probably not going to end well. For either of you.

It should be painfully obvious by now that if the Stefyr model of man came with warning devices of any kind, be they bells, whistles, neon signs or flags, this man's is broken, or was never activated to begin with. It should, therefore, come as no surprise that he's here. His hands are tucked in the pockets of his shorts and his shoulders are tense but not hunched. By and large, young men of Stefyr's age and make don't like to come to infirmaries unless they're working there or d y i n g. The fact that he's on his own two feet and there's (AS YET) no gaping wound visible, marks this unusual, but maybe he's just here to visit someone? Refill some herbal remedy? Something easy. "Excuse me," he offers quietly in the quiet space after politely clearing his throat, "would there be a healer available for a… Uh… Private matter?" Now, how are Fire's warning systems working today?

Fire is married to Death. If there were ever any systems attached to a woman of her ilk, she probably wouldn't be here. Or there. OR ANYWHERE, REALLY. As it stands, all signs point to this healer's internal warning functions being just as defective as Stefyr's — more so, maybe, albeit in completely different capacities. So THEY'RE BOTH OUT OF LUCK. Which is exactly why you might think working in an infirmary, sitting at the front desk, being the one meant to greet other humans as they come in (brawny and healthy and looking like that or otherwise), Fire would have been fully prepared for that soft-but-no-less-sudden voice ripping her out of studious pursuit. But she's not. She makes a squeak of a sound, an almost-inaudible screeeeeeEEEeeeeee that only makes the audacity of her very real clumsiness (and over reaction) all the more audacious. She manages to tip sideways, or forward, or too far back (it's hard to tell, it happens so fast), spilling Fire out of her chair with arms that scramble-flail-catch at her desk and effectively send that file with important-healer-documents and a questionably placed book flying. Or, well, falling, really. Gravity, at least, is better behaved. And it's like this, in this exact position, HOLDING ON FOR DEAR LIFE (SCAR, BROTHER), THAT FIOREYLA, for a very long, very awkward pause, stares at Stefyr. IS THERE SOMEBODY WHO CAN HELP HIM WITH A PERSONAL MATTER? Fire's chin shifts, digging into the table, slipping fingers scrambling to get more purchase as if letting go would be the very real end to Fioreyla's already spectacularly decimated dignity. "Uhm," comes from lips that are trying to work, that expel a breath as if in concentration to keep herself upright. "I — y-yes?" WHY DOES SHE SOUND SO UNSURE. But then she's letting go of the desk, and there's a rather INDELICATE THUD to announce her surrender before Fioreyla comes out from behind that desk on. all. fours. TO GATHER HER BOOK AND HER FILE, STEFYR, RELAX. "A-Are you unwell? O-or…?" WHAT KIND OF HEALING DO YOU NEED, MISTER?

"Oh, shell!" It's a soft swear, but a swear nonetheless, and as things scatter and Fioreyla clings, Stefyr's already starting to move, as though he could be of some kind of use, but she's letting go before he gets there and the thud, and he steps around the desk at the opposite side that she crawls from, so there's a comical moment of looking before he comes back around to realize what the healer's goal is and then he's on it, sliding onto bended knee to begin gathering her items with care. Helping gather papers that have gone every which way is something he's rapidly becoming efficient (if no better organized) about. "I… no. I'm not sick. I… need an expert. Someone suggested I talk to a healer. As the experts. About bodies." Is he making sense? He's only blushing a little, but that might be from causing the kerfuffle that's in need of fixing. He does his best, readily handing off what he gathers to the healer as soon as she wants them. "Is that… would someone be available? To talk? About… bodies?"

For what it's worth, Fire's face is aiming to mimic the vibrancy of her hair and it's ONLY GETTING WORSE when Stefyr joins her on the floor. "D-Did you know that w-when you take a step, your knees are b-bearing three times your bodyweight, and up to f-five times that if you're walking downstairs or d-downhill?" It comes out rushed, a little breathless, that whisper-soft voice going pitchy in places and breaking on syllables altogether. It paints a damning portrait, one of a healer who is lacking the confidence one might expect from somebody tasked to put them back together again — literally. Because if Stefyr is looking for a healer who knows ALL ABOUT BODIES, Fioreyla is it. She's a trauma healer, the one who literally wades into the shallows of death beside you and pulls you out again, the one who faces it with enough gumption and defiance in every bone of her tiny body to say, 'Not today.' And maybe that's why she pauses, why she blinks up at Stefyr as if startled by the seeming simplicity of his request (IT'S A TRAP, FIRE). She knows about bodies. She can certainly educate him on whatever topic he needs. So she reaches out to take those papers he helped her to gather with a gentle kind of hesitant timidity. "T-Th-Th —" BREATHE, FIRE. SO WHAT IF SHE IS BLUSHING HARDER? "Thankyou," comes a little too quick, a little too quiet, a complement to the way it takes her several voiceless attempts to conjure up, "I… I'm… ah…" She's slowly climbing to her feet, setting book and file and miscellaneous papers aside, abandoned to her desk for further dissection at a later time. "Please," she finally manages, with a smile that aims to be reassuring and looks more like Fire hasn't quite managed to reconcile herself with the fact that ANY OF THIS IS HAPPENING. "We can talk. I'm… I k-know a lot about… about bodies." RIP, TINY FIRE. She's moving to offer her hands out to Stefyr just in case he needs help up (she's no aversion to touch; what kind of healer would she be if helping people warranted a retreat?), but then she's moving to a curtain and drawing it back, gesturing towards the bed and what superficial privacy that flimsy fabric will afford once it's pulled closed again. "W-What did you want to know?"

"No, I didn't know that." There's a beat of delay before Stefyr makes his response and a beat later when he offers Fire his gentlest smile. "That's interesting." It's just possible that the mannerisms the healer is presently displaying trips right into every protective instinct the big blond has (and there are a lot of those). Still, she is not his to protect, so the most he will do is be kind and quiet in his demeanor and be thoughtful in his address. …Which may prove to be a challenge. It may not be strange to anyone but Fioreyla that the young man doesn't seem to bat an eye at her timidity or her scatter of nerves or whatever is going on to make her behave this way. He doesn't even seem to doubt her qualifications since he goes with her readily enough after a nod to acknowledge her claimed expertise. He looks uneasy, but not because of her. Big hands have found their way back to being tucked just tips into his pockets, thumbs on the outside. When the curtain is drawn back, the young man moves slowly, a little awkwardly to perch on the very edge of the bed, hands coming to his knees, fingers drumming. He looks at the healer, and way. At the healer, and away. At the healer again and then at the floor. "I'm from a farm." Okayokayokay, it's not the most relevant of beginnings but. "Where I come from, we get married someday and have kids. But I've never had a… a sweetheart." A hand escapes its knee perch and suddenly comes up to scratch at an itch on his collarbone before returning. "Being here at the Weyr, and twenty, and a candidate who might impress a dragon when the eggs hatch, and that that dragon might-" will "-end up in mating flights, I need to know more than I do." He glances toward the healer, his face a deep red by this point, and away to that safe floor. "I need to know how to … be with partners. And not hurt anyone. And hopefully… you know… the opposite." That last word might be as quiet as one of hers. "I know about…" he almost doesn't say it, but then he clears his throat and pushes through, still not looking at her, "mybody, but-" he slows, "-I don't know about the… mechanics beyond what I've seen of the animals we bred. And I heard some talk at home that men who think that are… well. Not worth having." And then his jaw snaps shut and he dares a fleeting glance to the healer who is his only hope. "I've kissed someone, but that's… it." He ends lamely. Awkwardly. He shifts on that very edge of the bed perch and looks like maybe he might be deciding this was a terrible idea and it's time to run.

'That's interesting.' Is it? What's maybe even more interesting (in the context and carefully crafted language of META) is that Fioreyla couldn't possibly blush more. But she does. She turns a deeper shade of red and focuses on her hands, on movement, on the monotony of familiarity so that for just a moment, just a fraction of a heartbeat in one second of a moment, she doesn't have to think. Maybe it's because, more often than not, Fire is used to pity, to disgust, to an exasperation borne of the two. But patience, interest, understanding? … She has only come by the grace of it once. In this setting, it is a fact rendered irrelevant except in explaining it's why Fioreyla works in quiet tandem rather than rapid-firing even more pointless facts at Stefyr to take the focus off of her. But she finds that quiet, tiny strength to keep going that has carried her through every moment to this point, and will carry her past it still, where Fire is watching Stefyr's hands paint just as damning a picture as those words she listens so carefully for. And at first, it seems like a normal brush with intermittent duties; at first tension eases from too-small a frame, those eyes retaining their interest (and a furrow between her brows of concentration) despite something purely clinical about it and — Faranth. She turns SEVERAL OTHER IMPOSSIBLE SHADES OF RED and all that tension is back, her fingers curling as air seems a sudden impossibility and words fail her. SO SHE SITS DOWN. RIGHT BESIDE HIM. BECAUSE THAT, FIOREYLA. THAT IS NOT WEIRD AT ALL. "W-W-Well… y-y-y-you… ah…" BREATHE, TINY FIRE. YOU'VE GOT THIS. "W-well, I think there's… there's a lot of…" And now she's on her feet again, stumbling as those violet eyes go up towards the ceiling and maybe she would have commented on the color of it except that now, just now, she is trying to be a healer. "E-Emotion. In it. I r-read about it. A lot, I —" Nonono. It sounds wrong. TRY AGAIN, FIRE. "I — it's very clinical. The texts. It… it d-do-doesn't capture it." Squeak, "verywell." And now she's staring at Stefyr, her breath coming a little too quick, her fingers twisting around themselves, forming knots. "T-they don't tell you about… the…" SHE'S TURNING MORE RED. "B-but I can give you a book. If. If you w-wanted. It's… I…" BREATHE, Fire. "Ithaspictures. Educa-cational ones."

THE BEST NEWS in all this is that Stefyr isn't looking at her. Not even when she sits beside him. Maybe this conversation would go even better if she were on the other side of the curtain and he on this one, but he can pretend. The reason it's good that he's not looking at the healer is not because the color of his face is doing awesome tricks trying to match the colors of her own, but because if he did look at her, he'd probably actually bolt, and where would be the fun in that? "Pictures sound like they would be … informative." Stefyr mutters, his legs shifting to lock ankles unconsciously. "I'm not sure I can understand clinical. I mean, I'm better at reading since I got here, but big words… unknown words… I'd need a healer's dictionary, probably, to muddle through." He grimaces at his own admission. "How—uh… easy… is the book to understand?" He still doesn't look at her, but he does sound like maybe he would be happier with a book. "I'm sorry. I … didn't want to come. I don't want to … mess it up. If. Or hurt someone." He has good intentions, Fire, and he's definitely not trying to casually cause your death by embarrassment in on his road to the Red Star with all his good intentions in tow.

Pictures sound like they can be informative. Fire's lips pull outward in a gesture of disagreement, as close to a grimace as she's capable of as her head dips to one side and her eyes dart towards the curtains. NOT THAT STEFYR CAN SEE IT. "Kindof," comes a little too quick, a little to pitched, a little too unsure as her fingers twist and pull and she forces herself to breathe. But she listens, she pays attention to what Stefyr is saying and softer, more timid, she's whispering, "You don't read well." It's an observation, not a question. But it's not a judgment, more a personal berating for assuming he'd be able to understand the text. "Are you g-getting help?" comes more gentle, but no less nervous. "I've been… I've been h-helping somebody else learn…" A wince, and then a slow twist of her lips as she tries to find the right words, ultimately gives up and pressing the palms her hands down her thighs as if trying to rub away unspent energy. "I c-can share the l-lessons I've been putting together for him. With you, I m-mean. I'm o-only in Xanadu because of w-work. B-But, only if you need, it. I — I don't mean to assume." AND RIGHT. BOOKS. ABOUT SEX. HOW EASY ARE THEY TO UNDERSTAND? Fire's lips move again, her eyes rolling back up towards the ceiling as if she is pleading for divine intervention or has given up on PRETENDING TO BE ABLE TO HEAR AT ALL. "It… it's…" OKAY. FIRE. BE STRAIGHT WITH THE MAN. So Fioreyla tries; she grabs a chair tucked behind that flimsy bit of curtain, and she sits in it, and she rolls until she's sitting in front of Stefyr and not-quite-touching him. "I-It helps for k-knowing p-p-p…" Give her a second, and she manages, on a squeaky, breathless pitch of, "placement," that comes in a rush of breath and mushed syllables. "B-but it sounds like you… you are a-asking more about the…" another gesture of her hands, fingers splaying as they come apart and she turns SEVERAL MORE SHADES. "Don't be s-sorry," is another squeak of sound. "It's… I t-think maybe it is s-something that you… that you learn to — mmm." A beat, another glance UPWARD as Fire tries to find the right words and her lips keep moving, as if she's trying to stifle fervent attempts to change the damn subject or willing herself not to SINK THROUGH THE FLOOR. "My h-husband. W-when he…" A hesitation, and then she rushes out with it, "W-well, it hurt. A l-lot of people hurt their p-partner in the beginning. Not because they're doing it w-wrong, but because…" BECAUSE WHAT, FIRE, "Because our b-bodies have to acclimate to w-what's happening. A-and then you learn. B-because you keep… and then…" AND THEN WHAT. "T-the… thepictures. They w-won't help with… with that. A-and… and if it's somebody that you r-really care about, I t-think there might just b-be an instinct to be…" WHY IS THIS HAPPENING? "Gentle." That comes out a whisper, or insomuch as Fire can whisper, given she already speaks at the max volume of A MOUSE. "The book i-isn't… so technical. It's… not hard to read in t-that sense. But t's… descriptive." OF WHAT GOES WHERE AND HOW, STEFYR. "It's not going to t-teach you how to… topleasesomebody, though." Isn't she just THE MOST HELPFUL?

Well, it helps that one of Stefyr's best skills is listening, and not (at least overtly) being bothered by anyone's foibles. So the lack of volume just draws a greater intensity to his listening. Maybe he'd like to look at her, and he does when she's just talking about easy things like reading. "The Harpers have been very helpful. If there was a healer's dictionary I could borrow along with the book," and by now there's no looking at the redhead, "I would appreciate the opportunity to learn. I understand a little about… placement… but not on…" He looks at her knees, those are safe, but not any higher and still even though it shouldn't matter, the implication of her gender is there for the grasping. He clears his throat. She's a healer, he's here because he needs a healer. Sort of. She's what he has, so that will have to do. "So… I need practice?" He sums up. "But how to I know where to start? Learning from someone else sounds like a terrible way to get it right. I mean, what if they don't? Or don't know how even if they've done things before?" The blind leading the blind? It doesn't appeal to the young man, not in the least. His expression makes that plain, even in the color red it has remained. "Are there other books that would explain about…" Can he say the words aloud? Yes, but barely. As quiet as she's been, he whispers, "pleasing someone?" The rest, about being gentle by instinct, about adjustment time is filed away. It probably goes in a folder called, "Not How The Animals Do It," or possibly, "Synonyms For The Color Blue." (He was taught to file by Rhodelia, after all.)

"O-oh. Y-yes, of… of course. I t-think the healer d-dictionary might…" Be a lot to tackle, for somebody who is only just mastering how to read? "… n-not be useful in this… situation. The book is…" A beat, and then softer, "It's n-not a m-medical text." IF YOU CATCH HER DRIFT. "B-but! You can c-certainly borrow one." As for placement, Fire goes astoundingly more red and nods her head once, and then she's looking every bit as though her soul might be trying to find the path of least resistance to DEPART THIS REALM. She starts to answer, but Stefyr's asking another question before she can form any sounds and then she's closing her eyes and swallowing down breaths becaues every question he is asking is valid. "It's… there's… a b-book, medical knowledge can t-teach you… the t-theory of it. But it's… it's very… well, it's lovely. But it's n-not…" There's a strangled little sound in her throat, one that she tries to disguise under a soft clearing of her throat as fingers twist into the fabric of her robes now and those eyes go back to the ceiling, her lips parted, every line painting a damning portrait of a woman who's so very out of her element. "No." It's a soft, hushed whisper. "T-there are… s-some texts that m-maybe come close, I —" AND NOW. HERE. HERE SHE IS LOOKING SUDDENLY STRICKEN. "I haven't read e-every b-book in the world. Or o-on the subject…" SOMETHING THAT MIGHT NOW BE ON HER TO DO LIST in the pursuit of KNOWLEDGE. "B-but I've… It can't capture…" Breathe, Fire. "The moment you catch fire and burn so hot you s-stop existing; when your n-name and… who you were before that moment ceases to matter because the s-sum of your continuity is in the way their hands, and their m-mouth, and their body feel movingpressingsurging o-over and over and over again — a sine qua n-non that…" FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH, STEFYR, SHE LOOKS MORTIFIED. But she can't. seem. to stop. "… e-ends and begins in that moment." One, two, three, four. "I'm s-sorry." She was NOT THINKING ABOUT ZEN. PURE THOUGHTS, FIRE. PURE THOUGHTS. "I… you… t-there… it's n-not something I can p-prescribe… to you. As a h-healer, I mean. But it's… it's d-different for… foreverybodyso." SHIFT. That's not really an answer, Stefyr. She's probably sorry. "It's like r-reading and w-writing. M-maybe you don't need… multiple books and alphabets, but you certainly need pages and letters from the s-same book and the s-same alphabet to… to learn."

"I don't think the whole thing would be… relevant… in my case. I could… just look up the words I don't understand." A pause. "Body parts." WHY YES, FIRE, HIS LACK OF UNDERSTANDING IS THAT BASIC. That's the easiest place to start in responding to the woman who at this moment has offered no safe ground and so he does not turn his own still deep red face up from where his eyes are latched on his so interesting boots. They're brown. And kind of… boot shaped. They have some laces. Brown ones. "I hear you saying," his tone is even for all the awkward packed into this interaction, because at least he's good at checking his understanding about information received, "That it's not something I can learn from books, even if the books might help me grasp the mechanics better." He looks to her shoes. Are they interesting? It doesn't matter, he's looking back to his own. "I'm not looking for a prescription. Just knowledge." Not experience either. That's not for here. "Is there… anything else I should know before I… borrow those books?" And go die somewhere himself? Maybe in spite of their practical stranger status, if they both die of this interaction, given the intimate topic, they can be buried together.

"Ah," Fioreyla answers, without having the heart to tell Stefyr that medical texts often do not speak in layman's terms and risk insult. "It's a v-very good idea." But if the lack of basic knowledge is something she finds shocking, she doesn't show it. In fact, she just starts listing off VERY RANDOM FACTS FOR YOU, STEFYR. "W-well… the f-female internal r-reproductive organs are the v-vagina, uterus, fallopian tubes, and the o-ovaries. There is —" A breath, a long pause, and then, "Y-yes. I think the book is a v-very good idea." At last, her boots are not so interesting; they're standard issue and as unremarkable as the tiny woman within them, even if toes cross over each other and press towards the floor in another manifestation of nervous energy. "W-well…" Is that what she's saying? "Yes." Yes it is. And then she's silent, listening, watching Stefyr's hands much like he watches everywhere but her (and she watches the ceiling) because that's easier, easier than having to acknowledge a mutual discomfort over things that are perfectly natural. "It's…" But Fioreyla never finishes; she's on her feet and disappearing without so much as a word as to where she's gone, perhaps abandoning the guise of a CAPABLE HEALER AFTER ALL. Except, suddenly she's back, and those small hands are shaking as she hesitates and then holds out two books — a dictionary that looks complicated for MERELY EXISTING, and a book whose cover she's hiding with the dictionary. "It doesn't have to be p-perfect, but it will probably be better if it means something." And there, there's a muted smile, something that's less frantic panic beneath so much BLUSH. "It m-might help to… to talk to somebody that you trust." BUT IT'S DIFFERENT, STEFYR. FOR EVERYONE.

Stefyr could start repeating those words, start asking questions so he can put functions to labels, but the slight cringe of his shoulders probably speaks to either not wanting to inflict that new level of awkwardness (WHO KNEW THERE COULD BE GREATER ONES THAN THESE?) on himself, or possibly, really, on her. Her nerves cannot be lost on him, and he is trying so hard to be careful. He stands when she vanishes, blinking as though the world is suddenly coming back into some kind of focus that it lacked until then. When she brings the books back, he holds his hands out for them after a slightly daunted look at the top most. Maybe it will be Ajral next fielding his awkward questions about words he doesn't understand in the definitions, or maybe he'll just bother some poor harper for a more technical but less technical than this dictionary and leap frog between the different books to try to put together a picture of the whole. "Thank you, for these. My name is Stefyr, by the way. In case… anyone needs to know who has them. I'll bring them back." For that much, he can look at her. "What's your name?" It's a reasonable question, although perhaps unfortunate that names are coming this late in the game.

"You're welcome," comes maybe a little too soft, a little too frantic, and the moment that Stefyr's pulling those books into his possession and out of hers, Fioreyla is smoothing her palms down her robes, ridding herself of excess nerves. It's his name that finally, finally, draws those violet eyes up, that fixes her attention on blue and has the tiny woman shifting on the heels of her feet as lips part soft and maybe, for half of a fraction of a second, maybe gives the appearance that she didn't quite understand him. "I'm…" And then it comes, a smile despite the fact that her face is still a little flush, something shy but present as her gaze suddenly jumps again — up, towards the ceiling. "Fioreyla." But that's it; she's suddenly pitching forward into a bow, hands coming together and shoulders sinking as she lowers her head and dips her posture to him. "P-please come back if you have any questions, Stefyr." And now she's righting herself, already taking a clumsy step back and into that curtain that she's suddenly caught in and — squeak, flail, WHUMP — falling through. HOW DOES SHE EVEN EXIST? ONE DOESN'T KNOW. But she's offering a quick, "G-good luck!" before she gathers up ALL THAT'S LEFT OF HER DIGNITY and retreats. TO SAFETY. And that desk, where she definitely waits until Stefyr is gone to press her forehead against — under the guise of trying to see the words on this paper better, if anybody asks. JUST IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING.

He would have helped her, really he would. He's that kind of guy, but the time it took him to shuffle books from hands to crook of arm so he could start to sweep to one knee to assist her back up was too much time, so it's just a lunge dip and back up since she's already up and on her way (IT'S LIKE SHE DOES THIS A LOT, HM?). Stefyr might have left it there, but something must be lingering in his mind because he pauses at the desk, tapping fingertips lightly to the surface just to let her know he's there before he speaks, "Maybe… maybe what it would mean is just that someone I trusted helped me figure this out so I didn't make a mess of it. Maybe that would be enough." Because the concept of it meaning more in the way she meant… well, that whole concept might be as lost on him as this one is at the moment. Give the boy time. He'll grow! He doesn't linger and the word were for him, really, but he needed a witness, and that was her. HER LUCK IS STILL WITH HER. Who knows what else that luck will bring her today?

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