Nightcap [Open]

[Windra]

He could breath a little. Just a little. The day was not riddled with the catastrophe of threadfall as was such a wanton plague during warmer months. Winter provided that subtle balm to his troubled mind - no screaming, writhing beings driven to weeping, shivering insanity by the presence of ever-burrowing thread digging further and deeper into their skin, flesh, bones ... No, none of that. In these moments where Rukbat rose wearily and slept early, D'cara's ward was bothered by the less harrowing troubles of colds, flus, hypothermia - all of which were equally lethal if left alone for far too long.

Of course, D'cara was not alone. There were other healers to help take up the mantle of caretaker. And Sendaith was at the back of his mind, as always - the placating, gentle voice of reassurance and endless love. His lack of sight did little to deter affection.

But Sendaith was asleep now. As were many others. Whers and dragonriders more in tune with the darkness prowled every corner on watch - though not for threadfall. Too cold for that. No, there was the worry of wild whers striking when they were vulnerable, since Fort was an example of dangers they sold short. Also tunnelsnakes - the kind that didn't hibernate and stuck the the warm tunnels riddling the hatching grounds' perimeter.

Most of his patients were lulled by their own circadian rhythm (or fellis juice) and D'cara's own eyes felt heavy. Yet there he sat in the dining hall with a warmed mug of red wine sweetened with just a hint of k'lah bark and honey. His wits were about him, always - sharpened, he might claim, by the dash of alcohol. But the spirits in his cup were not the only ones gracing his presence tonight.

"Stop bothering me," he whispered to nobody in particular. "S'been a decent night. First in a long time. You know I've done well." Their eyes caused prickles on the back of his neck. D'cara used a free hand to brush his blond hair from his spine. "Done well, I have. None lost to the ether. Not tonight. Faranth willing, not tomorrow. Can't say the same for last week ... I know that, but shards it could not be helped."

[nineofswords]

Faranth, she was an idiot. Not that Barca would admit to that, either out loud or in her own head where Brynth could use this as an 'opportunity for growth' like he was always pushing her to embrace. But she was. An idiot for grabbing the pot handle without thinking, and an idiot for not doing anything about it sooner because it had felt fine at the time. This wasn't the first time she'd burned herself, she knew better than that, but for some reason, she'd assumed this time it'd be different.

So it was that she was trudging across the Weyrbowl in the dead of night, cursing under her breath, her burned hand cradled to her chest, trying to keep the pain firmly on her side of the link. When Brynth asked about that later, she'd insist it was because she hadn't wanted to wake him up and deal with his incessant nagging, and not at all because she wanted to shield him from the pain she was feeling.

She made her way into the infirmary, poking her head in, not seeing any evident signs of activity. But she could hear a voice, and she followed it to someone who was sitting alone. Great. That boded so well for how her night was gonna go, if the mindhealer's charges were running loose. "Hey, crazy guy," she called out, tapping him on the shoulder. "Stop yammering at yourself for two seconds and let me know where your mind healer is so I can find a regular healer, yeah? Got an ouch in need of fixing. You understand?" Faranth, she hoped he did, she was in no mood to be nice tonight.

[Windra]

He would have jumped if the hot mug wasn't in his hands. He'd no intent to scald himself. He paused, frowning, as burning alcohol tickled his nostrils. With a swig he chased the ghosts away and slammed the mug onto the dining table hard.

"Mind healer, huh?" D'cara swiveled to glance at the entrant. What a patchwork of foul moods this one was. Scruffy, pissed off at the world. D'cara might not want to cross his bad side but just from the air of the fellow as he came near, and those eyes as they pierced him ... well, too late for that. He clicked his tongue in distaste. "Put away that dour look," D'cara said sternly. He slapped the wood with his palm as a indicator for the lad to join him at the table. "C'mon then. Let me take a look at that boo-boo. Must be urgent to come looking for a healer at this hour."

[nineofswords]

Barca didn't bother to hide an audible snicker as D'cara jumped. Now that she was closer, she could smell alcohol, which probably better explained why this person was talking out loud to no one better than her initial assumption that this was a mind healer's charge who'd wandered off.

"Yeah. Mind healer," Barca repeated, intentionally slowly, talking down to D'cara. Who knew how drunk this lush was? Better to treat him as especially dense right now. "You know, the person who holds your hand and asks how you're feeling?" She rolled her eyes to show what she thought of them.

She sneered at D'cara's quip about her expression. "Sorry to disappoint, but this is just my face. Can't take it off any more than I can take off my nose. Pops always said if I wasn't careful my face would freeze this way, and wouldn't you know it, he was right about exactly one thing in his whole sorry excuse for a life." She loved being difficult and she loved getting to talk smack about her dad, so she was as close as she could get to ecstatic in that moment.

Barca laughed in the healer's face. "You? No, seriously. I wanna see someone not cracked in the head or drunk as a skunk. Or, better yet, just point me to some burn ointment and I'll deal with it myself." Like all dragonriders, she knew enough basic first aid that she could apply her own burn ointment without someone holding her hand and telling her how it'd be alright and she was being so brave. If she ever got soft enough that she wanted that kind of coddling, she hoped the thread got her.

[Windra]

A ping of irritation sounded off in the back of D'cara's mind. Not enough to send him into a tizzy but certainly loud enough to prod Sendaith's sleeping senses. The blue roused in their weyr, drowsily staring up at the ceiling and being greeted by blackness instead. What troubles you, Mine?

Nothing to concern yourself over, he thought back. The prickling on the back of his neck told him that Sendaith could already feel the presence of wine and was about to cast down holy judgment onto his rider. Save it. I've already have my hands full with a ... wily one.

You understand where I stand on this. We will speak more later.

The inundating, brief conversation was enough to instill some sobriety in his body. D'cara wondered if this was intentional of Sendaith as he stood, brushing back his gown. He slung back the last of the warmed brew, swirling the cup a little disappointedly. "Your attitude sucks," he tittered with a permeating frown. "I'll have you know my hands are steady enough to suture your limbs back together. Can you say the same of your own?" with a gruff indicator of her obvious burns. He sat down the mug with delicacy and sighed, striding briskly past Barca with the clinging smell of numbweed and antiseptic. "Follow me, then, if you're so determined to take care of your own injury. Try not to touch anything on the way there until you've washed it. Don't want to get an infection, now do you?"

His pace was quick. D'cara walked with purpose and only the vaguest hint of a drunken sway that could be blamed with ease onto the tunnels' geography.