Post by glamourie on Oct 7, 2008 3:54:52 GMT -5
Someone was sadistic. That was Rawign's only explanation for his current predicament. Someone had a very sadistic sense of humor, had found out that he didn't like small children and was punishing him for... some inexplicable crime. He'd figure out what that was some other time, but -- for the moment, he was quite busy.
"Make you a deal," said the healer as he looked down at a pair of wide blue eyes staring up at him. "If you don't throw up on me... I won't sell you to a caravan. How's that strike you?"
The blue eyes belonged to a babe. Specifically, one of several, varying in ages between two sevendays old to a turn. Some had green eyes, some had brown, some blue and some gray. Rawign was in the nursery. Tended to by several women, the babies of the Weyr were typically left there while their parents did sweeps, or ran Threadfall; like a babysitting service to some degree, rather than allowing them to run wild at all hours. Some parents chose not to take advantage, most left their kids in the Creche. And for Rawign's chores, he was assigned to help the Headwoman. That helping apparently entailed attending the nursery while the extra kitchen staff prepared items to take to the Blossom Hold Gather. Countless babies, no women, just Rawign in charge of an army of newborns-to-toddlers all of whom were either awake or getting that way thanks to the noise a few were making.
In short, after several long turns of training to be a healer, he'd been relegated to babysitting. He wanted to bash his head off of a wall, but he settled instead for staring down the three-month-old boy who stared right back at him. He would not be defeated by something too young to feed itself. He would not. But the whole thing did make his desire to reproduce fade down to zero. If he didn't know any better he'd have guessed his parts crept into his body in terror. Hopefully not. That would be awkward to explain.
He stared. The babe stared back. He squinted. The babe cooed. He sniffed. The babe spit up odd orange goo down its chin. Baby one, Rawign zero.
It didn't help that he was ditched. Roxie had taken one look at the babies and fled in terror. Stumpy stayed long enough to be thrown up on by one of the newborns and then he'd left, too. Early morning as it was, Rawign was more effectively busy. He'd changed four diapers, fed one screaming meanie, had his hair pulled by another who insisted he was 'dadada!' (and he'd protested avidly that he was not), and over-all was ready to pass out from exhaustion. He didn't want to deal with babies. It wasn't even mid-day yet! In fact, he was fairly sure that he had at least a candlemark to go. After lunch he would be saved from the responsibility of babysitting, at which point he fully intended to withdraw his candidacy and stitch his leggings to his body so that he could never again risk reproduction. Babies were frightening.
The child cooed at him and flailed a little, clearly wanting to be held - or cleaned up - or something. Not that the healer knew anything about baby body language or symbols. He sighed. "Too bad. Caravan for you," Rawign commented as he retrieved one of the rags and bent over the baby's bed to clean his face up. His antics were rewarded with a wide, toothless grin, and a half-smack to the face that he'd have sworn was going right for his eye. He scowled, then folded his arms. "Oh, don't suck up now. You're going to be sold to the nearest caravan, and I'm going to make enough to buy an entire hold full of pies off of you. They don't know you're evil, not yet. They won't know until after they purchase you. You, sir, will fetch quite a hefty bit of marks, more than enough to get me pies to last a tenday..."
"Make you a deal," said the healer as he looked down at a pair of wide blue eyes staring up at him. "If you don't throw up on me... I won't sell you to a caravan. How's that strike you?"
The blue eyes belonged to a babe. Specifically, one of several, varying in ages between two sevendays old to a turn. Some had green eyes, some had brown, some blue and some gray. Rawign was in the nursery. Tended to by several women, the babies of the Weyr were typically left there while their parents did sweeps, or ran Threadfall; like a babysitting service to some degree, rather than allowing them to run wild at all hours. Some parents chose not to take advantage, most left their kids in the Creche. And for Rawign's chores, he was assigned to help the Headwoman. That helping apparently entailed attending the nursery while the extra kitchen staff prepared items to take to the Blossom Hold Gather. Countless babies, no women, just Rawign in charge of an army of newborns-to-toddlers all of whom were either awake or getting that way thanks to the noise a few were making.
In short, after several long turns of training to be a healer, he'd been relegated to babysitting. He wanted to bash his head off of a wall, but he settled instead for staring down the three-month-old boy who stared right back at him. He would not be defeated by something too young to feed itself. He would not. But the whole thing did make his desire to reproduce fade down to zero. If he didn't know any better he'd have guessed his parts crept into his body in terror. Hopefully not. That would be awkward to explain.
He stared. The babe stared back. He squinted. The babe cooed. He sniffed. The babe spit up odd orange goo down its chin. Baby one, Rawign zero.
It didn't help that he was ditched. Roxie had taken one look at the babies and fled in terror. Stumpy stayed long enough to be thrown up on by one of the newborns and then he'd left, too. Early morning as it was, Rawign was more effectively busy. He'd changed four diapers, fed one screaming meanie, had his hair pulled by another who insisted he was 'dadada!' (and he'd protested avidly that he was not), and over-all was ready to pass out from exhaustion. He didn't want to deal with babies. It wasn't even mid-day yet! In fact, he was fairly sure that he had at least a candlemark to go. After lunch he would be saved from the responsibility of babysitting, at which point he fully intended to withdraw his candidacy and stitch his leggings to his body so that he could never again risk reproduction. Babies were frightening.
The child cooed at him and flailed a little, clearly wanting to be held - or cleaned up - or something. Not that the healer knew anything about baby body language or symbols. He sighed. "Too bad. Caravan for you," Rawign commented as he retrieved one of the rags and bent over the baby's bed to clean his face up. His antics were rewarded with a wide, toothless grin, and a half-smack to the face that he'd have sworn was going right for his eye. He scowled, then folded his arms. "Oh, don't suck up now. You're going to be sold to the nearest caravan, and I'm going to make enough to buy an entire hold full of pies off of you. They don't know you're evil, not yet. They won't know until after they purchase you. You, sir, will fetch quite a hefty bit of marks, more than enough to get me pies to last a tenday..."