Arlaxia

[Haven]

 "That's one hundred grams of powdered wyvern claw sifted into the blue twinkling sand," the green dragonfly murmured, "or was it the sea-blue twinkling sand?" 

Wall mounted shelves stretch across the room, horizontally and vertically. Arlaxia's green eyes skimmed the vessels of all shapes and sizes; all shoved haphazardly where they'll fit.

 "Huh? Where is my sand collection?" he spun around, his heavily gelled spiked hairstyle barely moved an inch. As the oil lamp flickered, glass doors from the cabinet across the room glinted in the dying light. Creeeaak. The door slowly shifted open, as if it was tugged by an invisible force. Arlaxia's eyes lit up.

 "Ha. He he. That actually worked! Practice does pay off." He fluttered over and peered at the bottles. The subtleties in the sand quality eluded him. The shades all looked the same. He grabbed a few that could pass as blue for a closer look at his worktable. Zipping back to his organized chaos of a desk, he lined them all up.

 "Hmm," Arlaxia slowly considered his selections, "Should have labeled the containers last time I used them." 

Blue or sea-blue? The buzz pushed aside the pile of herbs and roots, frowning as the gritty dirt slotted themselves in his nails. He checked the stack of worn tomes. Then he checked the floor. Where did that recipe go? He rested his gaze on the selection of sands. Wait, this one isn't twinkling sand. Arlaxia reached around the test tube holder and grabbed a pen. Peeling off some masking tape from the table he stuck it on the glass bottle and carefully scratched "blue non-twinkling sand" on the label. Tearing off more pieces of tape, he attaches them on all four of the containers.

 "I'll label them when I've decided what they are," he declared.

Stretching his wings, he decided to get an aerial view of the room. There's no way the recipe can elude his top notch sight receptors. Accompanied by the soft hum of delicate wings, every nook and cranny is thoroughly checked. During the triple check, Arlaxia's fickle concentration is interrupted by a strangled bleet.

...

The wooden blinds clatter as he darts out of the -blocked-

A wounded ixi staggers out of the jungle underbrush, a mess of mud, leaves, and twigs.

 "Are you okay?" he zips towards her as she collapses. Pressing his hand over the gash on her side, he can feel her strained, choppy breathing.

 "Something's out there," she rasps painfully, "It's coming." 

 "Well," he struggles to lift her to her feet; "Can you walk?" 

He had to get her into the main building. The clinic was twenty feet away, raised on stilts in case of marshland flooding. The small statured buzz supported the ixi as much as he could. Arlaxia wasn't strong, nor was he capable of lifting a creature quaduraple his weight. His mind went into overdrive, planning his procedure they half scramble, half crawled their way up the stairs. There was something unnerving about the ixi's warning, and he didn't want to be caught outside unprepared. The jungle is not without its vicious predators and mysterious forces.

Crashing into the front door with their combined body weight, he guided her to the operating space. A calm feeling that accompanied practice washed over him as he tossed clean linens on the floor. The doe was rested on the fabric for a moment as he dashed back to the foyer to slam and lock the door. Even through the secure walls of the clinic, Arlaxia could sense a foreboding presence prowling the property.

Rushing back into the sterile lab, he moved to stop the ixi's bleeding, applying regulated pressure. The glaring light clicked on as he peered at the mess of fur and mud. The clean white sheets soaked through as Arlaxia flittered to the cupboard to retrieve more supplies. He cleaned the wound and patched it up, yet her breathing grew more rapid and haggard. Feeling for her weakening pulse, the buzz guided a needle into her leg, feeding glistening fluid into her veins. The shallower wounds were treated with a rancid smelling salve and bandaged tightly.

Wrapped in a blanket, the doe's condition stabilized as she passed into unconsciousness, her breathing became increasingly regular.

Arlaxia allowed himself to exhale as he wiped his forehead. Binning his gloves, he began to focus his energy on preparing a space for the recovering patient. Unable to physically move her from the floor to the cot, he cleaned up the operating space around her to its former sparkling state.

With no one around, he had to find another way, and that involves reading. Lots of reading. He had to return to his study. Warily, he left the clinic, making a beeline for his little hut. The air felt colder than normal, or maybe that was only because he was on edge. In his hut, he shuddered as he shut the door. He knew exactly what he was looking for, speedily collecting a couple old tomes and a stack of notes. His nails clicked on the jar of sparkling goo he swiped off the worktable, and he made his way back to the sick bay.

...

The recovery room was small, only containing two cots. There was never a need for all the beds anyway, the little clinic was tucked far away in the wilderness. It was dangerous here, but nothing ever happened. Patients rarely even stayed overnight.

With his resources, Arlaxia could now work on getting the ixi into a cot. Pushing the cot into the operating room, he could see she was still passed out. He checked her bandages and cleared away the medical equipment. Taking the top book in his stack, he flipped to a well worn bookmarked page. Skimming the page, Arlaxia could feel the memory of this spell surface from forgotten corners of his mind. Okay, he could do this. It's just a super simple transferal of matter. Scattering the handwritten notes on the counter, he reread his studies. Biting his lip, the inexperienced mage focused on the space between the doe and the cot. This is different from practicing on inanimate objects. She is a living, breathing thing, with a severe injury. Supporting the patient equally and cushioning any movement of the body is not an easy task. Arlaxia felt unsure, but he had done this before.

The cot was cranked down to the floor, but he would still have to raise the patient and place her onto the sheets. Gathering his energies, Arlaxia began the process. His hands trembled steadily as the ixi rose inch by inch. She was still as a glass lake, deep in her dreamless sleep. Deep breaths. The invisible force gingerly floated the body over the cot. Overexerted, his concentration lapsed.

She fell heavily onto the white sheets. Inhaling sharply, the mage scooted over to the cot and checked his patient. One of the wounds started bleeding again. He applied pressure to the spot and furrowed his brows. If only there were more ways to practice. What's the point of a healer's house in the middle of nowhere anyway? No one ever comes by. He should feel relieved that the residents of the area don't need him often. There's no cure for fatal blows from deadly hunters after all. Occasionally nothing at all remains.

The salve and bandages went on again, and the ixi was wheeled into the recovery room.

 "She'll make it," he said to himself, "Isn't that enough?" 

Returning to the operating room to get his books and jar of goo, Arlaxia headed into the infirmary's kitchen. Pouring some of the goo into a pot, he set the heat to low. He felt so on edge, so stressed from the ordeal. As he looked absentmindedly out the window, he could have sworn he saw something disappear into the undergrowth.

 "Maybe I should hire some help. One buzz can't take care of everything on his own." He enjoyed his quiet time, but recently there's just too much of it. Running his fingers through his hair, he leaned wearily against the counter. "I'm just not very good at doctoring." Arlaxia stirred the goo counterclockwise, whispering a mantra. Sprinkling in a pinch of aromatic spices, he covered the pot and continued to let it simmer.


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