[Catholicon]Feeling like a pin cushion, here (Oswin)

[Shem]

Winter 12, 513 The stairs seemed to go on and on endlessly. But for a life long resident of Lhavit, and the surrounding mountains, climbing was second nature to Shem. He mounted them easily, as his feet were in good shape, thank goodness. It was his hand and forearm that were the cause of this trip to the Catholicon. He had been careless, and stupid, and he was paying for it now. Hopefully, there’d be some skilled physician that could repair the damage he’d unintentionally caused his flesh, before it got worse and the infection spread. The day was sharp and clear, and the wind blew briskly about the exposed staircase. But again, for a mountain dweller, he was well used to such breezes. Upon reaching the entrance, Shem squinted a bit, going from the bright sunlight to the dimmer interior. The foyer was not over large, but it was empty at the moment. He’d only been here once before, and many citizens had never had need of the facility. It was just a very good thing that it was here, for those times when it was needed – sometimes desperately so. He stood, looking about uncertainly, but almost right away a young woman appeared, inquiring the purpose of his visit. When he told her, she nodded and asked him to follow her. He did so, crossing the main room, and being directed to wait in a small alcove like space on the far side. There was a futon and a small table, so he sat on the futon, having been told that someone would come to see him shortly and take a look at his injury. He took off his coat and eased back the sleeve of his shirt, to reveal the angry red welts that freckled the lower half of his forearm. There were a few on his wrist and the upper part of the back of his hand as well. He grimaced, and sniffed it, but it did not smell putrid. “Damn fool porcupine,” he muttered, but then added in all fairness, “Damn me for a fool as well.”

[Oswin Raulins]

“If you like,” Oswin replied in quick fashion, having overheard the Kelvic’s mutterings. She appeared all at once in the room, as the medics at the Catholicon were wont to do, batting away the curtain that separated this room from the rest of the loft. She had a handful of notes in one hand, which were quickly discarded onto a table as she made her way to a water basin on the far side of the room. “Though I don’t find the idea of damning you all that productive.” The medic who had seen to the patient earlier had quickly informed Oswin of the situation. Somehow he’d had a brush, quite literally, with a porcupine. Not an altogether uncommon event, but still not one she saw very often. Anyone who came face to face with a porcupine was likely skulking around in the underbrush for some reason or another, which meant he was a hunter, a thief, or some other marginally-more-exciting-than-usual profession. Oswin had given him a once over when she walked in. Tall, well built, young, but quite matured, attractive. Very attractive. His evidently obedient nature, already seated on the futon, did not immediately strike her as arrogant or overbearing, which won more points with her. This might well be the highlight of her day. “Right, well that’s all the humor I’ve got for the moment.” Oswin went about washing her hands in the basin, plucking up a scrubbing brush from the table to clean beneath her nails. “I heard you were making friends with the wildlife. Let’s have a name then, and I’ll look at your arm.” After drying her hands on a nearby towel, Oswin grabbed hold of the singular chair in the room and slid it with her as she positioned herself in front of the patient. Taking a seat, she held her hand out for his. At this point, she took a time to take a closer look at his eyes, searching for hints at deeper thought or ulterior motives. Those dark eyes were just a bit difficult to penetrate. Nothing about him instinctively put her, although he seemed more expectant than she felt. Curious. At first glance, the raised bumps on his arm and hands looked like infection, which would not be unexpected considering the filthy conditions that porcupines lived in. She could not discern more without a closer look, however.

[Shem]

“If you like… though I don’t find the idea of damning you all that productive.” Shem gave a small chuckle at the physician’s wry remark, as she came into the small space where he’d waited but a brief moment. Following her with his eyes as she went to a basin and proceeded to wash her hands, he countered, “Not productive, no – maybe I should instead simply take my lesson, and my lumps, and move on.” He didn’t mind being the object of her subtle humor – if you could even call it such. He had no problem with laughing at himself, when he’d played the fool. And certainly, now was such a time – or rather, three days before, when he’d been inattentive and overconfident and wound up with about twenty some quills peppering his flesh. It was a first for him. He meant to make it a last too. “Right, well that’s all the humor I’ve got for the moment.” she went on, in a brisk manner, which he did not find offensive. His nostrils twitched a bit, taking in her sharp scent – one that well matched her manner. She smelled of tinctures and medicines – with undertones of the natural elements from which they had their genesis. It wasn’t strictly unpleasant, and in its way, it was comforting. He hadn’t come here to be fed warm milk and toast and rocked in a cradle. Physicians, in his limited opinion, should be helpful. Their job was to heal and their tools were often foul smelling, awful tasting brews, or some painful procedure. He anticipated as much today, for the tips of the quills which had been left behind in his flesh would need to come out – if at all possible. The ends could be fine as hairs, and were made of a material that almost dissolved after time. Almost being the operative word. The residue of such could lead to infection, and that was where he was now. “I heard you were making friends with the wildlife. Let’s have a name then, and I’ll look at your arm.” ”Well, some claim that laughter is the best medicine, but I find myself hard pressed to find much amusement over these,” he replied, though with his wolfish grin, extending his arm as she came to him and sat, reaching for it. ”I think more is called for now, unfortunately.” He settled his arm at a level which would facilitate her examination, bearing its weight himself, dark eyes flicking down to watch her taking inventory of the scattered welts. ”I’m Shem,” he replied to her inquiry, simply and succinctly, for in truth, there was no more to give. Her touch was light and efficient, and brief as it was, he could tell that her hands were not soft, nor were they callused and rough. They were a bit bony, like the rest of her, which he took in as his eyes lifted to her angular face, meeting her own direct, frank gaze. For a moment, her eyes met his, and he had a fleeting impression that she was gauging him somehow. He put it down, though, to perhaps an assessment of his possible tolerance for pain, or maybe some silent inquiry as to whether he had taken a fever over this misstep. Unknown to him, she might have been warily searching for hidden danger in those dark irises. But for himself, he looked upon the healer with candor and only the caution inherent in his canid form. Shem was not one to look upon the world as holding evil. He was prone to seeing the natural order of things, and the raw brutality of life and death, without ascribing any malignant intent to anyone or anything. He wasn’t naïve in this internal view – only simplistic, and perhaps…inexperienced. Lhavit was not Ravok, after all. With a quixotic tilt of one eyebrow, he asked with almost a smirk, ”So, how much of a mess have I made here? And how complicated will it be to repair?”

[Oswin Raulins]

“Oswin Raulins,” the physician responded coolly, now holding Shem’s arm between her hand and leaning forward to begin examining the red welts on his skin. Having absorbed this Shem’s commentary, she chose a precise moment to respond and prove she was listening. He had a fairly good attitude for someone who had been humiliated by a rodent. “You may address me as Miss Raulins. Or ‘miss’. I don’t care much ‘ma’am’, but nor do I care enough to object if that’s the moniker you choose. It’ll just quietly affect my opinion of you.” Well, that was altogether too much dialogue in a futile attempt to reciprocate. Making small talk was not among Oswin’s winning talents. Her brown eyes skimmed over Shem’s discolored arm as she manipulated it between both her hands as if the limb was one of her own. Obviously he had removed the quills on his own, but hastily, by the looks of it. Understandable, given the circumstances. She could hardly imagine one would have any amount of patience when stuck with a dozen or so quills the length of small knives. Washing the area afterward would have helped to prevent the resulting infection she was looking at, but Shem didn’t strike Oswin as the champion of forethought. “Hmm…” Oswin’s hands both migrated to Shem’s, lifting the back of his hand closer to her eyes. She reached inside the folds of the shawl wrapped around her shoulders, producing a pair of spectacles. “The lighting in here is bloody dismal,” she mumbled as an excuse as she slipped them over her nose. Using both of her thumbs, Oswin pulled the skin taut on the back of Shem’s hand with no apparent regard for the pain or discomfort it might cause. The welts stained themselves white, and there, in the center of some of them, were miniscule black specks. “Aha.” Oswin released his hand and rose from her chair, turning away from Shem and drifting toward a nearby shelf. “Amputation is the only treatment, I’m afraid.” Something glinted in her hand in the mix of lanternlight and sunlight spilling in from the singular curtained window. A small, dark bottle was snatched up as well, which she tucked under her arm. The first item was proven to be a medical instrument with a long handle and short, thin blade - a scalpel - as Oswin turned again and made for the basin. The towel found itself tossed over her shoulder. With a certain amount of effort, the basin was moved to a table nearer the futon, the bottle set next to it, and again she took her seat. Raising the scalpel, she held her hand out for Shem’s again. “A joke, only. In bad taste, I suppose, but it’s the only taste I’ve got.” Her smile didn’t do much to soften her demeanor. “Porcupine quills are lined with tiny barbs, and a few were left beneath the skin. Left alone they might well heal on their own, or this reaction you’re having could grow worse, especially if you dwell in unclean conditions, such as forests. Which I presume you frequent.” If Shem chose to give her his hand again, he might be relieved to find that Oswin’s first action was to set the scalpel down and pick the bottle up. Leading him to hold his hand over the basin, she removed the cap and began to pour its contents over his his skin. The sensation to the infected area would have felt something like liquid fire. “Sorry.” Oswin set the bottle aside. “It does rather sting. You can take a drink of that, if you wish. It’s just grain alcohol. If you don’t mind, I’ll be removing the barbs. I shouldn’t have to cut terribly much, but if you’ve a problem with blood, you should let me know before I begin.”

[Shem]

“Oswin Raulins,” she had offered, a counter to his own presentation of a name. That would have been sufficient, and he was not expecting more. But she went on. “You may address me as Miss Raulins. Or ‘miss’. I don’t care much for ‘ma’am’, but nor do I care enough to object if that’s the moniker you choose. It’ll just quietly affect my opinion of you.” Once again, Shem’s eyebrow rose fractionally, as he inspected her more closely as she in turn inspected his arm. He wasn’t exactly sure how to take that last bit – nor was he at all convinced that he cared what her opinion of him might be, just as long as she hit upon the right course for treating this infection. But simply having put the options to him, he pondered as she probed, without wincing, for he had already been through far worse, when the injury had first occurred. His dark eyes once again traveled over her face, and her slight frame – not in any sort of lecherous way. It was more an inventory, with some consideration of what lay beneath that which was shaping up to be a fairly tough exterior. Not that he thought if Miss Raulins was to find herself suddenly cast adrift in the wilds that she would weather the ordeal in particularly fine fettle. No, the hardness came from some inner core, bleeding through to her deft but unsympathetic seeming fingers, her placidly professional expression, and her brisk, altogether businesslike tone. He doubted that he would ever encounter her beyond the lofty arcades of the Catholicon, and therefore being on a first name basis with her probably went beyond what might have come about naturally. And being instructed that he could call her by Miss didn’t really put him off. Yet he thought it slightly odd, and telling, that she seemed to want to put that distance there. Was it a professional boundary? Or a more personal one? And if he chose ma’am? Was she already feeling the telltale signs of aging? His perusal stopped at that point – as he was trying to guess at her age – when she released his arm and pronounced her diagnosis. “Aha… Amputation is the only treatment, I’m afraid.” For a moment – and only a moment – Shem’s eyes widened in alarm and he looked at her with clear anxiety. Surely it wasn’t that bad! It had only been a few days and… He caught the glint of metal, and saw the scapel plucked up between those deadly efficient fingers, and his brow darkened into a frown. ”Now wait just a minute…” he began as she returned with the basin clutched awkwardly in her grasp, setting it down on the table. "What did you say?" He’d actually heard her just fine. It was just that he didn’t believe her – didn’t want to believe her. And if she thought he’d just sit there while she…. Miss Raulins had resumed her seat and was once again reaching for his arm. But Shem now held it protectively against his chest, scowling at her. She, for her part, was as cool and unruffled as before, and she answered, “A joke, only. In bad taste, I suppose, but it’s the only taste I’ve got.” Shem’s scowl darkened the more, thinking that indeed she had a barb as sharp as any porcupine’s in the form of her tongue. But as she went on, completely ignoring his discomfort, and now relief, discoursing over the source of the infection, he had to admit – she had got him, good! His frown slipped away, and a grin tugged at his lips again. What a droll woman she was – so dry and serious, and yet there must have been something within that made her want to try to introduce some levity into the situation. Either that, or she was a sadist and had enjoyed making him squirm there for a moment. He searched for her eyes once more – his canid impulses looking to those mirrors to gage somehow who she really was. But they were downcast and all he saw were the fine, thick, dark lashes and the tilt of the slope of her nose, and the very corners of her lips as she quirked them into a small, tight smile. Finally he let out a quiet chuckle. ”I think you’ve hit upon something there, Miss.” The emphasis on the appellation was subtle but notable. ”Shock your patients into expecting the worst, and then they’ll be pleasantly surprised when things turn out far less awful than they had anticipated. Should always put them in a happy frame of mind.” If she was to look up at him, she might have caught that extra glint in his eyes that bespoke the humor of his reflection upon her ”technique.” He had once again relinquished his hand to hers, and, distracted by his musings, he was unprepared for the hot sting of the tincture she poured over his aggravated skin. He gasped and then hissed, and almost jerked away, but held steady, assuming (hoping?) that she was doing this for a purpose, and not for further sadistic intent. “Sorry,” she said, her tone even. “It does rather sting. You can take a drink of that, if you wish. It’s just grain alcohol. If you don’t mind, I’ll be removing the barbs. I shouldn’t have to cut terribly much, but if you’ve a problem with blood, you should let me know before I begin.” The familiar scent of distilled spirits filled his nostrils and, with a look at Oswin, he reached for the bottle that she had set aside, nodding. ”That sounds a far better idea than amputation. I rather fancy that hand.” He took a swig out of the bottle and the raw burn of alcohol caught at his throat as he gulped it down. He wasn’t a stranger to ale, liquor or wine, but this – this was near brutal on his tongue! Still, he was well conversant with the mellowing effects of ethanol, and if she was going to go at his arm with that blade, he’d not mind being numbed up a bit, from the inside out. He took another big swig, and then set the bottle down. ”I’m a hunter. I’ve no problem with blood – including my own,” he affirmed. His eyes came to hers, steady and untroubled by the thought of the coming ordeal. ”I’m ready,” he said in a level tone, with a confirmatory nod.