Elendor
Crates in the Infirmary
Master Healer Laeraelin and Deputy Quartermaster Ceredir help restock the infirimary in Osgiliath and have less than pleasant words with each other
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Osgiliath
Game Date: November 12, 3045
IC Time: Afternoon
Description: [Osgiliath ZMO(#36)->Ceredir]
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Weather: Cloudy
Time: Nighttime <23:49:03 >
Season: Autumn
Date: Oraearon - November 12, 3045
Real Time: Sun Jan 04 20:36:21 2009
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[Laeraelin(#24692)]
Outside, wagons of supplies, healers and wounded have just arrived. She who will manage them all has been here for a night and day, restoring the befouled infirmary to order.
The room is, perhaps, the cleanest it has been in centuries. Fresh paint brightens the walls, the cracked floor is scrubbed spotless and the linens and bedding replaced entirely.
Cupboards are packed tightly with fresh supplies and a fire burns cheerfully in the fireplace. Sitting on a stool near the fire, Laeraelin Azrabar leans forward, tucking her skirts safely away from the flames. With a crumpled towel, she swings an iron bar out from the fire - from it swings a steaming kettle.
A green-cloaked young man now carefully backs his way through the door, edging in as he carries a large wooden crate with another man, the contents clinking dangerously. As carefully as they can, the pair set the crate down, but it is not without a slight thud.
"Go help unload the rest," one of the men--clearly a Scout--says, wiping his forehead with the back of one arm. "I have to start noting the rest in the ledger."
And with that, Ceredir turns, pulling out a small leather-bound book from pouch at his waist. One step does he take into the room before he freezes, noticing Laeraelin.
"Mistress. Afternoon."
[Laeraelin(#24692)]
"My -lady-," Laeraelin corrects, arching her brow. She turns back to her task and removes the tea kettle from the iron rod. She places it on the hearth and straightens.
When she crosses the room to join the scout, her eyes are for the crate, her tone one of business. "What do you have for me, Quarter-master?"
"M'lady." Ceredir blushes as he corrects his address of the woman, then quickly kneels on one knee to examine the numbers etched on the crate. These he compares with numbers in the book he holds, which he has now opened, tracing down long lists with an ink- and dirt-stained index finger. "Appears to be potions, m'lady. Glass, from the sound of it and...." he frowns, sniffing, "I would venture that at least one bottle broke in the trip."
[Laeraelin(#24692)]
Leaning forward, Laeraelin sniffs delicately. "Redwort," she declares. "A very common and inexpensive thing we use it to prevent infections. It will harm naught if it has broken."
"We generally brew it ourselves, but I anticipate a great number of wounded, and thought it might save us precious time to have most supplies shipped to us ready-made from the apothecaries."
She glances at the scout"If you find this method to be more trouble than it is worth, Quarter-master, please let me know and we can do things the old way."
"Ah. Well, I would have preferred nothing broken at all, but if it had to be, good that it was such." Ceredir stands now, his head tilted slightly as he replies. "Trouble? Why would it be trouble, ma'am? I have only to find some water to mix a bit of ink and mark in my ledger...." He shrugs.
"But, I am only Deputy Quartermaster. What is the old way?"
[Laeraelin(#24692)]
"Trouble as in the supplies are wasted by spoilage and breakage," Laeraelin replies, her expression even. "In the past we simply shipped the herbs either dried or fresh, depending on the season and then made up the draughts, brews, and tinctures ourselves."
"For instance, redwort is simply brewed like a tea and then added to boiled water. This is used to wash our hands, equipment and the very wounds themselves. Indeed, we even add it to the scrubbing water and laundry. With this method, we omit the brewing and just add the concentrated tincture to boiled water."
"If the loss is only a few bottles in this entire shipment, especially given the haste of the preparations, then I would say that this method has its worth. But I have not yet noted much loss of the cargo, have you?"
Ceredir turns, surveying the cupboards. "You've already put much work into it..."
[Laeraelin(#24692)]
"I brought down many supplies myself, yesterday," Laeraelin replies. "But this will not be the only place of healing. We have a small camp set up outside. That is where the majority of the wounded will reside after being treated here and before they are to be transferred to the Halls of Healing in the city."
Although he tries to hide it, Ceredir cannot help but shudder at the healer's words of the wounded. "Yes, ma'am."
Two men now bring in more crates, setting them next to the first, and as Ceredir leans over to inspect the numbers on them, a silver necklace tumbles out of his tunic, a small medallion dangling from it. He reaches quickly to tuck it back underneath his shirt, but perhaps not quick enough.
The medallion is of the Telpekhor crest.
[Laeraelin(#24692)]
The master healer is more interested in what is being brought in than the scout whose job it is to dutifully mark it all in his ledger. And yet, a flash of silver and quick glimpse of a beloved image draws the gaze readily.
Laeraelin's eyes flash fiercely and her face flushes. Her voice is low, however, and hard. "What do you wear about your neck?" she demands.
Laeraelin says, "Announcement: Laeraelin has changed the GPOLL to: If only I still had master in longbow!."
The Scout's hand is still at his breast, holding the errant necklace beneath his tunic as Laeraelin speaks. Ceredir does not answer immediately, but his grey eyes do meet the healer's, and the expression in them has hardened.
"Twas a gift."
With those words he draws his hand away so that he might pick up the ledger again. "I need to mix some ink."
[Laeraelin(#24692)]
"You have no right to that," Laeraelin says, holding his gaze until he turns his attention to the ledger, "Whether it was a gift or not."
"Give it to me," the Telpekhor daughter commands, holding her head high and extending her hand.
Ceredir looks at the hand, then looks at the healer. "It was not given by you, nor does it belong to you, m'lady. I will return it to Nelladel when I find her.
"On this I give you my word." He turns back to the ledger.
[Laeraelin(#24692)]
"To the contrary, the crest of my family belongs to me even more than it does to Nelladel," Laeraelin replies coldly, lowering her hand. She takes a step closer, glowering at the scout. She is small of stature, especially in comparison to Ceredir - it does not appear to daunt her. Though forced to look up, she gives him a look worthy of a man of greater stature. "I warn you, if I find you have anything to do with her disappearance - you will rue the day you sought above your station."
"Now remove these crates to the tents, there is no more room here," she snaps, gesturing to the two boxes.
Despite himself, Ceredir draws back as the woman reproaches him, moving as if to step away, but not actually taking any step. He looks down at her, listening, not blinking, though his brows knit.
"I have the 30 men with whom I was trapped in Osgiliath as my witness that I was here when she disappeared" is all his reply to her threat.
"Yes, ma'am." Setting his ledger aside for now, he lifts one of the lighter crates and takes it out of the infirmary with a grunt of effort--all too glad to be out of the lady's sight, even if only for a few moments.
[Laeraelin(#24692)]
Lady Azrabar turns away once the scout has left and crosses back to the fire. She picks up the now cooling kettle and pours the hot water into a basin. The steaming water swirls the herbs already in the basin and soon a soothing aroma wafts up and throughout the room.
Judging by the lady's expression, the balm does nothing for her mood.
She returns to the fire and slams the kettle down on the hearth, sending water sloshing out and hissing into the embers.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Weather: Cloudy
Time: Nighttime <23:49:03 >
Season: Autumn
Date: Oraearon - November 12, 3045
Real Time: Sun Jan 04 20:36:21 2009
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
[Laeraelin(#24692)]
Outside, wagons of supplies, healers and wounded have just arrived. She who will manage them all has been here for a night and day, restoring the befouled infirmary to order.
The room is, perhaps, the cleanest it has been in centuries. Fresh paint brightens the walls, the cracked floor is scrubbed spotless and the linens and bedding replaced entirely.
Cupboards are packed tightly with fresh supplies and a fire burns cheerfully in the fireplace. Sitting on a stool near the fire, Laeraelin Azrabar leans forward, tucking her skirts safely away from the flames. With a crumpled towel, she swings an iron bar out from the fire - from it swings a steaming kettle.
A green-cloaked young man now carefully backs his way through the door, edging in as he carries a large wooden crate with another man, the contents clinking dangerously. As carefully as they can, the pair set the crate down, but it is not without a slight thud.
"Go help unload the rest," one of the men--clearly a Scout--says, wiping his forehead with the back of one arm. "I have to start noting the rest in the ledger."
And with that, Ceredir turns, pulling out a small leather-bound book from pouch at his waist. One step does he take into the room before he freezes, noticing Laeraelin.
"Mistress. Afternoon."
[Laeraelin(#24692)]
"My -lady-," Laeraelin corrects, arching her brow. She turns back to her task and removes the tea kettle from the iron rod. She places it on the hearth and straightens.
When she crosses the room to join the scout, her eyes are for the crate, her tone one of business. "What do you have for me, Quarter-master?"
"M'lady." Ceredir blushes as he corrects his address of the woman, then quickly kneels on one knee to examine the numbers etched on the crate. These he compares with numbers in the book he holds, which he has now opened, tracing down long lists with an ink- and dirt-stained index finger. "Appears to be potions, m'lady. Glass, from the sound of it and...." he frowns, sniffing, "I would venture that at least one bottle broke in the trip."
[Laeraelin(#24692)]
Leaning forward, Laeraelin sniffs delicately. "Redwort," she declares. "A very common and inexpensive thing we use it to prevent infections. It will harm naught if it has broken."
"We generally brew it ourselves, but I anticipate a great number of wounded, and thought it might save us precious time to have most supplies shipped to us ready-made from the apothecaries."
She glances at the scout"If you find this method to be more trouble than it is worth, Quarter-master, please let me know and we can do things the old way."
"Ah. Well, I would have preferred nothing broken at all, but if it had to be, good that it was such." Ceredir stands now, his head tilted slightly as he replies. "Trouble? Why would it be trouble, ma'am? I have only to find some water to mix a bit of ink and mark in my ledger...." He shrugs.
"But, I am only Deputy Quartermaster. What is the old way?"
[Laeraelin(#24692)]
"Trouble as in the supplies are wasted by spoilage and breakage," Laeraelin replies, her expression even. "In the past we simply shipped the herbs either dried or fresh, depending on the season and then made up the draughts, brews, and tinctures ourselves."
"For instance, redwort is simply brewed like a tea and then added to boiled water. This is used to wash our hands, equipment and the very wounds themselves. Indeed, we even add it to the scrubbing water and laundry. With this method, we omit the brewing and just add the concentrated tincture to boiled water."
"If the loss is only a few bottles in this entire shipment, especially given the haste of the preparations, then I would say that this method has its worth. But I have not yet noted much loss of the cargo, have you?"
Ceredir turns, surveying the cupboards. "You've already put much work into it..."
[Laeraelin(#24692)]
"I brought down many supplies myself, yesterday," Laeraelin replies. "But this will not be the only place of healing. We have a small camp set up outside. That is where the majority of the wounded will reside after being treated here and before they are to be transferred to the Halls of Healing in the city."
Although he tries to hide it, Ceredir cannot help but shudder at the healer's words of the wounded. "Yes, ma'am."
Two men now bring in more crates, setting them next to the first, and as Ceredir leans over to inspect the numbers on them, a silver necklace tumbles out of his tunic, a small medallion dangling from it. He reaches quickly to tuck it back underneath his shirt, but perhaps not quick enough.
The medallion is of the Telpekhor crest.
[Laeraelin(#24692)]
The master healer is more interested in what is being brought in than the scout whose job it is to dutifully mark it all in his ledger. And yet, a flash of silver and quick glimpse of a beloved image draws the gaze readily.
Laeraelin's eyes flash fiercely and her face flushes. Her voice is low, however, and hard. "What do you wear about your neck?" she demands.
The Scout's hand is still at his breast, holding the errant necklace beneath his tunic as Laeraelin speaks. Ceredir does not answer immediately, but his grey eyes do meet the healer's, and the expression in them has hardened.
"Twas a gift."
With those words he draws his hand away so that he might pick up the ledger again. "I need to mix some ink."
[Laeraelin(#24692)]
"You have no right to that," Laeraelin says, holding his gaze until he turns his attention to the ledger, "Whether it was a gift or not."
"Give it to me," the Telpekhor daughter commands, holding her head high and extending her hand.
Ceredir looks at the hand, then looks at the healer. "It was not given by you, nor does it belong to you, m'lady. I will return it to Nelladel when I find her.
"On this I give you my word." He turns back to the ledger.
[Laeraelin(#24692)]
"To the contrary, the crest of my family belongs to me even more than it does to Nelladel," Laeraelin replies coldly, lowering her hand. She takes a step closer, glowering at the scout. She is small of stature, especially in comparison to Ceredir - it does not appear to daunt her. Though forced to look up, she gives him a look worthy of a man of greater stature. "I warn you, if I find you have anything to do with her disappearance - you will rue the day you sought above your station."
"Now remove these crates to the tents, there is no more room here," she snaps, gesturing to the two boxes.
Despite himself, Ceredir draws back as the woman reproaches him, moving as if to step away, but not actually taking any step. He looks down at her, listening, not blinking, though his brows knit.
"I have the 30 men with whom I was trapped in Osgiliath as my witness that I was here when she disappeared" is all his reply to her threat.
"Yes, ma'am." Setting his ledger aside for now, he lifts one of the lighter crates and takes it out of the infirmary with a grunt of effort--all too glad to be out of the lady's sight, even if only for a few moments.
[Laeraelin(#24692)]
Lady Azrabar turns away once the scout has left and crosses back to the fire. She picks up the now cooling kettle and pours the hot water into a basin. The steaming water swirls the herbs already in the basin and soon a soothing aroma wafts up and throughout the room.
Judging by the lady's expression, the balm does nothing for her mood.
She returns to the fire and slams the kettle down on the hearth, sending water sloshing out and hissing into the embers.
Players: Laeraelin,Ceredir
