Sess 6, 229 2E: A tale of two healers

A tale of two healers
Summary: Cian is treated by Faerinia after a fall in the joust.
OOC Date: 27/02/2014 (OOC)
Related: {$related}
Players:
Cian Faerinia 
Tourney Field Healer Tent - Darfield
Simple Healer Tent
It is day 6 of the month of Sess, 229 2E

After the fall from the horse, Cian got up, but got up limping. Really he needed a few more days healing of his wounded leg, but instead he spent a day fighting in a sword tourney, then another in a joust. He stayed to watch the final of the match before mounting his horse and heading over to the healer tent. Already the healers had tended to Robben's broken leg and Ruthgar's concussion. He dismounted in front of the healer's tent and with his new squire's help he limped into the tent

The dove amongst pigeons, Faerinias pale head of hair can be spotted in the gaggle of healers that rush to boil water, staunch blood and generally assist those men not afforded a guardian spirit. Counting as most, their faces drawn gaunt and haggard from the terror. Perilous were many a wound earned not in war, by jousts turned bloodied. The young Kincaid takes it in her stride, until she espies the dark haired knight in their rank and for a moment, her expression grows pinched. Moving forward is no difficult task, for people seem to without instruction glide past, granting her ample room to walk up and address him, introduction laced with an acid barb. "Moved on from idle boar goring, have you sir knight? Accounting for the wounds, twas more the boar gored you."

Oh he managed to escape her notice in Sutherland and on his return. Alas it was Wenna's tongue he had to suffer. Yet the part of him that was intrigued by her mourned those moments lost. Her challenging words and actions that made him look into his very soul. Can one be addicted to being vexed? As Faerinia appears before him his eyes widen for a moment, "Milady Healer…" he starts before she starts on him. "To be fair, I did kill three first." He starts upon the matter of the goring but there is little heart in it. He was there to defend her Uncle and nothing more. "I thought It was healed enough for the tournies…but the muscle has seized up on the fall." And no doubt there will be a few bruises head to toe besides.

Rare is the day when the self possessed concede, her next words aimed to sting. Her tongue does not impair her limbs however, the slender arms loosely draped across his back to grant him her strength, the thin wrists bearing a steely strength for all their delicacy. Purpose empowers the feeblest of bodies. "You did not heed your own training, Sir Cian. Always prepare and conclude your injury requires the upmost attention, for even minor inflictions may grow to become…you may feel for yourself." Dry humour, accompanied by a drier smile that splinters the instant it appears. Off he is led to a relatively private section where the mass of groaning, blood stained men is sparse. She is no different and yet changed, altered imperceptibly. Her actions stiffened, lips and brow less ready to express themselves. A wintry veil.

As Faerinia moves up beside her, he slips an arm across her shoulders. His gangly squire supports him from the otherside. The poor boy still looks a bit wideeyed and overawed by the tourney and having a new knight. Then there is the talk from this healer! "The skin has healed and I was walking with ease. I fear I did not take into account the healing of the muscle." Cian responds with a note of chagrin. "Fear not the tourneys are now over and I will rest." He lets himself be set on the bed and he unlaces his hose from the offending leg. Indeed bruises are already well on their way in forming between yesterday and today's events. The gorewound is mostly healed, just a knot of angry scar tissue. To touch though the muscle is knotted and seized up. He surely should be in more pain than he is.

Inspection does not alleviate her tensed shoulderline, a brief acknowledgement for the starry eyed youth that accompanies his master, all knobbly knees and fumbled fingers, the raw materials for the future man. Faerinia speaks quietly, without her prior edge to first his squire then sir knight himself. "Fetch me a scapel and my personal bag. Sir knight…I ask you do not protest. Drugging my patients into insensibility has adverse effects on reputation." Her smile again lasts mere seconds, touched by a faint flush of warmth to kindle the coldly imperious.

Cian runs a hand over the tightened muscle and only then is their the fainted twinge upon his face. At the woman's words his jaw tightens. "Scalpel?" He queries as he looks down at the leg and back to the woman. Surely no need for a scalpel! Such is evident in his eyes, though he questions her no further. She is the healer. So he grips the edge of the bed and nods to his words. "I have a high pain tolerance milady." He informs her.

Cian runs a hand over the tightened muscle and only then is their the fainted twinge upon his face. At the woman's words his jaw tightens. "Scalpel?" He queries as he looks down at the leg and back to the woman. Surely no need for a scalpel! Such is evident in his eyes, though he questions her no further. She is the healer. So he grips the edge of the bed and nods to his words. "I have a high pain tolerance milady." He informs her.

Faerinia looks up from her summary examination, fingers lightly probing the knotted and gnarled scar tissue. "There may be an obstruction…certainly, the injury is not healing sufficently. Most of our tending relies heavily on assistance to the flesh, in order to help it recover by itself. We maintain and ensure it is kept clean of bodily invaders. As you probably were taught, many years ago." There is a pause, where her fingers halt their exploration and seem to tremble. A gleam of unsteadiness is gleaned for those that search, retreating in unusual reserve.

"I was taught by an apprentice and books Faerinia, there was much still I needed to learn but your know…" You know the path he chose instead. Cian says grimly as he looks down at the scar upon his leg. Oh the bruises and such he will deal with later. What pain he will fill will no doubt be drowned by alchohol later. He watches her curously for a moment before turning his gaze back down to his leg. His squire at the moment is looking decidedly ill.

Brusque sums up the next ten minutes, regarding the healers actions, the aur round her infused with an impatience that seeps into her surgeons fingers. Her precise, quick severing of the scabbed scar tissue implies more than a passing intimacy with grisy scenes. For the squire, she tries her upmost to lean over to obsfucate his view yet there is little to demonstrably disguise the welled stream of crimson dripping at a steady flow into the provided pot underneath. "A noble enough path, it can be…fetch hot water, cloth and moss for slow the flow." Her last order directed at the peaky squire, disregarding his unsettled stomach. If she ever suffered from a squeamish disposition it had been long ago since bred out. Collecting the roll of bandages by her feet, she tears several long strips in fast sucession and sets them aside for later on the closest object to a table, her own personal bag.

Cian's jaw is set as she makes the fine incisions to relieve the tension in the scar tissue. His eyes are upon the wound and he looks rather dispasionately upon the whole procedure as if it were someone else's leg. As the orders are barked Morcan remains still until Cian looks up sharply to the man, "If I can bear it, so can you. Get the healer's things and we can be done here." He says with an edge to his voice that finally stirs the squire to movement. Whether he chose him or the unlikely squire was thrust upon him it is not clear to tell. "Maybe your uncle will give me time for lessons while people plot around him." He says with an ascerbic edge to his voice in reply.

Faerinia creases her brow into a frown, hands independent of her busily mopping the flow, probing the split open husk of dead skin to incite a reaction presumably, eyes intent upon him. When he makes an acidic remark about their family and personal affairs, she wavers, skin round her eyes tightening. Gritting her teeth, not a single word is said until the bandages are wound round his abused leg and poultice evenly smeared into pristine white fabric. "There are many ruffled feathers for the manner my Uncle conducts business. Does it hurt?"

As he notes the reaction to his words he feels instantly guilty, "I am sorry…things have been tense since the final and the argument between his grace and the duke of Sutherland. I hope they will find some peace and not fued over a tourney. Kierne did win and that should please both Dukes." He grows quiet as she wraps his leg then draws up his hose and ties it in place once more. "It feels better, not as tight. I think though I will need to take a poultice bath for all the other aches I am likely to feel tomorrow…" He holds a hand up and manages a smile, "Of which I have well earned." He motions his squire over and stands with his help. "Thank you for tending me Fae..milady."

A glimmer of the young woman surfaces, scouring the sour, aged aspect she assidiously seems to be upholding for a gentler creature as he stands. What might have been, could be given time. The youth most own without recognition, last remnants of childhood appears to be absent from her. Instead, an adult speaks in its place. "I was informed of multiple tensions come to the fore. Come visit me if you continue to suffer without cessation past a weeknight." Bending at the waist for the two men, her next sentence is breathed out for Cian alone. "You are invited, Sir Cian. Do not allow discrection to hinder you in search of answers." What occurs next may be mere illusion, derived from a mind befuddled by the sophomoric effects of the pain killing herbs. That her hand touches his must be fanciful dreaming, soft surface marred by a ridged scar at the knuckle line.

"Good intentions can be misread when the mind is heated." Cian responds to the words about the tensions. There is a nod to the words of his treatment. "Of course milady. I will be more mindful this time." He responds and makes step to leave before the words are heard. The touch felt and he feels a moment surprise at her words. "I …" He starts a little flustered for a moment and looks down at his hand and back up to her, "I promise to stop by for a lesson if you would have me as a student Milady." And with those words he limps out of the infirmary with his squire providing support to the Knight.

An early day, servants long since risen to scrub and scour the castle. Those nobles priding themselves on being risers just beginning to gain their bearings. Faerinia is not any of those, ensconced within the infirmary walls before sunrise as the guttered candle can attest, delivering her practised if distant treatment void of the open faced compassion. That she would be, only even the crimson sighted girl proves mortal and has submitted ungracefully to rest in an abandoned pallet once morning routine is over.

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