Logs:Costs for Injuries and Healing

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Costs for Injuries and Healing


Characters: Roz and Tris
Date: 2020-02-07
Summary: Tris got beat up (as Summers do). Healer Roz to the rescue!
Disclaimers: {{{disclaimers}}}

.oO( Common Area - Changeling Community Center )Oo........................o.

This wide-open space is furnished with multiple couches of muted blues, greens, and purples. There are tables formed of raw wood blocks with glass tops to serve as the centers for these little semi-circles of conversational spaces. Brick walls, exposed supports, and polished concrete flooring lend a clean and purposefully unfinished sort of look to the Center, one meant to evoke a casual comfort. A fully-appointed kitchen (stocked with both quick snacks and fresh ingredients as well as drinks soft and hard) is separated from the main space by a counter, but visibility is maintained. Above the kitchen, with a glass half-wall allowing visibility and sound, is a small computer lab and library - about a dozen computers (with high-speed access to the internet) are available here, along with books (fiction, psychology, reference, and history mostly) and board games.

One whole wall (to the left facing the kitchen) nearly from the floor to the ceiling (which is twenty feet from the lower level’s floor) is covered in windows that face the backyard.


Every community has certain necessities. They need shelter (check, the CCC's nice, right?), they need food (check, that kitchen is stocked, the alcohol's good, too!), they need protection (see that advertisement for the Death Squad? Got it covered), but they also need certain invaluable services. That's probably why the staff here has certain phone numbers of people in the Know, and who's more in the Know about the Lost than one of their own members? That's probably why it was Roz who got a call from a 'no-really-I'm-not-panicking' staff member requesting the Wizened's presence to check over a Summer who ran into trouble nearby and looks in 'rough shape.' The description was bruises, busted lip, small cuts near the eye. Things of enough concern to want to get him looked at, and, well, money's never a question if Roz wants to be paid for her time.

This finds the man with the glowing scars, now extending from right temple down to jaw and reaching up across his cheek in their spindles of gossamer thread that capture and split the light into low glimmers (tonight, blue, green and a little smattering of violet), and in all the usual places (under the chin, around his ear, all down his exposed forearms), sprawled out on one of the comfortable chairs, holding a bag of frozen peas to his left eye. Most of the residents of the community center are of sight, though some concerned staff and other Lost linger some distance from Tris as though the violence of it might be contagious. At least there's a cat in his lap? That's probably what a beaten up person needs most when they're clearly having such a stellar evening when they ought to be home for dinner right about now.

--

Roz was actually having an unexpectedly quiet night for once. Fridays are usually a panic of stabbings and shootings, with the occasional "Does this look infected to you?" thrown in for good measure. But just as she's about to sit back with a bottle of moscato and Netflix, here comes the phone call. She tries to keep the frustration out of her voice as she gets the address and pertinent information. She puts the wine back in the fridge, turns off the TV, and grabs her medical bag, which is an actual old fashioned doctor's bag...probably a story in that. And off she goes.

When she arrives at the Center, she's quite professional, asking to be shown to the injured person, assuring all that she will do her best for them. One oddity is that she is very careful with her walking. With the placement with her steps to be exact, not stepping on any lines in the flooring. Perhaps she fears breaking her mother's back.

"So." The little alien looking woman stands over Tris. "What happened?" She pulls out a small flashlight.

--

Tris' good eye draws to Roz when she enters, tracking the movement many a Crimson Courtier is wont to do. Wisely, he leaves the peas in place unless or until the alien-looking Lost wishes it removed. What happened. Well, "Mistakes were made," Tris volunteers after a beat. Probably, he's been rehearsing this, not for Roz, but for others that will wish to know why the Beast is, yet again, injured and late returning home. "I was out," a careless gesture of one hand reveals split knuckles that tell a story on their own. "Ended up in a place I probably shouldn't have been, and met a group of hot-blooded kids looking to put their stamp on the whole ninety-nine percenter thing. I thought... good opportunity for me with tempers running high." Wrath is his flavor of choice, after all.

He licks that split lip and flinches slightly when his tongue encounters the cut there. "Anyway. I'd forgotten how much harder a fight is to win against a group when one isn't going in with lethal intent. You have to fight differently." At least that sounds like the dumb kids, whoever they were, probably survived the encounter. "I was probably lucky none of them wanted to make a bigger statement than roughing me up and taking my cash." There's one more beat and then he at least has the grace to add, "Thank you for coming. Jules will be relieved I've been checked for--" whatever she might find says the gesture to his whole him.

--

Roz slowly blinks. It might be an odd look, with those huge black eyes. "You got the shit beat out of you by some kids who watched that Joker movie. Hmm." It's a very bland statement, and she just lets it hang in the air metaphorically as she pulls the bag of peas off his eye. She's actually impressed that the peas are still frozen, if that extra "Hmm" is any indication. "I hope it was worth it." And there's the judgment, right on schedule. She carefully shines the light on both his eyes, trying to assess any concussion issues.

--

"The beings I like hurting aren't idiot kids jumped up on ego and social media fires." Tris replies, his tone wry. "I can take a little of this if it meant they all walked out of there. I don't think they'll try it again, but I didn't break any limbs. It's just a little cash." Cash doesn't matter to this Lost, where it might be a much more serious matter to others. "If they'd pulled a knife or a gun... things would've gone differently." The Summer adds after a thoughtful moment.

The light, as it comes to his face, causes the colors in the scars on his cheek to shift, snatching the light and splitting it in some bizarre way known only to one who thankfully is not here, adding a twist of lurid orange with yellow edges that crowds out the violet and most of the green, leaving a touch of the blue behind. "This is my third bag," Tris explains of the peas, which... well, given how much heat the courtier throws off routinely, isn't much of a surprise, but does explain the mystery. "We started with berries. Then corn..." Maybe that's what's for dinner at the CCC tonight? Courtesy of Bad Decision Tris.

As Roz begins her examination, Tris observes, "I'm not sure we ever formally met. Did we?" Maybe his memory is faulty, or maybe it just never happened. "I'm Tris. You're Roz, right?"

--

"Fair enough," is Roz's concise and brief response to Tris' reasoning. She's now more concerned with dealing with the injuries. She startles a little as her attempt to use the flashlight turns into a light show. "Hmph!" She sighs, and just reopens her bag, pulling out some swabs of alcohol and adhesive medical strips for the minor wounds. She's all about dabbing those with the alcohol and applying the bandages. "How is your vision right now?" As she works, she pauses. "Yes, I'm Roz. Pleasure to meet you. I guess."

--

"You're a friend of Miles' and Jules', right?" Tris pursues what's most important to Tris first, which probably isn't much of a surprise to anyone who's seen his designer clothes in the better than currently ripped and dirtied state. Combine privilege with Summer and you get a Beast of a man who does a lot of what he wants whether or not social conventions dictate it to be routine. "It's fine, I think. Nothing's really blurry, except you know, just a little, in this eye." He gestures to the one that had the rapidly melting peas. He doesn't flinch under the touch of the alcohol. In this way, at least, he's an excellent patient.... if in very few others.

--

"We're in the same club," Roz replies. And from the cool but not cold feel of her hands as she carefully touches the area around Tris' injured eye, her Court is obvious. "Hmmm. Looks like you've got swelling around the orbital socket, so the frozen food was a good idea. Let me see what I can do." Once again, she reaches into her bag, and pulls out a scalpel. "Are we among friends here?"

--

"Winters are some of my favorite people," Tris tries for a charming smile. Given the bruises and small contusions, it probably doesn't work that well, especially given that it strains that split lip and causes a little new bloom of blood. Oops. Is he supposed to be paying attention to the exam? Well, his attention is grabbed by the appearance of the scalpel. "Is that for you or me?" It's probably a valid question.

A tilt of his head takes in some of the faces still milling, cooking corn and blending berries in the kitchen area. "Everyone here is either freehold sworn or newly arrived enough to need a place to crash, but I'm not sure who's new-new." That is to say that everyone's in the Know, but he can't personally vouch for each face. "We could go somewhere more private?" He suggests, "I'm sure there's an empty dorm room or something." A bathroom that can be locked? Something.

--

Roz glances around at the other people, as they walk around and do things. She slowly nods, as if figuring things out. "Oh, this is good. I just wanted to make sure we don't have any looky loos." That is to say, unsworn mortals or other supernaturals. She holds the scalpel over Tris' head.

"It's for me." Roz slices into her left wrist, letting blood drip onto Tris's head. She can be heard to lowly whisper words about sacrifice, her litany punctuated with the occasional "...and fuck you..."

It feels cool and strange to Tris. Truly alien, as if walking on a distant planet with bizarre architecture. But he's feeling better.

<spend> Roz spends 2 (-2 points) of her Glamour pool, for Shared Burden.
Roz takes some lethal and is now lightly bleeding.
Tris receives some healing for bashing and is now noticeably bruised.

--

The Beast is watching intently as the Wizened does her work, dark eyes following the movement of the scalpel, nostrils flaring slightly as the wound is made, but not flinching away from the drops of blood, and though he mightn't catch everything she says, he's paying attention to that too. The drip of the blood and the cool, strange touch of the Glamour with Roz' signature on it seems to do what the peas and corn and berries could not: the bruising that had begun to press the lid of his eye shut and it's like watching a medical documentary on rewind. The swelling reduces at a rapid pace, the contusions close enough to be problematic knit the flesh back together under the sanguine mask provided by the healer, and Tris's breath is drawn in something of a gasp. He blinks dark eyes, looking up at the woman with... well, not wonder, but earnest gratitude at least. "Thank you."

There's beats of pause before he murmurs, "I have reason to know you can't do that to yourself. If you ever have need... call me." Who heals the healers? It's always good to have a number to dial, right? Just in case. He does owe her one.

--

Bruising starts to appear on Roz's skin, and her eyes suddenly open widely as she steps back from Tris, stumbling a little. "Shit, you're hurt worse than I thought." She wraps a bandage tightly around her cut wrist, shaking her head. "Hmmph, that was a rookie mistake," she mutters to herself. "Wembley would have had my head." She sighs, and get back to treating Tris' wounds like a regular medical practitioner with some common sense.

.oO( Roz rolls 7 Dice )Oo...................................................o.
 Roll: Intelligence + Medicine.Surgery
 Result: Success (4) -- (3 9 1 8 6 6 10 10 4)
.o...................................................oO( success (public) )Oo.
Counts as Exceptional for Chirurgeon's Kith Blessing
4 Successes heal 1 bashing damage (total of 4), with exceptional, 1 additional.
Tris receives some healing for bashing and is now lightly bruised.

--

"That kick-back..." Tris' words are colored with a touch of sympathy, for all that he knows enough Winters to know better than to offer that so openly. Ugh, Summers. One hand goes to his middle, where there might be a bruise, but might be a memory of some other time, some other place where he was reminded how shitty it can be to be a helpful person in a time of need. "I do appreciate it, Roz. Not having to explain... Well. I think some people would have preferred the jackasses not walk away." Probably those people care more for Tris than some dumb mortals. Maybe. "Who's Wembley?" Not to pry or anything, but at least he asks it lowly enough that no audience members should hear his curiosity.

--

"There's enough murder in the world." After all that crazy magic (which probably attracted some attention), and more of the mundane, Roz is no longer in the legit shook category and has returned to her laconic self. "You should get some rest, most of the damage has been taken care of." She stretches, wincing at the damage that she now carries. "Wembley?" She looks accusatory at first, then realizes that she's the one who mentioned the name. "He was my mentor back in New York. Ran the Healer's Guild." She looks away, beginning to pack her bag and gather up the waste.

--

"Yeah," Tris doesn't hesitate to agree with that, even if there's something weary in the word. Summers do have a way of falling into roles of protection when freeholds form, so maybe it's understandable that he hasn't left the sometimes necessity back in Arcadia. "I thought the name sounded familiar. Don't think I ever met him." The man squints a little at nothing. "Did you know me there? I don't remember everyone I met right after I got Back." It might be possible. Might.

--

Roz turns back to look at Tris. To really, *really* look at Tris. "Wait a minute. You're the rich kid? I mean, the Upstate Rich Kid? Deadass?" She grabs a nearby chair to sit down, clearly needing a rest after all. "Fang told me about some rich kid who'd just come back and needed some help, was just fiending to be a Summer once he got himself together." She looks him up and down. "She always had a good feel for courts."

--

"City rich kid," Tris' fingers rise to scratch at the raised gossamer scars with their glimmering light (now gone back to the blue, green and violet of before the exam light), in what may be a slightly self-conscious move. "But I Returned upstate. Outside my parents' hunting lodge." All those rich East-enders with their Upstate retreats. Yeah, he's one of those assholes, but he doesn't seem all that assholey just this moment, so there's that.

A smile appears on his face, one that doesn't draw blood as the split lip was one of the thigs Roz's personal sacrifice did for the Crimson Courtier whose mantle had been strong in New York and has only grown stronger and stronger since. "I remember Fang." He even remembers her in some positive light if the look on his face is anything to go by. "That sounds like me, though. Had a bad time of things, initially. Got it mostly straightened out now. Still seeing a therapist and all." Therapy: it's good for the Lost soul. "How's Fang doing? I didn't see her on my last trip back to the City."

--

Roz lets out a low chuckle and shakes her head. "Of course you know Fang. I shoulda known." She leans back, idly rubbing the close stubble on her head. "You know, the last time I saw her, she was helping me get the hell outta town. But she was good. Taking care of her family. Trying to keep her brother out of trouble." She leans in a little. "Were you with her when they took care of those privateers that tried to come into Harlem? She was fierce that day, my guy."

--

"Not that day," Tris sounds genuinely disappointed to have to say so, "But I heard about it and..." He has to trail off because are there really words besides those Roz has already said. He's just shaking his head with one of those grins that is the vicarious pleasure of Summer court routing those that need routing, especially when the battlefield is Harlem.

"If I see her next time I'm back," and there is the sense that he does go back somewhat regularly, "want me to pass anything along?" Some people, when they get out of town, want to stay lost. As much as Tris might sometimes seem clueless, this, he seems to understand without saying. "I'm hoping we'll be able to do some good things here. For the freehold, or for those of us that need that kind of help." He shrugs his shoulders a little bit.

--

Roz isn't one to revel in violence, being a healer. But her eyes do shine with pride for her friend Fang achieving that victory. But she pauses for a while in response to figure out what message to send to Fang. She drops her strange gaze to the floor. "Tell her..." She pauses again. "Tell her I'm okay, and I'm safe." And she leaves it at that. "As far as help is concerned, if I don't act like a fool, I should be on call like I was tonight. I need to get some recruits though."

--

Tris' head cocks slightly as he studies the Winter's face. Winter expressions are not known for their readability, but he's had a crash course in recent months, so maybe he gleans enough to grasp the tone of the message as much as the message itself. "I'll tell her if I see her." He can't promise, but surely, he'll make good on this if the circumstances allow. "I'd like to get your number if that's alright. And give you mine. I think Miles and Jules must have yours, but I tend to find myself in fixes..." As Summers do. "And like I said, I owe you, should you act like a fool sometime." You know, like a Summer. That's got some wry humor to it though and he's shifting to pull out the wallet that looks worse for the stresses of the evening. It's empty of cash, but there are business cards left and he pulls one of those for the Winter.

"If you want cash for your services tonight, I can go hit an ATM, or I can get it to you. Or you can swing by the house to get it some night. I think we've been meaning to have a get together of some kind, sometime." Whoever 'we' is. "Ian might be able to spot me cash, too." Ian does live here and is loaded, after all. Tris seems to contemplate it a moment before he looks to the healer for her wishes.

--

Roz shakes her head. "No. I know you have the means, but you're Lost. It's free." She pulls out her own card, which is plain white with "Roz" and her number on it, cheap card stock. "Non Lost have to pay, and I have a personal scale for that." Clearly it's a case by case basis for non Changelings, and only she knows the rules. "If you want to pay me, just let me sleep here tonight and get breakfast in the morning, and we're straight."

--

For a moment, it doesn't look like Tris is about to take that for an answer. What is cash to a man like him? And yet. "Alright, then something in kind. If you have need of my kind of blessings," such as a Summer Beast's are, "call on me, alright?" One never knows when having a Summer with a lack of self-preservation instincts on their side might be a good thing, right?

"This isn't my place. It's Ian's, but as far as I know any Lost who need a place to stay and want to be part of their community can stay. If you speak to one of the staff, they can get you set up." There's a pause before he tilts his head, "You're welcome to come stay at my place, too. Jules has managed to teach me to cook eggs." They probably won't kill anyone, either. "Or there's always Jules' place, if you can stand to have Molly for a housemate." There's something wry there, but after, his brows are furrowing. "Are you set up alright, Roz? With somewhere to stay and all?"

--

"I've got a place to stay," Roz replies with a bit of pride. "I'm just too beat up to head back home tonight, that's all." She has some sense of self-preservation after all. "So I'll find the concierge," she adds wryly, "And get myself a cot. Thanks."

--

"No problem." Tris replies with a smile. "Get some rest," is less advice than a wish for the good kind, since she's heading that way anyway. He'll linger just long enough to speak with the staff before fetching what he came for and heading home, late for dinner again.