[The Dawn Tower] Step One [Zakita]

[Ophelia]

Continued from this thread. Sousa watched Zakita for a long moment after she told her the news. Her eyes were searching, and seemed to be focused entirely on Zakita. There was a certain level of focus and ambition in Sousa, and Zakita would be able to see it in her eyes - and it only become all the more obvious. Zakita's reaction would be good, she knew ... she hoped. The girl was a foreigner, but even so, surely she would understand just how much of an honour it was to work and live in the Dawn Tower. Zakita would need to be worked on. Her languages, her healing skills... and the fact that she consistently looked over her shoulder. It was rather ridiculous, and frankly, disrespectful. A small part of Sousa wondered just why it was that she was giving her the job, but she graciously allowed her the benefit of the doubt. Besides, if she didn't perform and improve ... she could just kick her out onto the streets. Simple as that. She stood up rather graciously, though she clutched her injured arm slighty. Perhaps it was a drastic test, but it certainly asserted authority. She gestured with her left hand for Zakita to get up. "Come, I will show you your lodgings." She turned and left the room, sweeping silently through the door. She turned her head back and called out to Zakita. "Oh, and bring the kit. That's yours now." She travelled through the hallway and walked down one flight of stairs. Turning sharply, she walked to the end of the corridor on that level. As she walked, she spoke. "This section of the tower belongs to the students. Here they live, learn and sleep. If you go to the ground floor and turn right, to the other side of the tower, that is my family's residence - strictly off limits to any students or visitors. If you ever need me and you can't find me here, you tell the secretary and she will come and get me." She paused at the end of the corridor on the third floor. Here there was a cluster of doors, one on each side of the hallway and one directly in front of them. Sousa gestured to the one on the left hand side. "This is where those who are primarily employed as healers sleep. They all are students too in some shape or form, but their main priority is healing, as yours will be." Sousa turned the handle and opened the door. It was a single room, with a large window. It had one rather spacious bed, a dresser and a desk. "This will be your home. Your steeds will be stationed downstairs. This should be enough for your belongings. You have permission to bring people back to this room, but only as long as the secretary is aware that there are extras in your room. There is a communal wash room on the end of the hallway. You may ask at the desk for the key once you are settled in. I hope it is to your satisfaction," she paused at the end of her words, giving Zakita a chance to take it in. There was a long moment of silence, allowing Zakita her time before she cleared her throat. "But that can all wait. I think it is time to begin your first healing lesson. The basics are stitches. I will teach you these today." Sousa stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind her, indicating that the first lesson had begun. She hoped Zakita would be a swift learner, for she had much to teach and Zakita had much to learn.

[Zakita]

While Zak finished the bandaging, Sousa’s questions about her sense situation filtered through the back of her mind. Mostly to work through what exactly the woman said. It was hard to move past the tone when the tone was the only thing understood. The scoff conjured bitter memories of her remove to Eyktol, where she had to learn over how to live amongst a ghostly familiar people in a manner that led to not dying. Some had been understanding, others not so much, but there was always the contention when they first heard and when they either thought practical jokes were no big deal or that she had to stay reclining in a tent like some vapid sack of flesh. The second question appeared rhetorical, Sousa continuing on to hire her before Zak had even managed to find the language to clarify her statement regarding the stitches. Inquisitive grey eyes met the matriarch’s beneath furrowed brows, relief drowned out by the struggle to understand everything she said. You know, she turns out nine out of ten applicants here, Sousa’s shadow informed her, and Zak got the distinct impression that it believed she should be one of the nine. An eyebrow twitch was her only response before she relegated the renewed shadow chatter to the background. Sousa had high expectations of herself, her Tower, and of her healers, Zak could tell just from looking into her eyes. It didn’t intimidate or worry the Benshira, she had every faith in her own abilities. The more she learned of the human body, of its mechanisms when injured, of what visible manifestations meant, the longer she would live. At least that was the plan. “I will learn.” A faint nod, Zak drawing up into a crouch on the balls of her feet, a position she’d apparently spent much time in. With the way Sousa stared at her, the Matriarch probably didn’t miss the twitch of a frown that turned her lips when she reached out to put her arm on Zak’s shoulders, even though the tall woman deftly avoided it by shifting slightly and covering the avoidance motion by starting to clean up the healer’s kit. Either the Matriarch hadn’t noticed, didn’t care, or realized that, logically, Zak had to evade physical contact as the surest means to avoid potentially unseen damage. The clean up was handy considering it was given to her just a few minutes later. Neatly closing the kit, she scooped it up and followed Sousa to her feet. That’s right, she better give you the tour herself; being all arrogant and looking down on you. What a- Zak closed the door behind her, subsequently on the bickering shadows, and wondered what new trouble this action would bring from her dark companions. Want to know why students aren’t allowed over there? Another shadow started up immediately, this one belonging to the healer’s kit. Because the family will gut you if they catch you and they don’t want to gut their own pupils. The shadow rippled along its edges. Brows furrowed, disturbed, Zak glanced down to the kit through the corner of her eye and then rotated her gaze up to the back of Sousa’s head. Gut? There was no reason to trust the shadows, they seemed fickle and slightly hostile, but did that make them liars? Why had that kid been injured like that in a healing classroom? Pushing the thoughts to the back of her mind, Zak focused on Sousa again and followed her into the room. Since she hadn’t been paying attention on the walk here, she’d have to bumble around a bit and orient herself when she went to check on Zeitgeist and Pao. Which would…not be right now as she’d assumed. Now was healing time. Grey eyes dropped to the neatly wrapped arm the Matriarch touted. Briefly, she considered protesting again. Young healers like her didn’t work on leaders like Sousa when there were more competent ones to be had. Then again, it wasn’t her job to advise this strange Matriarch. Still, she released a resigned breath and surveyed the room. This would do quite nicely; the large window helped her feel less trapped, the bed was big enough for her, the furniture looked of good quality, the place was clean, and spacious enough that she could comfortably walk around without bumping into anything. Dropping the kit on the bed, she crossed the room in slow strides, getting a feel for the disbursement of sharp edges. The desk and dresser both had nasty ones, the chair would fall over before it broke her skin, and the bed’s frame didn’t stick out. All in all, it seemed her biggest worries would be stubbing her toes and falling over her feet and landing on one of the edges. Firmly taking the chair in hand, she settled it at the corner of the bed, stepping away and gesturing for Sousa to take it. The language barrier nagged at her. She’d gotten some words from the lady at the job placement center, but mostly those had all run out and didn’t apply to basic manners. Nods of comprehension only went so far, but she hoped that the Matriarch understood and had experience with language limited individuals. The rudeness wasn’t deliberate. The whole positioning of the furniture calculated to maximize comfort and ease, Sousa got the chair because it would let her rest or push against the back of the chair, and Zak got this particular corner of the bed because it allowed the chair and Sousa’s legs to fit between her own, minimizing the distance between herself and her patient. Once they’d both sat down, the Benshira reached back for the kit and started pulling supplies out in search of the necessary ones. Eventually, all that was left in the kit balanced on her thigh were needles, sinew, alcohol, and the knife that still had thin streaks of Sousa’s blood on the edge. Carefully, Zak reached forward and undid the little clasps holding the bandages on, indents left in her finger tips from grasping them too hard. Complete focus on the task, and always willing to follow whatever advice and wisdom Sousa thought to share, the Benshira revealed the wound once more. She folded the two bandages up and set them, clean side down, with everything else on the bed behind her. Holding up the needles for Sousa’s perusal, she plucked out the indicated one and returned the rest to the kit. Same with the sinew. She would have chosen the smallest needle that would have let a medium thick sinew through the eye. To her inexperienced mind, the smaller the needle, the less damage to the skin, the more precise the stitches, but the gouge in Sousa’s arm was long and deep, a stronger thread would be necessary to keep it closed. Had they been in the field, she would have put in several large Xs, just enough to keep it mostly shut until the danger had past or they made it to more experienced medic. That was crude, however, and she knew it. Which is why she’d wanted the woman to go get better treatment; even with the guidance, this was going to be a slow and painful process for Sousa. Unless Sousa was going to give herself stitches and just explain everything to Zak as she went. OOCI don’t really know how to handle the lack of language, since, technically, she doesn’t know either common or Lhavatian. I don’t want to make it easy on Zak by having her pick it up quickly, or just pretending like she does have the language to a greater extent, but I don’t want it to become annoying for our threads. And I don't know how the lesson is going to go, thought I'd help things along by starting it off where I figured the thread was going.

[Ophelia]

As Sousa waited for Zakita to respond, she was stunned by the sudden silence. Then she realised-- foreigner. Of course. She must have run out of words. A small smile fluttered on her face as she realised how hard the girl must have been trying so hard to keep up with her. Despite the girl's stony silence, and clear uncomfortability around people, it only served to endear her more to Sousa. She smiled and gestured, watching as she examined the room, testing out corners. Hmmm. She must have been serious about the no touch thing, then. She nodded at Zakita when she gestured at the seat, to show she understood the intention. But while she taught healing, she may as well teach a little language at the same time. "Seat," she murmured in Lhavitian as she sat down on it, tapping the back. She repeated it in Common straight after. Leaning forward, she tapped the bed, naming it in both Lhavitian and Common. She gestured, to have her repeat it to show she had understood and would commit it to memory. After all, what good was a healer who couldn't even ask where the pain lay? Sousa winced as Zakita began to unwrap the bandage around her wound, the pain reflowing. "Bandage," Sousa murmured, almost as a second thought. It seemed she would be doing such a lot. But she didn't mind, either. If it would help Zakita become a better healer, and a better communicator, she didn't mind. It seemed Zakita had become her own pet project. Perhaps they would be spending a lot of time together. She examined the wound as it was revealed, red, ugly and throbbing, with bits of dried blood at the outside. With an almost detached thought she realised just how deeply she had cut. This would sting. She grimaced, but looked at the needles that Zakita offered. "Good," she said, nodding her head as she did. She decided to stick to Lhavitian for now, for Zakita's need for Lhavitian knowledge was much more pressing. "Not the small one," she shook her head, holding up her fingers to indicate 'small'. "Not the big one," she pointed at it, shaking her head. "The medium one," she pointed at it, "It is better for deep wounds, as it allows for stronger thread." She gestured at her wound, and then at the thicker thread. She sighed. She wasn't really sure she understood. "Do you understand? Repeat it back to me." She gestured for her to say it all one after the other. Sousa reached out and took the needle and the thread from Zakita. "I do it, then you do it." She gestured to herself and then to Zakita, indicating that they would take turns. Why was it that when helping another with language, their own degenerated? "Threading the needle," Sousa named the action as she did so, wincing as she raised her injured arm to do so. She knotted it around the end before looping it through. Sighing, bracing herself, she moved and put the needle tip to her flesh. "Watch. I will do some, then you will copy." She gestured from her eyes to the wound and repeated "Watch". Then, with a gritting of the teeth, she punctured the would with the tip of the rather thick needle, and pulled it through to the other end of her skin. She winced as she felt it go through her skin, took a deep breath, and suck it in again, pulling it across. There was now a V covering one small area of Sousa's wound. Her eyes were firmly fixed on the task. Here she paused, and explained what she had done. "Not too deep, but not too shallow," she gestured down then up to show what she meant. "Needs to be strong to keep the skin together but not to ruin the muscle beneath." She sighed, realised just how hard language barriers were. "Do you understand? Now you try."

[Zakita]

Grey eyes narrowed and sheathed in puzzlement, the Matriarch’s newest pet project grasped at any hint that Sousa gave. “Seat seat,” she repeated easily enough, though her grassland language thickened and skewed the syllables. Zak couldn’t differentiate between the Lhavitian and the Common, since she knew the patterns of neither; it simply seemed to her that the two words meant…wood? Chair? Sit? “Bed bed.” Comforter? Blanket? Bed? Sit? “Seat seat. Bed bed,” she whispered to herself, quick on the uptake of new words, knowing three four languages in varying degrees already. "Bandage bandage,” Wound? Blood? Bandage? Wrap? “Bed bed. Seat sit. Good.” Clearly, from Sousa’s tone, the latter was accolades of some kind for understanding that Sousa would be the one to pick the needle, and the only single word to describe or name anything. Zak plucked up the indicated needle and thread. “Set seat, bed bid, bandage bondage, gud.” Bed flexing beneath her weight as she turned to put the unnecessary supplies behind her, murmuring to herself; at this point the accent skewed her ear away from the way the words had originally sounded. And truth be told, she had started focusing more on the medical procedure they were in the midst of. Dividing one’s attention between learning a skill and learning a language wasn’t good for either, and Zak would always focus more on the medical aspects. So it was with wide, searching eyes that she regarded Sousa when the Matriarch, appearing somewhat frustrated, or disheartened, stopped in between picking the sewing supplies and using them in order to rattle something off. Her hand came up again, body language repeating the same message she’d already used: say what I just said. Zak’s eyebrows furrowed, eyes glazing over as she pulled the phrases from memory. “Not the one. Stronger winds bitter for relieve medium smile.” Zak blinked at Sousa, and from the expression on the woman’s face, figured that she had butchered the attempt. Nose crinkling delicately, she winced in sympathy and easy going self derision. Something had changed, Sousa’s mindset had shifted. Her opinion and attitude about their interactions and Zak herself had lightened and eased. Perhaps it was the teacher in her, or the lesson setting. Either way, Zak felt and reacted to the change, warming up to the woman. Or maybe it was just that the shadows had paused in their commentary long enough for Zak to focus fully the Matriarch, a short lived pleasure. She asked if you understood and told you to repeat what she said back to you, dolt. Not spew asinine mumbo jumbo all over her silk robe, a shadow near the women hissed. Zak froze, Sousa lifting the needle and thread from the Benshira’s stiff palm as her charge’s eyes tracked around the room in search. The new voice pushed to the back of her mind the satisfaction at having been on the right track in regards to the proper equipment. Of course, all the dark creatures in the room wavered in response to her presence, but only one was directly interacting with Akajia’s chosen, and that would be the most active one. How did you ever manage to get the Matriarch to waste her time on you?! Up here! Zak glanced up, there were no shadows on the ceiling. No shadows on the desk. The one under the window sill was placidly watching. The novice healer’s eyes tracked across Sousa on their way to check out the other side of the room. A dark splotch made her double take and lean forward a bit, it was Sousa’s eyelash. Well petch. Jumping up straight, only to force a casual hunch over their work, she couldn’t just stare and talk to something on her teacher’s face! And talking to it held a great interest for her only because it could, apparently, understand and translate for the Lhavitians. Don’t act like you didn’t see me. I’m talking to you. But Zak did not look back, she deliberately focused on Sousa’s threading of the needle and language lessons. “I do it, then you do it. Threading the needle,” Zak repeated with no comprehension, and with hardly a pause continued on in Makath. “Don’t mean to be rude, but I’m a little busy here,” she tried to placate the shadow while keeping her voice at a pitch and tone that would hopefully be mistaken for her muttering about stitching in her native language to help her learn. “There’s a lot going on that I don’t understand.” Clearly, dolt. She just said that she would do it and then you would do it. She would do it then Zak would do it? She was going to stitch herself up? Once more alienated by the Matriarch’s willingness to unnecessarily suffer for her students, Zak looked not at the shadow but into the determined cast of the woman’s eyes. The tension on her face, the way her fist clenched and released in preparation. Unlike Sousa’s earlier self-wounding, puzzled condescension didn’t flash across Zak’s face. She still thought this was crazy, but comprehended the reasons a little better this time around. “You can speak other languages?!” Maybe Sousa would mistake that for an exclamation about her stitching herself up. No. “What do you mean?” she asked, glancing up at the shadow before returning her eyes to the work before her. The shadow didn’t answer, but Sousa started speaking again, and Zak knew that she was trying to tell her something important about stitching. Her eyes followed the needle dipping up and down. Smooth strokes? Watch the spacing? Keep a loose tension? “What did she say? What did she say?” she hissed at the suddenly taciturn shadow, numb fingers finding it all the harder to take the needle from Sousa’s fingers with their owner’s focus split as it was. When the shadow didn’t answer, Zak’s grey eyes swiveled to the itty bitty sliver of metal, brows furrowing as she focused on grasping the tool and rearranging her grip on it. How had Sousa held it? Zak held it pinned against her forefinger, thrusting up like an extension of her thumb, then rotated her wrist as though she were stitching someone up. Nope. That was how she’d held it for triage stitching, but not how her teacher had. Gradually, the needle tip tilted toward her fingers until it was just the tips of manipulating the needle. Pretending like she was sewing someone up, this position seemed to give her the most agility and control with the sliver. It also looked to be similar to how Sousa held it. Thread straightened and ready, Zak reached down and took the Matriarch’s arm in her free hand. First she watched the way the skin depressed, carefully observing the flesh around the wound for unnecessary movement and adjusting accordingly, and then she kept an eye on Sousa’s facial expressions. Having no control over her own expressions, other’s pain often leveled that playing field. If not displaying pure pain or discomfort, people often exhibited masking emotions like anger or resentment. Sousa didn’t. She looked determined, but her jaw clenched and her eyes narrowed into little crinkles. Bending over the wound, Zak studied the little X her teacher had made and debated where she should puncture first. After a second, she opened her mouth and blinked blankly at the Matriarch. Once again, there was no language to convey her idea and question so Zak dropped her head again and simply mimicked the example given. Sousa’s movements had been quick and clean, jabbing through the skin just far enough with the prefect application of force. Zak’s…were not. The student held the needle at the angle necessary to be of uniform depth with Sousa’s stitches if punctured through at the same distance from the wound opening. Fingertips white with the force she gripped the sliver of metal, a quick stab with her forearm popped the needle tip through the dermis, a trigger sensation missed by the woman, and a centimeter into the other side of the wound. Knowing in the back of her mind, as one knows that their food was once living and breathing happily, that the unexpected puncture brought pain to Sousa, Zak retracted the needle. Carefully, slowly, little bit by little bit, so slowly that her neglected lungs burned for oxygen by the time the needle had backed out far enough to be redirected to the next puncture site, the lanky student corrected her mistake. The next attempt went better, mostly because she came up through the skin instead of down into it. The first length was uniform in no way with Sousa’s stitches. Zak’s first hole was deeper, and her second hole was shallower. And it popped up through the skin further back from the edge. Clearly disappointed but not upset or looking for any direction, she glanced up to gauge Sousa’s reaction. Already, corrections churned through her mind, the competent thought process hinted at through her eyes. Coming down through the skin made it easy to keep a straight line, but going too far needed to be corrected, as did her aim coming back up. Not impossible or very difficult, it just took even more care. And even more care. And more practice.

[Ophelia]

Sousa smiled amusedly at the girl, though there was undoubtedly a hint of frustration in her expression. She had never been in a situation where she had had to teach anyone a language. A teacher at heart, of both the healing arts, reimancy and shielding, the experience of teaching a language to someone who did not share one common word with her was new - and excessively frustrating. There was only so much Sousa could do to get Zakita to understand. Much practice and repetition would have to be executed, by both parties. Sousa made a mental note to contact someone in the damn city who could speak Zakita's language - whatever it was. Surely there had to be someone. She watched as the girl repeated every word twice, smiling as she did so - a quick learner, it seemed! But Sousa's heart sunk when the girl repeated them all back to her. It was a jumble of rubbish, the words clearly holding no meaning to her. This method was not working just yet, and Sousa would need to find a new one. But for now, this was all she had. She smiled and nodded, choosing not to speak. More words would surely just confuse Zakita. She could not help the laugh that bubbled forth from her lips as Zakita repeated the long stream of words that Sousa herself had said. The words had likely been too complicared for her to really fully understand. The laugh was light, and feminine. She laughed just as much at the words themselves that she did at Zakita's expression, her nose scrawled up. Sighing, and shaking her head, a grin still on her face which betrayed Sousa's amusement at the situation, she focused on the needle she chose. She spoke to clarify the jumbled sentence Zakita had spewed forth. "No, no," Sousa said, shaking her head. "No." She tried to indicate no was the negative, through the pronounced movement of her head. She wasn't sure Zakita was going to take this in, but as they were in the middle of a lesson, she couldn't stop to focus merely on the language. Healing came first, before Sousa's arm got infected with some nasty disease. "Needle," she said, and pointed at the medium sized one she was using. "Needle, needle. Neeeddddleeeeee." Sighing, she paused, a pretty blush making it's way over her cheeks. Perhaps she had gotten carried away. "Small!" She gestured with her fingers to indicate a little thing, using the size of the smallest needle. She then moved and pointed to her fingernail. "Small." Her fingers pinched together, a minuscule space between them. "Small!" She repeated the process with "Big!", pointing first to the needle, then to the bed, gesturing it's size, and finally opening her arms as wide as she could, stretching and yelling "Biiiiiiiig!" She felt like a complete idiot. "Medium," she said finally. "In the middle." She gestured to the medium sized needle, which she still held, and held her hands about a foot apart from each other, a distance in between the small and big hand gestures. "Medium!" She smiled once. "Small, big, medium!" As she spoke, she accompanied each word with the appropriate hand movement. Dropping her hands, she shook her head, sighing. "I'm the petching matriarch, I shouldn't be doing this," she murmured to herself, bitterly, too low for Zakita to hear. She nodded encouragingly as the girl repeated what Sousa had said, surprisingly managing to say every word correctly. But by the flippant tone she had used, it was clear the words meant very little to her in themselves. It was difficult to teach a language and stitch at the same time, to be sure, especially when one had done neither before, but she felt like she was fighting a losing battle. Helplessly, she watched Zakita mutter to herself in some language she did not understand, before she bowed her head and put the needle through the hole. Gritting her teeth as she smoothly and slowly brought the thread through the skin, she mainly watched her hands than Zakita. Zakita she knew would be watching, for surely the girl was eager to learn that which was necessary for her job. Zakita after all was trying extremely hard. Sousa did not doubt her willingness to learn. The thread still buried within her skin, she held out the needle to Zakita, waiting impatiently for her to take it. The thread sat uncomfortably within the tissue of her skin, and she tried not to focus on it, instead watching Zakita's face closely. She seemed to be nervous as all hell. She watched as she tried to hold the needle in several different ways, but as she held it delicately within the tips of her fingers, she nodded approvingly. "Good," she murmured, and it was clear by her tone she was pleased with what Zakita had done. Sousa's teeth gritted painfully, molars grinding down onto eachother as she struggled not to make a noise of pain. Fortunately, Zakita was so bent to look down upon her incompetent work that she did not notice the way in which Sousa's eyes screwed up painfully. Taking several deep breaths, she allowed herself to get used to the sensation of cold metal and coarse thread sliding through skin, as initially Zakita jabbed the needle down far to deep and messily. There was no finesse to her movements, no real control. It was clear Zakita herself realised this as she slowly and nervously pulled the needle back to start again. The stitches sting Sousa in such a way, but the pain was almost numbed by her sheer concentration on Zakita herself. She murmured approvingly when the girl decided to start again, and wondered how to convey her pleasure with the girl's decision, but Zakita was so focused that she was almost uncertain if she would hear anything. She held the needle tightly within her fingertips, a sign of nerves that probably made everything a lot more difficult than it actually was, but Sousa knew those nerves would disappear with practice and skill. One held the pencil loosely within their hands when sketching, it was much the same with stitches. Sousa watched Zakita's slow plodding work, murmuring approvingly and wincing every so often, but she did nothing to direct the girl's work. The language barrier would likely just confuse Zakita all the more, and probably stress her out unnecessarily. It was clear Zakita was already overly nervous, as she finished up the 'x' she had made, an x which was both crooked and asymmetrical. There was almost no resemblance to the skilled strokes of Sousa, but it was a beginning. Everything started with a beginning. She beamed happily at Zakita when she looked up to gauge Sousa's reaction, and though pain was still evident on her face, she tried to display pride at Zakita's workmanship. It was clear by the hesitance upon her face that she knew she had done wrong, but it was obvious there was a limited understanding of what exactly. Sousa sighed and held out her hand for the needle, intending to use it to demonstrate alongside her words once more. "Good, Zakita," she nodded, smiling a little. Good was a familiar word now, and surely Zakita would recognise her own name. Her tone changed, from praising to serious, trying to get Zakita to understand what went wrong precisely. "You went DOWN," Sousa said, emphasising the last word with a sharp jab of the needle straight down, plummeting down at a straight angle. "No," she murmured, shaking her head. "This is not right. You need to go DIAGONAL." And again, at the emphasised last word, she showed the direction that she meant, moving the needle through the air at a diagonal slant. She nodded as she did so. "This is right." Demonstrating again, she murmured "RIGHT, GOOD" and moved the needle diagonally, before saying "NOT RIGHT, BAD," shaking her head while she plummeted the needle straight down. She held out the needle for Zakita to take again. Tapping her wound, she nodded, before gesturing to sew again. "Again," Sousa murmured, smiling slightly. "Finish it." She moved her finger up and along the wound. Tapping her lips, she mimed with her hand talking before saying "I will correct you if NOT RIGHT. RIGHT to NOT RIGHT. Understand?" She had no idea what she was saying anymore.

[Zakita]

Had the difficult shadow not been occupying the space beneath Sousa’s eyelid, Zak would have gladly skewered it with the needle she was supposed to be using on the Matriarch. It had swooped in, teasing her with translations that could make this encounter exceedingly easy, and then clammed up tighter than a glassbeak with its dinner. The bickering, insults, and commentary had been easy to shrug off in the important interaction between herself and Sousa, but the focus and control had slipped with this revelation. Frowning angrily at the chasm in her teacher’s arm, shame and humiliation burned down the Benshira’s spine at the way she’d let the shade goad her into shifting her focus from the matriarch to itself. She’d practically begged for its help. But Sousa had positively beamed with approval, as much as one could after having a neophyte stuff a needle and drag some thread through their skin. Apparently she hadn’t noticed the pupil’s wavering attention. It was a weak but helpful salve. Catching the motion out of the corner of her eye, Zak shifted her glare to the delicate fingers trying to take the needle. The white knuckled grip belatedly snapped open, clearly occurring only after the student had seen the Matriarch’s actions. Good? I don’t see why she doesn’t throw you out the window for what you’ve done to her arm. It looks like you’ve tried to close a baked potato with a toothpick. “Gud,” Zak repeated strongly over the nasty little eye shadow’s comment. Though, honestly, she only recognized the word from earlier and shaved the meaning from broad praise to a real word from the shadow’s translation. “Gud.” Even as she repeated it, her head shook softly from side to side in an unconscious disagreement with how well she’d performed. The sewing needed to be precise and smooth. A greater attention to detail and comprehension of human flesh was necessary. And no attention need be paid to these meddlesome and despicable shadows. If they couldn’t show a little patience and compassion, then no interest would she show in them. “Gud, Soufa,” she tried to banish the malformation of the Lhavitian syllables in the woman’s name but belatedly realized she couldn’t remember the exact pronunciation. It sounded close, at least. Still, that nose crinkled up in amused self derision even as the pair continued on in the lesson, moving to an after action review. For long moments after the Matriarch had finished her emphatic, and elementary, lesson in both corrections and language, the student just stared at her. Black pupils might as well have been ticking along like cogs so obvious were the thoughts racing through her mind in search of comprehension and a solution. Just as Sousa went to order the job finished, Zak’s slender finger shot up, jerking to a stop near the teacher’s chin and carefully lifting the remaining distance to lay against the woman’s plush lips. From the stone set of her jaw and imploring cast to her eyes, the travel mussed Benshira understood the odd set of social standards their lack of mutual language posed and could accept it if Sousa could. Zakita just needed Sousa to stop talking and grant her her full attention. Taking the needle, the trade obviously going smoother this time around because of the resolute glare fixated on their fingers, Zakita used both hands to return the instrument to the position learned earlier. With it clamped between fingertips and held up between them at shoulder height, resolute grey eyes returned to the teacher’s. Slowly the shiny sliver of metal rotated to point straight at the wood plank flooring. “Down. Not right. Big.” Individual words came out slowly, the Lhavitian accent wavering in and out with the Shiber and cluttering each syllable. The needle spun to point diagonally. “Dignol. Medium. Gud.” Going one step further, and exhausting her understanding and recall of the lesson on size, the needle revolved into a position parallel to the floor. “Small. Not Right.” Sousa hadn’t supplied a term that matched position with these latter ideas and though the lack momentarily frustrated Sousa’s student, she continued. Her empty hand dropped to the injury, stopping in that utterly controlled manner of motion that Zak displayed around Sousa’s person. Eyes peeled on the X her index finger made over the stitches, striving to keep her touch off the sensitive and irritated flesh. “Not right.” The sun kissed face blanked out for a second, a word within her comprehension just a moment ago somehow slipping away. “Bad!” she suddenly blurted triumphantly, eyes shining with almost childlike pride at the success. Glancing up, realizing the impression Sousa must be getting, Zak cleared her throat and continued. The tender finger outlined a V, the shape of stitch Sousa had made and somehow Zak had managed to not mimic. “Gud. Right.” The finger traced over the consequence of the first stroke, digit lifting away carefully when grey eyes shifted back to Sousa’s for a brief moment to gauge her interest and comprehension. A little approval and pride wouldn’t go unnoticed, either. Eyes dropped to the irritated skin around the student’s first stroke, bringing both women’s attention back to Zak’s infantile attempts at communication and stitching basics. Bringing the needle down with a motion to emphasize the link between the stitch and her next motions, Zak’s white knuckle grip increased until the slender bands of muscle along her forearm popped and the hand trembled. Abruptly she mimicked the motion she’d made with the first stitch, a quick jab. “Not right. Bad.” Clearly coming up with this on the fly, a significant pause interrupted their conversation before intelligence returned to those expressive grey eyes. Back on track, her hand made a long, slow stroke with the needle, then a long quick jab. “Big. Bad.” The attempts to convey which actions had specifically caused the errors, using too much force for the small motion necessary and reverting to old stitch patterns used in emergency situations, seemed ridiculous and embarrassing given the poise and grace of the woman before her. At the end of given verbal knowledge, Zak bent to Sousa’s arm and endeavored to implement the lessons learned.

[Ophelia]

oocSO SORRY FOR THE WAIT YOU HAVE NO IDEA. /me feels super guilty. Sousa smiled kindly at Zakita, knowing she was trying hard to do well. She was frowning in anger and frustration, presumably with herself (Zintila knew Sousa hadn’t done anything to anger Zakita… had she?). But Sousa knew the girl was trying, knew she was in all honesty attempting to do well. Her stitches were far from perfect, and a vain part of Sousa grimaced at the mismatched stitches in her arm. The scar would be marring of her alabaster skin, she knew. It couldn’t be helped. Sousa was helping Zakita do well and that was that. “Yes,” Sousa said, brightly, happily. She almost cringed at the picture she was painting – clearly; she was not a very intimidating Matriarch one on one. Though she knew that would quickly change when she was around other students, and not merely this one, broken-speaking foreign girl. “Good, Zakita. Very good.” And then, throwing all dignity out the window, she gave the girl an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Sousa wanted to explain just why she was good, but knew the barrage of all the technical Lhavitian terms would be too much for the already confused girl. Just the fact that she finally grasped the meaning of such a simple word was a cause of praise, though, again, Sousa could not explain this to her without furthering the language barrier. So she settled for the simple word. “Good, and yes,” she said, nodding, pointing to her own chest with one elegant finger. “I am Sousa.” She then pointed at Zakita, turning the same finger around. “You,” she said, indicating that you meant Zakita, “are Zakita.” With a grin, she waved, as in a greeting. “Hello!” Hopefully, she had just taught the girl seven new words. Progress was being made! Sousa watched Zakita nervously, knowing the girl’s blank stare was not just boredom, but her just being hopelessly confused by Sousa’s little ridiculous monologue. She waited, wanting to say more, but knowing that more words would not be useful to Zakita. She had to wait for the girl to make the first move, and so she merely met her dark eyes with her regal ones, her brow contracted, furrowing in worry. She had never really had such an experience, whereby she had given one student such individual attention, and had taught them on such an intimate level. Surprisingly, she did not mind it. She would even go so far as to say that she liked it. There was something endearing about Zakita’s lack of knowledge that Sousa simply wanted to heal that breach between the langauges. She wanted to help Zakita, help her into her job at the Dawn Tower and ultimately, help her become … Lhavitian. She didn’t expect, was shocked, at Zakita’s soft travelled finger coming up to rest gently against her lips. A brief moment of indignation arose within her – she was the Matriarch! No one could touch her so – but it was quelled when she saw Zakita’s imploring look. She wasn’t entirely sure what Zakita wanted, but she nodded slowly, as if gesturing to Zakita that to some extent, she understood, and that she would be quiet. The woman, not girl, but young lady before her seemed so determined and held a weight around her that Sousa Dawn could not help but grant her what she wanted. So, she lay quiet, letting Zakita once more take the needle. She felt the pain throb within the deep wound – now feeling like a bit of an idiot for cutting herself up like this – and promptly pushed the pain away, ignoring it, focusing on Zakita’s movements with a critical eye. She watched Zakita’s movements, and with an unexpected pleasure, listened to the words she spoke, nodding enthusiastically every time she got it correct. “Down, not right, big,” she said brightly, nodding as Zakita then moved the angle again. “Diagonal, medium, good,” she nodded emphatically, pronouncing the syllables with great care, as she tried to show the girl the correct way to say the words. Though the accent problem was hardly something she could really correct now. Zakita would only fix that problem through careful practice. She watched Zakita closely, and became aware that she was struggling, though suddenly, she burst out with the word. Sousa laughed at the child like pride, and nodded enthusiastically at the way she used and said it, though Zakita seemed embarrassed and dropped her head. She looked at the differences, the X and the V, the shape they made the stitches, and gestured towards the V. “Good, right,” she said, gesticulating to Zakita that this was the shape she should use. She met Zakita’s wandering eyes carefully, and smiled encouragingly, nodded at the girl. “Zakita is … good. You are doing well.” She nodded. Perhaps some of the words would be lost on her, but hopefully the meaning would not be. She winced, as Zakita jabbed the needle in. Perhaps it was a bit too quick, but that wasn’t necessarily bad. It just depended on how the subject in question reacted. She gritted her teeth against the stinging pain, the burning from the cool metal, but watched as Zakita muttered to herself. She wanted to say something, like to assure Zakita that was she was saying was correct – but she struggled to keep quiet at Zakita’s own request. She shuddered as she felt the thread ooze through her muscles and layers of skin, but she could already tell that Zakita had listened in some measure to her. She had clearly taken on what she had said, and improvement was already noticeable. The girl did not look up from what she was doing, but if she had, she would notice the obvious pain on Sousa’s face, and besides that, the look of pride behind that mask. It was obvious that Sousa was indeed pleased with what Zakita was doing. She gritted her teeth and watched the girl continue to work, continue to heal Sousa’s arm. If the girl veered wildly off course, Sousa would jump out and stop her, and try to explain where she went wrong – despite her promise to stay silent. But if not, if Zakita did the job smoothly and skilfully, even if she took a while, Sousa would smile, and begin to speak again, offering, of all things, a prize.

[Zakita]

The first V after Zakita’s conveyance of both stitching and verbal comprehension attained thus far in the lesson showed remarkable improvement in appearance if not mitigation of pain inducement. A thing like pain could not be taught. Comprehension came inherently to all living beings, and nothing was harder to teach than something that had never needed an explanation before. A mother didn’t describe what was going to happen when their child went to stick their hand in the fire, she shrieked that it was going to hurt. But what was pain? What caused pain? Why could someone grab a shovel handle without consequence but not a firebrand? At what point did the pressure against skin start doing damage? When it was enough to leave a white mark? Only if great enough to cause a mottled dark splotch? More importantly, what signs, aside from the tense discomfort contorting the muscles of her patient’s face, should be looked for in order to find the least painful method of treatment? These questions, answers as inaccessible to the diligent Benshira as the plans and schemes of the Gods and Goddesses, whisped through the back of her mind on idle as she instead focused on what little she understood well enough to do something about. Without doubt, the woman surrendering herself to the neophyte’s skills expected steady high levels of progress in her newest student. The dark burst of her eyes, the self sacrifice, all amounted to a personality of steel determination and indomitable ambition. A woman like this would surround herself with those that could keep up, and the wanton exuberance she’d shown in the short course of this lesson alluded to a new goal. The civilizing and education of a wayward Benshiran. To fall below the bar set by the Matriarch would be painful (disappointing, frustrating, tumultuous) not only for the one pouring her very blood into the lesson but the assuredly shamed pupil. Zakita gladly took this pressure and risk over the cool suspicion Sousa had originally favored her with. Nothing inspired better performance in a self respecting and dedicated worker than the addition of a zesty high pressure challenge. Zakita fed off the forthright exuberance and pride Sousa exhibited, pulling it in and using it to fuel an unwavering and patient focus on the medical procedure at hand. Sousa had to endure the blistering pain of thread and metal oozing through her skin for far longer than either of them had expected. Not a single perforation marred the woman’s tinted skin without having been weighed and measured beforehand. Each completed stitch was found either satisfactory and mimicked in the next, or found lacking and compensation applied to the following stroke. As she experimented with the force necessary to get the job done, the process became rather erratic until, finally, the Benshira found a system that worked. Each stitch, by the time the wound was half closed, turned out to be a tongue click long, in and out in the time it took her to discretely click her tongue. One second was too long, evinced by a random long stitch, and anything shorter required her to pull back and attempt another thrust through the other side of the wound. Overlooking the first set of stitches, the finished product was as neat as anyone that had been performing this kind of stitching for months. It just would have taken them about a bell shorter. On the upside, it wasn’t a constant blistering pain. There were breaks as the Benshira analyzed her work. That was better, right? Either way, Zak finally glanced up with a self-satisfied yet inquisitive furrowing of dark brows. All that mattered to her was that she’d performed correctly. It had been easy to forget the pain factor, and with the blind focus even time had melted away like so many leaves. Frankly, the new arrival felt that her work rivaled anything another medic would have done for someone of Sousa’s rank. It had just been a sacrifice of time. A commodity in large supply for at least one of the women in the room. After waiting to be shown how to tie off the sewing, Zak tried her hand at it before cleaning up the supplies and returning everything to the kit. “Now who’s a baked potato?” the Benshira asked with a smirk, even though she was well aware the shadows found her cold shoulder offensive. “Ain’t no toothpicks ‘round here.” "Medium, good. Doing well. Right?" Doubt did creep into her voice as she peered at the mostly uneven but not terribly varied V's.

[Legion]

Thread Award Zak: Skills: Medicine +5, Observation +3 Lore: Dawn Tower, Sousa Dawn, Sutures Language: Common - Poor Consequence & Commentary: Incrediby well done training thread. Your attention to detail and comedic flare with the shadow interpretation was superb. Due to there no longer being a Lhavitian language, I subsituted Common. I’m sorry this resulted in you being bounced between moderators so much. Feel free to contact me with any questions or concerns. I’m always happy to help.