Sometimes it doesn't pay to leave work
Who: Miniyal and R'vain
When: Dinnertime, 17, month 4, turn 1 of the 7th Pass.
Where: Kitchen, HRW
What: Venturing forth, Miniyal meets with R'vain to discuss assignments.
2/20/2006
It is dinnertime day 17, month 4, turn 1 of the 7th Pass.
There is, as R'vain suggested, a table in the back. There are, in fact, several-- broad wooden slabs stacked atop somewhat less broad wooden slabs or stone posts, each with benches and a few with chairs. They are intended for the meals taken by the kitchen staff themselves, they and a few of the storeroom clerks and keepers, but those mealtimes are an hour or more offset from those of the Weyr at large that eats out in the main cavern. As such, the tables are mostly abandoned while the rest of the kitchen presents a hustle-bustle of insanity: pots, people, fire and water everywhere, everything involved in making food.
The Weyrlingmaster's jacket, wool-lined leather bearing his ill-kept knot with its tangled tassels, has been thrown casually over the end of one of the tables, marking a place where perhaps he'll sit. But not yet. Just now he's acquiring his meal by means of coming up behind a soup-girl, one hand fetching up a ladle to sloppily toss soup from the pot to a plate while the other fetches up against the young woman's rump. There's a tussle of sorts, with she turning about in a flurry of skirts and he dancing a light step back with the stolen bowl sloshing in the other hand, and laughter-- mostly his, to be sure-- and then he's headed for his table, finally.
A bakercraft mother has insured Miniyal has some knowledge of the kitchens at least. Although her natural grace. . .or lack thereof, assured her no place in this room other than slipping in to find said mother and visit. Visits which are looked upon with at least concern if not horror by the rest of the staff in here. Things break around the woman, fall, get dirty, knocked into water. It's really not her fault. Inside she comes, slinking in to be sure. Her head lifts and a hand pushes hair from where it conceals her face and she looks around the room. Lips purse disapprovingly as she spies the weyrlingmaster and his soup acquisition.
It's a slow walk to the table he seems to be intent on claiming. Oops, that was a table her knee connected with. And so sorry about running into the drudge who nearly lost his grip on the plate filled with sliced meats. Face red from heat and embarrassment she reaches the table at last and with no grace falls into a chair. Almost missing said chair and winding up right on the floor. A few sympathetic looks are handed to her as people bustle by. And a few more curious ones since she seems to be. . .waiting for the weyrlingmaster? A quiet murmur rises and most likely it will result eventually in her mother's appearance. Mothers are like that.
R'vain, gladly, is innocent of the possibility of motherly interruption. Or else the notion causes him no concern. He's only moments, paces behind Miniyal, though he knows it not; passing by the drudge with the platter of meats, the Weyrlingmaster adds another dash of confusion by snatching a slice with bare fingers right from the tray as he goes by. He sploshes it into his soup and keeps moving. It would seem at firs that the heat of cooking and the exchange with the soup-girl have left him, too, red-faced-- but as he draws closer and catches sight of the woman awaiting there at the table claimed by his jacket, it becomes apparent that his complexion is just generally like that. Ruddy, befreckled, red-haired and red-bearded and far, far too much grinning, shining white teeth and smug keen green in his eyes. "Liaison," says he, setting out his soup-plate onto the table, letting it slide from palm to wood in a single motion. He follows it, stepping over then descending onto the bench across the table from her. "I almost feared we'd never meet." His jacket, there waiting, carries the faintest old scent of alcohol. The man himself smells only of fresh-quarried firestone and the cold outdoors.
Miniyal is much too busy making herself invisible to notice how quickly she is joined. It actually takes a moment or three for it to register and the brief flash of jealousy at how easily he moves is concealed by a shake of her head that leaves hair in her eyes. Then, of course, she must remove it from its place and does so with the back of one hand. One brow arches ever so slightly, not a trick she's ever perfected, but one she persists in attempting. The fact they have met before is glossed over. He was drunk after all and it was ages ago. Add to that Miniyal is not the sort of girl to be remembered and, well, she's quite content it is not remembered it seems. Besides, he was too busy punching someone else. . .Clearing her throat she eyes the food with the look of one forcing herself not to eat, the pudgy are not ever content to remain that way. "Yes, well, I'm sure it was bound to happen at some point. We're not such a big place as all that."
Nature is unfair: good people get plain looks, black cossacks and heavyset builds. And someone like R'vain gets shocking hair, shocking eyes, shocking teeth and natural grace. It is, indeed, a cruel world-- and clearly the Weyrlingmaster takes some delight in this fact. "What's this about you not eating in the evening. Do you eat in the morning? At noon? The wee black just before dawn?" He snares up a spoon and plops it into the soup, but makes no further move toward starting his meal. Instead he lays his paws flat either side of the plate and hunches forward somewhat over them, a feline leaning into the pounce-crouch. "You're taller than I remember." Which he must, somewhat-- to have told her apart from any other black-sacked woman among the Weyr's staff, any other hand he might have been slapped by.
Miniyal's face, already flushed such an unflattering color due to heat and lingering embarrassment turns an even darker shade of red. "That is none of your concern," she says primly. Primly she can do, much practice at it and considering how she dresses no real surprise. Mentioning food only makes her eyes wander towards where a tray of sweets have been set out and she watches them like she hasn't eaten in days, attention leaving them when the tray is carried out to the rest of the weyr to consume. Attention back on her tablemate she clears her throat. "You don't seem quite nearly as drunk as I remember," she replies in a tone of voice that is concealed beneath the chatter and clanging of the room without being lost within.
"You have no idea," replies R'vain quite simply. The words could go any of a number of ways: addict's guilt, playboy's unflappable aplomb, recreational partier's boast. In any case, it is not nearly so subtly spoken as Miniyal's opening, nor is it any kind of proper closure on the subject. The man just flashes her another pearl-and-goatee grin, then leans back from his forward crouch over the soup, spreading his boots wide and centering himself better on the bench, palms upon his knees. So arranged he regards her in a moment's silence, then asks from Threadless sky, "Did you know one of my weyrlings came back down to th'barracks with the idea in her head that the Weyr has a recordskeeper named Miniyal?" He huffs a singular syllable of a laugh and looks down at his soup, shaking his head. "Have t'admit it's easy enough to put stuff in her head. Only so much in there to begin with."
The flurry of activity in the kitchens lessens some as the meal outside is in full swing and there's not so much to be carried out. But, the presence of two outsiders keeps the workers from beginning to see to their meals so much. Instead they stall, linger, trying to overhear in some cases. Head tilting up, chin, such as it is, jutting out, Miniyal says, "Oh? How odd. The name I mean. I suppose if anyone would know how easy it is to place ideas into a weyrling's head it would be you." Or not you at all sort of lingers unspoken in the air for a moment. Not that Miniyal has been shy about sharing her opinion of the weyrlingmaster to anyone who even makes mention of it. She learned nothing of politics in her time working for Diya it would seem. "It must be so terrible for you trying to fill their heads," she offers with sarcastic sympathy. "All that space and only so much time between drinks."
"I'd prefer they got the idea the Caucus," a word his mouth can't help but seem to want to curl around, "took on a liaison to handle the Caucus' business in records, rather than that there's been a change in the way things work up there." Thick red brows twitch, but R'vain is not given to the subtle expressions of arching and furrowing. Instead his tongue slicks over his teeth and clucks back into his mouth: 'tch,' says he thusly, and lifts a paw to swipe his spoon up out of the soup, then jab it back down to roughly cut apart the slice of meat stolen from the drudge's platter. "Y'see, 'til lately it's pretty much been the right of anyone with a mind to read the records to go do so, at the weyrwomen's and headwoman's sufferance, of course. You put something back wrong too many times and you get to be unwelcome, sure."
"Perhaps," Miniyal begins, word a touch heated before she stops herself to attempt to calm down, "People would be more welcome there if they had a clue what they were doing. Rather than track someone down and interrupt them to do the work for them." Yes, she's throwing the weyrlings to the wolves. It's not as if she knows or is friends with any of them. Surprising, one would think she's friendly with everyone. "With -everyone- allowed to run around in there doing as they please it is impossible for those that work there to get anything done. Forget misplaced records. Smudged, torn, dribbled on, forgotten, 'borrowed' and never returned. The way things have been done makes it impossible for me to do things now as I am required to by my position." No mention of the caucus from her, but that's yet another thing she's never hid her displeasure on.
The jabbing of the spoon becomes a little more violent, smashing the little slice of meat against the soupy inside of the soup-plate's curve, splitting it along the grain more than actually cutting it. R'vain notices this only peripherally, sharing his attention between the food and his conversational partner. The conversation, for its part, becomes a bit more heated on his behalf, as well-- and he doesn't trouble himself to keep his calm. At least his voice remains appropriate for the indoors, but the speed of his speech and the hiss of his intonation betray agitation in quantity. "If they're so inept I would appreciate reports with names. Typically my weyrlings have had the sense to control themselves in records and treat the documents with respect. If you're finding that's not the case I /welcome/ your input, liaison, but I have most certainly not directed them to use you or any of the /Weyr/ staff to accomplish their work-- and if you have nothing better to do than accept their pleas for help, how is that my wrongdoing?"
Ignoring the people milling about and the potential for maternal intervention, Miniyal's eyes narrow as she looks across the table. "I speak in general, weyrlingmaster," and the title is said with such politeness it can only be meant as an insult. Amazing how that can work sometimes. "I've seen but two of your weyrlings in their insulting quest to be sure we do our job properly down there." Heated? That can be matched, anger makes social and physical inadequacies seem less important. Fingers curling up into her palms she fairly vibrates with annoyance, but keeps herself still for fear of knocking against something. Although the temptation to do so and spill the soup is lurking somewhere in her eyes. "The records kept are accurate. Otherwise they are pointless. And your sending them the way you did implies that the people who work there cannot be trusted." People like her father. "And that is the sort of divisiveness that makes life more difficult for all." A pause here and a mocking smile curves her lips upwards. "Perhaps you'd like to walk with me down there right now and check for yourself? I admit it's quite far from where you probably want to be, but the tunnels are well lit and the room itself, while a bit cramped, well, we make do as best we can even down there as we are."
This should have R'vain breathing fire. He's a temperamental man to be sure, even when not in his cups, and indeed he does stop the slaying of the meat-slice in the soup long enough to look up and focus firm on the woman across the table, eyes flashing. But their flash is not rage, and the teeth he bares are not the sort that tear throats. He even shakes a little, around the shoulders and jaw. One might think he's laughing somewhere beneath what little reserve he has. "Miniyal," he says, and now his voice is so smooth and proper that it's his turn to lose syllables among the clatter and murmur of the kitchen's doings. Spoken through a smile, her name could almost be tender-- and maybe that's just as much insult as her use of his title. "You mistake my purpose." A paw's overturned, abandoning the spoon, supplicating palm opened toward her. "I tell them to go check for such misdeeds so they feel inclined to actually complete the work as directed-- it invests them in it, you see. For their own sakes. Otherwise I'd have weyrlings coming up by ones and twos to laze about in the storeroom for as long as they think I expect them gone, and coming back to tell me they've done as I asked." He shrugs, dropping his hand to his knee. "They've always just gone in and done it before. I'm a little troubled that two already have apparently seen fit to use the Caucus' liaison for the Weyr's work." Another time with the tongue over the teeth, the light suck there: Tch. A pity.
One foot kicks a leg of the table as Miniyal shifts her weight on the bench. A small bump that hits just so and causes her to wince as a toe is pinched. Ignoring the pain she draws herself up to her not terribly impressive full height and says, "I am as much a part of this weyr as the next person. You had best remember that when drawing your lines on who belongs where. I was given the job I have now -because- of my knowledge of the records room. I was born and raised here at High Reaches and your words imply that I am just some. . .caucus flunky and I'll not be insulted that way by anyone." He is, quite successfully, hitting just about every button she has. "I suspect part of your problem is they just don't have anyone around all the time to look up to," is offered quite sweetly. "No immediate role model to encourage them to not laze about. It's a pity, really. Sometimes people need that sort of guidance and when it is not available they fall into all sorts of trouble. If we're not careful they'll take to drink and that will be the end of the lot of them." If only the true subtleties of insults were available to her, but part of the problem with avoiding socialization is it leaves one ill prepared for such occasions. Left to muddle through she does just that, bravado and anger carrying her well past the time when normally she would have fled and sought refuge amongst her records.
R'vain has something to say, certainly, somewhere around 'caucus flunky.' It begins with, "The records of the Weyr are intended to be open to all--" but it also stops with that, which does not bode well for his ever getting to finish it. After all, Miniyal's still speaking, and he shushes to listen. A hand is even lifted, overturned, this time a plea for her to please, continue-- just for show, to let anyone watching know how willing he is to hear her out. And grin, and stare at her, while she goes on. He starts to shake again, too, which does not compliment the records-worker's skill with throwing barbs, in any case. Raucous laughter that breaks out of him at the end won't help either. The Weyrlingmaster gets it under control quickly; just not quick enough not to have done it in the first place. "Oh, Miniyal," he breathes, lifting that hand now to wipe imaginary tears from beneath his ruddy lashes. Though he's playing it a little heavy, the humor seems to be earnestly felt; it keeps his eyes narrow and smiling even when he starts in on her in turn. "The whole point is that they get familiar with the records, enough to perform basic tasks there. It's completely improper for them to get you to do the work for them. They have legs and eyes and hands!" He slams an elbow onto the table's edge, causing the soup to slosh in the plate, and props his chin in his palm. "All I can ask you is to leave them to their own devices." The ruddy man grins at her. And then: winks.
Miniyal is, at least, the sort of person aware of her short comings. Quite too aware to ever really be able to get past them. So, the laughter for the most part has no visible effect on her at all. Her head stays up, hands folded together, and she lets it go. Although the people lurking about cannot help but quietly take sides, some looking sympathetically at her while others glare at the weyrlingmaster and some of them amused at the pair. There are, actually, a few of the women who even look sympathetically to the weyrlingmaster. The poor dears haven't learned yet. "Leaving them to their own devices will just result in more work for myself," is the quiet answer. More would be added, but the wink catches her off guard. Not in a fluttering sort of way, but she does stare, openmouthed. Anger begins to build up again, dark eyes flashing as she takes a deep breath and begins to launch into a sharp retort. But, the explosion never actually makes it. Instead she exhales loudly and drops her gaze from him. Whatever courage she had managed to find is beginning to retreat as the realization that a scene has been caused begins to dawn on her.
The Weyrlingmaster can only smirk. "Your call, then. Honestly though, sweetheart, it's my opinion that you're doing the work of other women." He takes up his spoon again, shifting on the bench to make himself seem more comfortable, attending now to his dinner while speaking in the most jovial of conversational tones. A spoonful of the soup, highlighted by a small torn strip of the meat, comes up to his chin, where he pauses to blow over it-- then looks up at her anew, a brightly thoughtful expression on his heavy features. Clearly, something has just occurred to him, something wonderful indeed. "Perhaps that's why she put you there. It was, after all, largely the juniors' domain before. It probably spares her quite a bit of work to have you tidying up after every weyrling, tithemaster and curious random sprat who comes in." A pause. "Ah well. Maybe it suits you." Pop, the soup goes into his mouth.
A longing look is cast at the food from under a bit of hair that mostly conceals her eyes. Sitting in the kitchen, the smell of food all around her, causes Miniyal's stomach to complain loudly about not being allowed to partake. Shoulders hunching, the traitorous body is ignored as she focuses back on the words being, presumably, said to her. "I've worked in the records room since I could walk." Or what passes for walking with her. "I like it in there. It's very orderly and quiet and not a lot of talking goes on." Which is the appeal, of course. "No one. . .put me there. I was offered the position by the weyrwoman. I'm good at what I do." Oh, issues of self-esteem, a hint of worry creeps into her expression regardless of the fact she should know better than to listen to a word said by the man across the table from her. Clearing her throat she finds some firmness of spirit to say, "Someone needs to be there to be sure things are done right."
"Since you could walk!" R'vain sounds impressed. Even a peek through fallen locks of hair would be enough to show that it is a trick of the voice; his face mocks with its bright smile and striking green stare. He spoons up more soup, stirring it a bit to draw up bits of tuber and carrot from the bottom for the next bite. "They must have pegged you out for that pretty early on. But if you enjoy it, no harm! Diya has better things to do, surely. She'll have work enough when there's a new Weyrwoman." R'vain dismisses the whole business with a flick of his fingers, the ones not busied by the spoon; that hand then goes back to rest upon his knee as he bends forward a bit to take more of his dinner. "Or else I suppose you'll both wind up somewhere else entirely. Are you sure you don't eat in the evening? The broth's good today. Not too salty."
"I don't work for her anymore," Miniyal says simply. "It was Lexine who offered me the new position." Ignorant political machine that she is she saw nothing to it but a chance to do something she wanted to do. "And, I didn't mean that," she says in an attempt to explain what she did mean which she should probably know better than to try to do. "I just meant. . well, that I was in there from an early age. I -am- good at what I do. I've got one of the fairest hands in the entire weyr when it comes to copying and cartography. And I am good at everything I do in there." Unlike in the world outside of dusty records. "I am not hungry," she lies, silently daring her body to complain again. Luckily it does not take that dare so she can let that pass. Oh, the comments she could make if only she could form the thoughts in her head. But casual conversation is hard enough, when it's scattered with landmines of insults she's totally out of her depth. So, she says nothing for a moment before making to stand. "Yes, well, I do thank you so much for your time."
R'vain grins and flicks her a nod of his head, his only concession to the notion that Miniyal and Diya are at all separated by the former's change of official venue. "I understand," he claims. When she goes to rise, he leaves off his dinner, dropping the spoon back into the soup so he can push himself up to a stand, one boot tucked behind the other to shove the bench just far enough back that he has room to rise gracefully between table and seat. At least he doesn't bait her again with food. Instead he puts a hand out, palm up. "And I thank you for yours. I'll be sure the rest are better prepared to behave appropriately when they come up to complete their assignments, but if any of them disappoint you /do/ feel free to let me know." His fingers curl slightly. Perhaps she's meant to put her hand over his for the farewell.
Miniyal's rise is not nearly as graceful, one foot catching the table and sending her forward a fraction so her knee connects with it. Wincing she keeps her head down, backing up to bump into the bench and nearly winding up seated on it again before catching herself. A heavy sigh and she lifts her head to notice the hand. Watching it as if she'll be bitten by it she looks unsure, glancing about and avoiding the gaze of anyone still so bored as to be enjoying the scene winding down. "Oh, thank you," she says to his words, so much thanks in her tone as to turn it quite mocking. Another look at the hand and she says, "Yes, well, enjoy your meal," ignoring it as if doesn't wish to risk touching it and is not just afraid of what he might do. She separates herself from bench and table with a final, loud knock of knee to leg, bowl clattering some, before turning to dodge her way to safety.
"You're welcome." No mockery in that-- but then, he's more than had his share. The hand turns over into a wave. Those who remain interested-- Miniyal not among them, working on flight as she is-- will find R'vain grinning after her. When she's gone, he shakes his head as if he's just handled a particularly oddball weyrling or some other relatively dismissible challenge, and sinks back onto the bench to finish his ill-gotten soup.
When: Dinnertime, 17, month 4, turn 1 of the 7th Pass.
Where: Kitchen, HRW
What: Venturing forth, Miniyal meets with R'vain to discuss assignments.
2/20/2006
It is dinnertime day 17, month 4, turn 1 of the 7th Pass.
There is, as R'vain suggested, a table in the back. There are, in fact, several-- broad wooden slabs stacked atop somewhat less broad wooden slabs or stone posts, each with benches and a few with chairs. They are intended for the meals taken by the kitchen staff themselves, they and a few of the storeroom clerks and keepers, but those mealtimes are an hour or more offset from those of the Weyr at large that eats out in the main cavern. As such, the tables are mostly abandoned while the rest of the kitchen presents a hustle-bustle of insanity: pots, people, fire and water everywhere, everything involved in making food.
The Weyrlingmaster's jacket, wool-lined leather bearing his ill-kept knot with its tangled tassels, has been thrown casually over the end of one of the tables, marking a place where perhaps he'll sit. But not yet. Just now he's acquiring his meal by means of coming up behind a soup-girl, one hand fetching up a ladle to sloppily toss soup from the pot to a plate while the other fetches up against the young woman's rump. There's a tussle of sorts, with she turning about in a flurry of skirts and he dancing a light step back with the stolen bowl sloshing in the other hand, and laughter-- mostly his, to be sure-- and then he's headed for his table, finally.
A bakercraft mother has insured Miniyal has some knowledge of the kitchens at least. Although her natural grace. . .or lack thereof, assured her no place in this room other than slipping in to find said mother and visit. Visits which are looked upon with at least concern if not horror by the rest of the staff in here. Things break around the woman, fall, get dirty, knocked into water. It's really not her fault. Inside she comes, slinking in to be sure. Her head lifts and a hand pushes hair from where it conceals her face and she looks around the room. Lips purse disapprovingly as she spies the weyrlingmaster and his soup acquisition.
It's a slow walk to the table he seems to be intent on claiming. Oops, that was a table her knee connected with. And so sorry about running into the drudge who nearly lost his grip on the plate filled with sliced meats. Face red from heat and embarrassment she reaches the table at last and with no grace falls into a chair. Almost missing said chair and winding up right on the floor. A few sympathetic looks are handed to her as people bustle by. And a few more curious ones since she seems to be. . .waiting for the weyrlingmaster? A quiet murmur rises and most likely it will result eventually in her mother's appearance. Mothers are like that.
R'vain, gladly, is innocent of the possibility of motherly interruption. Or else the notion causes him no concern. He's only moments, paces behind Miniyal, though he knows it not; passing by the drudge with the platter of meats, the Weyrlingmaster adds another dash of confusion by snatching a slice with bare fingers right from the tray as he goes by. He sploshes it into his soup and keeps moving. It would seem at firs that the heat of cooking and the exchange with the soup-girl have left him, too, red-faced-- but as he draws closer and catches sight of the woman awaiting there at the table claimed by his jacket, it becomes apparent that his complexion is just generally like that. Ruddy, befreckled, red-haired and red-bearded and far, far too much grinning, shining white teeth and smug keen green in his eyes. "Liaison," says he, setting out his soup-plate onto the table, letting it slide from palm to wood in a single motion. He follows it, stepping over then descending onto the bench across the table from her. "I almost feared we'd never meet." His jacket, there waiting, carries the faintest old scent of alcohol. The man himself smells only of fresh-quarried firestone and the cold outdoors.
Miniyal is much too busy making herself invisible to notice how quickly she is joined. It actually takes a moment or three for it to register and the brief flash of jealousy at how easily he moves is concealed by a shake of her head that leaves hair in her eyes. Then, of course, she must remove it from its place and does so with the back of one hand. One brow arches ever so slightly, not a trick she's ever perfected, but one she persists in attempting. The fact they have met before is glossed over. He was drunk after all and it was ages ago. Add to that Miniyal is not the sort of girl to be remembered and, well, she's quite content it is not remembered it seems. Besides, he was too busy punching someone else. . .Clearing her throat she eyes the food with the look of one forcing herself not to eat, the pudgy are not ever content to remain that way. "Yes, well, I'm sure it was bound to happen at some point. We're not such a big place as all that."
Nature is unfair: good people get plain looks, black cossacks and heavyset builds. And someone like R'vain gets shocking hair, shocking eyes, shocking teeth and natural grace. It is, indeed, a cruel world-- and clearly the Weyrlingmaster takes some delight in this fact. "What's this about you not eating in the evening. Do you eat in the morning? At noon? The wee black just before dawn?" He snares up a spoon and plops it into the soup, but makes no further move toward starting his meal. Instead he lays his paws flat either side of the plate and hunches forward somewhat over them, a feline leaning into the pounce-crouch. "You're taller than I remember." Which he must, somewhat-- to have told her apart from any other black-sacked woman among the Weyr's staff, any other hand he might have been slapped by.
Miniyal's face, already flushed such an unflattering color due to heat and lingering embarrassment turns an even darker shade of red. "That is none of your concern," she says primly. Primly she can do, much practice at it and considering how she dresses no real surprise. Mentioning food only makes her eyes wander towards where a tray of sweets have been set out and she watches them like she hasn't eaten in days, attention leaving them when the tray is carried out to the rest of the weyr to consume. Attention back on her tablemate she clears her throat. "You don't seem quite nearly as drunk as I remember," she replies in a tone of voice that is concealed beneath the chatter and clanging of the room without being lost within.
"You have no idea," replies R'vain quite simply. The words could go any of a number of ways: addict's guilt, playboy's unflappable aplomb, recreational partier's boast. In any case, it is not nearly so subtly spoken as Miniyal's opening, nor is it any kind of proper closure on the subject. The man just flashes her another pearl-and-goatee grin, then leans back from his forward crouch over the soup, spreading his boots wide and centering himself better on the bench, palms upon his knees. So arranged he regards her in a moment's silence, then asks from Threadless sky, "Did you know one of my weyrlings came back down to th'barracks with the idea in her head that the Weyr has a recordskeeper named Miniyal?" He huffs a singular syllable of a laugh and looks down at his soup, shaking his head. "Have t'admit it's easy enough to put stuff in her head. Only so much in there to begin with."
The flurry of activity in the kitchens lessens some as the meal outside is in full swing and there's not so much to be carried out. But, the presence of two outsiders keeps the workers from beginning to see to their meals so much. Instead they stall, linger, trying to overhear in some cases. Head tilting up, chin, such as it is, jutting out, Miniyal says, "Oh? How odd. The name I mean. I suppose if anyone would know how easy it is to place ideas into a weyrling's head it would be you." Or not you at all sort of lingers unspoken in the air for a moment. Not that Miniyal has been shy about sharing her opinion of the weyrlingmaster to anyone who even makes mention of it. She learned nothing of politics in her time working for Diya it would seem. "It must be so terrible for you trying to fill their heads," she offers with sarcastic sympathy. "All that space and only so much time between drinks."
"I'd prefer they got the idea the Caucus," a word his mouth can't help but seem to want to curl around, "took on a liaison to handle the Caucus' business in records, rather than that there's been a change in the way things work up there." Thick red brows twitch, but R'vain is not given to the subtle expressions of arching and furrowing. Instead his tongue slicks over his teeth and clucks back into his mouth: 'tch,' says he thusly, and lifts a paw to swipe his spoon up out of the soup, then jab it back down to roughly cut apart the slice of meat stolen from the drudge's platter. "Y'see, 'til lately it's pretty much been the right of anyone with a mind to read the records to go do so, at the weyrwomen's and headwoman's sufferance, of course. You put something back wrong too many times and you get to be unwelcome, sure."
"Perhaps," Miniyal begins, word a touch heated before she stops herself to attempt to calm down, "People would be more welcome there if they had a clue what they were doing. Rather than track someone down and interrupt them to do the work for them." Yes, she's throwing the weyrlings to the wolves. It's not as if she knows or is friends with any of them. Surprising, one would think she's friendly with everyone. "With -everyone- allowed to run around in there doing as they please it is impossible for those that work there to get anything done. Forget misplaced records. Smudged, torn, dribbled on, forgotten, 'borrowed' and never returned. The way things have been done makes it impossible for me to do things now as I am required to by my position." No mention of the caucus from her, but that's yet another thing she's never hid her displeasure on.
The jabbing of the spoon becomes a little more violent, smashing the little slice of meat against the soupy inside of the soup-plate's curve, splitting it along the grain more than actually cutting it. R'vain notices this only peripherally, sharing his attention between the food and his conversational partner. The conversation, for its part, becomes a bit more heated on his behalf, as well-- and he doesn't trouble himself to keep his calm. At least his voice remains appropriate for the indoors, but the speed of his speech and the hiss of his intonation betray agitation in quantity. "If they're so inept I would appreciate reports with names. Typically my weyrlings have had the sense to control themselves in records and treat the documents with respect. If you're finding that's not the case I /welcome/ your input, liaison, but I have most certainly not directed them to use you or any of the /Weyr/ staff to accomplish their work-- and if you have nothing better to do than accept their pleas for help, how is that my wrongdoing?"
Ignoring the people milling about and the potential for maternal intervention, Miniyal's eyes narrow as she looks across the table. "I speak in general, weyrlingmaster," and the title is said with such politeness it can only be meant as an insult. Amazing how that can work sometimes. "I've seen but two of your weyrlings in their insulting quest to be sure we do our job properly down there." Heated? That can be matched, anger makes social and physical inadequacies seem less important. Fingers curling up into her palms she fairly vibrates with annoyance, but keeps herself still for fear of knocking against something. Although the temptation to do so and spill the soup is lurking somewhere in her eyes. "The records kept are accurate. Otherwise they are pointless. And your sending them the way you did implies that the people who work there cannot be trusted." People like her father. "And that is the sort of divisiveness that makes life more difficult for all." A pause here and a mocking smile curves her lips upwards. "Perhaps you'd like to walk with me down there right now and check for yourself? I admit it's quite far from where you probably want to be, but the tunnels are well lit and the room itself, while a bit cramped, well, we make do as best we can even down there as we are."
This should have R'vain breathing fire. He's a temperamental man to be sure, even when not in his cups, and indeed he does stop the slaying of the meat-slice in the soup long enough to look up and focus firm on the woman across the table, eyes flashing. But their flash is not rage, and the teeth he bares are not the sort that tear throats. He even shakes a little, around the shoulders and jaw. One might think he's laughing somewhere beneath what little reserve he has. "Miniyal," he says, and now his voice is so smooth and proper that it's his turn to lose syllables among the clatter and murmur of the kitchen's doings. Spoken through a smile, her name could almost be tender-- and maybe that's just as much insult as her use of his title. "You mistake my purpose." A paw's overturned, abandoning the spoon, supplicating palm opened toward her. "I tell them to go check for such misdeeds so they feel inclined to actually complete the work as directed-- it invests them in it, you see. For their own sakes. Otherwise I'd have weyrlings coming up by ones and twos to laze about in the storeroom for as long as they think I expect them gone, and coming back to tell me they've done as I asked." He shrugs, dropping his hand to his knee. "They've always just gone in and done it before. I'm a little troubled that two already have apparently seen fit to use the Caucus' liaison for the Weyr's work." Another time with the tongue over the teeth, the light suck there: Tch. A pity.
One foot kicks a leg of the table as Miniyal shifts her weight on the bench. A small bump that hits just so and causes her to wince as a toe is pinched. Ignoring the pain she draws herself up to her not terribly impressive full height and says, "I am as much a part of this weyr as the next person. You had best remember that when drawing your lines on who belongs where. I was given the job I have now -because- of my knowledge of the records room. I was born and raised here at High Reaches and your words imply that I am just some. . .caucus flunky and I'll not be insulted that way by anyone." He is, quite successfully, hitting just about every button she has. "I suspect part of your problem is they just don't have anyone around all the time to look up to," is offered quite sweetly. "No immediate role model to encourage them to not laze about. It's a pity, really. Sometimes people need that sort of guidance and when it is not available they fall into all sorts of trouble. If we're not careful they'll take to drink and that will be the end of the lot of them." If only the true subtleties of insults were available to her, but part of the problem with avoiding socialization is it leaves one ill prepared for such occasions. Left to muddle through she does just that, bravado and anger carrying her well past the time when normally she would have fled and sought refuge amongst her records.
R'vain has something to say, certainly, somewhere around 'caucus flunky.' It begins with, "The records of the Weyr are intended to be open to all--" but it also stops with that, which does not bode well for his ever getting to finish it. After all, Miniyal's still speaking, and he shushes to listen. A hand is even lifted, overturned, this time a plea for her to please, continue-- just for show, to let anyone watching know how willing he is to hear her out. And grin, and stare at her, while she goes on. He starts to shake again, too, which does not compliment the records-worker's skill with throwing barbs, in any case. Raucous laughter that breaks out of him at the end won't help either. The Weyrlingmaster gets it under control quickly; just not quick enough not to have done it in the first place. "Oh, Miniyal," he breathes, lifting that hand now to wipe imaginary tears from beneath his ruddy lashes. Though he's playing it a little heavy, the humor seems to be earnestly felt; it keeps his eyes narrow and smiling even when he starts in on her in turn. "The whole point is that they get familiar with the records, enough to perform basic tasks there. It's completely improper for them to get you to do the work for them. They have legs and eyes and hands!" He slams an elbow onto the table's edge, causing the soup to slosh in the plate, and props his chin in his palm. "All I can ask you is to leave them to their own devices." The ruddy man grins at her. And then: winks.
Miniyal is, at least, the sort of person aware of her short comings. Quite too aware to ever really be able to get past them. So, the laughter for the most part has no visible effect on her at all. Her head stays up, hands folded together, and she lets it go. Although the people lurking about cannot help but quietly take sides, some looking sympathetically at her while others glare at the weyrlingmaster and some of them amused at the pair. There are, actually, a few of the women who even look sympathetically to the weyrlingmaster. The poor dears haven't learned yet. "Leaving them to their own devices will just result in more work for myself," is the quiet answer. More would be added, but the wink catches her off guard. Not in a fluttering sort of way, but she does stare, openmouthed. Anger begins to build up again, dark eyes flashing as she takes a deep breath and begins to launch into a sharp retort. But, the explosion never actually makes it. Instead she exhales loudly and drops her gaze from him. Whatever courage she had managed to find is beginning to retreat as the realization that a scene has been caused begins to dawn on her.
The Weyrlingmaster can only smirk. "Your call, then. Honestly though, sweetheart, it's my opinion that you're doing the work of other women." He takes up his spoon again, shifting on the bench to make himself seem more comfortable, attending now to his dinner while speaking in the most jovial of conversational tones. A spoonful of the soup, highlighted by a small torn strip of the meat, comes up to his chin, where he pauses to blow over it-- then looks up at her anew, a brightly thoughtful expression on his heavy features. Clearly, something has just occurred to him, something wonderful indeed. "Perhaps that's why she put you there. It was, after all, largely the juniors' domain before. It probably spares her quite a bit of work to have you tidying up after every weyrling, tithemaster and curious random sprat who comes in." A pause. "Ah well. Maybe it suits you." Pop, the soup goes into his mouth.
A longing look is cast at the food from under a bit of hair that mostly conceals her eyes. Sitting in the kitchen, the smell of food all around her, causes Miniyal's stomach to complain loudly about not being allowed to partake. Shoulders hunching, the traitorous body is ignored as she focuses back on the words being, presumably, said to her. "I've worked in the records room since I could walk." Or what passes for walking with her. "I like it in there. It's very orderly and quiet and not a lot of talking goes on." Which is the appeal, of course. "No one. . .put me there. I was offered the position by the weyrwoman. I'm good at what I do." Oh, issues of self-esteem, a hint of worry creeps into her expression regardless of the fact she should know better than to listen to a word said by the man across the table from her. Clearing her throat she finds some firmness of spirit to say, "Someone needs to be there to be sure things are done right."
"Since you could walk!" R'vain sounds impressed. Even a peek through fallen locks of hair would be enough to show that it is a trick of the voice; his face mocks with its bright smile and striking green stare. He spoons up more soup, stirring it a bit to draw up bits of tuber and carrot from the bottom for the next bite. "They must have pegged you out for that pretty early on. But if you enjoy it, no harm! Diya has better things to do, surely. She'll have work enough when there's a new Weyrwoman." R'vain dismisses the whole business with a flick of his fingers, the ones not busied by the spoon; that hand then goes back to rest upon his knee as he bends forward a bit to take more of his dinner. "Or else I suppose you'll both wind up somewhere else entirely. Are you sure you don't eat in the evening? The broth's good today. Not too salty."
"I don't work for her anymore," Miniyal says simply. "It was Lexine who offered me the new position." Ignorant political machine that she is she saw nothing to it but a chance to do something she wanted to do. "And, I didn't mean that," she says in an attempt to explain what she did mean which she should probably know better than to try to do. "I just meant. . well, that I was in there from an early age. I -am- good at what I do. I've got one of the fairest hands in the entire weyr when it comes to copying and cartography. And I am good at everything I do in there." Unlike in the world outside of dusty records. "I am not hungry," she lies, silently daring her body to complain again. Luckily it does not take that dare so she can let that pass. Oh, the comments she could make if only she could form the thoughts in her head. But casual conversation is hard enough, when it's scattered with landmines of insults she's totally out of her depth. So, she says nothing for a moment before making to stand. "Yes, well, I do thank you so much for your time."
R'vain grins and flicks her a nod of his head, his only concession to the notion that Miniyal and Diya are at all separated by the former's change of official venue. "I understand," he claims. When she goes to rise, he leaves off his dinner, dropping the spoon back into the soup so he can push himself up to a stand, one boot tucked behind the other to shove the bench just far enough back that he has room to rise gracefully between table and seat. At least he doesn't bait her again with food. Instead he puts a hand out, palm up. "And I thank you for yours. I'll be sure the rest are better prepared to behave appropriately when they come up to complete their assignments, but if any of them disappoint you /do/ feel free to let me know." His fingers curl slightly. Perhaps she's meant to put her hand over his for the farewell.
Miniyal's rise is not nearly as graceful, one foot catching the table and sending her forward a fraction so her knee connects with it. Wincing she keeps her head down, backing up to bump into the bench and nearly winding up seated on it again before catching herself. A heavy sigh and she lifts her head to notice the hand. Watching it as if she'll be bitten by it she looks unsure, glancing about and avoiding the gaze of anyone still so bored as to be enjoying the scene winding down. "Oh, thank you," she says to his words, so much thanks in her tone as to turn it quite mocking. Another look at the hand and she says, "Yes, well, enjoy your meal," ignoring it as if doesn't wish to risk touching it and is not just afraid of what he might do. She separates herself from bench and table with a final, loud knock of knee to leg, bowl clattering some, before turning to dodge her way to safety.
"You're welcome." No mockery in that-- but then, he's more than had his share. The hand turns over into a wave. Those who remain interested-- Miniyal not among them, working on flight as she is-- will find R'vain grinning after her. When she's gone, he shakes his head as if he's just handled a particularly oddball weyrling or some other relatively dismissible challenge, and sinks back onto the bench to finish his ill-gotten soup.