Who Doktah, Ibreily, Sygni
What Sygni and Ibreily are, predictably, injured. Doktah is, predictably, a diplomatic voice of reason. No weyrs were harmed in the making of this log.
When Spring of 2711
Where Central Infirmary, Fort Weyr

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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.


It's the epitome of spring outside, weather warm and sky bright between bouts of rain. It's not the heavy deluge from earlier in the season, but rather a spirited pitter-patter that drips and drops merrily. It's probably for the best, considering the figure that moves into the infirmary is really quite singed around the edges, already-dark clothing streaked with ash and soot and frayed around edges where it has clearly caught fire and been hastily put out. The clothing's wearer looks no better - Sygni's blonde hair is even more jagged than usual, burnt several inches shorter on one side. Blessfully, her face is spared. Her right hand, not so much. Though on the whole calm about it, the young woman cradles the red-shined right appendage with her left as she slips into the infirmary, stops abruptly, and waits to be noticed. She's feeling helpful like that.

Infirmary duty isn't one of Doktah's favorite tasks. Everything is so chaotic here, and often messy. Plus, there's all those /people/ to deal with. Ugh. Best to steer as clear as possible. She's found herself a desk by the wall where she can run out the clock making herself busy by transcribing medical notes. The arrival of Sygni makes it impossible for her to ignore people entirely. She looks up, eyes wide. "What happened?"

Has Ibreily been summoned? Does she have a tracker on — oh. No. She's just got the family habit of damage to onesself. Blessedly, she's not nearly as singed around the edges as Sygni, but she is kind of limping, looking dignified and only a little bleedy. Like she hasn't just taken a glorious slide down stairs into mud. "Huh." Pulling up alongside the shorter Sygni, Ibby considers her for a moment, makes a face. "It was too much, then?" Aw, shucks. It's just a blessing that the healers shuffling over aren't their dads, who would undoubtedly make a much bigger fuss over it. Doktah's wide eyes are bad enough. "Oooh, you got the best spot today. How many people have come in with sprained ankles from the mud?" Because, you know. Syg's probably the only one who's come in with half her hair blown off.

Sygni's attention is diverted from staring glassily around at the infirmary by Doktah's alarmed question, and maybe it's less degenerate-level unhelpfulness and actual pain that has the tiny woman standing quietly waiting for attention, because it takes a long second for the question to register. "Hey, Suit," she greets instead, smile stopping halfway and winding up as a sort of grimace as she glances down at shiny red skin exposed by a sleeve that's mostly not-there anymore. "I was being a brilliant chemist. Didn't go so hot." Oh good, she's sassing. Don't worry, she's probably fine. "Though if you know who I have to bang to get a Healer around here, I'd really appreciate the assist." Beam! And then there's two! Two injured cousins. Ah-ah-ah. "Your face is too much," comes Syg's rejoinder, though eyes wince when she has to adjust her arm to a better angle, the pain beating her back into submission. For now. "Yes. The prototype had a thicker hull. I think it was the only reason it didn't blow in our faces." She includes Doktah in that look - are they discussing the prototype the techie lit on fire and ran from? Likely. "What happened to you? Did a weyrbrat trip you again?" Smirk.

Hey, there's another person Doktah knows. "Ibreily! Are you okay?" After the incident the other day, she's already alarmed. This seems to be an incredibly injury-prone candidate class. "Uhm… not too many ankle problems yet. Just… tell me what happened and I'll write it down? I think I'm supposed to make some sort of record or something?" How reassuring. Sygni gets a curious look. "Suit?" She turns a little red. "Oh. Right. The wetsuit. Is that a nickname now?" Not sure what to think about that. "Did… did the one I lit cause that…?" She asks, worried.

"I'm thinking it's gonna have to be somebody higher-up. Maybe the Masterhealer, this rate. Shit." Help doesn't seem particularly forthcoming — or not quickly enough for Ibreily — so she ducks and props a shoulder under Syg's arm, supporting her around the middle whether it's actually needed or not. This can only end well. Ibby waves Doktah's concern off with an airy hand, limping them carefully over towards the nearest free cot. "I'm fine. Disagreement with the stairs." As to which way she would descend them. Turns out, the answer is arse-over-teakettle. "You look a little shook. You okay?" The candidate has the grace not to jostle Sygni for the dig, but she does snort loudly. "Shut up. That was one time. Hm," She settles them both without much grace, waving angrily until a journeyman comes shuffling over. "What d'you think was the mis-calculation?"

The healer in question eyes Sygni for a long moment, expression completely deadpan. "I might have known." He sighs. Waves vaguely at Doktah. "Be sure to indicate the time, and supplies used, candidate." That dispensed, he turns on his heel and bops on off to find the appropriate supplies for fixing burns. Or maybe he just leaves.

Sygni's brows tilt up when Doktah says she thinks she's supposed to check them in, faint amusement registering in her gaze for the young woman not being sure. She politely allows Ibreily to answer first, snorting heartily for her 'disagreement' before adding, tone wry, "And I caught on fire." Thank you, Sygni. Nobody would ever have guessed. "I'll spare you the details, but if you've gotta put something down, just say I put the 'bomb' in abomination." And now she's making puns. Somebody just put her out of her misery! It's probably for the best that Ibby leads her to a cot, because she's giggling at her own joke, a fainy, tinkly little noise that doesn't sound entirely sane. "It can be," is said about the nickname, head lolling back over her shoulder, uninjured hand waving to indicate the crafter should follow along as though they were headed to a party, and not to a cot. "Unless you can come up with something better." Upsy-daisy! She settles herself gracelessly with Ibby's help before Doktah's question registers. "Yes and no. The little one went beautifully. You shouldn't've dove off, it was perfect, you did great. But then I tried to make the big version and—" She makes a colorful 'kabghhh' noise. "I'll get it right next time. It was something to do with the charge, Ibs. Had to be. Either the hull was too thin for the amount of gunpowder it'll take to get the Explosion off the ground, or it was just faulty, but it didn't take off, and all that business had to go somewhere." And so it went outwards, violently. About as violently as her reaction to the Journeyman that comes her way, color blanching out of her as she stares the man down. "You," she returns, just as distastefully before she raises her good hand and waves it viciously. "Excuse me, I need a better Healer! That one's broken!" Cue point at the retreating man's back. Sigh. Can't take her anywhere. "One of you find me some numbweed. I'll fix my own damn self before I'll let him treat me."

Doktah looks at the healer, carefully nodding at his instructions. First, Ibreily's form. "Stair related falling incident…" She talks to herself as she notes it down, frowning. "… I hope you're not… well. Nevermind. Not my business." She eyes Sygni with some worry as it comes time to make notes on her file. "I think you might get a visit from the guards if I write that you were building a bomb. Let's say… uhm…" She ponders for a moment before she starts writing again. "… Minor incident with pyrotechnics in service to weyr leadership." That should deflect some questions. Hopefully. The request for numbweed earns a worried frown and some squirming. "Uhm… I'm not supposed to dispense medication myself…" Though she does glance to where the numbweed is stored, rather giving away the location.

"Did you?" Catch on fire. Ibby eyes the other candidate with amusement, definitely not snickering for the pun. Obviously this is a party, though, why else would they be here? "Could be your business. What's on your mind?" That's for Doktah, sideways and almost upside-down, grin wide. Ibreily eyes the healer with raised eyebrows, briefly, but he's gone quickly enough, so she turns her attention back to the other candidates. "Well, you can't have packed it wrong. Was it that one-armed degenerate who sold you the powder?" The harper narrows her eyes, looking severely annoyed as she takes an inward moment — then resurfaces, blinking at Syg's reaction to the healer. "Alright, alright, don't get up. You'll fall over." Kettle. Doktah, however, gets a look that is decidedly sharp. Considering. "I like how you think." Grin. "I'll just go see if I can't rustle somebody else up." She winks, over-exaggerated, and stands (doesn't fall, thank you) to go find the numbweed.

What she finds is a put-upon apprentice barely old enough to be sent off on their own; having been dispatched by the journeyman, though, the girl is in the right. Ibreily trails the kid back over, arms full of bandages and numbweed, looking moderately amused. "You caught on fire?" Is the girl's greeting, wide-eyed and a little delighted. "Cool. Where does it hurt worst? This is the first time they let me do it by myself, hurry before he changes his mind and comes back." Fat chance. Looks like Mr. Crankypants has ponced off to have a sulk.

Sygni lets them share their business as they will, only flicking her tongue out for Ibreily's cheeky commentary before she busies herself rolling back the sooty remains of her sleeve with much wincing. "Ohhh," she drawls, briefly glancing up at Doktah as she replies, "I have a feeling I'll be talking to the guards anyways, but thank you." Twinkle. "The 'in service to weyr leadership' part is particularly clever, though. One would almost suspect you know your way around trouble." Prying? Her? Noooo. "But if medication were to, say, fall into your hands…?" Luckily, she's saved from further discomfort by Ibreily's brave sacrifice, Sygni reaching out one hand to snag her sleeve, expression dramatic as she says, "No, don't, you're injured, too! Save yourself, leave me to perish!" Swoon! It's all for show, though - soon Ibby is back, Apprentice in tow, and though Syg can't contain a backsassed, "Aren't you a little young to be a Healer?," the candidate obediently points out the brightest red stripe along the side of her arm, and another small spot on the edge of her hand. "There, there, and my pride, but I don't suppose there's any cure for that." Which, speaking of. "G'ery? He's not a degenerate. Shells, he's basically family. Esi and Zan and I had him over to celebrate Turnover with us, even." Of course she did. "No. I'll know better once I can get back and look at it, if they haven't confiscated it yet, but I had other priorities. Now sit down before you trip again and I have to explain to your father that you got kicked out of candidacy for having two left feet and a broken ankle."

"The legal system is like any other technical process." Doktah remarks in response to the praise her creative filling out of the form receives. She's still writing as she speaks, not looking up at either of the injured candidates as she completes the forms. "You just need to know what approaches earn the desired results, then follow them." Neither confirming nor denying the suspicion that she knows something about getting into trouble. Though she's already admitted at least a little of that in the past. Forms complete, she looks up and frowns upon taking another look at Sygni. "I think your shirt is a loss." Observant as ever.

"G'ery can kiss my sharding arse, if he's passing on faulty powders." Ibreily huffs, but she's smirking, not terribly worried perhaps. Skin grows back, right? And pride heals a little slower, but they've got enough to go around. "I'll —" Beat. Wary eyeing of her scuffed-up leg. "Go make sure they haven't messed it up as soon as they wrap this." Right, because she can sometimes be responsible. The harper makes a face at Syg, scrunched up and pffft-y. "He must never sharding know. Like Siggy won't about." Hand-wave. All that. Ibby looks like she's about to dash off, but she pauses, giving Doktah a long look. "You'd make a good harper, you know, thinking like that." She comments, seriously for all of two seconds before her face splits into a grin. "Well, maybe you can do something about that, hmmm? You know all the good places to get decent, protective shirts." Twinkle. And she's off! Gesturing for Mr. Crankypants. Their discussion is probably…not fun for the healer, given his expression. She's got places to be, though.

"You look a little old to be blowing yourself up on accident." The healer shoots back, no pause. She dons some gloves and gets to work, quick as a little bunny. Seriously, she's got to do it before somebody realizes she ought to be supervised. At least she doesn't do too bad of a job, flushing the wounds carefully and applying numbweed. "I'd be real careful with your dots and crosses on there, candidate. Journeyman's pissed about something." She mutters, aside, to Doktah, eyes a little wide. "He really doesn't like you." Wistful look for Sygni. Another loyal minion: check.

Color Sygni amused. She actually laughs for Doktah's diplomatic talk despite pain, eyes lit up as she replies with a droll, "Oh, good answer. Faranth, remind me to consult you next time I get a bunch of legalese paperwork thrown at me." At least she gives up on pestering the crafter for her story before she truly begins, blue gaze darting over to squint playfully at Ibreily. "You don't want G'ery kissing your arse, powders or no. Nobody knows where that mouth has been. Nobody." Oh, the drama. Then: "Of course not. It was a threat in name only. Fort isn't ready for that kind of terror to descend upon its fair skies." Fair. Right. "Anyways, I'd appreciate it if you recovered it before they do. I have a feeling I'll be here awhile." There is a similarly fiendish twinkle in her eye when Ibby beats her to the punch on implying Doktah knows where to find clothing rugged enough to handle special situations. "She has a point. Shall I follow your example, Suit?" Wink. "You're right though. It's too bad. I really liked this shirt. And my hair. And my skin." Oh boy, here comes the borderline-delirium again, eyes narrowing to slits when the wounds are flushed and dabbed at. "Maybe I'll make my gram sew another. Anyways, I gotta-" hiss! "-focus now or I'll start swearin' enough to turn your ears red. Catch you later, yeah?" And with a weak smile Doktah's way, she focuses instead on the healing process, teeth gritting hard just after a promise to tell the Apprentice all about why the Journeyman doesn't like her - after she's done.


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