Private Consultation
IC Date: Day 12, Month 7, Turn 2, 7th Pass
Players: Neiran, Vanya
Location: Vanya's Room
Synopsis: It's been a long, hard day with another bad 'fall, and Vanya's just relaxing with a nice cup of tea when she gets an unexpected visitor, Journeyman Healer Neiran, who seems to be in need of tea and conversation.
Vanya's Room
There isn't much a person can do to disguise the fact this room is little more than a cave. The walls are stone, smoothed by hand or by some long-forgotten or long-gone machine used by those who first built the weyr. The door is solid wood, sturdy, the fixtures utilitarian. The basic furniture is all there -- bed, table, two chairs, wall shelves and a wooden storage chest. Simple. As is the occupant, since there is little in the way of fancy knickknacks or personal possessions. The bed has plain sheets, two down-filled pillows, and a warm, woven blanket in dark green. The chest holds clothes, and more blankets as a bastion against the cold, High Reaches winter. A glow basket hangs from the wall over the bed, another sits on the table, glows replenished whenever needed by those unseen people who perform this task.
On a shelf above the table are a bottle of ink, writing instruments, sand and some already prepared hides. Very rare and precious paper documents are carefully arranged on another shelf, held down by a polished stone collected from some place. Yet another shelf holds vials and bottles of lotions, astringents, and other containers of herbs and oils. The only luxurious thing here, if it can be called that, is a hand-made rug that lies beside the bed on top of a thick layer of reeds. Stone floors are notoriously cold on bare feet. A black cloak hangs on a peg by the door, as does a gittern, the instrument carefully wrapped in a protective bag. A basket, leather satchel and two pairs of boots sit on the floor beneath.
It's late, but once more Vanya is having trouble sleeping. She contemplates a long walk by the lake, but decides that a cup of tea is the order of the day. There's a small brazier in her room that serves as her hearth, heating water and keeping the cool room cozy and warm. She slips off her shoes, props her feet up on a chair, and tries to relax, tries to sort through things in her head. Chamomile, to relax her, with just a touch of berry for sweetness. The tea is steeping in the ball, the pot set on a mat next to her at the table where she is reading over still more notes regarding wing drills and the like. When there's a knock on the door, she doesn't hear it at first. A second time, and she sets the hide aside, rising. Without asking who it might be, she opens the door and then smiles. "Journeyman Neiran," she says, voice pleasant, if a bit tired. "What a pleasant surprise. Please, come in." Then her expression changes to one of concern. "T'zen hasn't take a turn for the worse, has he?"
It's little wonder Vanya missed the initial knock, so faint and even was the gentle rap; almost a simple brush of knuckles against the wood. Neiran's hand has already returned to his side by the time his colleague opens the door, however, trusting that it was heard. "Good evening," he greets. Remarkably, after such a difficult fall he does not seem much the worse for wear. There are times when little Thread falls in which he appears exhausted, and times like this when another man would be in bed but Neiran is out and about, looking as healthy as he ever does, in that melancholic humor of his. He hovers on the threshold, as if considering turning down the invitation to enter, but a heartbeat later he nods and slips inside. He is wearing a vest and blouse, his dark healer's raiment somewhere else, signaling that this is perhaps a less formal meeting than the black cassock would imply. Or, more likely, the garment is covered in blood after the day and is being washed rigorously by unfortunate laundry maids as the young man meets Vanya's eyes. "No. T'zen is as you last saw him. I had come in response to your gracious offer of conversation...if you are weary after today's business, I will remove myself and allow you to return to your leisure and ask forgiveness for my interruption."
Vanya closes the door behind Neiran, and quickly assures him, "No, please, I was just relaxing a bit, having some tea and trying to unwind a bit from the day." She gestures to the empty chair with a hand. "Please, won't you join me? It's no imposition, and I think I would enjoy the company." Her smile is tired, but, then, there are a lot of tired healers after the day's casualties. Moving back to the table, she checks the tea, finding it steeped and ready for pouring. "There's plenty for two, if you don't mind some rather old mugs. I haven't had time to acquire any nicer ones." A small laugh. "Not that I'm used to fine china or the like," she jokes, while reaching to one of the shelves. "It's chamomile and raspberry, one of my father's recipes after a long day." She indicates a journal on the table. "I inherited his journals after he died, and they've been invaluable in my work." She resumes her own seat, pouring two mugs full of tea. "I have some sweetener, but the raspberry makes it sweet enough for me." After pouring, she moves the cup carefully in front of the chair. "I'm glad to hear T'zen is doing well. I didn't have time to work with him today, unfortunately."
Neiran silently glides into the room's interior. Its features are taken in surreptitiously, with an unassuming look-over that is neither bold nor secretive. When the chair is proffered, Neiran moves and sits upon it after an easy descent. The posture he adopts is casual, but it is just that - an adopted posture. One can almost see the thought going into the way he eases his upper back against the chair's backing, and arranges his arms neatly on the arms of the chair, keeping his knees neatly together but not tautly so. "I would appreciate the tea, thank you. So long as the mugs are serviceable, I do not care." His want of the tea unobtrusively murmured in Fort-trained tones, he awaits his tea with patience whilst listening to Vanya's narrative. A sober "thank you" is said when he reaches forward with both slender hands to encircle the ceramic mug to steal its warmth into his palms, and inhale its fragrance when it is brought to hover under his face. "I will not require sweetner...your father was a Healer, then," he observes, statement rather than inquiry, though similarly inviting elaboration for politeness' sake.
"Yes, he was," Vanya replies simply. "He died when I was six, but had already begun teaching me about herbs and plants," she ventures, picking up her mug and blowing across the top before sipping. "I suppose that's why I became a healer, though my initial desire was to apprentice at Harper Hall." She doesn't really elaborate more on the story. "I still play the gittern, occasionally, but I'm far from trained, and I sing for my own pleasure only. I'm afraid if I were to attempt entertaining, my audience would flee in horror." She offers a laugh, tucking one leg beneath her. "It was a very bad day," she remarks then. "I admit it was easier this time, but I doubt I'll ever get used to the injuries." She shakes her head, sipping once more. "I'm glad we had room enough for everyone. If this keeps up, the weyr may need to annex another room." Another shake of her head. "I'm sorry, I'm babbling. I tend to do that when I'm ... when my head is too full."
Neiran shows no sign of annoyance or displeasure with her babbling, simply weathering it like a creature deep in the sea weathers a storm up above; tranquilly, and one would almost venture to think heedlessly, for the way that he states inexpressively at the woman. His only 'comment' during her words is to lift his tea and take a sip, then lower his eyes to regard the liquid with blank approval. He lifts his eyes when Vanya talks of annexations, watching her momentum slow and come to a halt with an apology. "Many do," he says, extending acceptance and excuse. His head turns, slowly presenting a profile to Vanya as he looks off towards the aforementioned instrument. "If you play it with any amount of competence, then you have accomplished more in that arena than I have to date." He looks to Vanya again, the weight of more words to come thick in the air before his lips even part again. "Have you, in your particular areas of study and interest, come to know much about the head? In a physical sense; I do not refer to mindhealing."
Vanya regards Neiran with a cant to her head. "Injuries, yes -- concussion, cuts, abrasions and the like," she replies. "I have remedies for headaches and other maladies, but that's about the limit of my ability in that area, I'm afraid." She sips again, her expression now curious. "May I ask why you ask this? Was one of the riders injured again?" There's a faint hint of dismay in those words. "The way tempers are running around here, I foresee more injuries like Wingleader E'sere's," she says with a sigh.
When Vanya sums up her knowledge as consisting of simple remedies for headaches, the healer's lips press together into a line of restrained disappointment. Looking up from his brief mental departure from the present, and finding Vanya regarding him curiously, Neiran lifts his chin faintly and draws in a slow breath. "You need not concern yourself that anyone has acquired a new injury, and it is not for me to comment on the present tempers of the Weyr's inhabitants. I had thought that since your specialty deals primarily with long-term care, you might have read of or experienced a case wherein chronic migraines were involved." His words come out as casually as his methodical enunciation allows them to, but Vanya's gaze is held by his dark eyes throughout, regarding her from behind the shifting veil of steam rising from his mug.
Vanya's mouth forms a small "o" and she nods. "Migraines, yes," she replies, setting her cup down and rising to pull one of those small books from the shelf. "I have studied migraines, but not extensively, I'll admit. They can be caused by a number of things, including neck and shoulder injuries. Vascular headaches can be aggravated by stress and tension in the back of the neck," she murmurs, as if reminding herself of things she learned at the Hall. All the while, she's turning pages of that book, obviously looking for something in specific. "Ah... here it is," she says, finally holding the book open. "One of the crafters at Ruatha apparently suffered from severe headaches, and Father left some notes on remedies he recommended," she adds, her eyes scanning the neatly written text on the page. "He was treated him with a variety of things, including cool cloths over the eyes, resting in a darkened room, and teas utilizing chamomile, feverfew, rosemary and willow powder." She looks up from the text. "I've never really worked with strictly a migraine sufferer, meaning someone who wasn't otherwise injured, but from what my father says here, he had some success with this treatment over a few weeks."
Neiran tracks Vanya's progress to the shelf, and watches the pages turn under her hand. His focus shifts from the book to his own thoughts, eyes gaining a distant look like that which riders gain when talking to their dragons - but the healer's only thinking to himself, listening with one ear. Finally, he resurfaces from this sea of thoughts to meet Vanya's gaze a moment after she looks over the book at him. He draws a small sip firstly, and then addresses her in the same tone he's been using throughout the evening, mellow and seemingly emotionless. "Yes. That regime does elicit a decrease in frequency and a subtle diminishment of severity; it is better than nothing, though it is not as successful as one would wish. And unfortunately, that is a plan of treatment which I am already aware of. But thank you for entertaining my curiosity." His slow exhale causes the rising curtain of steam to flicker and dance before his next sip of tea is taken. He's not looking at Vanya directly now, looking instead vaguely at a far wall.
Vanya doesn't close the book, instead looks up and studies Neiran for a few minutes. "Excuse me, but are we discussing one of your patients ... or yourself, Journeyman?" she asks, her voice quiet. "In either case, I would be honored to offer what skills I have in hopes of helping. I have noted success in the suitable application of massage to certain pressure points along the spine that seemed to ease ordinary headaches. And, there are nerve endings in the hands and feet which can ease pains throughout the body." She falls silent, and has a slightly wary expression on her face for a few minutes. "It's possible that a combination of herbal therapy and massage /may/ produce results. I know of no /cure/, but there are ways of sublimating the headaches so they are substantially decreased in frequency." A pause. "I would certainly be willing to try."
After his prerequisite pause of silence, he murmurs, "It had been my hope that you would be aware of a solitary form of treatment that I had not heard of, and that the matter would be settled without necessarily disclosing the patient. But I do not wish to be untruthful for the sake of my reticence to expose my malady in such a way - and as well, I know you will hold this information in confidentiality as befits our Craft. Yes - we are discussing myself." After a last token sip of the tea, Neiran places it aside, and after briefly composing his sleeves he rises to his feet. "Your offer is generous, but I do not think that I am comfortable entirely with the proposed treatment plan," he evades vaguely, whilst fastidiously carrying out another subtle grooming overture, pulling his vest neatly in line to destroy imagined rumples.
Vanya nods, and if she is disappointed or otherwise insulted, she does her best to not show it. However, she cannot stop herself from asking, "Journeyman, of course I will respect confidentiality, but I must inquire of the reason for your reticence." She takes a breath. "I have helped a number of people with physical injuries recover use of limbs believed to be permanently damaged through the use of massage and various herbal treatments. I assure you, I would do my utmost to help." But there's a faint touch of ... defeat in her voice. "If it is that you have no trust in my field of expertise, I beg you to be truthful with me. I understand my methods are somewhat unorthodox, but they do work in many cases. I see no reason why the treatment should not also work in this case." She pauses. "As was once told to me, what is there to lose by trying?"
"It is not that I distrust your methods; to the contrary, I am intrigued by them," Neiran hastens to say in his own way, the weight of truth inherent in his words. His lips are pressed together once again in an expression of vague unease or dislike, forced into speech a moment later: "It is the situation caused by being the patient of a colleague which I dislike. It is not aided by the fact that you are a woman, and although both you and I know that our interactions are purely professional, there are speculators who would not. Furthermore, I...I do not relish the thought of submitting myself to such a...personal treatment," he concludes, the flow of his words just a trifle more swift to draw their concluding word there than they usually are; a confession made while his eyes pursue the bookshelf, and his lips press together once again.
"I see." Simple words, but with so much meaning. "My gender, I cannot help," Vanya finally says after a few moments of silence. "Nor can I do anything about the speculations of people who like to spread rumor and insinuations, though, had I my way, such people would be kept too busy to indulge in such silliness." She pauses, taking a breath. "I do understand the situation, but I admit I am rather ... irritated that I am constrained from assisting a person in need by such ... speculations." Now there is a faint trace of irritation in her tone, but it's obviously not directed at him. "As for your personal feelings regarding the treatment, of disliking such contact ... that I cannot counter. Personal preference is, of course, of import. I can assure you my work is impersonal and purely therapeutic in nature. I cannot force you to accept the treatment, but I do assure you, should you change your mind, I will be here. I am a healer, and as such, it pains me to know there is nothing I can do to help."
"Once more, our philosophies do not differ greatly." It's evident that Neiran dislikes gossipmongers who would turn therapeutic meetings into something more lecherous, but with suspicion and accusation thick in the Weyr ever since he arrived, it's curbed his attention to their antics. "I thank you for your professionalism....please rest assured it is not my nature to accept my own decisions without analysis when they are founded on emotion," he utters calmly. And, no doubt, his refusal is based purely on emotion rather than the logic he so prizes - which one will win is fairly easy to say, but he has to at the very least pander to his aversion for a little while. He's had the migraines for years, and needs no quick fix. His gaze wanders to the door, then, presaging his departure. "Thank you once more for the tea, and our conversation. I apologize if I brusquely turned the course of it to my own concerns; in the future I hope we have leisure and occasion to speak of other things."
"Please, Journeyman Neiran," Vanya says, holding up a hand to forestall further apology. "It was enjoyable, and I do hope you will consider the offer I make as serious. I will write to the Hall and see if there is any further information available. I still have a friend who works in the archive there, and if I make a request of her, she will diligently search for case histories and treatments for me. You may rely on my discretion, and I give you my word this conversation between us will be held in utmost confidence." Vanya looks Neiran squarely in the face, nodding. "I can also offer a quiet place for sharing tea, if you should need it," she adds, meaning her room. "I find it restful here, and you are always welcome. If you have need of my skills, you have but to ask, and Faranth knows I ignore the gossip and rumor as much as I can. As much as anyone can, at this time. Do come back, especially if you are in pain. I am more than willing to help you."
Before offering his nod of acceptance or turning for the door, Neiran's jet eyes focus intently on the woman in a manner seldom seen in company; this is his surgeon's look, reserved for when he's sewing intricate vessels and tissues back together with minute tools. It's a dissecting look, more suggestive of his actual mindset than the flowing glances and occasional moments of eye-contact usually supplied during social interaction. There's a mote of suspicion behind his glance, likely deriving from the adage that some things are too good to be true. But at last the keen intensity of the look subsides, and he inclines his head. "Thank you. Everything is greatly appreciated. I will not dismiss your offers. I will excuse myself now for sleep. The infirmary will need as many of us as possible tomorrow." To tally the final injuries, and assess the recovery plans for those who'll be in the infirmary for longer than a few days. With the last Fall as it was, there's likely to be quite a bit of activity. "Good evening." He offers her one last slow nod, and extends his hand to the door to see himself out.
"Rest well, Journeyman," Vanya replies, seeing him to the door. "I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, albeit I wish it were under better circumstances than over beds of injured." She offers a smile, and opens the door for him. "If you wish to go over any of the medical records I have with me," of which there are many, apparently, judging from the stacks of hides on her shelves, "please just let me know. Have a pleasant night, and thank you for coming by. The company and conversation were quite enjoyable."
Players: Neiran, Vanya
Location: Vanya's Room
Synopsis: It's been a long, hard day with another bad 'fall, and Vanya's just relaxing with a nice cup of tea when she gets an unexpected visitor, Journeyman Healer Neiran, who seems to be in need of tea and conversation.
Vanya's Room
There isn't much a person can do to disguise the fact this room is little more than a cave. The walls are stone, smoothed by hand or by some long-forgotten or long-gone machine used by those who first built the weyr. The door is solid wood, sturdy, the fixtures utilitarian. The basic furniture is all there -- bed, table, two chairs, wall shelves and a wooden storage chest. Simple. As is the occupant, since there is little in the way of fancy knickknacks or personal possessions. The bed has plain sheets, two down-filled pillows, and a warm, woven blanket in dark green. The chest holds clothes, and more blankets as a bastion against the cold, High Reaches winter. A glow basket hangs from the wall over the bed, another sits on the table, glows replenished whenever needed by those unseen people who perform this task.
On a shelf above the table are a bottle of ink, writing instruments, sand and some already prepared hides. Very rare and precious paper documents are carefully arranged on another shelf, held down by a polished stone collected from some place. Yet another shelf holds vials and bottles of lotions, astringents, and other containers of herbs and oils. The only luxurious thing here, if it can be called that, is a hand-made rug that lies beside the bed on top of a thick layer of reeds. Stone floors are notoriously cold on bare feet. A black cloak hangs on a peg by the door, as does a gittern, the instrument carefully wrapped in a protective bag. A basket, leather satchel and two pairs of boots sit on the floor beneath.
It's late, but once more Vanya is having trouble sleeping. She contemplates a long walk by the lake, but decides that a cup of tea is the order of the day. There's a small brazier in her room that serves as her hearth, heating water and keeping the cool room cozy and warm. She slips off her shoes, props her feet up on a chair, and tries to relax, tries to sort through things in her head. Chamomile, to relax her, with just a touch of berry for sweetness. The tea is steeping in the ball, the pot set on a mat next to her at the table where she is reading over still more notes regarding wing drills and the like. When there's a knock on the door, she doesn't hear it at first. A second time, and she sets the hide aside, rising. Without asking who it might be, she opens the door and then smiles. "Journeyman Neiran," she says, voice pleasant, if a bit tired. "What a pleasant surprise. Please, come in." Then her expression changes to one of concern. "T'zen hasn't take a turn for the worse, has he?"
It's little wonder Vanya missed the initial knock, so faint and even was the gentle rap; almost a simple brush of knuckles against the wood. Neiran's hand has already returned to his side by the time his colleague opens the door, however, trusting that it was heard. "Good evening," he greets. Remarkably, after such a difficult fall he does not seem much the worse for wear. There are times when little Thread falls in which he appears exhausted, and times like this when another man would be in bed but Neiran is out and about, looking as healthy as he ever does, in that melancholic humor of his. He hovers on the threshold, as if considering turning down the invitation to enter, but a heartbeat later he nods and slips inside. He is wearing a vest and blouse, his dark healer's raiment somewhere else, signaling that this is perhaps a less formal meeting than the black cassock would imply. Or, more likely, the garment is covered in blood after the day and is being washed rigorously by unfortunate laundry maids as the young man meets Vanya's eyes. "No. T'zen is as you last saw him. I had come in response to your gracious offer of conversation...if you are weary after today's business, I will remove myself and allow you to return to your leisure and ask forgiveness for my interruption."
Vanya closes the door behind Neiran, and quickly assures him, "No, please, I was just relaxing a bit, having some tea and trying to unwind a bit from the day." She gestures to the empty chair with a hand. "Please, won't you join me? It's no imposition, and I think I would enjoy the company." Her smile is tired, but, then, there are a lot of tired healers after the day's casualties. Moving back to the table, she checks the tea, finding it steeped and ready for pouring. "There's plenty for two, if you don't mind some rather old mugs. I haven't had time to acquire any nicer ones." A small laugh. "Not that I'm used to fine china or the like," she jokes, while reaching to one of the shelves. "It's chamomile and raspberry, one of my father's recipes after a long day." She indicates a journal on the table. "I inherited his journals after he died, and they've been invaluable in my work." She resumes her own seat, pouring two mugs full of tea. "I have some sweetener, but the raspberry makes it sweet enough for me." After pouring, she moves the cup carefully in front of the chair. "I'm glad to hear T'zen is doing well. I didn't have time to work with him today, unfortunately."
Neiran silently glides into the room's interior. Its features are taken in surreptitiously, with an unassuming look-over that is neither bold nor secretive. When the chair is proffered, Neiran moves and sits upon it after an easy descent. The posture he adopts is casual, but it is just that - an adopted posture. One can almost see the thought going into the way he eases his upper back against the chair's backing, and arranges his arms neatly on the arms of the chair, keeping his knees neatly together but not tautly so. "I would appreciate the tea, thank you. So long as the mugs are serviceable, I do not care." His want of the tea unobtrusively murmured in Fort-trained tones, he awaits his tea with patience whilst listening to Vanya's narrative. A sober "thank you" is said when he reaches forward with both slender hands to encircle the ceramic mug to steal its warmth into his palms, and inhale its fragrance when it is brought to hover under his face. "I will not require sweetner...your father was a Healer, then," he observes, statement rather than inquiry, though similarly inviting elaboration for politeness' sake.
"Yes, he was," Vanya replies simply. "He died when I was six, but had already begun teaching me about herbs and plants," she ventures, picking up her mug and blowing across the top before sipping. "I suppose that's why I became a healer, though my initial desire was to apprentice at Harper Hall." She doesn't really elaborate more on the story. "I still play the gittern, occasionally, but I'm far from trained, and I sing for my own pleasure only. I'm afraid if I were to attempt entertaining, my audience would flee in horror." She offers a laugh, tucking one leg beneath her. "It was a very bad day," she remarks then. "I admit it was easier this time, but I doubt I'll ever get used to the injuries." She shakes her head, sipping once more. "I'm glad we had room enough for everyone. If this keeps up, the weyr may need to annex another room." Another shake of her head. "I'm sorry, I'm babbling. I tend to do that when I'm ... when my head is too full."
Neiran shows no sign of annoyance or displeasure with her babbling, simply weathering it like a creature deep in the sea weathers a storm up above; tranquilly, and one would almost venture to think heedlessly, for the way that he states inexpressively at the woman. His only 'comment' during her words is to lift his tea and take a sip, then lower his eyes to regard the liquid with blank approval. He lifts his eyes when Vanya talks of annexations, watching her momentum slow and come to a halt with an apology. "Many do," he says, extending acceptance and excuse. His head turns, slowly presenting a profile to Vanya as he looks off towards the aforementioned instrument. "If you play it with any amount of competence, then you have accomplished more in that arena than I have to date." He looks to Vanya again, the weight of more words to come thick in the air before his lips even part again. "Have you, in your particular areas of study and interest, come to know much about the head? In a physical sense; I do not refer to mindhealing."
Vanya regards Neiran with a cant to her head. "Injuries, yes -- concussion, cuts, abrasions and the like," she replies. "I have remedies for headaches and other maladies, but that's about the limit of my ability in that area, I'm afraid." She sips again, her expression now curious. "May I ask why you ask this? Was one of the riders injured again?" There's a faint hint of dismay in those words. "The way tempers are running around here, I foresee more injuries like Wingleader E'sere's," she says with a sigh.
When Vanya sums up her knowledge as consisting of simple remedies for headaches, the healer's lips press together into a line of restrained disappointment. Looking up from his brief mental departure from the present, and finding Vanya regarding him curiously, Neiran lifts his chin faintly and draws in a slow breath. "You need not concern yourself that anyone has acquired a new injury, and it is not for me to comment on the present tempers of the Weyr's inhabitants. I had thought that since your specialty deals primarily with long-term care, you might have read of or experienced a case wherein chronic migraines were involved." His words come out as casually as his methodical enunciation allows them to, but Vanya's gaze is held by his dark eyes throughout, regarding her from behind the shifting veil of steam rising from his mug.
Vanya's mouth forms a small "o" and she nods. "Migraines, yes," she replies, setting her cup down and rising to pull one of those small books from the shelf. "I have studied migraines, but not extensively, I'll admit. They can be caused by a number of things, including neck and shoulder injuries. Vascular headaches can be aggravated by stress and tension in the back of the neck," she murmurs, as if reminding herself of things she learned at the Hall. All the while, she's turning pages of that book, obviously looking for something in specific. "Ah... here it is," she says, finally holding the book open. "One of the crafters at Ruatha apparently suffered from severe headaches, and Father left some notes on remedies he recommended," she adds, her eyes scanning the neatly written text on the page. "He was treated him with a variety of things, including cool cloths over the eyes, resting in a darkened room, and teas utilizing chamomile, feverfew, rosemary and willow powder." She looks up from the text. "I've never really worked with strictly a migraine sufferer, meaning someone who wasn't otherwise injured, but from what my father says here, he had some success with this treatment over a few weeks."
Neiran tracks Vanya's progress to the shelf, and watches the pages turn under her hand. His focus shifts from the book to his own thoughts, eyes gaining a distant look like that which riders gain when talking to their dragons - but the healer's only thinking to himself, listening with one ear. Finally, he resurfaces from this sea of thoughts to meet Vanya's gaze a moment after she looks over the book at him. He draws a small sip firstly, and then addresses her in the same tone he's been using throughout the evening, mellow and seemingly emotionless. "Yes. That regime does elicit a decrease in frequency and a subtle diminishment of severity; it is better than nothing, though it is not as successful as one would wish. And unfortunately, that is a plan of treatment which I am already aware of. But thank you for entertaining my curiosity." His slow exhale causes the rising curtain of steam to flicker and dance before his next sip of tea is taken. He's not looking at Vanya directly now, looking instead vaguely at a far wall.
Vanya doesn't close the book, instead looks up and studies Neiran for a few minutes. "Excuse me, but are we discussing one of your patients ... or yourself, Journeyman?" she asks, her voice quiet. "In either case, I would be honored to offer what skills I have in hopes of helping. I have noted success in the suitable application of massage to certain pressure points along the spine that seemed to ease ordinary headaches. And, there are nerve endings in the hands and feet which can ease pains throughout the body." She falls silent, and has a slightly wary expression on her face for a few minutes. "It's possible that a combination of herbal therapy and massage /may/ produce results. I know of no /cure/, but there are ways of sublimating the headaches so they are substantially decreased in frequency." A pause. "I would certainly be willing to try."
After his prerequisite pause of silence, he murmurs, "It had been my hope that you would be aware of a solitary form of treatment that I had not heard of, and that the matter would be settled without necessarily disclosing the patient. But I do not wish to be untruthful for the sake of my reticence to expose my malady in such a way - and as well, I know you will hold this information in confidentiality as befits our Craft. Yes - we are discussing myself." After a last token sip of the tea, Neiran places it aside, and after briefly composing his sleeves he rises to his feet. "Your offer is generous, but I do not think that I am comfortable entirely with the proposed treatment plan," he evades vaguely, whilst fastidiously carrying out another subtle grooming overture, pulling his vest neatly in line to destroy imagined rumples.
Vanya nods, and if she is disappointed or otherwise insulted, she does her best to not show it. However, she cannot stop herself from asking, "Journeyman, of course I will respect confidentiality, but I must inquire of the reason for your reticence." She takes a breath. "I have helped a number of people with physical injuries recover use of limbs believed to be permanently damaged through the use of massage and various herbal treatments. I assure you, I would do my utmost to help." But there's a faint touch of ... defeat in her voice. "If it is that you have no trust in my field of expertise, I beg you to be truthful with me. I understand my methods are somewhat unorthodox, but they do work in many cases. I see no reason why the treatment should not also work in this case." She pauses. "As was once told to me, what is there to lose by trying?"
"It is not that I distrust your methods; to the contrary, I am intrigued by them," Neiran hastens to say in his own way, the weight of truth inherent in his words. His lips are pressed together once again in an expression of vague unease or dislike, forced into speech a moment later: "It is the situation caused by being the patient of a colleague which I dislike. It is not aided by the fact that you are a woman, and although both you and I know that our interactions are purely professional, there are speculators who would not. Furthermore, I...I do not relish the thought of submitting myself to such a...personal treatment," he concludes, the flow of his words just a trifle more swift to draw their concluding word there than they usually are; a confession made while his eyes pursue the bookshelf, and his lips press together once again.
"I see." Simple words, but with so much meaning. "My gender, I cannot help," Vanya finally says after a few moments of silence. "Nor can I do anything about the speculations of people who like to spread rumor and insinuations, though, had I my way, such people would be kept too busy to indulge in such silliness." She pauses, taking a breath. "I do understand the situation, but I admit I am rather ... irritated that I am constrained from assisting a person in need by such ... speculations." Now there is a faint trace of irritation in her tone, but it's obviously not directed at him. "As for your personal feelings regarding the treatment, of disliking such contact ... that I cannot counter. Personal preference is, of course, of import. I can assure you my work is impersonal and purely therapeutic in nature. I cannot force you to accept the treatment, but I do assure you, should you change your mind, I will be here. I am a healer, and as such, it pains me to know there is nothing I can do to help."
"Once more, our philosophies do not differ greatly." It's evident that Neiran dislikes gossipmongers who would turn therapeutic meetings into something more lecherous, but with suspicion and accusation thick in the Weyr ever since he arrived, it's curbed his attention to their antics. "I thank you for your professionalism....please rest assured it is not my nature to accept my own decisions without analysis when they are founded on emotion," he utters calmly. And, no doubt, his refusal is based purely on emotion rather than the logic he so prizes - which one will win is fairly easy to say, but he has to at the very least pander to his aversion for a little while. He's had the migraines for years, and needs no quick fix. His gaze wanders to the door, then, presaging his departure. "Thank you once more for the tea, and our conversation. I apologize if I brusquely turned the course of it to my own concerns; in the future I hope we have leisure and occasion to speak of other things."
"Please, Journeyman Neiran," Vanya says, holding up a hand to forestall further apology. "It was enjoyable, and I do hope you will consider the offer I make as serious. I will write to the Hall and see if there is any further information available. I still have a friend who works in the archive there, and if I make a request of her, she will diligently search for case histories and treatments for me. You may rely on my discretion, and I give you my word this conversation between us will be held in utmost confidence." Vanya looks Neiran squarely in the face, nodding. "I can also offer a quiet place for sharing tea, if you should need it," she adds, meaning her room. "I find it restful here, and you are always welcome. If you have need of my skills, you have but to ask, and Faranth knows I ignore the gossip and rumor as much as I can. As much as anyone can, at this time. Do come back, especially if you are in pain. I am more than willing to help you."
Before offering his nod of acceptance or turning for the door, Neiran's jet eyes focus intently on the woman in a manner seldom seen in company; this is his surgeon's look, reserved for when he's sewing intricate vessels and tissues back together with minute tools. It's a dissecting look, more suggestive of his actual mindset than the flowing glances and occasional moments of eye-contact usually supplied during social interaction. There's a mote of suspicion behind his glance, likely deriving from the adage that some things are too good to be true. But at last the keen intensity of the look subsides, and he inclines his head. "Thank you. Everything is greatly appreciated. I will not dismiss your offers. I will excuse myself now for sleep. The infirmary will need as many of us as possible tomorrow." To tally the final injuries, and assess the recovery plans for those who'll be in the infirmary for longer than a few days. With the last Fall as it was, there's likely to be quite a bit of activity. "Good evening." He offers her one last slow nod, and extends his hand to the door to see himself out.
"Rest well, Journeyman," Vanya replies, seeing him to the door. "I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, albeit I wish it were under better circumstances than over beds of injured." She offers a smile, and opens the door for him. "If you wish to go over any of the medical records I have with me," of which there are many, apparently, judging from the stacks of hides on her shelves, "please just let me know. Have a pleasant night, and thank you for coming by. The company and conversation were quite enjoyable."