Silly Girl!

Xanadu Weyr - Infirmary


The infirmary here is intended for human care. It is spotless and smells of disinfectant, cots are lined up against one wall, a curtain can be pulled to give some privacy to the occupants of the cots if they so desire. A cabinet stands off against another wall, instruments and medications stored against when they will be needed. A couple of curtained off beds are used for examinations of patients and the treatment of minor injuries which won't require long term care. A desk with chair is just off of the doorway for the healer to sit and catch up on record keeping after a long days work.

The day has gone, as have three others since two healers were found in the wake of the Bull's Rampage. Floodwaters now threaten the world in stark, unyielding contrast to the flames, the ultimate testament to nature's sense of macabre irony. And yet, despite the rising levels of rainwater, the threat seems somehow less; doubly so when weighted against the bandaged body that lays in Xanadu's Infirmary. Now, as the night shift settles into its work and the day patients begin their slow retreat to weyrs and homes, an ancient healer slowly dials back the sedative on the drip attached to the small woman asleep beside her.

Phylicia hasn't really spent much time in the Land of the Conscious, if any at all. Though if she has, none of it has been worth any sort of intelligent conversation, even if she were able to hold a conversation, which would probably be quite a strain on her. If the ancient woman fiddling with her dials was looking for an immediate reaction, she'd be disappointed though the young woman does actually manage to stir slightly, her first natural reaction is to try and stretch. But within the first inch of movement her body reminds her through the haze of sedatives that it is in pain, pulling a small and feeble noise from the apprentice.

Through that haze, an old voice, solid as a mountain of iron amidst a sea of sensation, reaches out to her. "No sudden moves now, girl," the healer called Fraille grumbles, her voice somewhat less 'gentle' and more 'not awful'. "Just changed your dressings, and I'd be a bit put out of I had to do it again so soon." There's the grating of wood on a cold floor before the vision of Fraille stands next to her, face even and passive, as always. "In a moment, I'm going to put a straw up to your lips. It's water, mixed with medicine for your throat. And before you even think about it, don't speak until you've taken at least two good sips. Nod your head -slowly- if you understand me." And with that, a plastic straw is touched to Phylicia's lips.

It takes a few long moments for Fraille's words to penetrate into Phylicia's drugged reality, but when the words sink in, it actually shows more in her eyes as she moves her head as minimally as possible in a single nod, pain easily starting to mask the understanding as she wraps her lips around the straw and sucks, though she doesn't get to the second sip yet as swallowing brings about a whole new world of pain. But she doesn't give up so easy as she forces herself to take another sip shortly after. "What..?" She manages to rasp out, her voice sounding much like someone put a pond full of frogs and a bag of gravel into her throat. But she doesn't ask anything else, or try to stammer a sentence out.

"Yes," Fraille murmurs, leaning in close. "What, indeed." For a moment, she simply looks the girl over like a cadaver before continuing. "There was a fire, silly girl. And while I'm not certain why, you chose to wander into the middle of it, out in the deep woods. There are several of us that have a pool going as to exactly what could have possibly persuaded you to make such a choice, but we're all patient people. That answer can wait." She turns slightly and legs a chair over, sitting down. "You were caught in the blaze. A rather spectacular forest fire that, I suspect, was not entirely natural in its causes. You're fortunate to be alive." A gnarled hand is held up, and in it is a ragged piece of hide. It might take her a moment, but all too soon, she'll recognize it as the burnt, blasted remains of a hood, made of hide. It's been almost completely worn away with burns and scorch marks on the right side, and several ugly patches of dried liquid suggest that fire wasn't the only thing that touched it.

Phylicia isn't in any shape or form to argue with how Fraille is looking at her, especially as her brain tries to stir after being kept in a drugged stupor for four days. Small facial flinches of brows trying to furrow or a frown trying to form are a few of the notices that she's starting to become at least slightly aware. But when the Master healer holds up that scrap of hide, and what it is penetrates her skull, her eyes widen in fear that eclipses the pain. Instead of eyes darting around frantically, she just locks onto Fraille. "Where?" That one word isn't drawled, or as strained as her only othered murmured word. "Bad?" And if Fraille isn't careful, Phy /will/ try to sit up and look, if her questions go unanswered.

Master Fraille only shrugs, lowering the battered piece of cloth. "Something in the sedative didn't set right with him, and he was half-mad when we finally woke him up. It took three people to hold him down before he finally realized where he was." Her eyes stray to the door. "He slept for another day and a half on his own after that before he insisted on leaving. One of the healers took him to his room, and as far as I know, he's still there." She smiles slightly, making her face look crooked. "He insisted on trying to go out into the storm to collect better medicine for the two of you before he finally realized that I had brought my own." She almost looks a little smug. "As if he could get anywhere with his arm the way it is. Damn thing's useless right now." Then Phylicia's other question registers and Fraille shakes her head. "You? Yes. You could be worse, but not by much. You've got high second degree burns over 25 percent of your body, and your lungs and throat were scorched by the air. The burns will take several weeks to heal, assuming you don't get an infection, and your lungs may take a few months. But don't worry." She smiles a crocodillian smile. "You'll be back to doing stupid things in no time."

Phylicia isn't entirely sure if she likes Fraille better grim-faced or smiling at her like a predator looks at its next meal. She listens as intently as she can manage, willing the words to make sense in her pain-addled head. "He bad?" She prompts once more. Apparently the first time she asked, it wasn't meant to be about herself. But as she listens to Fraille's reports of her injuries, she lets herself 'relax' into the embrace of the bed and pillow, that small tense and release constricting her throat for a moment, sending her into the first of what will amount to be many coughing fits, where she can't seem to stop herself, her throat constricting in protest also disliking the dry coughs that tear at it.

Master Fraille rolls her eyes. "He waded through a fire storm to get to your body, child. You don't do that and come out of it 'Good'. As to the extent of his injuries, you know very well that we don't discuss other patients' files without their permission." She offers the straw up to Phylicia's lips again. "Resist long enough to take another drink, and the fit will subside," she offers clinically. The fit apparently doesn't concern her much.

Phylicia isn't making any attempt to mask the feelings that pass through her eyes, those chocolate brown irises being one of her best ways of communicating currently. And even as her throat is trying to close the passage way to her lungs, guilt then disappointment and finally frustration slide through her eyes. Finally she manages to catch a breath and hold it, forcing the coughing to stop before she obediently takes another sip of whatever medicine is mixed in with the water. Phy manages to take another two sips before she lets herself go more carefully into the embrace of the bed this time, even as she breathes heavily, almost rasping for that lost breath as she tries to think of a way to figure out the state of her friend who came to her rescue. However, pain is a wonderful thought deterrant, and it always seems to cut her extremely short.

Master Fraille's expression is at least partially amused as she watches Phylicia's facial expressions. "He takes a perfectly sensible little girl out into the woods and starts to turn her into himself," she marvels quietly. "The two of you are more alike than you realize, child. So very alike…" She shakes her head slowly. "Close your eyes and rest. You're stable enough to sleep without medicine now, and you'll want your strength about you when they begin changing your dressings tomorrow. This, I promise you." She stands slowly. "You'll probably be out of bed in another day, two tops, I should think, but still under close observation. Infection will still kill you, child. Remember that."

Phylicia however, is sensible enough to stay within easy reach of the infirmary, even if she may be allowed to wander out of bed, should her strength allow it. Although mark her as absent, should her father get wind of this and come visit again. While Fraille watches Phy, Phy also watches Fraille, slight confusion crawling into her gaze before she actually does comply, her head twitching in another minimal nod. She may not be heavily sedated any more, but exhaustion isn't picky about when it drags people back down into slumber and that is exactly what it does to the young lady within a few moments.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 License