|BRADY MCALISTER MORRISS THE BERST! (Also a saint.) (latetomyseance) wrote in yegods,|
@ 2012-07-22 13:40:00
|Entry tags:||!log, brady morris, rylee nox|
WHO Rylee Nox & Brady Morris
WHERE Healing Clinic, the Catacombs
WHEN July 22nd, 2012, Evening
SUMMARY Rylee is looking pretty rough.
Brady usually doesn't work on Sundays. It's usually from about 11 to 2 on Saturdays that he works at the clinic on weekends, but someone called in sick this weekend, so he's did the 11-3 yesterday, and now he's stuck on the 2-6 today. As a kind of "junior" healer, his hours are a bit shorter than many of those around him, which suits him, because after four hours, especially if it's been busy, he feels a lot like he's just going to fall asleep on his feet. Admittedly, doing it two days in a row kind of makes him feel like that by 3 P.M. So far, though, it's been a quiet day. Most people - on a day as pretty as today - don't want to be underground, after all, and serious injuries rarely come underground (unless there is a magical reason for it) instead of a regular human hospital. Given he doesn't seem to be able to do much for the unfortunately cursed, Brady's mostly been twiddling his thumbs today. No, the patients that he specializes in normally come from either a fight at/outside Hip's or the Warriors Guild. The more physical, brutal injuries.
Since things have been quiet most of today, he's hanging out in the lounge in back, just sort of rifling through a large tome on magic, which he essentially has no chance of being able to make use of, given his powers aren't technically magical spells, but it is kind of interesting to see how magic works in this world. To see what separates the average demi-god with powers from an actual magician. He's turning the page when the receptionist pokes her curly, bobbed head in.
"Brady, Room Three."
And she's gone before Brady can even look up and say, "All right." He closes the book and puts it back on the table where he found it, stretching his shoulders and popping his back a little before putting on the regulation blue-green smock over his shirt and heading to room three. There's a clipboard full of paperwork on the nail outside the door. He picks that up, opening into a small room that looks a lot like what you'd expect in any small clinic - a seat for him, a bed for the patient to sit on, an area for supplies (gauze, bandages, rubbing alcohol, q-tips, rubber gloves, etc.), and a basin to wash his hands in. He shuts the door behind him, taking a glance at the chart before actually reading the name or looking up at the face, but he reads the name before the face, and he blinks in surprise, looking up.