faderift | [open] and I miss the days of a life still permanent

WHO: Teren and you
WHAT: misc, convalescence
WHEN: Wintermarch
WHERE: the Gallows
NOTES: cussin

I.

Likely to the dismay of some, Teren is up and about again. She is, however, much slower than she's ever been, and has to use a cane to propel herself around, which does a person's image no favors when she's as intent as she is on defying her age.
The cane is, hopefully, temporary, but anyone who comments on it, or on its wielder, is sure to feel its impact sooner or later.

II.

With mobility being rather difficult still, Teren isn't about to go on any major excursions to the mainland. This means she has to occupy herself right here in the Gallows, and when Warden business or other similarly shady ventures aren't calling for her attention, she's lounging in the dining hall, stitching elaborate patterns into her Warden's armor or playing bones with whomever wants to join in.
Excessive talking is frowned upon, but she can't exactly run away, so it's really up to one's discretion.

III. (closed to Sister Sawbones)

There is absolutely no way anyone could convince Teren to go to a healer of her own volition, so the best way to go about ensuring she actually receives medical care is, much like a disagreeable cat, to either trick her into thinking it's something else or tranquilize and restrain her before she can slash anyone's throat.
It's honestly a wonder she's in as good of shape as she is, though it helps to remember that Anders, after years of pressure, finally became the one person she would allow to inspect and heal her injuries at great risk to his self-esteem. Unfortunately, Anders is gone now.

Apparently intent on willing her pain away, Teren has resisted any and all summons to a healer, and is currently making the mistake of taking an early evening rest in her room.

IV. (closed to Caspar)

Non-magical healing is slow and exhausting, and the older one gets, the more true that becomes. Teren finds the process dismal and demoralizing, but has found that going out to the training pitch to practice throwing knives at the dummies is an all right way of cheering herself up and staying sharp.
This is where she is now, sitting on a stool that she dragged over and idly chucking blade after blade into the blank face of a dummy, clearly bored but at least doing something.

V. Wildcard

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

She looks like could spit, glaring daggers at Sawbones (to supplement the many actual daggers she has hidden away around her bed).
In her hesitance to answer, she at least seems to realize there's no answer she can give that will be either rational or satisfactory; a person with a total need for privacy will never find an easy compromise, even when it comes to personal health.

"...just don't like healers," she grumbles, shooting a warning glance at Barty, daring him to comment.

"What she means is, she don't likes people pryings into business and most Healers have an idea that they's gots to pry intos every little thing," Barty tells Sawbones, while making calm and steady eye contact with the ceiling, "Of course, knowings your usual clienteles, that'd be exactlies why I reccomendeds you in particular to the job, Sister."

You could write a book on all the things Barty doesn't dare. It'd be quite short. But that doesn't mean he doesn't know what shame is.

"You're a dwarf what knows what her own business is and hows to minds it, and I saids to myself, that's a lady with her heads on straight. Goods in ah, ah, in a crisis you might say."

Which is what you call it, Teren, when you try to scare or threaten everyone who isn't a Warden into abandoning you to rot.

Barry earns himself a sharp look for the mention of her usual clientele. An instinctive rush of fear at the sound of an Ozammar voice speaking outloud about her occupation.

But well. He has a point. Sawbones is Sawbones for a reason. Her usual roster of patients came to her for that reason. She folds her hands on her lap and sits up a little straighter.

"Warden," she says to Teren, "Let me be clear. I am not a Healer. I'm a Sawbones. I was trained in the occupation of doctoring by Old Sawbones in Dust Town, where Casteless dwarves are forbidden from taking any occupation that could be done by a Caste dwarf. Sawbones don't talk, because Sawbones don't exist. Understand?"

"I don't need anyone to speak for me, Barty," Teren snaps, her temper raising again, "why don't you make yourself useful and get the fuck out."
She's not usually this mean to him, but ganging up on Teren, however benevolently, tends to yield this effect. She looks warily back to Sawbones, no less on her guard.
"What's to stop you from poking and prodding as you please," she grumbles, "if you're accountable to no one?" If she's warming to her at all, it's only because Sawbones isn't a man; that's not enough to convince her on its own, but they're making progress.

Barty, who anticipated this level of wet-cat attitude, merely makes an expression which says, almost completely free of hurt or rancor, well that's just rude. But he doesn't say it aloud.

What he says instead is, "Simple as dirt; even a Duster's got friends."

Which is to say, he isn't above most things, when it comes down to it. The book of things he won't dare really is very slim, and when it comes down to meting out the natural consequence for harming Teren by accident or a'purpose, Barty is a practical man with practical means.

"But if you gets good results, don't need for worry, and I gots no fear. You?"

Sawbones nods at Barty's words, a trace of dry amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Most of the folks I sew up are Carta," Sawbones says, "I don't do my duty, I start acting out of my place? there's plenty of Dusters who won't think twice about gutting me." Strange to put it into words, to have to explain something that was so basic.

There's something very simple Teren has been trying to communicate before she's willing to advance the conversation, and this time she hopes to punctuate it by chucking a knife (where did that come from) at the door right above Barty's head.
"OUT!" she roars, at him specifically.

"Dusters be tossed, I won't discuss a single bloody thing with a man here," she spits to Sawbones, her hands beginning to shake from adrenaline.

Barty does not move, very carefully does not flinch. He waits for the knife to stop humming in its place, reaches up over his head, and pulls it free. A few ginger hairs float down with it.

"...Fair enough," he says, wisely making no note of the way she had borderline threatened him into the room in the first place, "Basket's for you, Sister. Don't gots much in the way of coin, but I takes care of my people."

And then he leaves in the same manner of someone trying not to let the absolutely fictional demons hiding in the completely empty and not terrifying dark basement know just how spooked they are; casually, and then all at once.

Sawbones does flinch, but oddly enough, it's not the first time she's had a knife thrown over her head so she recovers her composure relatively quickly. The only acknowledgment she offers Barty is a nod of thanks, more focused on the woman in front of her than the specific words being said.

"Well," she says once the door is closed, "As you seem well armed and perfectly capable of responding to any poking or prodding." Feeling the matter settled, she flips open her field journal again, "Now then, where have you been experiencing the worst of the pain?"

Well. Time to face the music. Teren still seems reluctant to answer, and still very much on-edge, but at least less angry now that there are no witnesses to her indignity.

"Ribs," she grunts.

That's better. Sawbones settles down into her usual self. Steady and calm with a measured, no nonsense tone.

"Do they give you any pain when you breathe? Is it a sharp or dull pain?"

"Not much," Teren grumbles, tense and watching Sawbones' hands, on the verge of flinching every time she moves them.
"Dull. I know they were broken. Think they've mostly healed up."

[open] and I miss the days of a life still permanent

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