Timandra Starkey (phainein) wrote in top_shelf, @ 2014-08-18 21:10:00 |
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Entry tags: | book: his majesty's dragon, player: christa |
Who: Timandra Starkey with special guests Her Dad, Lucretia the Cantankerous, and Captain Not-At-All-Cantankerous.
What: A passing of a the torch.
When: June 1807.
Where: Covert grounds.
Warnings: Blood and mild-surgery talk.
There would be no earning the creature’s respect—Timandra already knew this. Years at her father’s side had instilled in her a certainty that Lucretia got on with no one but her captain and, somehow, Merle Starkey; the dragon's ill-temper surprassed that of many within a breed already reputed for its lack of politesse, but was balanced enough by her skill in battle that she was unlikely going anywhere soon. She had the scarred, pock-marked hide of a veteran, and Tim thought it unlikely this sterling record had done much to convince Lucretia of the value of making nice. Yet she wondered that a dragon with such a history of battle wounds behind her should take no issue whatever at making as much a fuss as possible over the suturing of scrapes and removal of a few musket balls. Indeed, Tim wasn’t sure she’d heard such colorful language even in the towns, and threw her father a fleeting glance on the heels of Lucretia’s latest obscenity-laden snarl.
The former surgeon’s presence at the dragon’s head right now, in fact, was likely one of the few things aside from the captain’s occasional soothing that truly guaranteed Tim would complete this routine procedure with all of her own limbs intact. Lucretia had regarded Tim with blunt suspicion and distaste from the start of this. To her, it hardly mattered that she’d known the fledgling surgeon for years and was inexplicably fond of her father. It was difficult not to wonder what would happen when Merle’s sight left him entirely, when he would no longer be here to provide assistance even in this singular and limited capacity—but it was speculation that Tim was impelled to stifle. She didn’t have much focus to spare. There was only one more ball to extract, and then she could send the Widowmaker and her captain off for rest and feeding, and wash her hands of this for the time being.
Clearing her throat once, as if in warning to her charge that she was about to get back into it and would truly, deeply appreciate cooperation—or at least less thrashing of that tail—Tim raised a critical eyebrow and bent close over the entry point. Against the expanse of the flank, mottled silvery-grey and smeared with dark drying blood despite cursory cleanings, the hole was cleft under a shattered scale and almost invisible to the eye. Tim probed at it with a finger, ignoring the fresh stream of blood that slithered out of the wound and the hissing curse that came from the vicinity of the dragon’s mouth. With some satisfaction she found that she could palpate the ball, though she was in up to the knuckle by then. The soft tissue was not terribly damaged compared to that around some of the claw rakes, and the bullet had not penetrated deeply as the others had. The metal probe would not be necessary.
Lucretia only keened a little as Tim pressed her forceps firmly into the wound, the scales and flesh giving around them as she opened and clamped them quickly to the ball inside. With a moment and a practiced move of her wrist she had them back out, tool and bullet both. The ball clinked wetly against the surface of the shallow tray Tim let it drop into, where it joined four others nearly identical in shape and size, and a fifth that was peculiarly flattened where it had struck bone. The suturing was swift in comparison to those before, and she made a note to send along some poultices in a few hours.
“For now,” Tim announced, climbing to her feet and approaching the captain with the long needle still in one hand, bandages in another, speaking as if they’d been mid-conversation already. “It’s best to let her sleep as long as she’d like, and feed if she expresses interest in food. No hunting, of course.”
There was a groan of protest of Lucretia at that, but little else. Evidently she’d finally tired herself out, as if multiple wounds and hours of flying hadn’t been enough to sap her energy sufficiently. Tim dared to reach a hand out to stroke the dragon’s neck, just once, and took a step back in search of a towel for her hands. “A few weeks out of the air, at least. And I’d like to take another look at her forearm in the morning, if she’ll allow me, but I believe it will heal well as the rest.”
The captain nodded with a wan smile—he was significantly better-natured than his dragon, though one could easily say the same of a hive of incensed wasps—and turned to find one or two of his crew to send off for some fresh meat. Tim looked back to find Merle hunched over her box of instruments, which had been his only two months before. He was cleaning and putting the tools away with intuitive grace; he didn’t need to see them to know where each went, nor to tell the condition of any. She knelt to join him in the silent task, eyes falling lightly shut as she reached for the knife handle closest to her and tried to identify the blade by feel alone.