3/23/2002

12:00 AM

Logfile from K'rill.

Main Living Cavern (#551J)

Grey stone arches a vast vault overhead, details of the ceiling all but disappearing in the shadows cast by warm, human-height glowsconces and the night hearth's flames; tapestries texture the smooth walls, looking down upon the raised dais, the expanse of tables, the flagstones left cleared for impromptu dancing.

A single broad archway, its carved pattern worn soft with time and passersby's touch, leads west into the bowl; two more, narrower but just as tall, give access to the bustle of living caverns in the south. Predominant looms the builders' masterpiece: the imposing staircase that twines up along the northern wall, leading to the weyr's huge kitchens.

Vintner Harry busies himself behind the 'bar'; nearby hangs the day's 'menu'.

You see Sinaqui and Veran here.

K'rali is here.

Obvious exits:

Bowl       Lower Caverns       Stairs       Weyr Tunnel

 

K'rill crosses into the caverns, fingers working down the front of his jacket. Body shakes for a moment, allowing the snow that managed to gather on his shoulders to shift to the floor. "Evening," he murmurs to the cavern at large before wandering to the hearth for the klah. Reviving klah.

 

K'rali would be lounging in a chair if she could--as it is, she's rather /overflowing/ the chair, with a mucho grumpy expression.  A greenrider's attempt at conversation is met with a terse, "Don't talk to me."  Not one to beat around the bush today, she.

 

K'rill cups his klah in both hands, enjoying the warmth. Smile tickles at his lips 'til he hears... The Voice. *cringe* Smile wavers for a moment before he turns about, spearing K'rali with a flashing grin. Klah is lifted in silent offering. /Silent/. But that smile is awfully loud.

 

"No, it doesn't hurt," K'rali snaps at K'rill from across the table, one hand running across back to stomach, which is apparently a lie, judging by the perpetual half-wince that wrinkles her nose.

 

K'rill takes a sip from the klah before slowly moving over to her, a sigh of patience escaping from him. "Didn't ask you that. But apparently from your expression you are imagining yourself on a cloud or other such nonsense. Need something?"

 

"Something to induce birth," bluerider mutters rebelliously, shifting her weight uncomfortably.  "If I have to--ooh."  At that last, her pout mars to a curious expression that fades almost immediately back to grumpiness.  "If I have to carry this around much longer, I'll break in two."  She goes for K'rill's mug with the unrepetant intention of stealing a sip.  What interruption?

 

And she can have the mug, just as long as she doesn't throw it right back at him. K'rill magnanimously hands it over to her, as he echoes, "Ohhh?" This causes his pale eyebrows to arch as well. "Then.. Uh..." Nobody ever said he knew anything about babies, or the ways to get rid of them. Helpful, isn't he?

 

K'rali tilts her head back for three swallows before setting the mug on the table.  "Yeah, yeah, no suggestions, I knew you wou--ooh, /ow/."  This last muttered in an undertone, she sits up as if galvanised, scooting her chair back with a surprised expression.

 

K'rill blinks owlishly down to K'rali, and then blinks again for good measure. "Uh. No, you aren't alright at all." He doubts its a bad case of gas... and if the cries of what has to be pain are any indication. "The baby?" he hazards.

 

Cries?  Hardly cries.  K'rali's far too disciplined to cry out.  But she's already tight-lipped as she rises to her feet.  "Your guess is as good as mine, bronzie."  She takes a few shuffling steps in the direction of the lower caverns.

 

Cries. Bellows. Moans. Whimpers. Its all the same to him. K'rill is quick to accompany, an arm extending in offering for her to lean on as they move into the lower caverns.

 

K'rali heads into the lower caverns.

K'rali goes southwest.

 

Infirmary

The outer infirmary is a large open room so the dragons have easy access to it. The most commonly needed supplies -- those for threadscore -- are here in abundance on a wide shelf. There is also a long sink with cold water for cleaning and numbing wounds and a student healer that can treat threadscore.

The inner infirmary is much smaller, as it need not accomodate a dragon. Intended as the exam room for sick and wounded riders and weyr staff, there is an exam table in the center of the room. There are some chairs scattered about for the concerned friends and family of the sick person.

Labelled cupboards for the major medicinal groups -- tonic, febrifuge, diaphoretic, diuretic, cough medicines, burn treatment, antispasmodic, anodyne, and analgesic -- as well as a general supplies cupboard, line the walls.

Tarin and K'rali are here.

Obvious exits:

Bowl       Ground Weyrs       Living Caverns

 

Dekla is seated at the infirmary desk and appears to be deeply immersed in working on a chart. Should you be inclined to peer at it more closely, you probably wouldn't see any medical info on it. It looks more like the sort of chart people get together when they're working on a pool of some sort. And say, isn't spring coming? And the spring games?

 

Lean and well-muscled, Dekla bears some physical, if not facial, resemblance to Linda Hamilton in Terminator II. Fortunately, she isn't as scary as a gun-toting woman accompanied by a cyborg programmed to kill.

 

Well, Dekla probably isn't as scary as a gun-toting woman accompanied by a cyborg programmed to kill. Look, how closely do you want to examine her just now? I mean, don't you people have more important things on your mind just now?

 

K'rali sweeps in in utter disregard of K'rill's outstretched arm, her face set in disapproval.  Ah, a healer, let's accost her next.  "Excuse me.  This thing," bluerider points haughtily to her stomach, "wants out.  Can you please tell it to shut up?"

 

K'rill won't scowl at K'rali's disdain of his arms. Sheesh. Give him something, woman. K'rill makes it as far as the entrance before he is reduced to dithering. Eyebrows overshadow his eyes, fingers clasp before him. "Is she... is she going to have the baby now?"

 

She'd ask K'rill, but he's not very reliable in such matters.

 

Dekla looks up and sees a very pregnant, irritable-looking woman and an anxious looking man. Well, that's the usual set of players for this game. "Well, now, let's take a look, shall we? You know the drill-- you" this to K'rali-- "You'll have to remove those trousers and the rest. There's a gown hanging on the wall. And you," this to K'rill. "While she's doing that, you can tell me what her symptoms are."

 

Healers and royalty get to use 'we' in all sorts of fun contexts. The rest of humanity just has to deal.

 

How about severe grumpiness and short temper?  K'rali nearly flounces over to the gown and begins shedding her clothes.  "This is the worst part," she calls over her shoulder.  "I mean, the cravings and the mood swings are bad, but this--ow."  Yanking the gown over her head, she frowns down at her belly.

 

"Well, she seems a little..." Err, irritable? But she is like that way with K'rill all the time? "She seems to be saying 'ow' much more than usual?" He doesn't recall ever hearing those words come from her mouth before, to be honest. Bronzer continues to find the wall to be the best place to stand, hopefully out of the way of any ferocious glares.

 

"And how long has she been saying 'ow'?" asks Dekla clinically. In a clinic, people are expected to speak clinically. And in an office, people are supposed to speak officially. And in the stables, people are supposed to speak with stability.

 

"Oh, five minutes," K'rali snaps, spinning about with fingers still flying over the gown's ties.  "He's exaggerating."  The effect of any ferocious glares, like the one that she's turning upon any animate or inanimate object that falls within her range of sight, is severely undermined by the slightly humorous appearance of her enormous, gowned belly and the bare legs beneath the uneven hem.  And any impact is just /gone/ when her knees buckle slightly with the onset of a contraction.  "Oh, ow."  See?  She /is/ saying ow.

 

"Looks like it's time to get out in the field, then," Dekla says, going over to her. After all, K'rali may need some assistance in making it to the cot if her knees are buckling. "You there," she says to K'rill--she seems fond of addressing people as 'you'-- "look in that chest and bring me the brown blanket you find inside."

 

K'rill flickers a glance to K'rali. He's gonna need help with this one. "Uh? Since I walked into the room. She acted... uncomfortable." Again, another typical occurrence whenever she is around K'rill. At K'rali's words, he scowls. "I'm no exaggerating. I distinctly heard a couple of 'ows' in there." Being prodded to action by the healer, he peels himself away from the wall and approaches the indicated chest, delving within to pluck out a blanket, brown blanket. "This one?"

 

K'rali ignores an tacit offer of help.  She's a rough, tough cream puff, she is.  "All right, whatever, I only said it twice.  Thrice.  Maybe frice."  Sure, it's a word--she's a Harper and she says so.  Bluerider plunks gracelessly onto the cot and swings her legs over.

 

"Good eye, man," Dekla approves. "Can't play the game without the right equipment now, can we? Bring it over here and spread it over her waist and legs." (This episode of Weyr Childbirth uses strategic props to protect both K'rali's modesty and the squeamish.)

 

What modesty?

 

K'rill actually flushes from the compliment. It was a compliment, right? He'll grab at straws if he is drowning. And this is as close a likeness as possible. Bronzer and blanket approach, making a point of draping it just right. His gaze averts from the business-end of the whole process. Faranth, give him strength.

 

Oh, we don't like modesty? Let's put that another way: like the precise number of calories in a slice of Sara Lee chocolate layer cake, some things are better left unknown. And all the descs that would involve the activity under the blanket fit firmly within that category.

 

Not just-right-enough for the impossible bane of his life; she makes small adjustments as K'rill steps away.  "So.  What no-ooowwwww."  Very tidy, how 'now' can shift to 'ow' without even a break.  K'rali grits back whatever else she was going to say and reiterates, "Ow."

 

Tarin does what all midwives do: she investigates that under-blanket realm. Then she steps round to K'rali's side and does the wrist pulse-check thing. "This contraction should end soon," she tells K'rali. And then we can use the break to strategize.

 

Tarin? No, Tarin would never say or do that. It must have been Dekla.

 

It would be especially hard for Tarin to be involved, since at this very moment, she is arguing with a holder near Ruatha.

 

See? See! She did it again. K'rali said 'ow', and K'rill cringes in sympathy, or in fear for his ears. "What was that?" He glances down to Dekla, "It'll be all over with soon?" Gee, this labor thing isn't nearly as bad as he remembers it to be. Or something.

 

Yes, K'rill looks like a member of the gender with the wide experience with childbirth. "The game is just beginning, man!" Dekla tells him. "Don't worry! You'll still be able to get out on the field and help your team with the battle!"

 

"It better be over soon," K'rali prays with the fervor of long memory as the contraction recedes and she struggles to half-sitting position.  "Can you hand me a pillow or something, Kor?"  Score a point for Dekla's alleged 'team'. 

 

Dekla notes the end of the retraction and begins a little speech. You were just waiting for the Midwife's Speech, right? It's like a Shakespearian tradition, the Midwife's Speech. "Okay, man and woman," she says, "Now, I want you to think of all the hard, tough times, when the other team has gotten you down. Did you give in? No! Did you get faint-hearted! No, sir! So tonight, I want you to fight!"

 

"Just beginning," K'rill echoes, flickering a glance K'rali-way. What does she mean by 'just beginning'. Maybe he'll get lucky and faint early on in the process again. Miss the whole thing, and wake back up when its all over and the girl-child is born. "Who? me? Pillow?" Again, put to use, he does so. "Fight?" Lost. Hopelessly lost.

 

Dekla continues, carried away on a wave of inspirational imagery. K'rill's confusion is but a peripheral issue: all rookies are confused at first, but they get with the program soon enough. "I want you to fight for all the boys in all the fields who ever swung a bat at a ball!" she tells them. "I want you to fight for all the women who made mayonnaise-rich tuber salad complete with relish and bits of pimento for team potlucks! And most of all, I want you to fight for me, for yourselves, and for the team! Cause tonight, you're going out a couple, and you're coming back a family!" Somebody cue the music.

 

K'rali would take the time to ask Dekla about the meaning of 'bats' and 'balls', as well as objecting to the description of herself and K'rill as 'team' or 'couple', but about by the time Dekla got to the mayonnaise, the next contraction had started, and the bluerider was intent on the muttered soundtrack of curses that she kindly provides.

 

Dekla nips around to the foot of the cot. "Two, four, six, eight!" she cheers, "You've begun to di-a-late!"

 

K'rill is not a rookie. At least, not sort of. He saw this done before, some of it. Before he passed out. "Is... is it getting a little warm in here?" He shucks off his jacket, tossing it into a corner negligently. And is he hearing things? Is what is actually coming out of Dekla's mouth actually coming out of it. He flickers a glance at K'rali, gauging her response to this... pep talk? A most enlightened, "Errrr" follows.

 

K'rali steadfastly ignores Dekla and K'rill both, eyes squeezing tight and fingers clenching on the bedclothes.  A pause while she sucks in a breath, then the steady, barely-heard stream of expletives carries on.

 

"Help me out now!" Dekla cries to K'rill, "Two, four, six, eight! You've begun to di-a-late!" Now it's your turn! Clearly the healer is expecting the lad to do the next part of the cheer.

 

K'rill blinks owlishly at Dekla, "Pardon?" Anyone for the wherry caught in the glowlight look? "Two, four, six... what the fardles was the rest? Dia-whatsis?" He casts an anxious glance onto the laboring K'rali, frowning at her straining.

 

Remember what sort of talk we expect to find in the stables? The infirmary clearly isn't the stables. "Breathe! And push! And breathe! And push!" Dekla corrects.

 

K'rali cracks an eye open to skew an annoyed glance at Dekla, but doesn't speak; rather, the bluerider sighs and sinks down onto the pillow, the contraction apparently spent.  She's in no mood to participate in birth-aerobics (Uterus of Steel) at the moment.

 

K'rill wavers, a hand reaching to the side to grab the blanket, the pillow, K'rali... whatever he can wrap his fingers around to steady himself. Yes, it definitely is getting warmer in here. Fingers pluck at his neckline. "Breathe and... and push." Or something like that.

 

Dekla notes the break in the contractions. "You're doing great!" she says to both K'rali and K'rill. Even though K'rill can't remember a simple chant like, 'breathe and push and breathe and push.' We all can't be gifted in everything. "Okay. This is how we're going to do it," she says briskly. "You," she says to K'rill, "as Papa-to-be, your job is to sit and hold the mama-to-be's hand. She may squeeze it to a pulp, but you've got to be strong. And you," she says to K'rali, "you've just got to keep pushing when I say push and breathing when I say breathe. And before you know it, we'll win, win, win!"

 

K'rali shoves K'rill's groping hand away.  "Stay away from me, you--you--/impregnator/, you!"  Oh sure, it's all his fault now.  She turns a disbelieving gaze upon Dekla before a shudder marks yet another contraction.  This time, her curses are a bit more audible, and you can bet that if a sailor were present, his ears would be brick red.

 

/Dekla/ re-enters chant mode. "When I say hey, you say hee-hee-hee-hoo!" she

 enjoins K'rali. "Hey!"

 

K'rill might just find the pain from a grip by K'rali welcome. It'll probably help him keep consciousness. Which could be a good thing, or bad, dependant upon your definition and his lack of usefulness. And so, hand is offered, only to be tossed away. Okay. He'll just stand here and look like a guy who is about to faint, fingers curling into the blanket. "I can't help it if I'm virile."

 

K'rali keeps her attention as firmly off Dekla as possible with a venomous, "Yeah, you wish," to K'rill.  That's right, ignore the only person in the room with medical expertise.  Face screwing up, she twists somewhat helplessly--ach, that's not working either.

 

"C'mon, now!" Dekla says, "Let's pull together! Keep your eyes on the prize! When I say 'hey,' you say 'hee-hee-hee-hoo! Hey!"

 

K'rill simply will not argue with K'rali in this, of all places. She is in pain. In the middle of delivering a child. Will. Not. Fight. And so, the saccharine-coated smile returns, forcefully. "Lets go, K'rali. Lets birth that daughter of mine. Hee Hoo How Hee Hee."

 

"Remember the boys!" Dekla says, like a mad-dog yellow journalist ranting about the Maine in 1898. "Remember the women with the tuber salad and the pimentoes! In fact, remember pimento loaf! So I say: Hey! And you say--"

 

With the onset of further labor pains, K'rali totally loses it.  "Shut up!" she shrieks, shoving one foot at Dekla in a forceful, if vague, go-away gesture.  "Shut up, you crazy old bovine, shut up!  And it's a son, a /son/--MY son!  Myoooowww..."  And she dissolves back into expletives.

 

K'rill cringes at the shrieking coming from K'rali. Oh, Faranth. Will this ever be over with? "Just.. Faranth, K'rali. PUSH!" Just get the girl-child out so that this unsubtle torture can be over with. "PUSH!"

 

It penetrates Dekla's consciousness that these people just aren't into group participation cheers. Not even when it's for their own good. So she switches tactics. Which is to say: she goes back to cheers that require only her own efforts. You didn't really think you'd get some rational 'now, now, dears' at this point, did you? "Time to push, yeah, time to push!" she cheers, "What time is it? Time to push!"

 

"Time to goosh? No, time to push!" Dekla continues. "Push! Push! Yeah, push!" Aren't cheers lame? The scary part is that any high school team is likely to hear even lamer ones than that on a regular basis. No wonder half the teams lose.

 

We will not, at this time, examine the fact that competitions between sports teams generally result in one (1) winner and one (1) loser, resulting in the aforementioned statistic.

 

K'rali thumps an impotent fist on the mattress.  "Stop it, all of you, stop it," she begs, real tears in her eyes.  "I can't deal with you--oooh..."  She cuts off the next scream, sucking in deep breaths.

 

But perhaps you would say that the scary part is that now, right now, while one of the narrators is rambling on about high school sports and statistics, a woman is giving birth and incidentally is in quite a bit of pain and oh by the way, her healer isn't exactly helping things. Also, judging by the interactions between Ma and Pa, Baby is not joining the world's happiest household. The world is full of such sadness. And tangents.

 

Household?  As if.

 

Sadness. And tangents. :P

 

"We're in the home stretch now!" Dekla tells them, "Great work, team! Just a little more, and we'll bring hold the gold!"

 

K'rill isn't about to relent now. "Come on, K'rali. Push. Push." That faint feeling from before seems to have magically lift, either that or he has a new purpose in life, and that would be the unending echoing of the word 'push'. "Push, Krali. Push." Helpful or not, just as long as she gets that baby out as soon as possible.

 

Tarin corrects, "No pushing yet." Poor K'rill. He's good at the actions, like fetching blankets and pillows, but he's lousy at the lines.

 

K'rali aims a vague fist at K'rill, but it's a hit that couldn't hurt if she /did/ land it, which is unlikely--she's too distracted.  A sudden inhalation betrays another contraction, stronger, longer this time--K'rali knuckles the bedsheets into disarray, eyes tightly shut, while a groan escapes her throat.

 

And our pal, Dekla, resumes the cheering, "Get that baby, get it going! Push it out, make a good showing!"

 

Aw geeze. He is never going to get this delivery thing right. K'rill bites his lip to shut up now. And so, he is left to dither once more, getting pummeled by a fist would probably make him feel he has some sort of use.

 

K'rali's groan intensifies to a hoarse, prolonged scream--then suddenly halts as she slumps back onto the pillows, face revealing no emotion except heartfelt relief.  It's done.  It's over.

 

"Now stop! It's a girl!" Dekla cheers, unnecessarily, "And stop! It's a girl! Yeah, yeah! It's a girl!" She does the usual sorts of things one does with a newborn. You know, the taking away, the stuff with the cord, the washing, the swaddling.

 

K'rill clenches his teeth together at the sound of K'rali's scream. He is gonna be hearing that thing in his dreams for sevendays to come. Wavering intensifies for a moment before the healer is heralding the child's arrival. "Wha..." And then he drops to the floor, rear smacking the ground to just sit there. "A... a girl?" At least he didn't faint this time. Or at least not yet.

 

Somewhere in the depths of K'rali's pain-fogged mind, the news penetrates.  "Girl?  What?" she breathes, struggling to sit up and succeeding only in lifting her head a few inches.  "No.  No, that--that's not right."  Alarm gives her strength and raises her voice to speaking volume, "No, that's not /right/."

 

"Of course it is," Dekla says, "Babies never lie."

 

K'rill manages to pick himself back up to his feet, using the bed to help him. He moves around, slowly approaching Dekla, the sound of awe touching his voice, "A girl?" He peers around, trying to get a glance of the newborn.

 

K'rali pushes herself to her elbows, the sag of her body betraying her exhaustion.  "But--I wanted a boy.  It's /your/ fault," she accuses K'rill wrathfully.  "/You/ told it to be a girl!"  There's a touch of jealousy in her gaze as it glances off the father--how come /he/ gets to look first?

 

Dekla hands the baby to Daddy. "Nice little addition to the team," she approves. "Listen to those lungs! Go show her to the other half."

 

K'rill will just keep her all to himself, thank you very much. K'rill carefully takes the newborn, looking down at her with eyes brimming with wonder and awe. Just a little besotted, are we? So very slowly, he turns to face K'rali, turning the remnant of the glance for his daughter onto the mother. "Just look at her." Did he even hear K'rali at all? Probably not.

 

K'rali cranes her neck a little.  "She's not as ugly as Veran," the bluerider notes clinically.  Ah yes, in keeping with the proper method of speech, she is.

 

K'rill doesn't even pout K'rali-wards. "Of course she isn't. She's got me for a father, doesn't she?" And bound to be spoiled at that. Slowly, obviously reluctantly, he starts to draw the child away from his adoring embrace, offering her to K'rali.

 

Dekla lets the parents bond with the youthful one. And, mercifully, she lets them do it without any rhymes at all.

 

With only a somber expression at K'rill's comment, K'rali cushions the girl against her side, turning a coolly appraising gaze upon her for a long moment.  Then she softens, running a gentle finger down the child's cheek with a soft murmur that's too low to hear. 

 

K'rill flickers a soft smile to mother and child before turning a beaming one onto Dekla. Yes, thankful for not having to listen to any more cheering. That could just be the greatest gift of all. And so, he hazards, "So, what are you going to name her?"

 

The Midwife's Speech is but one Shakespearian tradition. Shall we go into the the 'What's in a name' speech? Or perhaps we should just wait to see if K'rali has selected a name like Gholotetextaoct?

 

Oh, she's on the spot now.  K'rali blinks silently up at K'rill for a moment--she had /really/ been banking on Mulligan--and honestly only considers Mulligine for a /second/ before discarding it.  And she wasn't a Harper for no reason--she smoothly inserts the first name that comes to mind.  "Roswen."

 

Well, it's no Gholotetextaoct, but it'll probably fit in her SAT forms a little more easily.

 

Even if she did pick Mulligan, K'rill prolly would not have protested... too much. His lips purse for a moment though, because of annoyance? Disappointment? Or maybe for no other reason than to look stern for a moment? He bobs his head in affirmation, "Whatever you wish for the girl is fine with me. That sounds like a fine name."

 

K'rali mutters something like, "Bet your ass, it is."  Nah, she's not bitter--not with tiny Roswen nestled in her arms.  "You, whoever you are..."  A wave indicates Dekla, followed by a resigned silence.  "Thanks," she finally manages to get out.

 

"No problem," Dekla says briskly. "It's all part of playing the game. But now, I think perhaps both Mama and Baby need some time to rest."

 

K'rill turns weary eyes onto mother and child before slumping into a seat. He flickers a glance to Dekla, nodding at her words. And so, before he even gets a chance to get comfortable, he moves to stand once more. "That's probably best."

 

"Not yet."  K'rali beckons K'rill over towards her, scooting to give him space to sit.  "Soon, though, I'd be falling down if I wasn't already in bed."  Roswen attests to this fact with a wide, silent yawn.

 

K'rill moves as if to leave as well, before hesitating and looking back to K'rali with a curious frown. He moves back to the bed, but not to sit, gaze flickering to the side, "Is there anything else that you need? Another pillow? Something to drink?"

 

K'rali sighs and taps the mattress next to her, to give a bit of encouragement.  "No, I'm fine."  In the crook of her elbow, Roswen stares solemnly up at the bronzerider.

 

Dekla frowns, but decides to let this insubordination continue for a little longer. Not much, but a little.

 

K'rill frowns for a moment before shifting just a little of his weight onto the bed, conceding that little bit for the mother of his child. "Then you need to get your rests," he scolds. She sure did a bit of work just a moment ago.

 

K'rali nods meekly, sliding down the pillow a bit, head tilted to rest against K'rill's side.  "You didn't really think I was going to name her Mulligan, did you?" she asks in a voice beginning to fuzz with sleep.

 

"If you were, I couldn't stop you," K'rill murmurs. No matter how much he blustered before, he knew she would do it her own way, anyway. He shifts a little bit, hand touching the pillow, "Just get some rest, will you? Don't worry about it."

 

Dekla hears the fuzz and transitions into being one of them. She crosses stand closer to the cot. "Time," she says to K'rill. "You don't want to overtire her-- she'd only have to stay here longer. You can come back for a longer visit tomorrow."

 

"Ah, no," K'rali frowns.  "Not overtired at all.  Let him stay."  But her words are uttered almost underneath her breath as she sinks still further into the pillows, Roswen still resting against her chest.

 

Dekla contents herself for the moment with making mere shooing motions.

 

K'rill sees the shooing motions, and was more than ready to leave long ago. He flickers a soft glance to his daughter, watching her with a gaze rarely seen from him. But he manages to tear his gaze away, the faint hint of a frown at K'rali, confusing stirring for a moment. He'll wait until she is asleep before rousing off the bed and taking his leave.

 

Does this mean that K'rill wants Dekla to start rhyming at him? If Pern had saints, they might forbid it, but in their absence, there's nothing to stop her.

 

K'rali, luckily enough, is totally unaware of the frown; lashes drift over eyes darkened by weariness.  She clings to consciousness long enough to ask, somewhat ridiculously, "Are there sweeps tomorrow?" before sinking into slumber with a peaceful expression on her face.

 

K'rill would really prefer that Dekla doesn't. Hearing Harpers rhyme is bad enough, but from Healers? Perish the thought. As soon as K'rali slips into sleep, he is easing off the bed. He gives a final glance to the child before striding past the healer, picking up his jacket with one quick grab, and exiting into the hall at something akin to a rushed pace.