43 Autumn, 514 AV | Common | Vani | Others
She’d never taken work in an infirmary before- in general the mere idea of it was strange. Her skills up until then hadn’t been used directly for healing. It was for a sore throat or the persistent cough, the choosing of appropriate facial creams or the making of tonics and teas.
It was quite simply unnerving that she may have actual patients deferred to her – that she would be an aid in the making of their poultices that is something far more specific, and more importantly severe, than the minor cuts and bruises that had people settle for the mere guidance of one practised in herbalism such as herself.
As she broke into the room, she kept her shoulders rolled back and her expression straight. There was some woman, Mistress Claira, she was apparently called, to whom she’d been referred to. Her quickened breath as she wove her way between staff and students and patients alike, before finding herself quite firmly planted in front of what she’d only call a receptionist’s desk.
It was a hushed word and kind smile that then passed, the documentation handed over and the shuffling of paper, ever few moments the woman taking a quick glace behind the kelvic to ensure that there was no patients behind her, or a short and almost irritated look to the left or right. One could only assume that perhaps the work was not solely hers to perform, or that perhaps her duties by then should have been relieved by another.
Tanroa knew which it was.
Her vision shortly hazed as the world fell to a dull drown around her, before it was once again shocked as a piercing cry broke the bore of the room. Neither flight nor flight took to her, her head, like the receptionist’s, snapping to attention, gaze narrow down the hallway from which the sound came from. For the shortest of ticks, it was as though Tanroa herself had taken pause, not a murmur or movement or even breath taken, the silence and stagnation continuing until another short gasp was heard.
“A broken bone being set, please, pay it no mind,” the receptionist said shortly, her voice far too loud and clear for the words to be spoken to Altaira exclusively.
A collectively breath was taken, and work seemed to be taken as usual, the look of worry once etched into Altaira’s own expression swiftly fading. Different indeed, it was. There were no shouts of pain or injuries so severe that were set at her prior place of work. There was no need for them.
“Mistress Claira will be out in a moment,” the woman before her continued, gesturing towards the corridor, as though she had some strange encyclopaedic knowledge of all that was happening within the Infirmary. A few marks and notes were made, the woman’s scrawl too rushed and shifted before the kelvic’s curiosity took her. “What is your experience, if any?” The words didn’t sound as though it was a question that needed answering, a slight increase of pitch as the end of the voice leaving her sound far more casual than the kelvic thought she meant.
“Two and a half seasons. An apprenticeship of sorts.” Whether or not the last moment addition was required, the woman behind the counter seemed satisfied, and yet another scrawling was made.
“Please, take a seat.”
It was quite simply unnerving that she may have actual patients deferred to her – that she would be an aid in the making of their poultices that is something far more specific, and more importantly severe, than the minor cuts and bruises that had people settle for the mere guidance of one practised in herbalism such as herself.
As she broke into the room, she kept her shoulders rolled back and her expression straight. There was some woman, Mistress Claira, she was apparently called, to whom she’d been referred to. Her quickened breath as she wove her way between staff and students and patients alike, before finding herself quite firmly planted in front of what she’d only call a receptionist’s desk.
It was a hushed word and kind smile that then passed, the documentation handed over and the shuffling of paper, ever few moments the woman taking a quick glace behind the kelvic to ensure that there was no patients behind her, or a short and almost irritated look to the left or right. One could only assume that perhaps the work was not solely hers to perform, or that perhaps her duties by then should have been relieved by another.
Tanroa knew which it was.
Her vision shortly hazed as the world fell to a dull drown around her, before it was once again shocked as a piercing cry broke the bore of the room. Neither flight nor flight took to her, her head, like the receptionist’s, snapping to attention, gaze narrow down the hallway from which the sound came from. For the shortest of ticks, it was as though Tanroa herself had taken pause, not a murmur or movement or even breath taken, the silence and stagnation continuing until another short gasp was heard.
“A broken bone being set, please, pay it no mind,” the receptionist said shortly, her voice far too loud and clear for the words to be spoken to Altaira exclusively.
A collectively breath was taken, and work seemed to be taken as usual, the look of worry once etched into Altaira’s own expression swiftly fading. Different indeed, it was. There were no shouts of pain or injuries so severe that were set at her prior place of work. There was no need for them.
“Mistress Claira will be out in a moment,” the woman before her continued, gesturing towards the corridor, as though she had some strange encyclopaedic knowledge of all that was happening within the Infirmary. A few marks and notes were made, the woman’s scrawl too rushed and shifted before the kelvic’s curiosity took her. “What is your experience, if any?” The words didn’t sound as though it was a question that needed answering, a slight increase of pitch as the end of the voice leaving her sound far more casual than the kelvic thought she meant.
“Two and a half seasons. An apprenticeship of sorts.” Whether or not the last moment addition was required, the woman behind the counter seemed satisfied, and yet another scrawling was made.
“Please, take a seat.”
