Date: Autumn 797 ------- Location: St Loomis
It's a relatively normal day at the clinic.
(the St Loomis rumormill): A chubby milkmaid is at the clinic, bringing a package to the sawbones on duty. When he spots her bustle in through the door, the angular clinician quickly swerves away from attempting to straighten a rivet on something that looks more like a torture implement than a surgical tool -- some large, rusted implement that seems to work like a pair of pliers -- and beams. "Gussie!" he exclaims.
"Byrrex!" exclaims the chubby milkmaid back, and then gives a chortle while producing a flannel-wrapped package from her satchel. "Look at what I've got for ya!"
The angular clinician swoops over with a crowing noise, reaching for the package. "Don't tell me!" he says. "Oh, don't tell me! Is it--!"
"It is," insists the chubby milkmaid with a knowing, smug nod. She beams, unwrapping the package --!
And out spills a horrible, moldy stench.
The angular clinician exhales verbally in a groan of awe and anticipation. "Gussie, you know just what I like," he says, and then asks, "Will ya marry me?"
The chubby milkmaid blushes profusely. "Oh, Byrrex, ya don't mean that," she replies, waving a hand in dismissal. "You just like my cheese!"
"I do," Byrrex confirms, "But I do! I do mean it. And I do also like your cheese." He reaches for a fatty, salty chunk of the moldy lump in the middle of the unwrapped flannel package in Gussie's hands. When the cheese crumbles, the smell wafts even more heavily through the confined quarters of the unimpressive little clinic.
(Firouzeh): Looking thoroughly wrung out, a hunched old lady stands to the side, bent over a cot, her shoulders sagging as she scrubs away unsavory fluids from the recently vacated bed. Mid-swipe, she pauses to sniff the air, and her face instantly sours into a sickly green hue. A hard swallow follows, and without bothering to hide it, she adjusts her woad-blue veil to cover the bottom half of her wrinkled face. Her eyes narrow, casting a vaguely accusatory look at the pair of stinky lovebirds.
Her grip tightens on the yellow-tinged rag, knuckles paling with annoyed resolve, as she returns to scrubbing.
(GM): OOC: Firouzeh just rolled composure by itself, coming up with 1.
(Ighlaf): Peering through the doorway and spotting both Firouzeh and the clinician, there is a moment of blinking as Ighlaf steps through the doorway into the clinic. They eventually call out a greeting, "Good afternoon."
(GM): OOC: Ighlaf just rolled composure and dissembling, coming up with 44.
(the St Loomis rumormill): Gussie beams and blushes at Byrrex, then turns to notice Ighlaf. She hustles to one side in order not to block the door, giving a polite and shyer smile, while Byrrex continues to bask in the ecstasy of his cheese.
While Byrrex doesn't apparently consider a job like Firouzeh's cleaning to be important at all in the clinic, he then notices the arrival of Ighlaf -- probably because Gussie's hands, which were holding the flannel-wrapped package of moldy stank, have moved. He gives a curious tilt of his cheese-eating face.
"Afternoon," replies the angular clinician to Ighlaf, speaking Ilexi of course.
(Firouzeh): Firouzeh halts mid-scrub, her thankless work interrupted once again by the entrance of Ighlaf. She exhales a long breath, eyes trailing upward to the rather impressively stained ceiling for some divine inspiration before she turns.
The ink-eyed foreigner gets a quick appraisal from the old lady first-- eyes darting around his limbs like she's half-expecting to find something mangled, missing, or otherwise in despair. But nothing. Her shoulders relax some when no immediate life-threatening emergency jumps out. "Uppakn," she attempts in Ilexi first, grimacing at her utter butchering of the local tongue. With a curt clearing of her throat, she gives it another go in Ruvic. "Good afternoon, dear."
(Ighlaf): Ighlaf gives a polite smile themselves, a flicker of curiosity at the flannel package before speaking to Byrrex in Ilexi. "My name is Ighlaf the artist, and I have been hoping to meet with you discuss a set of painting for the clinic." They pause a moment, "If I may be allowed a wall or two to set some designs."
(the St Loomis rumormill): Byrrex starts to speak, but an awkward little cheesy belch emerges (causing Gussie to titter with amused satisfaction at this gastrointestinal reception of her fungally fermented dairy wares).
Then the current-sawbones-on-duty clears his throat, drawing himself up with a stern nod in Ighlaf's direction. "Course you may," he replies. "Heard about this from the council, I did. I recall. Go ahead and have that wall -- " And the angular clinician waves at the back wall of the clinic, which thanks to Firouzeh's constant insistent scrubbing of everything, isn't too dirty. Of course, it's still grimy and bloodstained, but all recent layers of gunk and filth have been removed... " -- Just don't be muralizing any furren devil-worship, and we'll be right as rain. Many a man may expire here, and he'd like to see a kindly sight afore he goeth..."
For whatever reason, Byrrex doesn't seem altogether too worried about furren devil worship at the time. His eyes are already straying back to that flannel-wrapped stinkbomb in the chubby milkmaid's hands.
(Firouzeh): A humorless snort escapes Firouzeh. She rolls her eyes, shakes her head, and then suggests, "Some color would be nice. Greens and blues, if available."
(Ighlaf): Looking towards that wall, Ighlaf returns their attention to Byrrex while partially answering Firouzeh, "Thank you. My painting my disrupt clinic work for a portion of a day or two, but I thought to the sea, or the town's lighthouse." Their gaze then flickers towards some of the other walls and the floor.
"As I am inconveniencing the clinic, I could also offer colors for the rest of the walls." Their gaze returns to the northern wall, "I will need to strip away some of the current layers to prepare for the painting."
(the St Loomis rumormill): The angular clinician sidesteps and helps himself to the package in the chubby milkmaid's hands, mumbling something noncommittal at Ighlaf about deciding on a day and time for the painting. He seems amenable enough to the idea of painting the other walls, but comments, "Just one color f'th'rest, no mural, need shelves --" through a crumbly mouthful of stinking cheese. And that seems to be it, apparently decided.
(Ighlaf): Ighlaf flicks a glance towards Firouzeh, giving a slowly patient blink as they give their agreement to the man. "All right, thank you."
(GM): OOC: The scene fades to black.