Fort Weyr

Fort Weyr - Central Infirmary
This room looks fairly similar to most other infirmaries, with it's faint scent of antiseptic and an eerie quiet that goes along with convalescence. Rows of cots line both walls, each separated by a privacy screen. Breaking the line of cots along the outside wall is a entrance to the dragonhealing section of the infirmary. The far end of the oval room is filled with metal cabinets that hold the tools of the Weyrhealers trade, as well as a desk from which the healer can supervise his domain. Upon one wall rests a thick 'chart' containing the information on all patients within the infirmary.

Winter, the worst thing to happen in Fort Weyr since last winter. Three days of snowfall have blanketed the ground, with the cooler weather comes an uptick in illnesses as people spend more time in confined spaces spreading germs. Early morning and any noise in the Weyr is dampened by the white doom covering every surface. The sun has barely risen when a man at least 30 turns old, 6'4, a face-covering dark brown beard, and the shoulder knot of a Journeyman Beastcrafter comes in carrying something or someone wrapped up tight like a burrito in a green blanket. The man places his bundle upright in a chair, and checks in at reception before saying, "This is for your own good, your sister would tan me if I let anything happen to you." Oddisa, all wrapped up in her blanket, hoarsely spits out, "Ma sistaah." That's as much as she gets out before losing what's left of her voice. The tiny beastcraft girl is shivering, face bright red and flushed, and her ordinarily tan face is washed gray color. She probably needed to see a healer for a long while.

Winter is definitely full of woe. Especially when you happen to be commuting between Fort and Igen. And while the desert can get cold (down right freezing) at night, the days are still blisteringly warm. It would make anyone grumpy and makes K'zre doubly-so. But he is here, doing his duty, stony-faced and mostly silent, and only somewhat interested in the coming and going of weyrfolk… until that blanket-wrapped bundle is plunked down in his infirmary. He doesn't need to be told. He can see her and, more importantly, he can totally hear her, too. He waves away the apprentice come to fetch him, sending them off to ready a space with a few terse, murmured commands, and approaches the blanket-that-is-Oddisa. "Can you walk?" This is how he greets her. Not with a hello. Not with a 'how are you' (because he can damn well see that she is NOT FINE THANKS). But with a question of utmost importance because, "I can carry you," is the next option.

Settled in a seat she nearly drifts off, eyes closing and then opening with a jolt and startle as K'zre is talking to her and shes groans and shakes her head. "I-uhh." Nope, out of words entirely, she stands up with a waver of dizziness and hrmphs, crossing her arms tightly over her chest and gathering the edge of the blanket so she can attempt a waddle. "I uhh am fuhine" Is forced out with a crack, the whispy sound escaping as she starts to cough. Even though she's 'fine', she pulls herself close to K'zre, eyes closing tightly and taking a deep breath that ends in a coughing fit. "Qu-ick fix." Blue eyes look at him, it's a mix of sad and ridiculous with the blanket over her head like a hood. "Ahh." Nope out of words, she shakes her head, and one of her hands scrambles around until a crumpled scrap of paper and a writing utensil are in one hand. Necessity being the mother of invention. After two steps, a hand will appear out of the blanket to hold onto K'zre for balance. Poor thing is really sick, somehow it makes her look tinier and more child like.

K'zre has no clever comment for that (mostly because he's K'zre) but he does offer a rather hearty snort to go along with his observation that, "You are very obviously not fine." And while there's certainly some concern for her condition, K'zre has been Healer long enough to keep that from showing on his face, even if he's analyzing as much as he can see of her to try and find the source. When she stands, he's quick to slide into her side, an arm around her for support, because even he can see that she's unstable on her feet. "Come on," he encourages, urging her toward the nearest cot. "Quick fix?" he repeats, his voice some mix of incredulous and outrage. "If you wanted a quick fix, you'd have come at the first sign of illness." He won't go on to say that she looks like she's dying because that might be too scary, but he'll definitely scowl and say, "You're going nowhere for days, Odi. You don't look good at all." He helps her onto the cot, pulling the curtain closed for some privacy, then turns to get a better look at her. "Symptoms?" he asks, even as he turns to rinse his hands with redwort and go for his stethoscope.

Oddisa leaning into K'zre for support, the fever warmth seeping through her blankets. Planting herself on the cot, she puts her legs up and balls up around her knees on her side. "Days?" She croaks out, shaking her head with eyes tightly closed. Peeling open one eye, the paper is used as she scribbles the words, Cough- 3 days, fever- day, tired- 4, cold- 7. Writing all of it down in sloppy scribbling, she holds it out to K'zre. "Jus' a touch of somethin'" There are a few things healers look for when a patient is actually il, mostly the fact that the ordinarily vivacious Oddisa is content to lay perfectly still. The slight crinkling sound to her breathing, and lack of color in her skin, showing that the poor thing is really ill. "Kep' thinkin, maybe go away." The fact that she should have abandoned that idea the moment she got the cough. After several moments of laying still, she sits up, breathing a bit easier when upright. "You can fix it, right?" As if the idea that people actually do die from sickness is only now dawning on her. There's a trace of fear in her tired face, eyes widening.

"This is far more than 'a touch' of anything," corrects K'zre, who is trying not to be cross but can't really help it. Not when she's determined to be stubborn about something that might kill her. But lectures will come later, after he's (hopefully) cured her and ensured her survival. So instead there's a bit of hustling around, more terse commands issued to apprentices that they, amazingly, seem to understand despite the cryptic nature of it all, and he turns back around to peer at her paper. "You should have come in when it was a cough," he chides, sticking the buds of his stethoscope in his ear. "Then it probably would have been a quick fix." A frown, and he adds, "I intend to try," for that question about fixing it. And with that, he's reaching forward (with a murmured apology and explanation about what he is about to do before he does it) and pressing the drum of his stethoscope to the top of her chest for a listen. He won't ask her to breathe deep, and after listening to a few places for a few seconds, he's pulling it away and looping it around his neck again. "You have some fluid in your lungs. And obviously a high fever." Obviously. "Which I am going to try and bring down. But you will have to stay here for a few days, Odi. This is serious," he states firmly. Not that he believes she's about to argue with him, which might be the most concerning thing of all. "I've an apprentice coming with some tea. It won't taste great, but it will help your fever. We'll get something going for the cough. Do you feel any nausea? Have you thrown up at all?"

Curling the blankets tightly around herself with a shiver, she leans her head against her knees and groans, feeling too crumby to protest further. The stethoscope making contact with her warm skin provokes a shiver with a quiet whine of protest before she's back to being still. "Sorry." It's probably the first time she's ever said that word to him, a word she rarely feels the need to say. "Not hungry." Is her response to his question, a deep sigh of tired as she starts to drift off and then startle awake. The paper is turned over, and she hastily scratches out the words, - Can you send a firelizard to my ma? Zoniya, Xanadu Weyr, Dragonhealer.- As much as she's living on her own in Fort Weyr, learning her craft and being as grown up as she can manage, she's still only 15, and this might be the first major illness in her entire life. The request softens her, with all her bravado and capability in the barn this side of Odi is different. "Drink whatever." There's a slight whine, blankets from the bottom of the cot being pulled up with a shiver, and she scoots back. "Don't be-" cough, breath, cough, "grouchy all day cuz of me."The slightest upturn of her lips and wrinkle to her nose. The first glimmer that she's still got a bit of play in her.

"Not what I asked," points out K'zre. But he'll take that lack of hunger to mean she's not been nauseous. "I'll have them put something in your tea to soothe your throat, too," he promises. "Why don't you lay down?" he suggests, rather politely given his typical demeanor and totally scowling expression. "Before you fall over." And there it is. But the request to send a firelizard to her mother gives him pause, an unreadable emotion flashing in his eyes, before he simply gives a curt nod and assures her that, "I can do that." And he will, too. Because K'zre does not make promises he can't keep. Rest assured, the moment he's free, he'll be sending his most trustworthy firelizard to Xanadu with that note, however shocking it might be to Oddisa's mother. When the tea arrives, he takes it in hand, testing the temperature with a wrap of his fingers around the porcelain, and offers it over. "Sip slowly. Stop if you feel like you're going to throw up."

All of the scowling isn't missed, Oddisa regaining a tiny amount of energy and scooting herself up the cot, looking down at her knees in shame. "She hates snow." Oddisa groans, as if out of all of the things that might upset her mother about this situation, it's the weather. At the prompt to lay down, there's some rearrangement of blankets, tucking the covers close to tiny feet and layering herself in so that she can achieve maximum warmth. Leaning back on the cot, she reaches out for the tea, sniffing it with her stuffy nose and scowling herself. "Is it too late-" Cough, hack, "choose death?" The slight joke probably only funny to her. The tea is sipped, though every sip gets its own scrunched up, disgusted facial expression. It only takes a few sips for her voice to improve, possibly a bit dehydrated from fever. "Do you put the dead people in the tea?" Another two sips, though, and the soothing effect has her shutting up. When the tea is fully consumed, she'll close her eyes and go to sleep, at least she's not arguing about staying in the infirmary. Yet.

Maximum warmth will definitely be achieved. K'zre might come off as cold and calculating, but there's a deep compassion and concern under all that frowning. He fusses with the blankets as well, tucking them here and there and making sure they cover her properly (and will likely bring another, just in case). "I don't think she'll care about the snow," he chides, more as commentary than reassurance. Particularly when it's jokes about death that come. K'zre might be debating an answer, lips pressed into a firm scowl, but he ultimately decides to let it go, only offering an exasperated sounding sigh for the tease about his tea. "Drink it," comes without amusement, though he foregoes crossing his arms (because that would just be a little *too* childish for him). But he stays till she's sleeping, tucking another blanket around her and issuing orders to the apprentices before leaving her to sleep. No doubt there will be several check-in's and, upon waking, more tea and remedies to consume.