Cross-competencies, [For Bolaro]

The Infirmary was near-silent in the mid-day heat, so warm it threw a shimmering curtain of light across the open area beyond the great wooden doors of its main entryways and sent shivers of hot air running through the passages on every slight breeze. It was a humid heat as well, drawing too liberally on the nearby expenses of sea to be otherwise; and the humidity lent it a stifling atmosphere that felt near-choking. The various medicines and herbs, kept up in well-shaded corners and carefully-sealed jars, were probably little affected by it. For the long dragonhealer sitting at a desk and scruflling through papers, however, it was excruciating.

Wynneva wished, for the umpteenth time, that the wind would blow a little stronger and help dispel the heavy heat of the noon time sun. She was quite alone in the Infirmary, the rest of the healers having gone for their lunch or mid-day breaks. The exception was an elderly healer who had drawn duty for that hour - and was fast asleep on the nearby bench, head lolled aside and snoring. The young woman let him be - Dresek was old, and deserved his rest whenever he could have it. Besides, she could always wake him if there were an emergency and his skills were needed.

She herself was filling in for the dragonhealers during these few candlemarks. A late breakfast had given her little appetite for lunch at the usual candlemark for it, and so she had volunteered to stay in during lunch instead. At any rate she still needed to catch up on reports - she still owed her dragonhealer master an assignment on the common types of bone fractures in dragon legs and the various methods by which they might be tended (surgery included). And there were at least two other general reports on storm damage she had to field as part of her Jr Weyrleader duties. Not to mention...

She shook her head, the heat beginning to build to a tension within her skull that she could feel down to her shoulders. One thing at a time, or she would be confused before she even begin, and that would get her nowhere at all with those reports.

She pushed her notes aside, wiped one damp and on her cream tunic with its pale brown leggings, and picked up a quill to begin writing again.

((So, I'm going to pretend this is already after the hatching, okay? I think it will still work with what we were going to do.))

It was unseasonably hot for the end of autumn transition into winter. At least in Bolaro's mind. Granted, coming from the southern portion of the Western Archipelago meant that winter was hot, not cold. And he wasn't exactly sure of Monachikos' location relative to the equator and its frustrating doldrums. Still, they were close enough that it would make sense for heat, but even today was hotter than usual. Bolaro decided it would be a better idea to stop thinking about the heat, why or why not it was so hot, and instead focus on what he needed to do.

Get to the Infirmary.

Being in the Weyr for only a couple sevendays--and barely that since he arrived just before the hatching--meant that he still didn't know where everything was despite a general tour given to him by a very friendly weaver girl. She knew everything up on the plateau above the cliff/cove, so she'd showed him around. But the Weyr was huge, so it was understandable that Bolaro got incredibly lost.

That in and off itself was frustrating since he wasn't used to being disoriented. Sailing across a sea that was an unchanging perspective for days at a time gave him a very good sense of direction, but when he couldn't see the sun or stars in the network of tunnels...well. It took him a while to find his way out, and even then only after asking several people for directions. Once outside again, he noticed that--oh look at that!--the Infirmary was right next door to the exit he'd just taken. Great.

He was pretty sure he'd sweated through the bandage across his ribs by that point. Or it could have been blood. Bolaro would have preferred the former given the situation. All the other check-ups he'd had showed improvement in how the wound was healing. He probably shouldn't have even stood, but the smell of blood hadn't attracted any unwanted attention, unless Max's blue had been that hungry. But the blue hadn't taken a snap at him, just knocked him over. Ah well. Bolaro could forgive the young one, but the sailor still needed a dressing change. And it itched worse than sand-crusted clothing dampened with seawater and then left to dry against his skin in the hot sun and sea breeze. Meaning it was very uncomfortable, and Bolaro couldn't help but scratch absently at the bandage as he walked into the Infirmary.

"Those look a might borin'," he said to the woman writing what could only be reports. She was the only one he saw--besides the old man asleep and lightly snoring in the corner. So Bolaro assumed she was in charge for the time being. "Can ya point me toward someone who could change a bandage?"

The thread of footsteps drew her from a reverie of bones and splinters and surgical tools. Wynneva looked up and was somewhat surprised to find it was still afternoon and sweltering, her pen lying inkless on the clean parchment before her. Dresek was still snoring in his corner, even as the echoing footsteps grew louder. She must have dozed off in the heat and lost sense of time in the process. Drawing herself up and trying to ignore the damp feel of her tunic clinging to her back, she half-turned to face whoever would soon come through the door.

The young man who did turn the corner looked as though he'd just run a continual three miles in the heat with an annoyed flitter chasing him the whole time. Certainly his expression was harassed and discomforted, and if Wynneva were not mistaken it had as much to do with the odd lump at his ribs (rather like a dressing beneath the clothes) as much as the confounded heat beating down on them. Audrath reported she'd seen a large dark mass on the horizon out to sea, heading their way; the young woman was hardly surprised a thunderstorm was forming with so much sun to soak up the moisture on the sea, but she did wish it would come quicker. She would probably regret that later when the storm blew over and wrecked the usual havoc on the Weyr's grounds, but for now much of her mind was occupied with getting rid of excess heat.

"Those look a might borin'," the young man said as he came up to her, and the dragonhealer cast a dispirited glance at the parchment, hiding her amusement.He was more alert than she had expected, given his appearance; his appearance was unfamiliar too, she wasn't sure she'd seen him around before. Probably a newcomer, maybe one of the new candidates being Searched for Zulendath's clutch. They always had new faces whenever a goldflight or Hatching was at hand.

"Can ya point me toward someone who could change a bandage?"

Wynneva felt a wry smile glance over her features as she turned her attention to the bandaged section of his ribs. It looked rather sweat-soaked and in bad need of a change. Small wonder the poor chap looked so discomforted.

"Well, I think that'll be me at the moment - what sort of injury do you have?"

If it were a serious one she'd have to wake Dresek, but it were just a bandage change she could manage just as well as on her own. She had all but grown up in the Infirmary after all, and knew all the simpler aspects of first aid and wound care.

Oh thank Faranth. The woman could help him. Bolaro relaxed a bit, still scratching at the itchy bandage, when the woman informed him she was indeed the person he was looking for. And he'd have felt bad for waking the old man, even if he was a Healer. You just don't wake someone from their nap unless it's an important matter. Common courtesy that.

"Pirates attacked the ship I birthed on," Bolara explained, walking forward and glad to have finally found the place he was supposed to be. The Healer who'd treated him shortly after the fight instructed him to get the bandages changed at least twice a day until the wound closed fully. He guessed since it still itched and hurt occasionally that it had not closed fully. Well, that and the fact he'd peeked at it the other day to see how it was coming. Scabs were a good sign, right? "Took a knife across me ribs, I did, and the bastard didn't stop cuttin' until my knife found him."

It really wasn't a glorious tale anyway, so Bolaro didn't bother going into more detail. But he did raise his shirt to expose the main bandage. It covered the lower portion of his ribs on one side. Had the wound been any lower, he probably would have died from infection should the knife have knicked his bowel. Good thing his ribs got in the way then. Several smaller red lines scattered around the bandage, telling of recently healed flesh that could still easily tear open.

"Healer I saw said it wasn't too deep. Just a couple a stitches and I'd be right as rain in'a few se'endays." That was the hope anyway. If Bolaro stayed relatively inactive. No heavy lifting. No strenuous activity. Which meant Bolaro didn't really have a lot he could do. Nothing he normally did anyway.