|RL Date: 11 October, 2016|
|Who: Catling, N'rov|
|Involves: Fort Weyr|
|What: N'rov looks in on the injured after the Fort Games. Catling's wrenched her elbow, among other things.|
|Where: Infirmary, Fort Weyr|
|When: Day 27, Month 13, Turn 42 (Interval 10)|
Who needs faux Fall to be in the fall? The extra-cold air is an extra test, and so it is that in the sevenday before Turnover*, it's examination time. True to their usual ways, Onyx flies with several of the larger wings in turn, including an even snappier matchup with Sandstone and some search-and-rescue maneuvers. Of those larger wings, Slate performs with steady competency, second only to Jasper who's more than made up for their last games' debacle; Carnelian had wingrider Catling's elbow wrenched after attempting a difficult catch of a mis-thrown firestone sack (her Riyoth caught his first green a couple months ago at High Reaches, for anyone who's counting); and Flint and Sandstone have to intensify drills until the next Games, though no one does badly. Drinks are on the house!
* Some may wonder if the Weyrleaders are being stingy with their celebrations, holding them in such close succession; others just glory in having an 'elevated mood' for that much longer; still others note that a party is a party, and leathers just aren't the same as dresses for dancing, so there.
She's been tended, Catling, and been helped into some regular clothing, since she is awkward one-handed. She's propped up in a bed and snuggled in blankets, looking rather pale. Her eyes are half-closed as she converses with Riyoth who has finally settled after having tried to get inside no less than five times. Her riding leathers are still draped on the chair beside her, as are Riyoth's straps; even injured, she takes care of him first. Now, though, she relaxes, or ought to be.
Dark metal, clear glass, faceted light: Vhaeryth's awareness stays even with uninjured Riyoth, dragon of his Weyr, a fraction that's one part of the whole. He hasn't encouraged Riyoth to settle, though surely he's noted with some interest how long it's taken; he doesn't now give warning when his rider saunters into the white-washed cavern and stops only to stare down at the girl.
It takes a moment for Catling to notice the Weyrleader, and when she does, her eyes snap fully open, and she lifts her hand in salute. It is her injured arm, of course, and she stifles a yelp, so that only a miniscule squeak escapes. Her breath hisses out, and she offers a wan, somewhat queasy smile. "Hello, sir," she murmurs.
He stares at her a few moments longer, gray eyes improbably placid, then returns that smile with a moment's flash of grin. "You caught it," N'rov says. "Was it worth it?"
"Was it?" Catling looks down a moment. "Yes and no. No because it is a preventable injury that will make duties rather difficult for a while. And if I am needed for something, well. Here I am and here's this arm..." She shrugs. "On the yes side, I have learned how *not* to do something, and have a good idea on what to do to correct it. Though part of it is.... I just felt suddenly off-balance." She sighs and looks down. "I'm sorry, sir."
While she talks, N'rov makes his way to the chair, and now starts rifling her straps with a knowing eye. "Off-balance?" he checks even as he checks them, noting the stitching and buckles but also any signs of wear.
"Aye sir. Almost like I'd been spinning around, but not exactly like that. It was only a brief thing, but it caught me off-guard." Catling, too, looks over at the straps. They are well-made, supple and smoothed to softness on the outside. They are also well-oiled, and the buckles gleam. Much more working of them would likely be an obsession, but as it is, they do not seem to be the culprit.
Though their quality must be clear at first glance, N'rov doesn't stop; he sees them through their entire brown-sized length, in case. As he does, "Felt that before? Caught yourself a cold, Catling? In Pass," he says consideringly, "we'd have to fly through it."
"No, I don't think it's a cold. I haven't had the sniffles or a cough. I've been tired and queasy off and on, but not sick." atling shrugs her shoulders. "And I was trying to fly through it. I promise you...." She draws in a slow breath. "I'll learn how to keep focus better."
"Credit," the bronzerider does determine, "for trying." Gray eyes cut towards where a journeyman healer's approaching. Perhaps it's an excuse N'rov extends, "Performing can bring nerves, in some. We expect them in initial encounters, but they can surprise us even after."
"I don't recall feeling terribly nervous." Catling frowns slightly, shaking her head. "I've felt some queasy off and on today, but that's...." She shrugs, falling silent as the healer comes closer.
The healer looks down at the young brownrider, then up at N'rov. He raises a brow, then clears his throat. "I understand you had some difficulties with the soup when you came in.... how long have you been feeling queasy? A few weeks?" For Catling answers in a bare whisper, that he asks for the repetition. "Yes, just sometimes. I see. And you're tired more than expected?" His lips twitch a little at the squeaky yes. "Have you had to use the necessary more often of late?" At this the girl squawks and turtles her head, barely managing a nod. The healer looks over at the weyrleader.
Said weyrleader contributes, "Speak up, Catling, there's a girl." N'rov gives the other man a wry glance, then proceeds to lounge against the wall next to the chair quite as though he belongs there, holding those very straps. "Do we ask about consistency next?"
"Secretions, consistency, and monthly bleeding, yes," answers the healer with a wry chuckle. He sits down beside the bed, palpitating the arm, and then bending his head to listen to Catling's answers. What she answers isn't necessarily loud enough for the weyrleader to hear, but the healer doesn't exactly relent. "Are your breasts--" The girl squeaks again, and the healer glances at N'rov. "Newer rider, holdbred, isn't she."
"She is," says the bronzerider as though he weren't holdbred himself, a tinge of 'what can one do?' in N'rov's easy and very Bollian baritone. "Her dragon has almost two Turns, but she can only be five or so herself."
"Five?" Catling's head lifts; that, at least, is enough to draw her out. "I have over seventeen turns, sir. Sirs." Yet she squirms a little as the journeyman examines her belly, though this may be more from discomfort or ticklishness than embarrassment. "And I ask pardon; it's just that this.... it's so.... I'm just--"
"Pregnant," finishes the journeyman.
As the healer examines her, it's not that N'rov looks away, but his focus drifts with interest just beyond the bed: as though a new set of straps were hanging right... there. And then he laughs on that last word, and looks back, dark brows aslant in silent hilarity. "No, no, she can't be."
"Me, no, I... me? I can't be...." Catling blinks her eyes, looking shocked. She sinks back against the pillows, her good hand coming up to cover her mouth. "I mean, when Riyoth.... but...."
The healer nods. "Yes. That sounds about right." Then he looks at the Weyrleader, his own eyes crinkling with amusement. "Is there a reason she can't be, Weyrleader?"
"She's five," N'rov tells him with a shrug. "Look at her." He does, bemused and avuncular, and begins to loop her straps back so they'll behave. "How far along would you say, Journeyman? Twins or triplets?"
"Well, that catch was what, two months ago?" the healer asks Catling. When she nods, he nods and begins to palpitate again. "So, two months, N'rov, I would say." He tilts his head, then nods. "It's too early to say, and with her size, your size, Catling, it's hard to judge. A bit larger than expected, but right now...." He shrugs his shoulders. "It bears monitoring. At any rate, avoid between for the now."
"Just as well you did your elbow in, then. Unless you wanted to lose it," N'rov observes, stepping forward to replace the straps and, not coincidentally, get a better view of the girl's expression.
Catling looks nothing short of shocked. Her eyes are wide and her face is quite pale. She blinks once, twice, then shakes her head, looking over at the Weyrleader. "Lose it? Oh, no. No, I don't want to. I want the baby." Her lips twitch into an incredulous smile. "I... I had no idea...." Then she licks her lips, unsure of his reaction.
"Then you'll report to our Weyrwoman," N'rov says easily, and shares a glance with the healer who need not, after all, persuade her to keep the child to the Weyr's benefit. "Fly with Citrine while you can," and with that he spreads his hands, the chair's leathern contents replaced. "Carnelian is coming; you can explain, and I don't even anticipate yelling. I've a couple of singeings to check on myself." He gives them both brisk nods, then steps away to look in on his other riders... until, with his pause, there's one more thing. "And the sire is?"
"I...." Catling flushes. "The greenrider... had his own partner. So I.... Well. There was a circle of riders." She clears her throat. "I didn't catch the name of the man. It didn't seem important at the time. And he slipped out before I woke up. He was.... erm. Tall. Taller than you a bit, I think. Broad. Hair like straw." She reddens.
One brow rakes up; "Unusual," N'rov opines of the greenrider, though that brow is for her. "I assign you the job of tracking him down. You must know someone there, or know someone who knows someone; envision the man, and someone's bound to recognize him. You may leave out, of course, extraneous details." His grin is quick. "Of course, if he's not from there, it might take longer... but it'll give Riyoth something to do while he waits for you. How many months can it take?" The tip of his invisible hat mimes 'good luck.'
"His partner was very nice. He told us that they were in a relationship. One that didn't include female riders. I didn't mind. Even if it was odd." Catling shrugs. "I'll find out who it was. And I'll be able to fly, just not between?" This is for the healer, and then she smiles at N'rov. "Thank you sir. For.... everything."
Crazy habit, implies N'rov's shake of the head, but then it's almost unheard of; still, with her taking it all right, with her thanks for himself even, he gruffly clears his throat and sets out for the other casualties of the night.