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 Weyrhealer’s 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.


Guards, guards, guards — well, okay, no. Guards, plural, although one is a deliver and go and one is staying; the one who stays says, "No — for Faranth's sake, I've got it, I'll be fine, look, here's the infirmary I'm not going to run away—" while the other one eyes him skeptically, but disappears back from whence he came. Staying-guard is: in-uniform, but scuffed up and battered and pale under a shock of blonde hair, with a folded cloth jammed up against his hairline to staunch the blood that keeps trying to make his headwound seem worse than it is. (Of course, he's also got his other arm crammed tight against himself, and carefully, so there's probably-a-something going on there, too). Alister clears his throat at the entry and pulls the cloth away from his head to flag down a healer, then jams it back in place as its removal results in another well of blood and a, "Son of a wher," from the guard himself. Hi.

Oh, head wounds. They bleed. They bleed so much. And all they really want you to do is remember that they are bleeding, and maybe suffer a little bit of pain. The infirmary is thankfully very quiet; there's that ubiquitous person who always seems to be sleeping, and apprentices hanging around doing some apprenticing working on paperwork, and then the Weyrhealer. Mirinda descends upon Alister with a furrowed brow and a wave of a hand toward an exam space for him to sit at, as well as a glass of water that she is not handing him. "I think you need a hand free, for now," she says with a small smile as she continues her beckoning, "so I won't offer a drink right just this second, why don't you have a seat and tell me what happened?" A wher was hopefully not involved.

It wasn't fish, either, for which Alister is still eternally grateful. "Broke up a fight," he explains, eying the glass of water a little bit covetously. "Which would have been fine, if I hadn't also managed to skid on an ice slick buried under some snow while wrangling one of the perps into the brig to sleep it off," oh, one of those kind of fights, "and, well—," he shrugged, spread-handed and — wincing and going greeny-pale. "Ugh."

"Of course." Mirinda is very used to the series of injuries that can be inflicted by hidden ice, and a fall brought on by one or an impalement by one are the two most common. This actually kind of looks like a little bit of both, and she purses her lips together for half a second before nodding and offering him the water. "Okay, I'll take over on that," though she isn't actually trying to take over the compressing directly, or peering too closely at the arm — yet, "and you can have this instead of trying to staunch your own bleeding."

Alister starts to reach for the water with his 'free' hand — and aborts that idea fairly quickly, tucking it back against himself and tipping his head back so that the compress will hopefully stay mostly in place while he grabs for the water. His hand is kind of grody — there's scuffle-dirt and some bruising across his knuckles and blood from the headwound now mostly dry and kind of flaking. "Good idea," he says through slightly gritted teeth, then sighs and points out, out loud, "Ordinarily I'd say my dignity got the worst of it, but I think that might not actually be true this time."

"Mm, I'm — not convinced," Mirinda agrees, and once she is free of her water offering she is gloved and wearing a small lamp affixed to her head. Yes, that is a lamp, and yes, it is on, but no, it isn't so bright as to hurt his face as she moves the homegrown compress out of the way to inspect the actual wound. Some of the inspection involves touching, sorry — except the touching is with briskly applied numbweed, so it's only a momentary sorry. "I think your head may've gotten the worst of it, though I haven't looked at the arm yet. Good news is this won't need more than a couple of stitches." Which is not what she's immediately moving to do; giving him time to numb, presumably. She switches to clean bandages in order to hold pressure on the bleeding while she keeps on with the asking, "Can you move it at all, your other arm?"

Alister endures the touching with an appropriate amount of wincing but a minimum of flinching away — this clearly isn't his first rodeo. Her question gets a laugh, though, short-sharp because of ow more than by its usual nature. "Oh I can move it. I just sure which I hadn't every time I do."

"That's a good sign." The Weyrhealer pauses in her ministration of cleaning his head wound, which at least now he shouldn't be able to feel much of anything at all — just some pressure, which she disclaims before it happens — and squints at his arm again. And then at his face. "Do you want me to stitch this up now, or examine that first? It might be that getting it in a neutral position will relieve the distress, I'll just have to figure out what the neutral position is." Which isn't likely to be pleasant.

"I'm fine so long as I'm not trying to move it," for a stubborn twenty-something guard's version of fine, at least, "so stitch me up first? I'd rather not — start bleeding again. While you're — doing your healer thing to my arm." Alister squints at Mirinda, a little lopsided because of her current area of attentions. "I wouldn't want it to bust open again if anything went sideways." You know, like if he were to imitate someone else and pass out in a manly fashion due to her manipulations.

Everyone would, of course, believe him, because people who pass out in a manly fashion do not faint. Mirinda would have his back if such not-fainting were to occur, but it's not at all likely. "All right, if you're comfortable like that — or, no, maybe you'd like to lean back?" The bed-table he's sitting on does actually have a back, so if he wants to swing around and scoot all the way backward, that's an option. It isn't one she is particularly endorsing or discouraging so much as simply pointing out.

Alister considers it. It's all over his face, that he considers it, it really is — but then he shakes his head, gingerly. "No," he assures her, with an attempt at a rakish smile that would probably be more charming if he were slightly less disreputable-looking at the moment, "just do it, I'll be fine." Still same definition of fine.

At least it's only two stitches. The worst part is the anticipatory pause when Mirinda moves away to put supplies together; sutures and their attached hook, a basin of antiseptic water, a new glove for one of her hands. That's actually the worst part by far, since the numbness holds, so there's really only, "A little more pressure," she says, and then — one stitch, two stitch, all closed up. "Now," the healer continues in her most gentle, soothing voice, the one that creepily works to even have the burliest, angriest bronzeriders calm in her presence (and that's why she has this job), "I'm just going to bandage this up. I'll want you to come back in a couple days for me to change the dressing." See? Stitches all done already.

"Nhh," is more like an exhalation than a grunt, in time with that last stitch. "Couple of days," he turns it into, "right, I can do that. Anything else? You need me to get this off?" He picks at the hem of his uniform shirt to indicate what, exactly, he's offering, although he doesn't look like he'll enjoy it.

Mirinda appears to be considering it for a second or two, and then shakes her head. "Not yet," is what she decides on. "I might still, but I can do my best without, I think it might be more uncomfortable than I need to put you through." Between the fact that his arm is straight and he's not curled up into a ball of agony, her inspections are more around the shoulder than the arm. "I'll just palpate from outside at first," she says, and that's what she does; gentle-but-firm pressing around the shoulder, hunting for poor reactions and things that don't feel quite right.

There may be some arm involvement itself, but it's around the collarbone that Alister yelps and turns a little green and goes, "Wher's balls," out loud and doesn't bother to apologize for it. He's busy scrunching his entire damn face up.

"— right." That confirms Mirinda's suspicions based on how he was moving, whether it's the verbal outburst or what she feels underneath her hands. Whatever it is that she felt, though, comes with another apology-warning of, "This is going to be a bit worse, hang on, breathe deep," and then before he gets a chance to psych himself up, she sets the break swiftly in one solid motion. The collarbone, previously displaced, is now properly lined up, and Mirinda looks guilty. "And now before I reposition and sling up your arm I'm going to get you an oral painkiller, hm?"

Alister is so busy breathing in that the abrupt desire to breathe out gets all tangled up with it, and there's a moment of blessed silence in which he is doing neither and the grinding scrape of bone against bone as the break is set is loud within it. (Or maybe that's just him. Hearing, feeling, they're sometimes difficult to tell apart.) "Ffffffffffnghagh," he finally lets out, ending in a wheeze. "Yes. Okay. Good. Do that."

Whatever it is she’s giving him, Mirinda actually takes longer than a few seconds to collect it; that must mean she’s actually mixing the concoction in question. Its result is that it’s a bit less strong than fellis — something where he’ll be able to keep upright and walking and not being totally delirious while consuming, but it will take a little more than the edge off that pain. “You’ve broken your collarbone,” she explains, handing over the medicine cup, “if that wasn’t obvious. I’ll need to put it in a splint after you’ve gotten that down, and any time you feel you need pain relief, head back here. You’ll have to do some physical therapy for it starting in about a week, and then you can return to work.” Meaning: it’ll be at least a week he’s benched.

“At least it wasn’t fish,” Alister finally says, muscling through downing the concoction with a minimum of fuss but a maximum of face. “Everyone understands, oh, took a nasty header on the ice, thought it was snow and suddenly you’re on your ass and bleeding out of your face. You do the same thing on fish—,” he doesn’t shrug, he’s smart enough to not shrug, but it sure looks like he wants to. “You’re never hearing the end of it.”

On fish. Mirinda manages to control herself and not make a visible face as regards actually falling and injuring one’s head on fish. “Ice is terrible,” is what she says instead, managing to forcibly not comment. On the fish. She can comment on the ice. She’s also folding bandages about and finding some piece of metal — something, a long metal bar that apparently is going to make a comfortable rest for his arm. The way she folds it up, it’s even plausible that it’s comfortable. “Now you might wish to remove your shirt, because then I can tie this up inside it and it’ll be easier for you to change clothes before you come back here for your dressing change, and not be trapped in the same top the entire time.”

It’s okay, Mirinda, Alister will make the face for you. He’s good at that. “So long as you’re not proposing cutting it off—” He only has so many of these, apparently. It is not a — pretty thing, as he methodically strips, careful to jostle the broken collarbone-arm as little as possible. It, uh, takes a little while. There are also a multitude of bruises starting to blossom on his otherwise winter-pale skin once he’s got it off, all in line with both of his stories — broke up a fight, took a few licks, bit it on some hidden ice afterward. “Ugh.”

“No harm will come to the shirt,” Mirinda promises, and as soon as she’s got a bare arm to, well, bear — first she has to make a sympathetic clucking sound for all the bruises. “I hope whoever you ended up stuck fighting with gives you a very sincere apology, once they’re all the way sober or whatever happened there,” she says solemnly and seriously. Someone does Not Approve of bruising people up. But then again, that’s the job he chose, so she can’t put too much disdain toward it. “Now, I’m just going to bend your arm, which should actually bring some relief,” she explains, and she’s already bending his elbow and moving his arm across his midriff by the time she’s gotten to the word ‘should,’ “and then we’re going to wrap the sling around it,” at which point she does, settling his arm in the metal-framed pillow she created, and fixing the sling in multiple knots around the back of his neck.

“—oh,” why yes, that is surprise across Alister’s face when her actions bring less pain instead of more, and he gives his arm the kind of slightly baffled smile that says he wishes he’d thought of that and whatever she gave him is starting to work. “There was crying, by the time the hauling to the brig happened, gone from belligerent around to sloppy again,” he seems to view this as an apology. “Could have been worse. Could have been ice there, too.” Once the sling is fixed in place he sighs, then shrugs (carefully!) back into his shirt, good arm through the sleeve and bad arm draped by it, and makes his deliberately-steady way to his feet. “I’ll — be back in a couple of days,” he assures, with a brief salute that’s a touch on the wobbly side; his feet are reliably steady as he takes himself away, however.

(Hopefully he avoids the ice).