Date: Afternoon, Mid Nimrus ------- Location: A Dumpy Old Clinic on Warehouse Street
On a glimpse into the clinic this day, some changes might be seen. The back wall has been scraped entirely of all grime and paint, with the wood visible. The shelves have been emptied of jars and settled neatly organized on the counter. The cots within the clinic seem to have been shifted from their usual positions. A sheaf of parchment is settled onto the counter, alongside tools that look sharp enough to scrape the walls, with another of the walls showing signs of scraping and associated debris.
(Ighlaf): Ighlaf is standing near the counter looking over one of the parchments, looking to be in the middle of a break from scraping if the flexing and stretching of their fingers is anything to go by. They have the folds of their turban wrapped around their head, with loops covering their mouth and nose. The door of the clinic is open for fresh air to flow in.
(Ziyad): Ziyad has taken the opportunity to pick up a broom and start sweeping more debris out the door while at least one person is taking a break from adding to the whole. He also has cloth wrapped around the lower half of his face to protect from particles of grime, paint and moldy herbs, except he's using a long strip of bandage and keeping his turban nearly coiled around his head as normal. He still pauses partway through the sweeping to blink several times and cough into a hand, so some of the finer particles might be making their way through. "I think there'll be some mopping needed after all of this too," he calls out to Ighlaf once the coughing fit is over.
(Firouzeh): “Tut tut tut,” clicks Firouzeh’s tongue in disapproval as she examines a patient who has managed to sustain just enough of a wound to earn care at her makeshift workstation, tucked up by the door. “You should not get into fish slap fights with your brother,” she chides the young, thin fisher, her Irzali accent twisting the Ilexi in an awkward yet comprehensible way. The fisher shifts uncomfortably and mutters, “I know, I know…” as he avoids her gaze. Firouzeh continues on, back turned to the chaos and cleaning, dabbing the rough cut with a clean bandage.
(GM): OOC: Firouzeh just rolled finesse and first aid, coming up with 103.
(GM): OOC: Yasin just rolled finesse by itself, coming up with 33.
(Yasin): Yasin stands at one side of the clinic, dragging his iron scraper firmly along the wall. A shelf has been shifted aside to give him better access. The young man seems to have found a steady rhythm in the work, pushing the scraper at an angle to dig beneath a layer of old grime. The tool grinds against the wood with a harsh sound until the layer begins to peel away, at which point his motions lighten into softer strokes. There’s a cadence to it -- the alternating heavy scrapes and lighter shfffft sounds—pausing now and then, almost like a rough sort of song. It isn't perfect, of course, and he occasionally digs his scraper too far into the wood, frowning as his steady rhythm is interrupted.
He stops after a particularly satisfying (or disgusting, depending on one’s perspective) chunk of grime falls to the floor, adding to the growing pile beneath him. Wiping a bare arm across his brow, Yasin adjusts the cloth wrapped around his nose and mouth. His voice is muffled as he mumbles to Ziyad, "Think that’s why Ighlaf plans to do the floors after the walls. At least, if Tholbert decides to lend a hand."
(Ziyad): "Ah, of course," Ziyad utters, smiling in thanks to Yasin for the reminder. He opens his mouth to make another comment when he catches what Firo's saying to the young patient. This leaves him blinking towards the makeshift workstation with started eyes. After a moment, he simply shakes his head in amusement and resumes sweeping, careful not to swirl up the debris when discarding it through the door that there's a risk of airborne grim contaminating any open wound that might be present on the patient. "Should I help with the scraping? Your fingers must be cramping terribly," he calls back to Ighlaf and Yasin.
(Ighlaf): Ighlaf has their own moment of distraction blinking towards the workstation with a questioning glance, then nods to Yasin answering with a muffled voice. "Elsewise, see about borrowing a mop for at least the dust we create." They wave Ziyad towards the scraper, "I will gladly accept a break. Well, a continued one." with their lips twitching.
They gesture to the wall after, "We find if going along with the grain of the wood the tool goes a little smoother."
(Yasin): Yasin ticks a look over towards Ziyad, Ighlaf and (somewhat belatedly) the patient being examined by Firouzeh. Though his smile cannot be seen on his lips due to his covering, there's a pulling of his cheeks that might still be discerned. "Ighlaf's technique has been helpful!" He calls over, as though reinforcing the 'along with the grain' idea.
He pauses after he says this, looking at his remaining section. One of the emptied shelves appears to be in the way of his next destination. He grunts, sets his scraper down, and walks over to it. He hefts the shelf up with his hands with a little grunt, then starts searching for a place to put it. "Uh--" He murmurs, his voice muffled behind the shelf. "Can someone... point me somewhere? I can't see past this thing."
(Ziyad): Ziyad seems more than happy to exchange his broom for the scraper that Ighlaf gestures to. Perhaps this eagerness will fade once his new task starts in earnest. "I will work with the grain then," he agrees after hearing Yasin's endorsement of the technique. But for the moment, he hurries over to help the burly smith with the shelving, carefully leading Yasin towards a spot where everything can be set down without blocking off anything vital.
(Firouzeh): "All fixed up. Try to keep the area clean," Firouzeh says, pressing the bandage into place. She cups the fisher’s palm before she sends him off, slipping something into his grasp. His fingers twitch in brief confusion before she gives a knowing wink. "Treat with honey when you can."
With her last patient (for now) tended to, she straightens to only a slight hunch, rolling one shoulder as she finally takes in the rest of the clinic. Her gaze sweeps over the scraped wall and neatly cleared shelves. She lets out a low hum, tilting her head as she studies the exposed wood. "I fear the walls might collapse without all that grime holding them together," she muses. "Suppose then we'll really need to track down Tholbert."
(Ighlaf): Ighlaf reaches to prod a portion of the wood, "Still holding, thankfully. I admit I didn't think about asking him in regard to the walls, just the floor for the state of it." sounding sheepish then glancing down towards the floorboards a moment. "That our scrapers won't do much to."
(Ziyad): Ziyad flexes his fingers around the scraper that he retrieves to get a feel for it in his hands. Then, he tests dragging it a few times along a portion of wall that needs to be worked on, growing more confident after a half dozen strokes. Soon, the sound of grime scattering on the floor and that of metal gliding over wood restarts as he works up a good rhythm. "This is harder work that it appears..." he murmurs under his breath.
(Yasin): Yasin nods his head agreeably after Ziyad directs him towards a safe and appropriate location to deposit the shelf (not interfering with any patients, of the fish-slapping variety or otherwise). He sets it down with a grunt and heads back to his corner of the clinic.
"I don't really know anything about sanding away floors, or decks," he calls over to Ighlaf and Firouzeh with a grin. "Think we could just scrape it? Probably would be a difficult angle..." He begins to get started on his own section of the wall once more, now that the shelf is no longer intruding. "...needs something heavier, maybe."
To Ziyad, he calls, "Just... distract yourself while you work, Ziyad!"
(Firouzeh): "Perhaps a song while you scrape," Firouzeh suggests in the wake of Yasin's words.
To set the mood, the old lady bursts into an uplifting tu—no, absolutely not. Firo doesn’t sing. But the suggestion stands for Ziyad if he feels inspired.
Unmusically, she grabs a spare cloth and starts wiping down the newly moved shelves. Years of grime, spills, and bottom-of-jar-shaped rings from medicines past cling to the surface. Icky. The cloth turns useless almost instantly, smearing the filth rather than removing it. Firo sighs, flips it to a slightly less offensive side, and tries again. Nope. "I need a bucket of water."
(Yasin): Yasin aims a wide grin towards Ziyad after that suggestion from Firouzeh, as though he finds it extremely agreeable. He calls over with his voice muffled by his sort-of-a-mask, "Ziyad, if you sing while you scrape, I promise to sing with you." Meanwhile, the young man continues his scrape-scrape-scraping at the wall, though he's absolutely allowing himself to be distracted waiting for an answer, his scraping somewhat reduced in effectiveness for this little moment.
He notes Firouzeh's trouble with the shelf-grime and adds on, "And maybe some lye soap?"
(Ighlaf): Ighlaf, milling about with their parchments draws from their thoughts to amusedly add, "I promise to not sing with you." Their gaze shifts to the shelves, and they begin to shift towards the doors, "I have both a bucket, and soap. If we get enough grime off they can be painted or stained." standing in the doorway their gaze flits over the clinic a moment.
(Ziyad): Ziyad glances over his shoulders and makes a face at Firo, quickly giving a sharp shake of his head. "You do not want to hear me sing. At best, I might be able to hum without harming your ears and I still can't carry a tune humming." The sound of his scraper running against the wall and the patter of grime particles falling onto the floor continues while he speaks. "Yasin seems to be the only one with any amount of confidence, so perhaps he should be the one to entertain the three of us instead. What says you, Yasin?"
(Yasin): "I will most certainly not be singing on my own," Yasin assures the group, and as though indicating how firmly his stance is on this matter, he goes back to scraping along the wall with more of a determined gusto. He mutters good-naturedly while a fresh layer of grime is scraped free, "I meant that I'd participate with you."
Yasin adds over his shoulder while he scrapes, "Besides, if you and I started it, maybe we could convince Ighlaf and Firouzeh to join it," grinning -- though that's only visible in a crinkling at his eyes -- towards Ighlaf and Firouzeh. To the former, he says, "Of course, it seems Ighlaf means to make for the streets. Convenient timing, Paints."
(Otty): The light from the doorway of the clinic abruptly dims as the towering form of the big blacksmith blocks most of the light coming from outside. He's left his usual blacksmith's apron behind today, presumably at the shed, and wears woolen clothing that's rather more worn than his usual - plainly an old set. He pauses there in the doorway, with a half-awkward sort of look to first Yasin, then Ighlaf, then Ziyad and Firouzeh, and he gives a grunted, "Afternoon," in Ruvic, in greeting. "Need help?"
(Yasin): Yasin is looking towards Ighlaf at the doorway when Otty strides in. His mouth and nose are both covered by a wrapping of cloth, leaving only his eyes visible. Those honey-brown eyes widen in surprise at first, a pause as he seems to process Otty's presence at the clinic. He then smiles broadly, though this is only visible in the way his cheeks rise.
"Otty," he calls out warmly. "We could definitely use some help!"
He gives a quick look as though to confirm towards the others, then asks, "I... don't suppose you know anything about floors?"
(GM): OOC: Ziyad just rolled voice by itself, coming up with 24.
(Ziyad): "Well, I will not be singing either," Ziyad shoots back at Yasin and shakes his head firmly. The scrape-scrape-scrape of his work continues for a while longer before he concedes in a softer voice, "But I suppose that I can do a bit of humming. I likely won't embarrass myself too severely if I keep myself strictly to that only..." He clears his throat and starts humming loudly as he promised, trying for an improvised tune that he hopes would be pleasant to the ear rather than any pre-established hymn or song that might be known by the group. It's all very workmanly, which is already likely a better result than he might hope for.
Alas, Ziyad's barebones attempt at being musical comes to an abrupt end the moment that Otty steps into the clinic. A faint blush of pink touches his cheeks and he quickly swallows his next notes, covering by clearing his throat loudly instead before calling out a greeting. "Good day to you, Master Smythe!"
(Otty): If Otty heard Ziyad's musical renditions, he gives little indication other than a brief, decidedly neutral look the young man's way, followed by a nod at the greeting. Then he glances back to Yasin.
"Floors?" he asks, those bushy brows knitting for a moment at Yasin's question. He seems to consider it for a few moments. "Can't be too different to a wagon floor," is his eventual answer, with a shrug. "You need one?" He peers down at the floor of the clinic as though trying to figure out what the issue might be here, brow furrowing all over again in some puzzlement. "Better off with Tholbert Salter if you do," he adds after a moment, in a humored sort of warning.
(Ighlaf): Ighlaf, approaching the doorway, steps to the side to avoid running into Otty (likely similar to running into the nearby wall as movement would go) greeting back, "Good day." At the mention of the floor they nod to Otty with a tiny, muffled sigh.
"I did inquire to speak with him. I figured the walls would take some amount of time either way, alongside if we get paint on the floor..." they trail off with a slight shrug.
(Yasin): "Well, in the absence of Goodman Salter," Yasin says, pausing in his scraping (and collection of grime) and moving towards Otty with a smile (still partially hidden by his facial covering), "I think we would gladly take more arms on the walls, Master Smythe. Or Goodwoman Firo is working through cleaning the shelves." He looks to that effort, where grime clings to that cleaning cloth as though that's its new place of residence.
He offers Otty his iron scraper, a tool that perhaps Otty may have seen him working on at some point in the recent months. A grooved, curved metal rod is affixed to a broad and flat blade, suitable for scraping off thin layers of a material, such as the grime that is now distinctly NOT present on several of the sections of walls.
He loosely points Otty in the direction where he was scraping, moments prior. "Trying to get all the... muck off, before Goodman Ighlaf paints the walls anew."
(Ziyad): "We'd also need a good spot to discard this grime," Ziyad points out, pausing his scraping and stepping closer to Otty once his initial embarrassment has abated. He adjusts his own facial coverings to fix some slippage. "Would you know of such a location, Master Smythe? I'd rather not simply toss all of this out into the water and earlier attempts to bury other waste products--" The young scholar glances over to the collection of medicinals that he had organized with Firo earlier. "--proved that digging a hole in winter is a difficult prospect. While I don't think what we're removing from the walls is nearly as harmful a substance, I'd still like to dispose of it carefully to avoid accidental ingestion or inhalation by random passbyers. Who knows what has added to the accumulation over the years..."
(Otty): Otty nods to Ighlaf, taking another moment to glance downward at the floor, then takes that scraper from Yasin, peering at it only briefly before giving a grunt of understanding and moving toward the indicated wall to start scraping. Back to Ighlaf, he says, "Use a piece of wood at the bottom, near the floor. Catch the drips. Or you can just sand the floor when you've finished, no?"
At Ziyad's question, though, he frowns as though puzzled. "What's wrong with the latrines?" he asks, bushy brows knit. "Where we put anything you can't find some use for." He shrugs, a bit blankly, expectant, seeming oddly a bit unsure of himself, like the very fact that someone has asked this question unsettles some basic foundational assumptions. What do you do with your rubbish? that look seems to ask, in the manner of one who's been very unexpectedly hit with a tidal wave of culture clash - though he doesn't say it aloud.
(Firouzeh): Firouzeh (who definitely gave Otty a polite greeting at the appropriate moment) has since busied herself with sweeping the remaining loose bits of gross off the shelves. Not into a neat pile, but haphazardly onto the floor.
"It’s mostly blood and fluids," she remarks, entirely unhelpful to the conversation at hand and offering no reassurance whatsoever to the crew still scraping it up.
(Ziyad): "I suppose the latrines would work," Ziyad responds reluctantly. He glances down at the mess on the floor and seems about to trail the toe of his footwear through some of the powder when he stops himself. "Still don't exactly like the idea of pouring this down a location where people will be stopping by repeatedly every day. Though, I guess there's probably already plenty of blood and fluids down those holes..." The young scholar makes a face, followed by a jerky shake of his head to dislodge the thought.
"Perhaps I'll dump all of this into a bonfire. That's what we sometimes did with items soiled beyond repair and failed herbal mixtures back at my father's apothecary, at least if the materials had no risk of releasing poisons. Anything dangerous..." He trails off, surprise growing on his features. "We usually sealed in earthen pots plugged with wax and paid someone to get rid of for us. I never did think to ask what's done with those afterwards."
(Otty): Otty just stops his scraping for a moment and stares at Ziyad like he's grown a second head. "People... don't go down inside the latrines much, lad," he explains, slowly and carefully, maybe afraid of the implications of having to explain this in the first place. "Not on purpose. Can just burn it, yes, or bury it in the woods." He shrugs gruffly, quite obviously not understanding what the fuss is about, and starts scraping away again, making rather quick work of the layers of whatever nameless combination of limewash and 'blood and fluids' as Firouzeh says coat the walls, glancing her way for a moment or two. Then finally, without actually looking to anyone in particular, he just blurts, "You lot haven't been climbing into the latrines to use them this whole time, have you?"
(Yasin): Yasin's gaze flicks between Otty and Ziyad as the discussion of waste disposal drags on, his brow furrowing... until the mention of the latrines, that is. His amusement becomes more apparent, brows lifting slightly along with a pull at his cheeks hinting at the smile hidden underneath his wrapped cloth.
Then Otty blurts out his question, and Yasin erupts into boisterous belly laughter, tipping his head back to squint at the (probably grimy) ceiling. He’s speechless for a few moments, caught up in his mirth.
Between breaths, he finally manages, "N-no," almost desperately, as if needing to set the record straight. Another intake of breath allows him, "We have not-" But the rest of the protest is lost to another round of laughter.
(Otty): Otty shoots Yasin a pretty relieved look, despite or maybe even because of the young man's laughter. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. His look says, 'Oh thank god' plainly enough.
He nods, glancing back to Ziyad again, and scrapes at the wall with all the more forceful movements, concentrating on his task.
(Ziyad): "Wait, why would..." Ziyad starts to ask, blinking at Otty with a completely baffled expression on his face. It isn't until Yasin starts laughing that he's broken away from his bewilderment. Reddish-gold eyes shift from Otty to Yasin to Otty again. "Well, I suppose that I -am- being a little too cautious, yes? Those latrines are deep enough that nothing should come puffing back up when people deposit more... substance into the holes."
He makes a face, the dirtied bandage protecting the lower half crinkling from the way that his mouth flexes underneath. "Still, the thought of accidentally breathing in someone else's dried blood and fluids is a little, no matter how small the possibility..." Rather than finishing that thought, he whirls around and resumes scraping at the walls. Work rather than think!
(Ighlaf): Ighlaf is both quiet and amused, poised to step through the doors. Eventually they move, calling over their shoulder, with a muffled, "I will return shortly with a bucket and soap, at least." stepping out of the clinic.
(Otty): Otty still doesn't seem to quite get it, despite Ziyad's explanations, no look of understanding coming to the rescue of that blank, level stare. He finally shrugs, clears his throat, and grumbles a vaguely-amused, "Had me worried there, lad..." before looking over to Ighlaf and giving a grunt and a nod of acknowledgement.
Those powerful arms of his, muscle built from years upon years of work at the forge and anvil, make relatively quick progress on stripping the wall. Piles of debris begin to gather at the base as he methodically works his way from right to left across the expanse, revealing the timber beneath, a water-stained silvery dark brown in this section at least.
"What color you going to paint it?" he wonders, of everyone and no one in particular as he keeps working away.
(GM): OOC: Otty just rolled strength by itself, coming up with 33.
(Yasin): In the midst of this whirlwind of changes, with Ighlaf leaving, Firouzeh working at the shelves, Otty and Ziyad scraping, Yasin suddenly finds himself... oddly, without a task. He stands there awkwardly for a few moments, but looks immediately relieved when Otty asks a question. He jumps at the opportunity to reply as a result.
With an audible note of excitement, he launches into a hastily-blurted, "Ighlaf has a mural planned. A depiction of waves, like the ocean, against that wall there I think." He points at the back wall. "I've seen a sketch of it, though I don't know if the final result will be different than the sketch." A smile colors his features while he speaks, hidden in part by his wrapping.
(Otty): Otty's scraper pauses in mid-air as he blinks aside to Yasin. "A... mural," he repeats, the purpose for it unclear, whether struggling to understand or taken by surprise at the answer or something else. "Mmh," he grunts finally, with a quick couple of nods, focusing on that rear wall now with knit brows as though trying to imagine it. There's no particular approval or disapproval evident from his tone or expression.
"Thought you'd just be putting new wash on the walls," he rumbles eventually, squinting at that wall intently. "Mmh. Waves. Nice to look at." Another pause. "Should have guessed Igluff would paint a picture." And then a very faintly rueful smile to Yasin behind that big beard of his, already peppered with bits of wall scrapings. He casts a glance to Firouzeh as well, and then Ziyad, nodding again.
(Firouzeh): "A comfortable place to rest is important for healing," Firouzeh notes, pausing mid-sweep of the gross goo to follow Otty's gaze toward the imagined mural. "Of course, that only matters if the physician finds some sense and manages to hold onto it."
She lifts her shoulders in a slow rise and fall, expression thoughtful. "It'll inspire the upkeep," she muses after a moment, nodding to herself before turning back to wrap up prepping the shelves.
(Otty): Otty listens to Firouzeh, but a definite frown finds its way over his features, brow furrowing at her words. He makes no reply, either failing to find words of his own or simply not speaking the ones he might be thinking, it's not clear which. He does, though, aim a quick look Yasin's way - checking with him? Or some kind of reproach? Again, without words to make his intention clear, it's pretty ambiguous. He turns back to the wall in front of him and starts scraping again with a renewed effort, peeling off great sheets and chunks and curls of ancient whitewash and grime onto the floor.
(Ighlaf): Stepping back into the clinic, Ighlaf is carrying a bucket of water and some soap, alongside some scraps of cloth. They observe Otty's expression in silent curiosity as they step into the clinic, then calls to Firouzeh, "Some soap and water for the cleaning."
Ighlaf sets the supplies they are carrying on the counter, giving an impressed look to the sections of walls scraped free. "A lot removed in the time in took me to get these."
(Yasin): Yasin gives a smile (seen in his eyes) to Otty's initial words about the mural, before looking thoughtfully to Firouzeh at hers. The young man is quiet, listening, his eager air of excitement fading somewhat as the conversation goes on. But he gives a nod of his head as Firouzeh declares that the mural will inspire upkeep in the clinic, before he catches that ambiguous expression from Otty.
Yasin raises an eyebrow, but aside from that minor expression of temporary confusion, he doesn't react to Otty's look.
The young man then brightens again as Ighlaf returns, and he dips his head. "Otty, Ziyad, and Firouzeh have been busy. I am being temporarily useless." So, he ticks a look to Firouzeh and asks, "Firo, can I... help you scrub those? Unless Ziyad is ready for taking a break from the scraping," with a quick glance in that direction.
(Firouzeh): Firo either doesn’t notice or willfully ignores the looks Otty throws around-- unapologetic, as ever. She gives Yasin a nod, lifting a small, thankful smile against the gravity tugging at her face. "Of course, dear. It could use a little extra elbow grease."
Her cane knocks against wood as she crosses to the counter. She takes stock of the supplies and then offers them out.
"Thank you for grabbing these, Ighlaf."
(Ighlaf): Ighlaf calls back to Yasin with amusement, "It is called taking a break, not being useless. " snorting in amusement as they look over the further progress of the walls. They dip their head to Firouzeh, "You are welcome. And I think Yasin is capable of the elbow grease for those." approaching one of the shelves while taking a scrap of cloth to start some elbow grease of their own on the grime.
(Yasin): "A useless break?" Yasin quips back to Ighlaf, sounding amused. He looks to Firouzeh and nods his head. "Ighlaf is right. I can help with the shelves." He walks over toward Firouzeh and Ighlaf, and takes one of the scraps of cloth from Ighlaf's collection. He dips it into the water and scrubs a small amount of soap onto it.
Yasin grabs one side of the shelf with his left hand, then begins to scrub-scrub-scrub with a focused, hard pressure on the shelf he's cleaning. Layers of grime begin to soften and dissolve, resulting in a blackened gooey mixture that causes him to grimace behind his facial covering. "This will take... a little time," he murmurs.
(Ziyad): "You're never useless, Yasin," Ziyad calls over his shoulder. He's panting very slightly with the effort of scraping such a large section of wall, the sharp breaths too soft to easily hear over the rasp of metal running over wood, but visible by the way the bandage covering his lower face moves. After removing yet another long curl of grime, the young scholar steps back to shake out his arms. He inspects the bare patch of wall he made with a critical gaze. "We should probably give the walls a strong scrubbing or brush it with a broom after we scrape them all."
(Ighlaf): Laughing, Ighlaf shakes their head at Yasin's words. "A break and time for thinking on...tackling the grime." Then begins to scrub at one of the shelves with a dismayed sound at the grime coming off. They call over to Ziyad, "Yes, it will need to be prepared for any further layers. Cleaned and smoothed so anything applied sticks well."
Ighlaf flits their eyes over the walls and progress made. "I think between us all we will manage to finish remove the layers soon enough."
(Yasin): Yasin simply gives a laugh to both Ziyad and Ighlaf as he continues to scrub hard against the shelves. The laugh may be muffled by his head covering, but the amusement is obvious in his eyes, anyway. He works at one edge of a shelf for a while, until that portion of the shelf is starting to look (relatively) squeaky clean. He seems about to continue with another portion of the shelf, but then makes a, "Eugh," sound and examines his cloth. It is completely soaked in the grime, and he sets it down (upon a less clean portion of the shelf).
"I need..." His eyes dart around the clinic, until he finds a spare empty bucket. "There." After first validating that the bucket was indeed empty and perhaps satisfying his quick curiosity that it had no other more important bucket-y purpose (as many buckets are wont to have), he brings it over to the shelf and begins wringing the grimy cloth out into it, the rag letting loose with a wet squelch followed by sluggish plops of foul, brownish muck that hit the bucket with a hollow splash. One might imagine a grimace underneath that head covering of his.
(Ighlaf): Ighlaf looks over to that bucket with a muffled sound of disgust, continuing their own cleaning and a slightly distracted gave traveling over the walls of the clinic. "Not much left to go, it looks like." Eyeing the section of wall scraping decimated by Otty's efforts, then the determined work of Ziyad.
(GM): OOC: The scene fades to black.