Bandaid Stand Open House WHO: OPEN to any and all [Freya, Alexander, Nikolaos...] WHAT: Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled batshit crazy masses yearning to breathe sane... WHERE: The Bandaid Stand WHEN: May 25th, noon RATING: In progress. Open.
It was impossible to predict what the work flow at the Bandaid Stand would look like today. With each passing hour, another employee reported a new baffling malady. The symptoms read like quirks of the characters arranged around the March Hare and Mad Hatter's tea table. Freycenet was both curious and apprehensive, her inquisitive nature combatting a deep distrust of magic and all related phenomena. Her worry, thought outwardly well-masked, was negating the usual salving effect of her upbeat energy. To anyone sensitive to such things, Freya was feeling so frazzled to day that her energy was ... almost human.
With so little to go on, she'd busied herself between patients for the last hour, making them as comfortable as she could while the coven convened elsewhere. As ever, the front of the aptly named Bandaid Stand was fairly innocuous; up to government standards for an 'on-site medical center at an entertainment venue.' The employee-restricted back room, however, was outfitted with a dozen fresh cots and unusual apparatus. Several of the cots were occupied with employees complaining of various ailments already. It was a busy day.
Present patients accounted for, she went about lighting incense, refilling stores of cool water and light lemonade (electrolytes were important for the sleep deprived and stressed) and dousing cotton strips in vervaine oil to simmer in half-covered granite mortars. The place was starting to look more like a 19th century opium den than a modern medical tent. The vervaine smoke was meant to drive off spiritual energies. If, in fact, the employees' troubles were borne of ghostly interference from the rift, the herbed smoke might chase away some of their symptoms, at least temporarily. For some it might provide just enough leverage to better diagnose what was troubling the troupe. At least she hoped so. Freya so hated grasping at straws like this. It felt inefficient, too much like childish fumbling.
"Come in, come in, please." She beckoned without turning when she heard the tent flaps rustling, on her tip toes to push the last mortar up onto a high shelf.