Belated aftercare
It is a summer evening, 18:14 of day 6, month 8, turn 22 of Interval 10.
Infirmary, Fort Weyr
The walls of this oval cavern have been smoothed, and white-washed and get regular cleaning from the way they gleam subtly on any given day. Cots line the walls and stand in aisles towards the back of the cavern, ready to serve human patients. At the far end of the cavern, a short passageway is blocked off by a curtain and leads into the central hub for the dragon infirmary. Several ground weyrs that face out onto the Bowl all exit on the inner side, into this hub which is well stocked for the treatment of dragon injuries and spacious enough to accomodate the smaller dragons.
Supplies are stored in various drawers and glass-fronted cabinets that display a myriad of the most commonly used items. A discreet door off to the side provides access to the still room where more sensitive items are also kept. A large sink with functional plumbing -- including hot and cold taps -- is located toward the southernmost corner.
Obvious exits:
Bowl Inner Caverns
The storm that hammered Fort all through the afternoon has trailed off into 'merely' rain, the sort that soaks fields and people alike. Dinner time tends to be quiet in the infirmary, with visitors heading off for meals and only a skeleton staff of healers left to handle the patients and any new walk-ins. Kai might be one of the latter as he ducks in from the bowl, utterly soaked with his clothes plastered to his skin. There's no obvious blood on the man, nor is he limping. Maybe he's got a raging headache?
Isandre is bustling about, left to her own devices by the lure of food. She doesn't seem to be miffed at the idea of taking a late dinner, however, a faintly pleased smile on her lips as she hums tunelessly, moving from cabinet to cabinet as she checks on supplies, pausing briefly to make mental note of anything running low. B'kaiv's entrance is not immediately noted - indeed, it's several moments before she turns in his direction and notices his presence. "Oh dear, aren't you the wet one?" she gasps, one hand fluttering to her chest.
Strands of fine tawny hair fall wild and untamed across her high, smooth forehead, the rest tucked under a sea-blue kerchief, neatly trimmed locks falling free to her shoulder blades. Her features are sharp and foxy, with high cheekbones and a short, sassily pointed chin. Her wide, tilted eyes are too large for her face, heavily lidded and framed by soft golden lashes, the irises a brilliant sea-green with no hint of blue or brown. Her lips are full and pouting, though the faint lines at the corners and the deep dimple in her left cheek suggest that smiling is hardly unknown to her. Her skin, a pale gold that no amount of sun seems to darken, is clear and unblemished. Short and pleasantly plump, there's an earthy lushness about her echoed in her sparkling gaze. Isandre appears to be perhaps a turn or two younger than her 21 turns of age.
A short sleeved, off-the shoulder blouse of bleached cotton drapes over Isandre's torso, clinging lightly to her ample curves, the scooped neck displaying only a hint of cleavage. The shirt is tucked into a wide-belled skirt dyed in variegated shades of purple, from pale lavender at the waist to rich violet at the hem. Ingeniously sewn pockets inside the skirt carry a variety of items without intruding on the overall fall of the fabric. A wide sash the same hue as her kerchief winds around her waist, the ends tucked under so as not to be an encumbrance. A pair of sandals adorns each dainty foot; the leather died a pale yellow, braided in an intricate knot that terminates at the ankle, with thin soles meant for minimal protection and support. Violet and white cords twine together in the single loop configuration of a Healer Journeyman, the long tail riding down her back. A thin braid in Fort Weyr's colors through the knot, announcing her posting.
B'kaiv does cough a couple of times, but more to clear his throat than try and catch anyone's attention, even that of the humming healer. He's halfway to one of the stools where new patients wait, leaving a wet path behind, when Isandre notices him; he promptly turns, gives her shoulder an eyeing, and spreads his hands ruefully. "S'raining. You got a towel?" A moment later he adds, "You busy? I got t' get some stitches out."
"Absolutely." Still cheerful, Isandre strides towards where lengths of toweling are kept and sweeps one up, then bustles over to the rider, handing it over. "Stitches, you say? How long have they been in for, hmm?" Even as she asks, she's turning away and heading towards the drawer where such impliments as might be used in the laying and removal of sutures are kept. "What did you do to yourself, anyway? You riders, you've certainly kept me hopping since I got here." Despite the words, her tone remains amused, even bubbly. Quite the happy natured healer, here.
B'kaiv says, "Uh," and has to stop to think, absently scratching his left arm. "Month ago? They itch," he adds with a shrug. "Think they was supposed t' come out a couple sevens ago, but I forgot." He takes the seat offered, pulling out of his sodden shirt and tossing it onto the floor. There, on his left arm just below the shoulder, is a scabby row of stitches, only a few forlorn threads marking their locations. "Got cut in a raid," he continues, entirely matter-of-fact. "Same one S'von got hurt."
"A month! You'd better hope the scar hasn't started to grow over the sutures, or we may need to reopen it a bit." Frowning now at B'kaiv, Isa approaches with a pair of oddly-shaped scissors in one hand, and some thin gauze in the other. "Oh yes. Now I remember you." She was, after all, called in to help with that aftermath. "You should have indeed been back sevendays ago. Serve you right if I have to cut out of you." Despite her words and her disapproving expression, there's a glitter of amusement in her green eyes, echoed in her voice. "Let's take a look, shall we?"
"--Shells," mutters the greenrider, resigned, and blows out his breath. "Yeah - you were th' one with S'von, ain't you? Don't think you seen my arm." Speaking of which, he cranes his head to look at it, rolling the shoulder forward and undoubtedly pulling on the slice. Bad patient. "I was gonna pull 'em myself, but Chielyth said as I had t' come in. Can't see them too good, and she said I was gonna cut myself worse."
Isandre places her supplies on a nearby table and swats lightly at his arm, carefully aiming away from the wound. "Stop that, you'll just make things worse. I hope at least you've been going easy on it. And she was right - nothing worse than a patient that takes it on himself to treat himself." Hmphing softly, she moves to another cabinet, returning with a pair of small jars - one filled with oil, the other the distinctive redwort, and a small bowl. "Have you noticed any pain, particularly stretching pain or piercing pain, in the wound?"
B'kaiv subsides, crooking half of a smile at her. "Least I didn't pop none of them this time?" /This/ time? "I been trying t' be good. Itches, though." So of course he has to scratch - though to his credit, he scratches /near/ the scabby mass, and not actually on it. "Uh... you mean like it got cut again? Nah. Don't hurt, just itches. B'kaiv," he adds belatedly, offering his uninjured hand. "Chielyth's my green."
B'kaiv tacks on, "Most people call me Kai, though."
Isandre's lips twitch slightly as she pours the redwort into the bowl, then thouroughly washes her hands in it, patting them dry on a strip of toweling, then covering them in oil. Leaning forward, she inspects the stitched cut carefully, poking at it with a gentle finger, and even sniffing at it. The offered hand is ignored, only because her own have already been primed, but she smiles sweetly at him. "Well met, B'kaiv, I'm Isandre. You can call me Isa though. Itching is good, by the bye," she adds, as she dips gauze in the bowl and begins to pat at the healing wound. "Means its healing right."
Perhaps, "Pretty name," is not what you want to say to the nice healer with the sharp pointy objects who is coming at your arm, but Kai says it anyway, his attention back down on his shoulder. Yup, still scabby! "Hey," he adds as belated greeting, watching the liquid gather before trickling toward his elbow. "If you got t' cut it open t' get the stitches out, that mean you got t' stitch it again?"
"I'm very fond of it, myself." Clearly, Isandre takes no exception to the compliment - indeed, her cheeks color becomingly, though her grin is just a touch wicked. "And no, not with any luck. I will have to dress it, and you'll have to keep it clean, but I shouldn't have to cut deep enough to have to restitch it." She pushes and prods at the wound with the gauze, her touch gentle, testing the depth of the scar. "I'm going to have to cut out some of these stitches. It will sting a bit, but you should barely feel it. Do you want me to use numbweed?" It's clear that, if she's asking, she doesn't expect it to cause him much pain.
"That's Chielyth," he adds, jerking his head to the suddenly-dark door where an inquisitive dragon's eye can be seen. Happily the entrance she's picked is not one of those large enough for dragons. "She just wants t' see." Perhaps dragon and rider have some further communication, for after another few seconds she snorts and retreats, allowing the gloomy evening light back in. "Huh?" Kai's attention snaps back to the healer. "Shells, no, don't need no numbweed. Long as you ain't trying t' shove th' blade through my arm I'll be a'right." Typical young-male testosterone-fueled boasting? Even if so, he doesn't back down, but keeps an eye on what she's doing.
Isandre chuckles deep in her throat. "Very well then," she replies, reaching down down to pick not the scissors from the bowl of redwort, but rather a scalpel. Patting it dry with a strip of clean gauze, she uses the tip to poke experimentally at several of the scar-covered sutures, then begins to delicately slice from right to left. The cut is very shallow and barely bleeds, just deep enough that she can slip the tip of the scalpel in and pull up the suture. Taking up the scissors in her other hand, she snips it, then uses the blunt tip to carefully extract the thread, dabbing at the wound with the redwort-soaked gauze. "Barely a scratch," she murmurs.
It's not /comfortable/, if Kai's scowling and occasional grunts are any indication, but he manages to hold mostly still and doesn't even cry - so no lollipop for him. "Been good," he repeats, watching with interest and flexing the muscle only when her scalpel is safely away. "Weren't even gonna have it looked at, 'cept th' Weyrleader said. It gonna scar, you think?"
"Well, the main wound will likely leave a scar, but the slices shouldn't add to it." Isandre carefully slices and cuts free two more sutures, then frees the rest without resorting to cutting them out. Once all the sutures are removed, she treats the entire thing with redwort again, then makes a pad of gauze, pressing it firmly to the wound and binding it with yet more gauze. Such a wonderful thing, gauze. So versatile. "It's a good thing you did, stitches left in can cause problems later, as they'll bind to the flesh and interfere with healing. And with you guys going *between*, that can cause other issues."
B'kaiv helps where he can, keeping the gauze in place while she binds it to his arm. Afterwards he makes a fist, testing, then nods. "Nah, I meant when I got it in th' first place. It were Chielyth as nagged me t' get them out." His crooked smile reappears for her confusion. "How long I got t' keep this on? Just a couple hours, couple days, what?"
After ensuring the bandage is on securely, Isandre begins to straighten up. "You can take it off tomorrow," the healer assures him as she begins to gather up the leavings from this little bit of surgery, carefully ensuring she gets everything. "It's just to make sure that nothing gets into the cuts I made tonight. I do have one more thing for you, however." After depositing the rubbish in the appropriate container, placing scalpel and scissors aside to be washed, and putting up the redwort and oil, she goes to a cabinet and returns with a tiny jar of pale salve. "You don't have to use this," she begins, "but if you put a little of this on the scar each night, it will keep it from tightening up and impeding movement. It's mostly lotion, with a tiny bit of numbweed in it to dull any residual pain."
"A'right," the greenrider grunts agreeably, and slides from his perch to collect his still-soggy shirt. He's halfway back into it, peeling clammy fabric from skin, when she returns, and pauses to accept the jar in one cupped palm. "Yeah? I just used Chielyth's oil on th' other one." He taps a finger on his right forearm though whatever scar or mark he's indicating is hidden. "This better, or what?" Suspiciously, "It don't smell?"
"What, have a problem with smelling like a female fair?" Isandre demands, lips twitching suspiciously. "Actually, it has a bit of a cinnamony smell, as cinnamon promotes new skin growth. Oil works fine, though, if you prefer. Mostly, it's the numbweed in this lotion that makes it better, and if you're manly enough not to worry about that, you can go on with your oil." Chuckling softly, she wipes her hands clean on a towel, then dips her fingers into the pouch at her belt, coming up with a small, cloth wrapped something. Offering it to him, she states, "Have some rock sugar candy, for being such a good boy and not crying." Oh yes, she's definately a playful one.
B'kaiv snorts at the tease, clearly amused, and weighs the jar in his hand for a moment before slipping it into a pocket. "A'right. Chielyth wants t' smell it." Of course that's why he took it. He's got one sleeve entirely on when she presents him with his present; he stares at it, then her, torn between confusion and laughter. "This got cinnamon in it too?" he wants to know, reaching for it before he stops. "Actually, can you hold that a minute? Got t' get my shirt on first." He probably could have just freed the injured arm, because now he's left trying to wrestle into a wet shirt, and he's got to keep the bandage dry, and... "Shells." He peels out of the shirt far faster than he managed to get into it, and wads the entire thing into a dripping ball which he promptly palms. /Now/ he can get his candy. "You give candy t' everyone as don't make no fuss?"
"Only the ones as deserve it," Isandre replies with a twinkle in her eyes as she takes the towel he used to dry off and offers it to him - along with the candy. "At least wrap that over your arm so you don't get your bandage wet going back to your weyr. Make sure you dry off thouroughly and change into something dry, and try to drink something warm. Tea if you can stomach it, klah if you simply must. It will help keep you from catching a chill." It's hard to tell if she's just being a healer - or motherly. Likely, both are much the same thing with the plump young woman. "And no, actually, though I do have cinnamon flavored ones back in my room. I tend towards citrus flavors for the Infirmary - children favor them."
B'kaiv dabs at the worst of the damp before flinging the towel over his shoulder and shaking his head at the healer. "Ain't going back up yet - gonna get something t' eat first. But I'll keep it dry. Ain't gonna get no chill, neither. Summer out there." He gestures vaguely at the bowl, more amused by her fussing than anything. "Thanks for your help, ma'am. Isa." Another nod and he heads for the innermost exit, shirt still marking his trail with drips and drops, though he lobs it into a laundry basket on his way out.
She's pretty nice. Dunno about the candy, but she ain't bad. Should probably get a towel from the springs, dry off a little before going to eat. Glad the storm stopped. Thought me and Hattie was gonna be up there all night.
Infirmary, Fort Weyr
The walls of this oval cavern have been smoothed, and white-washed and get regular cleaning from the way they gleam subtly on any given day. Cots line the walls and stand in aisles towards the back of the cavern, ready to serve human patients. At the far end of the cavern, a short passageway is blocked off by a curtain and leads into the central hub for the dragon infirmary. Several ground weyrs that face out onto the Bowl all exit on the inner side, into this hub which is well stocked for the treatment of dragon injuries and spacious enough to accomodate the smaller dragons.
Supplies are stored in various drawers and glass-fronted cabinets that display a myriad of the most commonly used items. A discreet door off to the side provides access to the still room where more sensitive items are also kept. A large sink with functional plumbing -- including hot and cold taps -- is located toward the southernmost corner.
Obvious exits:
Bowl Inner Caverns
The storm that hammered Fort all through the afternoon has trailed off into 'merely' rain, the sort that soaks fields and people alike. Dinner time tends to be quiet in the infirmary, with visitors heading off for meals and only a skeleton staff of healers left to handle the patients and any new walk-ins. Kai might be one of the latter as he ducks in from the bowl, utterly soaked with his clothes plastered to his skin. There's no obvious blood on the man, nor is he limping. Maybe he's got a raging headache?
Isandre is bustling about, left to her own devices by the lure of food. She doesn't seem to be miffed at the idea of taking a late dinner, however, a faintly pleased smile on her lips as she hums tunelessly, moving from cabinet to cabinet as she checks on supplies, pausing briefly to make mental note of anything running low. B'kaiv's entrance is not immediately noted - indeed, it's several moments before she turns in his direction and notices his presence. "Oh dear, aren't you the wet one?" she gasps, one hand fluttering to her chest.
Strands of fine tawny hair fall wild and untamed across her high, smooth forehead, the rest tucked under a sea-blue kerchief, neatly trimmed locks falling free to her shoulder blades. Her features are sharp and foxy, with high cheekbones and a short, sassily pointed chin. Her wide, tilted eyes are too large for her face, heavily lidded and framed by soft golden lashes, the irises a brilliant sea-green with no hint of blue or brown. Her lips are full and pouting, though the faint lines at the corners and the deep dimple in her left cheek suggest that smiling is hardly unknown to her. Her skin, a pale gold that no amount of sun seems to darken, is clear and unblemished. Short and pleasantly plump, there's an earthy lushness about her echoed in her sparkling gaze. Isandre appears to be perhaps a turn or two younger than her 21 turns of age.
A short sleeved, off-the shoulder blouse of bleached cotton drapes over Isandre's torso, clinging lightly to her ample curves, the scooped neck displaying only a hint of cleavage. The shirt is tucked into a wide-belled skirt dyed in variegated shades of purple, from pale lavender at the waist to rich violet at the hem. Ingeniously sewn pockets inside the skirt carry a variety of items without intruding on the overall fall of the fabric. A wide sash the same hue as her kerchief winds around her waist, the ends tucked under so as not to be an encumbrance. A pair of sandals adorns each dainty foot; the leather died a pale yellow, braided in an intricate knot that terminates at the ankle, with thin soles meant for minimal protection and support. Violet and white cords twine together in the single loop configuration of a Healer Journeyman, the long tail riding down her back. A thin braid in Fort Weyr's colors through the knot, announcing her posting.
B'kaiv does cough a couple of times, but more to clear his throat than try and catch anyone's attention, even that of the humming healer. He's halfway to one of the stools where new patients wait, leaving a wet path behind, when Isandre notices him; he promptly turns, gives her shoulder an eyeing, and spreads his hands ruefully. "S'raining. You got a towel?" A moment later he adds, "You busy? I got t' get some stitches out."
"Absolutely." Still cheerful, Isandre strides towards where lengths of toweling are kept and sweeps one up, then bustles over to the rider, handing it over. "Stitches, you say? How long have they been in for, hmm?" Even as she asks, she's turning away and heading towards the drawer where such impliments as might be used in the laying and removal of sutures are kept. "What did you do to yourself, anyway? You riders, you've certainly kept me hopping since I got here." Despite the words, her tone remains amused, even bubbly. Quite the happy natured healer, here.
B'kaiv says, "Uh," and has to stop to think, absently scratching his left arm. "Month ago? They itch," he adds with a shrug. "Think they was supposed t' come out a couple sevens ago, but I forgot." He takes the seat offered, pulling out of his sodden shirt and tossing it onto the floor. There, on his left arm just below the shoulder, is a scabby row of stitches, only a few forlorn threads marking their locations. "Got cut in a raid," he continues, entirely matter-of-fact. "Same one S'von got hurt."
"A month! You'd better hope the scar hasn't started to grow over the sutures, or we may need to reopen it a bit." Frowning now at B'kaiv, Isa approaches with a pair of oddly-shaped scissors in one hand, and some thin gauze in the other. "Oh yes. Now I remember you." She was, after all, called in to help with that aftermath. "You should have indeed been back sevendays ago. Serve you right if I have to cut out of you." Despite her words and her disapproving expression, there's a glitter of amusement in her green eyes, echoed in her voice. "Let's take a look, shall we?"
"--Shells," mutters the greenrider, resigned, and blows out his breath. "Yeah - you were th' one with S'von, ain't you? Don't think you seen my arm." Speaking of which, he cranes his head to look at it, rolling the shoulder forward and undoubtedly pulling on the slice. Bad patient. "I was gonna pull 'em myself, but Chielyth said as I had t' come in. Can't see them too good, and she said I was gonna cut myself worse."
Isandre places her supplies on a nearby table and swats lightly at his arm, carefully aiming away from the wound. "Stop that, you'll just make things worse. I hope at least you've been going easy on it. And she was right - nothing worse than a patient that takes it on himself to treat himself." Hmphing softly, she moves to another cabinet, returning with a pair of small jars - one filled with oil, the other the distinctive redwort, and a small bowl. "Have you noticed any pain, particularly stretching pain or piercing pain, in the wound?"
B'kaiv subsides, crooking half of a smile at her. "Least I didn't pop none of them this time?" /This/ time? "I been trying t' be good. Itches, though." So of course he has to scratch - though to his credit, he scratches /near/ the scabby mass, and not actually on it. "Uh... you mean like it got cut again? Nah. Don't hurt, just itches. B'kaiv," he adds belatedly, offering his uninjured hand. "Chielyth's my green."
B'kaiv tacks on, "Most people call me Kai, though."
Isandre's lips twitch slightly as she pours the redwort into the bowl, then thouroughly washes her hands in it, patting them dry on a strip of toweling, then covering them in oil. Leaning forward, she inspects the stitched cut carefully, poking at it with a gentle finger, and even sniffing at it. The offered hand is ignored, only because her own have already been primed, but she smiles sweetly at him. "Well met, B'kaiv, I'm Isandre. You can call me Isa though. Itching is good, by the bye," she adds, as she dips gauze in the bowl and begins to pat at the healing wound. "Means its healing right."
Perhaps, "Pretty name," is not what you want to say to the nice healer with the sharp pointy objects who is coming at your arm, but Kai says it anyway, his attention back down on his shoulder. Yup, still scabby! "Hey," he adds as belated greeting, watching the liquid gather before trickling toward his elbow. "If you got t' cut it open t' get the stitches out, that mean you got t' stitch it again?"
"I'm very fond of it, myself." Clearly, Isandre takes no exception to the compliment - indeed, her cheeks color becomingly, though her grin is just a touch wicked. "And no, not with any luck. I will have to dress it, and you'll have to keep it clean, but I shouldn't have to cut deep enough to have to restitch it." She pushes and prods at the wound with the gauze, her touch gentle, testing the depth of the scar. "I'm going to have to cut out some of these stitches. It will sting a bit, but you should barely feel it. Do you want me to use numbweed?" It's clear that, if she's asking, she doesn't expect it to cause him much pain.
"That's Chielyth," he adds, jerking his head to the suddenly-dark door where an inquisitive dragon's eye can be seen. Happily the entrance she's picked is not one of those large enough for dragons. "She just wants t' see." Perhaps dragon and rider have some further communication, for after another few seconds she snorts and retreats, allowing the gloomy evening light back in. "Huh?" Kai's attention snaps back to the healer. "Shells, no, don't need no numbweed. Long as you ain't trying t' shove th' blade through my arm I'll be a'right." Typical young-male testosterone-fueled boasting? Even if so, he doesn't back down, but keeps an eye on what she's doing.
Isandre chuckles deep in her throat. "Very well then," she replies, reaching down down to pick not the scissors from the bowl of redwort, but rather a scalpel. Patting it dry with a strip of clean gauze, she uses the tip to poke experimentally at several of the scar-covered sutures, then begins to delicately slice from right to left. The cut is very shallow and barely bleeds, just deep enough that she can slip the tip of the scalpel in and pull up the suture. Taking up the scissors in her other hand, she snips it, then uses the blunt tip to carefully extract the thread, dabbing at the wound with the redwort-soaked gauze. "Barely a scratch," she murmurs.
It's not /comfortable/, if Kai's scowling and occasional grunts are any indication, but he manages to hold mostly still and doesn't even cry - so no lollipop for him. "Been good," he repeats, watching with interest and flexing the muscle only when her scalpel is safely away. "Weren't even gonna have it looked at, 'cept th' Weyrleader said. It gonna scar, you think?"
"Well, the main wound will likely leave a scar, but the slices shouldn't add to it." Isandre carefully slices and cuts free two more sutures, then frees the rest without resorting to cutting them out. Once all the sutures are removed, she treats the entire thing with redwort again, then makes a pad of gauze, pressing it firmly to the wound and binding it with yet more gauze. Such a wonderful thing, gauze. So versatile. "It's a good thing you did, stitches left in can cause problems later, as they'll bind to the flesh and interfere with healing. And with you guys going *between*, that can cause other issues."
B'kaiv helps where he can, keeping the gauze in place while she binds it to his arm. Afterwards he makes a fist, testing, then nods. "Nah, I meant when I got it in th' first place. It were Chielyth as nagged me t' get them out." His crooked smile reappears for her confusion. "How long I got t' keep this on? Just a couple hours, couple days, what?"
After ensuring the bandage is on securely, Isandre begins to straighten up. "You can take it off tomorrow," the healer assures him as she begins to gather up the leavings from this little bit of surgery, carefully ensuring she gets everything. "It's just to make sure that nothing gets into the cuts I made tonight. I do have one more thing for you, however." After depositing the rubbish in the appropriate container, placing scalpel and scissors aside to be washed, and putting up the redwort and oil, she goes to a cabinet and returns with a tiny jar of pale salve. "You don't have to use this," she begins, "but if you put a little of this on the scar each night, it will keep it from tightening up and impeding movement. It's mostly lotion, with a tiny bit of numbweed in it to dull any residual pain."
"A'right," the greenrider grunts agreeably, and slides from his perch to collect his still-soggy shirt. He's halfway back into it, peeling clammy fabric from skin, when she returns, and pauses to accept the jar in one cupped palm. "Yeah? I just used Chielyth's oil on th' other one." He taps a finger on his right forearm though whatever scar or mark he's indicating is hidden. "This better, or what?" Suspiciously, "It don't smell?"
"What, have a problem with smelling like a female fair?" Isandre demands, lips twitching suspiciously. "Actually, it has a bit of a cinnamony smell, as cinnamon promotes new skin growth. Oil works fine, though, if you prefer. Mostly, it's the numbweed in this lotion that makes it better, and if you're manly enough not to worry about that, you can go on with your oil." Chuckling softly, she wipes her hands clean on a towel, then dips her fingers into the pouch at her belt, coming up with a small, cloth wrapped something. Offering it to him, she states, "Have some rock sugar candy, for being such a good boy and not crying." Oh yes, she's definately a playful one.
B'kaiv snorts at the tease, clearly amused, and weighs the jar in his hand for a moment before slipping it into a pocket. "A'right. Chielyth wants t' smell it." Of course that's why he took it. He's got one sleeve entirely on when she presents him with his present; he stares at it, then her, torn between confusion and laughter. "This got cinnamon in it too?" he wants to know, reaching for it before he stops. "Actually, can you hold that a minute? Got t' get my shirt on first." He probably could have just freed the injured arm, because now he's left trying to wrestle into a wet shirt, and he's got to keep the bandage dry, and... "Shells." He peels out of the shirt far faster than he managed to get into it, and wads the entire thing into a dripping ball which he promptly palms. /Now/ he can get his candy. "You give candy t' everyone as don't make no fuss?"
"Only the ones as deserve it," Isandre replies with a twinkle in her eyes as she takes the towel he used to dry off and offers it to him - along with the candy. "At least wrap that over your arm so you don't get your bandage wet going back to your weyr. Make sure you dry off thouroughly and change into something dry, and try to drink something warm. Tea if you can stomach it, klah if you simply must. It will help keep you from catching a chill." It's hard to tell if she's just being a healer - or motherly. Likely, both are much the same thing with the plump young woman. "And no, actually, though I do have cinnamon flavored ones back in my room. I tend towards citrus flavors for the Infirmary - children favor them."
B'kaiv dabs at the worst of the damp before flinging the towel over his shoulder and shaking his head at the healer. "Ain't going back up yet - gonna get something t' eat first. But I'll keep it dry. Ain't gonna get no chill, neither. Summer out there." He gestures vaguely at the bowl, more amused by her fussing than anything. "Thanks for your help, ma'am. Isa." Another nod and he heads for the innermost exit, shirt still marking his trail with drips and drops, though he lobs it into a laundry basket on his way out.
She's pretty nice. Dunno about the candy, but she ain't bad. Should probably get a towel from the springs, dry off a little before going to eat. Glad the storm stopped. Thought me and Hattie was gonna be up there all night.