Less than perfect mindhealer. Sans-clever-moniker starsmith.
RL Date: 3/24/09
IC Date: 4/13/19 --The day the... something... died.
Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr(#350RJs)
Stalactites hang high above this enormous cavern like a jagged chandelier or an inversion of the Spires themselves, but shadows cling to them instead of light. Below lie great tables arranged in rows, each large enough to serve a fighting wing, while in the nooks and alcoves around the cavern's edge sit more sensibly-sized tables, from six- and eight-seaters down to intimate spots for just a couple of diners. The only really open space is around the kitchen entrance, smelling of food and rarely quiet, and by the nearby serving tables with their long buffet of the day's offerings.
Tapestries on the smooth walls -- some faded and others newly woven -- only slightly mute the sea of sound when a meal is in full swing, but they add cheerfulness augmented by the glowlight from wall sconces and the centerpieces of each table. Still, shadows always creep along the ceiling and into the mouths of the exits -- the myriad small hallways at one end of the cavern and, at the other, the twisting tunnel to the bowl near an array of coathooks and and hatracks -- and late at night, when the glows are allowed to dim, the chamber can seem very dark indeed.
A cool spring evening at the 'Reaches, and light murmurs of conversation permeate the living cavern after dinner, among the knots of people lingering over mugs of klah and glasses of wine. News of the Weyrwoman-- former Weyrwoman and new, both-- are on the lips of many, and the tone of conversation leans towards solemn. Carobet is here, but for the moment, alone at her table. Lips pursed, staring very intently into her drink, a discarded empty plate beside her.
All day long, Alex has had the strangest feeling. He keeps shuffling upon people in hushed conversations, overhearing snippets that sound quite serious, watching people wipe their eyes or hurry to find some industry for hands that want to fall idle and weighted. For most people, these would be easily interpreted signs of some monumental misfortune; for him... well... it's made him more nervous than normal, so that by the time dinner comes around, he pops his head into the cavern with cartoonish worry about what he might find, skitters to collect a plate of food, holds it very close to himself, and hurriedly claims a seat across from someone he assumes to be a kindred spirit: she's a crafter, albeit a healer, and that at least means she's not one of /them/. In a whisper, very carefully, he leans across the table and asks, "It's the Weyrwoman that died, yes?"
Carobet looks up from her mug at the sound of a voice directed at her. She's not so far in her grief that she doesn't take a moment to appraise this new young man; the fact she's unimpressed comes across in the dryness to her voice. "Yes. Satiet. Gone *between*, for good." Emotionless as possible, but if Alex is astute, he'd notice half-dried tears across her cheeks. "Where have /you/ been today? Hiding deep in some cavern?"
"And Satiet was--" Ah, yes. Alex nods while he arranges his food on his plate, settles meatrolls here, veggies there, that sort of arranging. He looks up at her question, at the way he interprets her tone, and explains with a note of apology, "I woke up and came to get breakfast. People were... well, people were like that." Animated fingers gesture across the table to the streaks down Carobet's cheeks, astute enough to notice them, obtuse enough to point them out. "So I went back to my room and worked. Having never met the woman myself."
Carobet knits her brows for a moment, dismayed by this callous attitude. She glances over him again, finally notes his starcraft knot. Ah. "So lucky to have work that removes you from interaction with others," she comments, tone still dry. But she rubs at one cheek self-conciously, rubbing away any evidence that might still be there-- while trying to make the gesture as nonchalant as possible. "But I suppose, if you never met her." She says it as a full statement, a slight emphasis on 'never'. "The world moves on."
Aleczir nods again, his attention dropped back down to his food, coincidentally while Carobet needs a moment to wipe her tears. "Well, they don't exactly go out of their way to recruit apprentices with people-skills in my line of work," he confirms with a helpless shrug; charismatic and Starsmith are seldom uttered in the same breath, and he's okay with that. He takes a bite, then points to his mouth to indicate that he has something to say but he needs to chew. "Mn, you knew her though?"
Disdain fills Carobet's glance for the merest moment, as if to say: mouth full? That's no way to speak to a lady. Out loud, she replies, "Yes. I did. But only recently." She leaves it to Alex to find significance in the combination of 'recently,' and her knot, if he does so. And then she muses, "I suppose that's a rider's prerogative, to choose when to go. A luxury that comes with Impression."
"Is it?" Alex knows little enough of the details of Satiet's last moments that he has to puzzle through Carobet's comment, his eyebrows climbing, giving him a plausible reason not to press for the details of the healer's acquaintance with the dearly departed. "I don't really..." He looks around, eyes skating across a bluerider by himself, a cluster of Wingmates at a table on their own, a greenrider with his family. They all look very normal, but still; "I don't really know much about them. But that's not one of the-- selling points they talk about much, is it? Ready access to painless suicide?" Heh, he laughs very quietly and takes another bite, shaking his head.
"I don't think it's well publicized," Carobet replies, "Since there's not a whole lot of valor in it. And that's what dragonriding's all about, isn't it?" Cynicism drips from her words. "Maybe that's why there's that saying- how old dragonmen don't die. They just fade away. 'Scored too badly in a fall? Slip *between*. Lived out a good, long life? Slip *between*. Why need healers?" A scowl contorts her pretty face; some dinner conversation /she/ is.
Indeed! And Alex does not seem like the fountain of wit it would take to turn this chat around. But something of her tone penetrates and, with his head tilting, with his eyebrows knitted, he asks in quick rhythm, "I'm sorry, are you okay?" He's not concerned as much as he is confused, like he's missing something?
Carobet smiles at Alex, rueful and apologetic. "I'm sorry. You picked quite the day to sit down near me at dinnertime." There's a long silence-- perhaps a moment more and it would have been awkward-- before she says, "I'm a mindhealer. Disappearing *between* is the sort of thing I'm supposed to be able to prevent." She shrugs, but he expression on her face doesn't match the gesture. "Do you ever have days when your knot feels extra-heavy?"
Ah. And he has nothing he can say toward the subject of Carobet's, ahem, professional failures, though Alex smiles a touch of sympathy. Her question, though; that's something he can deal with. "No. And, technically, neither do you. Not unless there's something wrong with gravity--" He drops the end of his meatroll onto his plate from a height of six or seven inches, and it lands exactly the way physics says it should, earns a flourish for proving his point. "--which seems unlikely. But gravity is predictable and... people aren't?"
This, incredibly, draws a small laugh from Carobet, as she watches the meatroll fall. "Are you folk always so literal?" She asks. She proceeds to spell it out for him-- "I meant metaphorically. Metaphorical weight. It costs more of you, emotionally. But your craft seems to require less emotional involvement." She exhales a long breath, running fingers through her hair as she does. "Today..." Long beat. "Today was long," she finally decides to end her assessment.
Aleczir, nodding, answers for the literalness of himself and Starsmiths everywhere-- or at least all the ones that would have associated with him at the crafthall (which probably isn't all that many). "Do you, uhmn." His fingers twitch in an itchy, nervous way, his smile casts down at his plate for a second like he's trying to stop himself from... "Do you want me to tell you why that's also physically impossible?" And he stands up very fast afterward, taking the edges of his plate in his fingers. "I have to go."
"No," Carobet answers plainly. "But thank you for listening to me this evening, Starsmith. I'm Carobet. Less than perfect mindhealer." Finally, an introduction. She reaches out one hand to go along with it.
Problem: Alex is holding his plate in such a way that-- solution; he sets it down. "Hello, Carobet. I'm Alex. Sans-clever-moniker starsmith." He only shakes her head twice before releasing it and pick up his plate exactly the same way he did the first time. "I hope someone comes along and sits here and says something that makes you feel better, Carobet." Knowing full well that is not his role in life, he goes away-- at least having solved the mystery of why everyone's acting more suspicious than normal.
IC Date: 4/13/19 --The day the... something... died.
Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr(#350RJs)
Stalactites hang high above this enormous cavern like a jagged chandelier or an inversion of the Spires themselves, but shadows cling to them instead of light. Below lie great tables arranged in rows, each large enough to serve a fighting wing, while in the nooks and alcoves around the cavern's edge sit more sensibly-sized tables, from six- and eight-seaters down to intimate spots for just a couple of diners. The only really open space is around the kitchen entrance, smelling of food and rarely quiet, and by the nearby serving tables with their long buffet of the day's offerings.
Tapestries on the smooth walls -- some faded and others newly woven -- only slightly mute the sea of sound when a meal is in full swing, but they add cheerfulness augmented by the glowlight from wall sconces and the centerpieces of each table. Still, shadows always creep along the ceiling and into the mouths of the exits -- the myriad small hallways at one end of the cavern and, at the other, the twisting tunnel to the bowl near an array of coathooks and and hatracks -- and late at night, when the glows are allowed to dim, the chamber can seem very dark indeed.
A cool spring evening at the 'Reaches, and light murmurs of conversation permeate the living cavern after dinner, among the knots of people lingering over mugs of klah and glasses of wine. News of the Weyrwoman-- former Weyrwoman and new, both-- are on the lips of many, and the tone of conversation leans towards solemn. Carobet is here, but for the moment, alone at her table. Lips pursed, staring very intently into her drink, a discarded empty plate beside her.
All day long, Alex has had the strangest feeling. He keeps shuffling upon people in hushed conversations, overhearing snippets that sound quite serious, watching people wipe their eyes or hurry to find some industry for hands that want to fall idle and weighted. For most people, these would be easily interpreted signs of some monumental misfortune; for him... well... it's made him more nervous than normal, so that by the time dinner comes around, he pops his head into the cavern with cartoonish worry about what he might find, skitters to collect a plate of food, holds it very close to himself, and hurriedly claims a seat across from someone he assumes to be a kindred spirit: she's a crafter, albeit a healer, and that at least means she's not one of /them/. In a whisper, very carefully, he leans across the table and asks, "It's the Weyrwoman that died, yes?"
Carobet looks up from her mug at the sound of a voice directed at her. She's not so far in her grief that she doesn't take a moment to appraise this new young man; the fact she's unimpressed comes across in the dryness to her voice. "Yes. Satiet. Gone *between*, for good." Emotionless as possible, but if Alex is astute, he'd notice half-dried tears across her cheeks. "Where have /you/ been today? Hiding deep in some cavern?"
"And Satiet was--" Ah, yes. Alex nods while he arranges his food on his plate, settles meatrolls here, veggies there, that sort of arranging. He looks up at her question, at the way he interprets her tone, and explains with a note of apology, "I woke up and came to get breakfast. People were... well, people were like that." Animated fingers gesture across the table to the streaks down Carobet's cheeks, astute enough to notice them, obtuse enough to point them out. "So I went back to my room and worked. Having never met the woman myself."
Carobet knits her brows for a moment, dismayed by this callous attitude. She glances over him again, finally notes his starcraft knot. Ah. "So lucky to have work that removes you from interaction with others," she comments, tone still dry. But she rubs at one cheek self-conciously, rubbing away any evidence that might still be there-- while trying to make the gesture as nonchalant as possible. "But I suppose, if you never met her." She says it as a full statement, a slight emphasis on 'never'. "The world moves on."
Aleczir nods again, his attention dropped back down to his food, coincidentally while Carobet needs a moment to wipe her tears. "Well, they don't exactly go out of their way to recruit apprentices with people-skills in my line of work," he confirms with a helpless shrug; charismatic and Starsmith are seldom uttered in the same breath, and he's okay with that. He takes a bite, then points to his mouth to indicate that he has something to say but he needs to chew. "Mn, you knew her though?"
Disdain fills Carobet's glance for the merest moment, as if to say: mouth full? That's no way to speak to a lady. Out loud, she replies, "Yes. I did. But only recently." She leaves it to Alex to find significance in the combination of 'recently,' and her knot, if he does so. And then she muses, "I suppose that's a rider's prerogative, to choose when to go. A luxury that comes with Impression."
"Is it?" Alex knows little enough of the details of Satiet's last moments that he has to puzzle through Carobet's comment, his eyebrows climbing, giving him a plausible reason not to press for the details of the healer's acquaintance with the dearly departed. "I don't really..." He looks around, eyes skating across a bluerider by himself, a cluster of Wingmates at a table on their own, a greenrider with his family. They all look very normal, but still; "I don't really know much about them. But that's not one of the-- selling points they talk about much, is it? Ready access to painless suicide?" Heh, he laughs very quietly and takes another bite, shaking his head.
"I don't think it's well publicized," Carobet replies, "Since there's not a whole lot of valor in it. And that's what dragonriding's all about, isn't it?" Cynicism drips from her words. "Maybe that's why there's that saying- how old dragonmen don't die. They just fade away. 'Scored too badly in a fall? Slip *between*. Lived out a good, long life? Slip *between*. Why need healers?" A scowl contorts her pretty face; some dinner conversation /she/ is.
Indeed! And Alex does not seem like the fountain of wit it would take to turn this chat around. But something of her tone penetrates and, with his head tilting, with his eyebrows knitted, he asks in quick rhythm, "I'm sorry, are you okay?" He's not concerned as much as he is confused, like he's missing something?
Carobet smiles at Alex, rueful and apologetic. "I'm sorry. You picked quite the day to sit down near me at dinnertime." There's a long silence-- perhaps a moment more and it would have been awkward-- before she says, "I'm a mindhealer. Disappearing *between* is the sort of thing I'm supposed to be able to prevent." She shrugs, but he expression on her face doesn't match the gesture. "Do you ever have days when your knot feels extra-heavy?"
Ah. And he has nothing he can say toward the subject of Carobet's, ahem, professional failures, though Alex smiles a touch of sympathy. Her question, though; that's something he can deal with. "No. And, technically, neither do you. Not unless there's something wrong with gravity--" He drops the end of his meatroll onto his plate from a height of six or seven inches, and it lands exactly the way physics says it should, earns a flourish for proving his point. "--which seems unlikely. But gravity is predictable and... people aren't?"
This, incredibly, draws a small laugh from Carobet, as she watches the meatroll fall. "Are you folk always so literal?" She asks. She proceeds to spell it out for him-- "I meant metaphorically. Metaphorical weight. It costs more of you, emotionally. But your craft seems to require less emotional involvement." She exhales a long breath, running fingers through her hair as she does. "Today..." Long beat. "Today was long," she finally decides to end her assessment.
Aleczir, nodding, answers for the literalness of himself and Starsmiths everywhere-- or at least all the ones that would have associated with him at the crafthall (which probably isn't all that many). "Do you, uhmn." His fingers twitch in an itchy, nervous way, his smile casts down at his plate for a second like he's trying to stop himself from... "Do you want me to tell you why that's also physically impossible?" And he stands up very fast afterward, taking the edges of his plate in his fingers. "I have to go."
"No," Carobet answers plainly. "But thank you for listening to me this evening, Starsmith. I'm Carobet. Less than perfect mindhealer." Finally, an introduction. She reaches out one hand to go along with it.
Problem: Alex is holding his plate in such a way that-- solution; he sets it down. "Hello, Carobet. I'm Alex. Sans-clever-moniker starsmith." He only shakes her head twice before releasing it and pick up his plate exactly the same way he did the first time. "I hope someone comes along and sits here and says something that makes you feel better, Carobet." Knowing full well that is not his role in life, he goes away-- at least having solved the mystery of why everyone's acting more suspicious than normal.