(closed) when the violence

[dashing]

WHO: Strange and Stranger
WHAT: Congratulations, Stephen! You’re the lucky recipient of a Tranquil in need of medical assistance.
WHEN: After Gwen & Cedric drop Herian off, potentially with time jumps if we feel inspired.
WHERE: Infirmary
NOTES: Tranquility (lack of agency/emotion), discussion of the Rite/torture, medical stuff/needing to deal with a gross injury.

As the doctor sees to his other patient, Herian sits. Franklin has calmed since they arrived at the Infirmary, the small dog having kept a careful eye on Cedric and growled any time his steps carried him too close to the Tranquil.

It was a new behaviour, not observed save for when she was subject to the Rite. The past while he has been leaning against her leg, occasionally moving to rest his front paws and muzzle on her lap. She is scratching behind his ears whenever the doctor returns, speaking to him softly. Petting him does nothing to soothe or comfort her, but she knows it settles him, and that his care is her responsibility.

On that count, the corgi’s state is better than Herian’s. Her skin is grimy, boots worn and ill-fitting, so it is perhaps apparent that her proper boots were taken at some point before her arrival. More stark than all that is the Sunburst brand burned into her forehead. Not clean and centred, but angled and partly wrapping about her right temple. Jagged, almost, indicative of struggle. The burns have been left untreated for at least a couple of weeks, by the looks of things, the skin livid with infection.

Herian looks to the doctor when he arrives. “What information would best assist you?”

Comments

[portalling]

It’s—

almost funny in a bleak sort of way, and he half-laughs, a small choked noise that he bites down at the last moment. I lack the requisite stealth for a discrete delivery at the best of times. “I don’t know you well, Knight-Enchanter Amsel, but I’m starting to get that impression,” Strange says mildly. He reaches up, finishes gently smoothing over the thin layer of ointment on her forehead, closes the jar again and wipes off his hands.

Scrounging is done quick enough, rustling around at the physician’s desk at the back, before he returns with parchment, quill, ink, a patient’s breakfast-in-bed tray she can use as a writing surface.

“Parchment supplies have been low, we’ve been reusing paper when we can,” he explains, “but these are fresh for you. I imagine it’s best to have this particular letter not scribbled on the back of miss Baudin’s inventory sheet.”

[dashing]

Herian looks at the paper overlong.
How can one be uncertain when the feeling of uncertainty does not accompany it? Un-persuaded might be more accurate. The analysis of her own state may come to consume too much energy if she allows herself to focus on it so.

"That is a reflection of your worry. Logically, this does not merit such a use of resources. The message will be no less jarring for being on fresh paper."

But by the same token, Cosima is the Provost. Respect is due, and the intention of it is to make the matter less painful. Adding a different type of grit does not mean that it will not sabotage efforts to reduce friction.

"I will trust your intuition in this." A moment passes, and then—

"Is there a place I can bathe and acquire clean garments? Navigating based on past familiarity seems most like to lack efficacy." Given the destruction, and so on. "Using my present wardrobe would be counter to protecting the cleanliness of the wounds."

[portalling]

“Ah, yes, of course. The communal baths in the towers are out of commission, but there’s temporary bathing facilities outside. And as for clean clothing—”

More rustling, more scrounging through cabinets, before he deposits a folded pile of fabric on the end of Herian’s bed: some slippers and loose flowing button-up robes. Not the paper-thin hospital gowns of modern New York, more like a light dressing-gown, but it’s as close to the concept as he could get here.

Please put on some clothes.

[dashing]

"Thank you."

All matters seen to, she commences her tasks.

Alas, poor Doctor, the letter writing is prioritised over either the bathing or getting dressed. It would be silly to put a clean robe on when she is in such a state, and any time prior to the writing of the letter is time that she might pass the Provost's path before its delivery.

Franklin snores.