Post by Lothyna on Nov 8, 2010 14:16:27 GMT -5
Who: Mikovren and the unfortunate souls candidates who have this chore
What: Chores
Where: Infirmary
When: Midmorning
Warnings:Raging Hormonal PMSing Slightly peeved Mikovren
Despite a, for once, outwardly calm appearance (and wasn’t that more disturbing in some ways?), and a hand busy setting the final tiny stitches in a gash received from the fight some time ago, Mikovren was inwardly raging. Setting down the needle and examining the place where he’d accidentally torn the sutures from before out, he scowled, then carefully sponged away the small bit of blood, before applying a thin line of numbweed salve and bandaging his arm once more, the less bulkily given that he was, slowly, healing.
Glancing up, and noting that the others would be here soon, he grumbled, and quickly cleaned his tools before stashing them back into his personal kit, bundling the dirty linens off to be cleaned. He still had yet to find S’lain or Tess, and sort this mess out, which meant he was stuck here in this farce. The tiny little tic beside his left eye gave away his anger, before he tamped it down, using the few moments of quiet left to calm himself and slip a more moderate, blank-seeming mask into place. Checking on one of many lists, scattered over a desk out in the main area rather than his room given the situation today, he frowned.
At least his being a so-called ‘candidate’, of which he was decidedly NOT, had some use. And they hadn’t tried to set him to working outside his realm. Then he’d really have torn someone apart verbally. As it was, he was already more acerbic and temper-mental than normal. Being inured didn’t aid that, nor did having to take time from tending his own patients among the injured dragons to watch over the candidates. Instead, he was standing there, tapping a foot as he studied what needed to be done, and scowled again. They were running out of supplies, and sooner rather than later, someone was going to have to go get some.
He’d broken into the last barrel of numbweed this morning as it was, unless S’lain had already procured more, tending a young blue. Rubbing the bandaged part of his arm gently as it ached, since he’d used sparingly of what supplies they had, Miko gave in and sat down. Shard it. He had no reason to stand on ceremony with the people who’d be here soon. Shuffling the lists awkwardly, and finding a greater respect for the man he was chasing, Miko started making notes on who needed what, and tallying their inventory again.
“Shards. Shards, shards, shard it all! Blasted addle-pated dim-glows.” He muttered, referencing those who had attacked. The numbers in front of him were not pleasing, and he knew he’d have to make some not so fun reports and suggestions to his two superiors when this was over. Hopefully, they’d at least not make him go to the Weyrwoman and her council, though. That was –not- in his job description.
What: Chores
Where: Infirmary
When: Midmorning
Warnings:
Despite a, for once, outwardly calm appearance (and wasn’t that more disturbing in some ways?), and a hand busy setting the final tiny stitches in a gash received from the fight some time ago, Mikovren was inwardly raging. Setting down the needle and examining the place where he’d accidentally torn the sutures from before out, he scowled, then carefully sponged away the small bit of blood, before applying a thin line of numbweed salve and bandaging his arm once more, the less bulkily given that he was, slowly, healing.
Glancing up, and noting that the others would be here soon, he grumbled, and quickly cleaned his tools before stashing them back into his personal kit, bundling the dirty linens off to be cleaned. He still had yet to find S’lain or Tess, and sort this mess out, which meant he was stuck here in this farce. The tiny little tic beside his left eye gave away his anger, before he tamped it down, using the few moments of quiet left to calm himself and slip a more moderate, blank-seeming mask into place. Checking on one of many lists, scattered over a desk out in the main area rather than his room given the situation today, he frowned.
At least his being a so-called ‘candidate’, of which he was decidedly NOT, had some use. And they hadn’t tried to set him to working outside his realm. Then he’d really have torn someone apart verbally. As it was, he was already more acerbic and temper-mental than normal. Being inured didn’t aid that, nor did having to take time from tending his own patients among the injured dragons to watch over the candidates. Instead, he was standing there, tapping a foot as he studied what needed to be done, and scowled again. They were running out of supplies, and sooner rather than later, someone was going to have to go get some.
He’d broken into the last barrel of numbweed this morning as it was, unless S’lain had already procured more, tending a young blue. Rubbing the bandaged part of his arm gently as it ached, since he’d used sparingly of what supplies they had, Miko gave in and sat down. Shard it. He had no reason to stand on ceremony with the people who’d be here soon. Shuffling the lists awkwardly, and finding a greater respect for the man he was chasing, Miko started making notes on who needed what, and tallying their inventory again.
“Shards. Shards, shards, shard it all! Blasted addle-pated dim-glows.” He muttered, referencing those who had attacked. The numbers in front of him were not pleasing, and he knew he’d have to make some not so fun reports and suggestions to his two superiors when this was over. Hopefully, they’d at least not make him go to the Weyrwoman and her council, though. That was –not- in his job description.