[PRP] Feeling Better? (F'vel and Cabhan)

[stella cinere]

Over half the weyr had been hit by some sort of flu or epidemic sickness that had affected not only the riders but a part of the staff as well leaving almost every position short handed in some way. Of course when given the chance Cabhan had happily, or at least given the impression that he was, volunteered to take on some of the extra work for the healing staff. If anything he had hoped it would at least make a somewhat name for him among a few of the wing leaders that he was someone they could count on regardless of the situation. Or at least that was the whole reason why he was going bed to bed checking up on various weyr people and how they were feeling. Most of them were asleep at this hour considering the pitch black skies but at least it was better than having to hold five billion conversations with people when you didn’t particularly care about their stories.


No one seemed to be doing to poorly for the time being, a few looked as if they were suffering some sort of night terrors brought on by the fever but otherwise there was no alarm for concerns. Reaching the next bed Cabhan looked over at the unfamiliar face, he was still rather new to the weyr and most of the riders and weyrpeople were nameless figures that he hoped to get to know to some extent. A few he wished he knew more about considering how handsome they were but considering he was still a candidate he doubted he had much of a chance with any of them. Pressing a hand to the rider’s forehead after removing the cooling rag he didn’t feel too much heat at least that meant that he was one of the few getting better. Dipping the rag in the pail he let it soak for a minute before ringing it out and returning it to its spot.

Almost done.

Masterharper

 

[Uta]

stella cinere

F'vel was miserable. The past sevenday was a bit of a haze, as he'd drifted in and out of a sick sleep; he didn't feel rested, and he hurt. Everything about him ached, and his body hurt when he coughed; the coughs that came rattled his entire being, and often left him gasping for air, or spitting up phlegm. His throat was raw, his lips were chapped, and he wanted an uninterrupted nights sleep. Yezmanth had spent the entire sevenday all sorts of distressed; both dragon and rider would have preferred to have been released to recuperate back to his weyr, but the healers weren't taking any chances, especially with his high fever.

Thankfully, the past evening it had broken, and while a smaller one now gripped him, the healers thought it was a good sign that the worst had passed. Maybe they'd let him back to his weyr so he might assure his nervous brown. Ah, but the man knew it would be another day or two before that happened, and possibly longer still until he could return to his Wing.

So, F'vel had nothing to do but brood, be miserable, and sleep. His sleeping came and went in fits, and this day was no exception. He had only just drifted into a restless sleep when something cool came down on his forehead, pulling him back from drifting off fully. Mph. Part of him was glad to have the cloth wipe at his brow -- he felt miserable, despite being on the mend, and the second fever was still uncomfortable. When the hand moved away, he thought perhaps the healer would move on; but when it returned, he finally opened his eyes, to see who was tending him.

. . . . who, on Pern, was that?

His usual frown appeared, and he stared at Cabhan with a strange look of judgment and disappointment. The shoulder knots confirmed it was no one but a Candidate.... Oh, for Faranth's sake. Of course they'd have a Candidate do the menial tasks. The Healers were needed to actually heal -- but he suspected that certain metallic riders, and Wingleaders, probably had only the best of the best. Leave it to him to get someone second rate.

Ah, but even F'vel was too weak to actively complain or grumble. He didn't necessarily want the cool cloth to go away. "....who..." He tried to speak, but his words came out more like a wheeze, and about as loud as a whisper. His brows knit, and his mouth frowned in irritation. "..Wretche--" He was going to curse out the sickness, but that, of course, only made him cough, and sputter, and gasp. <******** it. This really was pure misery.  

[stella cinere]

Thoughts floated in and out of Cabhan head as he seemed focused on making sure the cloth soaked with cool water again, he hadn’t expected anyone to really wake up while he was there. So when he brought the damp cloth back to the bare forehead he was startled to see a pair of eyes looking back up at him as the patient attempted to speak. Of course the usual disapproving look stretched across his face replacing the surprise that he hadn’t intended to show to anyone let alone to a rider. He felt it was only fair considering the look of judgement and disappointment the rider had given him to start with, who the hell was he anyways? Considering his placement in the healing hall no one, or at least not someone that warranted any special treatment for being a metallic rider.

He was pretty much a no one.

It took Cabhan a moment to not let a sneer cross along his lips as he moved to replace the cold cloth dabbing it with a little more force than he had before.

“Cabhan, I’m just filling in for the night shift since everyone has been busy working too many hours of overtime so you don’t need to be concerned in remembering it… for now.” The last set of words were shorter as if annoyance was threatening to ebb through giving more of a show of his impatiences. Everything at High Reaches was about your dragon, bronze being the closes a male could reach for the top and the only place Cabhan has his focus on. The problem was waiting, waiting for a gold to have a clutch, waiting and having some sort of hope in even being considered a candidate in order to hopefully hatch a bronze. It was almost maddening and considering the last clutch had just ended when he arrived it meant he had quite some time to wait before he had a chance to even show his skill.

Which meant doing his best with bedside manners in the meantime, forcing an almost pleasant smile to his lips as he soaked the rag with water again.

“Is there anything else you would like? Maybe something to drink?”

Uta

 

[Uta]

stella cinere

Sorry for the delay!

F'vel didn't know who Cabhan was, and quite frankly, he didn't care to know. All he knew was that he was some Candidate working in the infirmary. Part of the brown rider wanted to wonder where the real weyrhealers were at. He was a sharding brownrider, and he deserved the best.... not some fumbling hands of some nit-wit.

On the other hand, the man was too sick to properly object, or even really care. He felt awful, and the cool cloth on his brow had been a mix of comforting and annoying. The fever made the contrast of the damp cloth far colder than it really was; and yet, it helped tame the heat of the fever. Though the man was known to be prone to grumbling and a bit of a headache, at least Cabhan was in luck -- he was too ill to really spout off objections.

"Water, yes," he finally managed to gasp out, glaring at Cabhan as if the coughing fit was his fault. And maybe it was.

Mine... He is just trying to help. Yezmanth quietly tried to soothe his rider. The brown was anxious for him, and knew that getting riled or irritated would only serve to make it worse. So the brown sent a strong wave of soothing patience to his rider, trying to distract him from his discomfort.

It... almost worked. "You a . . . weyrbrat?" He asked, not really recognizing Cabhan offhand. He didn't pay too much attention to anyone who was well beneath his rank; and though he was a wingrider, he had hopes to rise up someday. To serve K'ienn, or another Wingleader. But right now, he was just a sick rider, being tended by some kid. Granted, a small part of him knew he should find out who this one was before he wrote him off. He could be related to any number of rankers at the Weyr, or possibly the son of some Lord. F'vel was an a**, but he knew to watch his tongue in certain scenarios; furthermore, he was at this fellows tender mercy and care, annoyingly enough. The more he played nice, the better for him.