[Log] A Grand Ripe Age to Think of Bigger Things
Who: Jaria, Reighley
When: Day 6, Month 1, Turn 9
Where: Craftmaster's Office, Healer Hall
What: Reighley talks to Craftmaster Jaria about becoming a healer.
Craftmaster's Office - Healer Hall
This office must be the largest in the Hall, and the most richly furnished. The walls, instead of being stark stone, have been paneled with expensive wood. Sturdy shelves, their fronts carved with vines and floral clusters, line one wall -- their shelves filled with rare bound 'books'and scrolls. Another wall is mostly covered with a tapestry of rich colours, an herb garden to grace the office. Vines creep around the border in a complex knotting, amid leaves and flowers recognizable as associated with healing. At your feet, the vines are echoed in a thick carpet of blues and greens, flecked here and there with petal pink.
Dominating the room is the Craft Master's desk, large and beautifully carved. What little rests upon it is obviously in use -- a stack of hides, pen nibs and ink well neatly arranged at hand. A comfy chair rests behind the desk, with two placed infront for visitors.
Beyond the desk, a window looks out to the courtyard, offering illumination and brightening the office. Nearby, a comfortable couch and chair nestle about a table where snacks or breakfast might be taken during less formal meetings.
Contents:
Jaria
Obvious exits:
Private Quarters Hallway
Jaria
Soft almond-shaped brown eyes fill a large portion of the aging oval face. The skin once a creamy white, is still so, though marred by faint traces of lines along the forehead and underneath the warm klah coloured eyes. Laugh wrinkles have indented in after many turns of good living, and the once innocence in her eyes have matured into gentle kindness. Streaked with liberal locks of white, the remnants of her rich, dark black hair is held in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, tendrils extending and brought over her shoulders. Delicate looking and diminuative in height, she holds her stature as tall as she can and with much self-confidence and pride.
A soft woolen white sweater and neat tan pants, cover Jaria's body. The sweater is knitted in a lacy pattern and is worn over a soft blue tunic. While she looks warm, it doesn't appear to be heavy clothing, and quite comfortable. Along the edges of the sweater, as in the collars and sleeves, there is trimming of gold thread, just visible when the light of the sun or glows catch it. Over this, she wears a lightweight cloak of a snuffy brown shade, and soft to the touch. Her feet are slipped into a pair of tanned wherry-hide boots. A flash of silver is seen from her right wrist. On her shoulder, the intertwining strands of lavender and white are intricate enough to indicate her as Craftmaster.
Just past lunch, a few of the journeymen are overseeing the apprentices at chores while the masters teach their senior level classes. Some, like the morgue master grouse about the main halls, glaring this way and that at hapless teenagers who don't happen to be doing what they should, and others, like the Craftmaster, have taken to hiding in their office. The door to Jaria's office, however, remains open for friendly faces to pop in and chat, though many upon seeing the slight woman attempting her way through a massive sandwich, only greet and continue on. Seated at the couch rather than her desk, a thin hide rests near her elbow, held in place by a bottle of ink and stylus.
Led thus far, Reighley stops just to one side of that open doorway while her guide wishes her well and disappears again. For the occasion, the girl has donned a nice dress, hair neatly pulled back, rather than her usual daily attire. By that doorway she lingers now, biting her lip and finally raising one small fist to knock gently on the wall's surface to announce herself. For all that trepidation, however, she can't restrain herself from peeking inside, green eyes wide as she takes in the office and its occupants.
Occupant, for Jaria is alone, unless the size of her sandwich makes it a contender for the plural. It's decorated richly, though much of the work area is kept neat and sparse, and at the center of the casual table the healer sits at is a cake stand with the remnants of what looks to be a birthday cake. Her movements are dainty, as she dabs a napkin to the corners of her lips, and the squint of her eyes indicates an awareness of a presence at her door, but until she's completed her methodical chewing, the Masterhealer doesn't spare another look up. Sandwich down. Napkin pressed into one hand. And finally, the snow-touched hair lifts and a rather lengthy study is granted the coltish girl that darkens her doorway before enlightenment hits, a glance shifts to the hide at her elbow, and then rises once more to flash the young girl a brittle smile and offer warmer regards in a gentle voice. "One must have courage when facing someone so daunting." The rise to her feet shows not the massive figure who can down foot long sandwiches in two gulps, but a woman, who in her concession to time, is about Reighley's height. "Come on in."
"I didn't want to interrupt you, ma'am," Reighley defends herself as she steps forward and slips inside to meet the healer. "But I'm supposed to be meeting you. I'm Reighley?" she prompts. She stops a safe distance from the standing woman, fidgeting, shifting her weight, before making a conscious effort not to do so.
A study of contrasts, where Reighley fidgets, Jaria is still, though the growing smile on her lips that struggles to press close speaks of the Masterhealer's own battle waged. "And I'm told you're a remarkable young woman." There's nothing to set the designation apart, no emphasis and nothing other than the frank openness of the diminutive woman's dark eyes. And that smile that persists on playing on the corner of her lips. "If you'd like to continue to stand, feel free, but I've found that standing for too long makes me appreciate chairs too much, and then the Woodcraft would believe its marks should be worth more than ours and-, politics!" With a shake of her head, a teasing twinkle emergent in her gaze, the thin healer returns to her comfortable couch, patting the space next to her and then waving it flippantly around - should Reighley decide to be far more adventurous. "I could tell you my name, but you'll be asked to promptly forget it in a moment in any case. Ma'am-, ma'am will do just fine for now."
Reighley blinks at this talk of politics, her expression dubious for a moment. Then, she nods and settles carefully down where Jaria gestures. "Yes, ma'am," she repeats once more. "That's fine with me, too, because I already know it, anyway." She grins, then adds quickly, "What about politics, and the Woodcraft?"
"A joke." Brittle fingers click together in a rather loud double snap. "Keep up, dear." It's not quite an admonishment, for Jaria still retains that twinkle and gracious warmth, but beyond the twinkle lies appraisal, cool and distant. "But don't tell the woodcrafters you know that I've used them as the butt of my ill-advised humor." Which cracks another smile from the woman for the unintended, very backwards pun. "Would you like some cake while we chat?"
"I don't think I know any woodcrafters," Reighley admits. "But I won't tell them if I do meet some. But--oh!" Her eyes find that leftover cake, and she studies it curiously a moment before glancing back to Jaria. She nods. "Yes, please. It looks really good, ma'am. What was it for, a birthday?" she guesses.
"Good girl. It really wouldn't do for craft-craft relations." Her sandwich continues to lie forgotten, looking practically sullen with the tomato jutting out from between the bread, and the meat attempting to escape down the far end as meat tends to do in sandwiches. Instead, Jaria gets to her feet with a nonchalant pat for the door to shut, and then goes to the cabinet by her desk and removes two forks. It's really a lovely affair, the quarter remnant of the cake: white vanilla with speckles of red, perhaps fruit, and a creamy looking frosting. "Some of my apprentices." The thin mouth quirks into a thoughtful purse. "Not enough homework if they've the time to bake this. But it was my turnday a few days prior. Turn day, exactly. There's nothing worse than being born on a holiday. Here you go." A fork is held solemnly out to Reighley.
"Thank you," Reighley says politely as she accepts the fork, smiling up at Jaria. "And happy birthday--well, belated, but I didn't know. Why is being born on a holiday bad? Because it's already a celebration? My birthday's not for another four or five months. I'll be thirteen." That admission definitely has a hint of curiousity to it, as she regards the healer, but the girl stops just short of asking that question on her lips.
The slight healer uncovers the cake and then deliberately sets her sandwich aside. "They always wonder how I stay so thin. I tell them good, hearty living, because you do want to instill good habits in others." But there's a gleam of impish delight in Jaria's dark eyes, a light that speaks turns of bad habits. "I wouldn't want them to know it's all the cake I eat that keeps me so spry." Cake uncovered, her fork teases along the cream cheese icing, before a tiny forkful is stabbed and brought to her mouth. "Mmm, try some. For all that I may have to fail one, they really do bake well together. Pity." A bit of cream cheese hangs idle from her mouth corner. "Ah-, sly, clever girl. I am ageless. Timeless as you will soon discover. Thirteen, however, is a grand ripe age to think of bigger things. Such as healing?" She aims to get another bite of cake, but drops the question with more of her nonchalance. It's the cake she's interested in, really, moreso than Reighley.
Rising, Reighley steps over to the cake to study it more intently, glancing sideways at Jaria next. Finally, she slides her own fork into the cake and takes a bite, eyes widening slightly. "They should have been bakers," she decides, "because it's really good. I have a friend, he's a baker. Well, he /was/ a baker--now, he's the weyrlingmaster, back at Fort. I thought about that, but, well. I'm not so good in the kitchens. I--" And here she pauses, glancing up at Jaria again. Noting that frosting around her mouth, Reighley rubs surreptitiously at her own before answers. "Well... yes. Yes, ma'am, I mean. I thought so, anyway?"
Jaria plays dumb remarkably well, and is either ignoring Reighley or doesn't recognize her subtle hand motions. Lucky for her, another bite of the cake neatly scoots the frosting back where it should be: her mouth. "Bakers have remarkable talent. I'm afraid these are my students, herb apprentices, and so they need to have the same knack for measurements and perhaps some for experimentation. But there are other fields, some have better bedside manner than others after all." General chatter to senseless work chatter segues neatly with little transition, and little regard for whether Reighley truly understands or not. "I've lost ever so many of my apprentices to the Weyrs. Alas-, I Stood once, twice actually. Once even at Fort." Reminiscence glazes the snowy woman's eyes, but is quickly pushed aside with another absent bite of cake. "Are you not sure, dear?"
Reighley looks relieved as, if not by her motions, Jaria still gets that frosting back where it belongs. Helping herself to more cake, she does her best to not make a mess of it herself, chewing slowly and carefully and with her mouth fully closed. Mustn't make a bad impression, after all. She nods slowly at the older woman's words, biting her lip at the latter question. "I stood once, too. I mean, last time Fort had a hatching. My brother did, too, but we... we didn't impress. Lots of my friends did, though, so I don't see them very much any more," she admits. Then: "Well... no. I /am/ sure, really I am," the girl hastily adds.
The fork's tines twirl idly, catching light wherever frosting's been wiped clear - which actually there's a lot of silvery shine visible. "Neither did I." As if it weren't obvious. "But I've come to find things happen for a reason. And-," Jaria cuts a surreptitious look down at Reighley before cake again claims her vision, "-It's all right not to be sure." That she watches the girl out of her peripheral vision, or that she smiles faintly at the effort the young girl puts forth in her eating, is masked quickly by a studious look to the red-dotted cake. "I wanted to be a healer, because I was a sickly child. The story of many, unfortunately, here."
Reighley frowns slightly at Jaria, nodding once. "Okay," is all she says in answer to the former reassurances, eyeing the cake again herself. She continues picking slowly at it while she talks. "I... When I stood, the hatching--it was... violent," she admits, grimacing. "Lots of people got hurt. Well, not /lots/ but, like, three of them, and they were all my friends, too. One of them, V'delin, he was standing right next to me and my brother when his bronze just came up and clawed him up on the shoulder."
Jaria listens, and though her fork's stopped moving to take more, the pretense remains as she places the empty prongs along her lower lip. "Such that it is, not all hatchings are like that, though the occasional injury manages to happen. I was unfortunately visiting one of the low-lying cotholds, but the reports I received." Distaste shadows the aging woman's expression, her klah dark eyes turning expressive in their displeasure and the fork makes a half-hearted feint at the icing and brings it back to her mouth. "You're a very old twelve."
"That's what everybody keeps telling me," Reighley admits with a shrug. "But it's the only one I've ever seen, so I can't really compare, you know? Ma'am. Everybody said it was the Weyrleader's fault--well, his dragon's, anyway, because they're from Ista. But I don't know. It was just--bad." She shrugs again, poking idly at the cake; like Jaria, she doesn't seem to be eating much anymore. The latter question earns a startled look from the girl. "Twelve and two-thirds," she corrects automatically. Then, hopefully: "Really, do you think so?"
"Perhaps. In time." And in time, Reighley will also turn thirteen. Jaria's quick smile smooths, turning velvet and rich in the lined face. "Really, do you think I think so?" The question is returned with ease and punctuated by another of her dryer looks. "We do not take apprentices so young, typically, but the letter Magidya sent is in your favor, and your location makes it far easier." Easier for what is explained after her quiet breath. The fork drops, clattering lightly, and the sandwich is brought back to take center stage before her. "I would have you as a probationary apprentice. Taking your lessons from the Master and journeymen at the Weyr and retaining your home there. I've taken the time," the hide is then slid forward, a list of various classes, their dates and times and their instructors all listed neatly. "To compile a list of the classes you should be in attendance for at the Hall, at least once a month, and we will see when you turn thirteen what is in store for you here." Kind eyes lift, watching Reighley a long moment, allowing the idea to digest. "If it is agreeable with you."
"Probationary," Reighley repeats the word dubiously. "On probation. That's not /bad/, is it?" Pause. 'Because that's--I'd like that, very much, really, ma'am. I like the Weyr--I like it a lot, actually, and I'd, well, miss everybody there if I left now, so... I really would like that. What sort of things would I be taking?" Curiously, she peeks at that neat list then.
"Oh-," Jaria waves her hand off-handedly again. It's a gesture that she's fond of, one she uses frequently. "I'd like to break in one of my newest journeywoman on a class that might not bite her as often as it might be amusing to see. So what she might teach you. She's selected trauma and surgery as her speciality, so it should prove to be interesting. Much of your early coursework has very little focus, though," she grants with an incline of her head, "You will probably get more hands on experience at the Weyr than many of your peers here at the hall." A beat later, after a quick nudge to realign the tomato from sulking too visibly back into her sandwich, the healer smiles beautifically. "Probationary is only bad when it's not good, and in this case, it's just a trial period. A trial to see if this is something you may wish to do, which allows me to keep a cot free in the dormitories and for you to slowly immerse yourself in something new without the jolt of leaving family too quickly."
Reighley nods slowly, staring now at Jaria. "Oh, I see. I get it," she agrees, offering a small smile to the woman. "I like that idea. I'll be really good, too, don't worry. I'll help out and I'll be on time for classes and it'll be /good/ probationary," she adds helpfully.
"Good probationary." Jaria repeats, without Reighley's emphasis. "And when you turn thirteen, we'll make it all official and consider the possibility of moving to the Hall." The idea is laid out, carelessly spoken, as if by accident.
To that idea, Reighley hesitates, then nods, just once this time. "The possibility of it," she agrees. "That's... that's a few months more, though. Plenty of time to... you know. Yeah. I mean. Yes, ma'am."
"Jaria." In place of ma'am, the healer is quick to assert her own name. "Jaria. So you know who at least is your Craftmaster now." The evidence of apprenticeship is dangled from the woman's fingers, withdrawn from some unknown pocket along the Masterhealer's pants in simple white and lavender loops. Warmly, with her free hand reaching out to caress down whatever hair might not be neatly tucked back, she leans forward across the table, nearly missing her sandwich in the process. "You're an agreeable woman, aren't you? I imagine we will get along fabulously, but perhaps you'd like to stay for dinner, if you're so inclined and get to know some apprentices before the watchriders change shifts?"
Reighley's smile broadens again as she studies that knot. "Jaria," she repeats again, fixing the woman with a bright grin. "I think so. I try to be, anyway, because nobody likes mean people. Dinner sounds really good. Are there lots of apprentices here? There are lots of people at Fort, it's really kind of overwhelming at first, because my hold was so small, but now I'm used to it and I like it." With her fate settled, she relaxes, stealing one last, less ladylike bite of cake--surely just one more won't ruin her dinner.
So good at feigning ignorance, Jaria turns a blind eye to the last filching of cake and gets to her feet. "There are many apprentices, around your age, just a wee bit more, and a rowdier lot was never seen. But perhaps you'll like Lyliasha. I'll have her check in on you time to time at the Weyr. Meeting people," the slight woman's face draws in slightly, surely an anamoly of light, "Will do her good after Bitra. Come, let me show you the grounds, let you meet some of the healers, and then you may enjoy the grounds a bit, if you'd like." But the woman, spry like her words foretold, is already a flutter of motion towards the door.
Reighley's nod is eager this time as she lays aside her fork to follow the woman. "Lyliasha, right. I'll remember that," she agrees. "And I think I'd like that, please. Thank you."