Just another night in the records room
Who: Miniyal and Neiran
When: Current turn, late in the evening
Where: Records Room, HRW
What: Neiran comes for information.
1/25/2006
It's not late, but it's getting later by the minute. Not that it doesn't normally, but this means that right now there's no one around in the records room but a lone person. Near the back of the room, a bit of dust gathering in her hair and on her dress, is Miniyal. Coughing softly she pulls several hide cases from a shelf and carries them to a table where several baskets of glows are already waiting for her. As she walks she bumps into things. A table, several stools, all of them quite easily out of her way, but somehow she manages to find them anyway.
With a measure more grace, Neiran enters the caverns. The musty smell is one most minds usually associate immediately with scholarly retreat and quietude; the moment this scent registers, Neiran closes his eyes and allows a relaxed breath to wind from his nostrils. Eyelids raise, and with unhurried scrutiny he casts his gaze from his vantage point near the entrance to the Upper Caverns. Finding the place nearly abandoned, there is a small pressing of lips together in the precursor to a smile. But, the coughing noise halts the expression mid-way, eyebrows raising instead. His eyes follow her perhaps disconcertingly as he moves into the room.
Giving a final bump into the table she was heading for, Miniyal sets, not drops, never drops, the tubes down and then rubs at her eyes. She looks around for a stool, finding one she hasn't knocked over and pulling it close. Something gives away the fact there is a visitor, it's the feeling given when one was alone and now is not. Head snapping up she looks around, peering into the soft darkness and focusing on the patches of light where other glow baskets sit. "Hello?" she asks, focusing in on Neiran. "Can I help you with something?"
Neiran comes to a stop just a short distance away from Miniyal, mouth an expressionless line. "Good evening. Yes, you might be able to." Briefly, his dark eyes survey their match in the shadows where pools of glow light do not fall, looking towards the fathomless records. "I wish to read what treatises the Weyr possesses on the subject of dragonhealing, as well as any records of the lives of riders who have lost their lifemate." The reasoning behind both requests is surely transparent, in light of recent events, and in his confidence that he shall be pointed in the right direction without delay, the Healer's chin lifts ever so slightly.
Miniyal's head cocks to the side. "There's some," she says with a nod, setting her own research aside as she stands up, bumping into the table. "We don't have a whole lot," she says. "And plenty of people have been asking. I can't let you leave with them you understand." Straightening herself up, not impressively tall at all, she nods her head once firmly. "I can let you look at them. Or copy anything we have. But I can't allow them to leave."
Neiran frowns mildly. "I see." It is not the notion of being disallowed from leaving with them that displeases him - to that, he nods with respectful understanding if not blitheness, and murmurs, "of course." Therefore, the suggested lack of resources to view is the cause of that expression two degrees less cheerful than his usual dispassionate mien. "I would be grateful if you would show me what you have. All of it."
"Of course. If you'll sit down I'll get what we have for you," Miniyal says, gesturing to a table. She carefully sets the tubes she was going to look at so they won't roll over. Without waiting to see if she's been listened to she heads for a set of shelves. There's no hesitation so perhaps she's just gotten them so much recently she knows. Or maybe she just knows where everything is in the same sometimes creepy, sometimes sad way that doddering old ladies do when they spend all their time doing one thing. of course, she's not old, but she gives that impression. Like she will be soon enough and is just waiting to catch up to her mind.
Neiran sits down at the table, folding his slender fingers together to await Miniyal's return with utmost patience. He watches the dutiful records-keeper vanish from his field of view, and then turns his gaze upon the ceiling. It's naturally impossible to tell what he might be thinking as he waits, though the sheer blandness of expression and vacancy of gaze promotes the idea that he's thinking nothing whatsoever.
Miniyal bustles about until she has what she wants. When she returns she has quite the small group of hides. Setting them down on the table he selected she smiles apologetically. "I'm sorry there is not much. It's so rare, you know? I mean, losing a lifemate. I guess we'll have to find more. I'll add it to my list of things to track down." Another fleeting smile and then she steps away from his table with a shrug. "Anyway, there is what we have. If you decide you want copies we can certainly make one for you."
"If you could indeed procure such documents, I would be appreciative. And I believe it would be to the benefit of the Weyr." The small stack is given a somewhat disbelieving look. Surely, there must be more on such an important arena of knowledge as the the healing of those beasts that keep their skies Thread-free? He draws the stack closer to himself, to gently leaf through the documents. "I wonder if utter ignorance or poor documentation is to blame for this deficincy in critical information," the young man mutters to the parchmentine leaflets.
Drawing herself up to her full height once again, and it's still not impressive, Miniyal sniffs. "Oftentimes such records are not stored here in the main records room. Some crafts prefer to keep things separate. It is not our fault they do not feel the need to allow us to hold such documents as well. Where they can be cataloged and carefully stored and be available and in the proper place. It would make things much easier for everyone I think."
"But is dragonhealing not the purview of the Weyrs alone? There's certainly very little literature on it in the Healer Hall," he drones, lifting his eyes only once from his survey of what has been brought, to look at Miniyal with his deadpan gaze. "Without official craft status, I would say it /is/ the duty of the main Weyr records room to collect and store such information. I would have thought better preparatory measures would have been taken before the initiation of the Pass itself." His words are critical, though perhaps his mellow voice takes any potentially scathing edge from them. He pauses, hand stayed from moving another leaf, to lift his chin and look at Miniyal.
"We can't force people to give us things," Miniyal says, voice soft enough to barely be heard even in the silent room. Soft in volume, but hard as the stones carved to make the weyr in force. "Things are scattered. Old hides were borrowed and not returned. Or left to fade somewhere and we couldn't find it once it was out of this room. We have done -everything- we can to preserve and maintain everything in here. The problem is it's a scattered knowledge. No one, that I've found, has been able to get a decent store of hides together. Some people are not willing to share information."
"That is unfortunate," Neiran states. His tone is disapproving, but this disappointment is by no means new to him. "I imagine someone more enterprising than myself might undertake the project of gathering more information together, and making legible copies. I'm frankly surprised no one has done so as of yet. Now it would be even more difficult." With the advent of Thread, and the preoccupation of Weyrleaders with more important things. He sniffs faintly, the result of a latecoming nasal drip. Any further words go unsaid, inner decision made that perhaps he's already spoken too much. "Thank you. I shall read these now. Will you be here for the next..." An appraising eye is cast over the sheets. "Two hours?" It's likely not enough time to read and digest them all, but that seems to be the time period the Journeyman is allowing himself this eve.
A frown has formed and is not going to go away now. Miniyal opens her mouth and then snaps it closed. Taking a deep breath she says in a flat, even tone, "We are doing everything we can. It's part of my new assignment to better organize the records room and make sure all records are available and up to date. I assure you, if you find the information lacking you simply have to make the proper request stating what information is needed and I will see that it is found." Turning sharply on her heel, ruining it by knocking into a stool she keeps her head down and heads for the table was going to use earlier, mumbling, "Yes. I will be here at least two more hours."
Neiran watches Miniyal go, and then merely lowers his head to his task. However, he stares at the topmost sheet without his eyes moving, merely thinking for a few moments. He draws in a soft breath to preclude his words. "It was not a criticism of you, but of your predecessors and the traditional methods which are ineffective in times of crisis. I anticipate you will fulfill your assignment well." That said, he falls to silence once more, and his eyes begin moving on the page. It is only a short time before he'll place that one aside, and begin on the next.
Miniyal takes a deep breath, not touching her work yet. Instead she sits still, shoulders hunched and head down as she looks at the table. "I am sorry," she mumbles quietly. "I didn't mean to. . .sound snappish." And that's it.
"There is no need to apologize. I was not offended, and it is understandable given the hour and my own remarks." Unfalteringly he speaks, hand hovering at the bottom of his current piece of hide, ready to move it aside once his eyes have glutted themselves on it. Something attracts his attention, and his knuckle goes to his lips in a thoughtful, unconscious gesture. He's immersed in his world of study now, silent within the quiet surroundings, and will be thus for the next two hours as indicated, unless interrupted.
Miniyal is quite done talking. She won't actually look at what she seems to have planned on working on. Instead she sits there, still and staring off at nothing while allowing him the silence to work.
Two hours of utter silence, but for the occasional punctuation by parchment's rustle. Perhaps remarkably, each item was visually examined not once, but twice. Granted, some more thoroughly than others, but all nonetheless. As though possessing an internal timepiece with relative accuracy, around the prescribed time, he leans back in his chair and stares vacantly for a few moments. Then, in a fluid motion, he gathers up the hides carefully, to step directly towards Miniyal, wherever she may be.
There was not a move from Miniyal. She sat still, not doing a thing, but with the attitude of someone quite used to sitting still and doing nothing at all. Her breathing was the only noise she made and even that was barely noticeable in the silence. When her table is approached her head lifts and she looks up at him. Some might speak then, but not her. She just sits, blinking a couple of times like her eyes haven't even done that since he went to studying.
"I am done with these," Neiran informs Miniyal mildly, laying down one portion of the stack on one side of the table, slightly to his left. "I would appreciate it if copies could be made of these, for my own collection." A much smaller selection is laid to the right. These are the few tidbits of more obscure or involved knowledge, beyond simple method for application of numbweed; deep scores, severe wing injuries, and the odd account of truly unusual and threatening wounds that might prove invaluable to reference some day in the disconcertingly near future. Atop the stack is a labeled wing diagram, notably.
Looking at the stacks, there's a nod that could almost be missed. "I can see to that. It will be two days before they are ready. Please do not come poking about asking for them beforehand as it will simply slow down the process." It's not a real friendly thing to say, but her tone has no accusation in it. She's simply stating the facts. The larger stack is glanced at and then dismissed as she turns her attention to the ones that she, most likely, will be seeing to. "When they are ready I will send word to you that they are ready and you may come get them." Some people's tone might imply that this means one could look them over and see if they are suitable. There is nothing to that in hers.
If anyone can appreciate a simple statement of the facts without pandering or overflowering the issue at hand, that one is Neiran. He nods in reply, just enough to make his gesture clear in meaning. "Thank you." He smooths the fabric of his billowsome sleeve, eyeing the grey fabric momentarily. "I imagine my name might be useful. It is Neiran."
Head lifting from leafing through the hides she will be copying, Miniyal gives a nod of her head. "It will make it easier, yes," she replies. Someone more socially able might have even turned that into a sort of amused tease or something of that sort. Not her. She simply, once again, says it as if that is the case. "I'm Miniyal," she adds as an afterthought as if quite sure her name wasn't going to be important, but it's only polite to offer it back.
"Well met." Thankfully, the absence of humor is not irksome to Neiran at all. His own grave nature reflects it, in fact, and it would seem that in the shadowy records room, two young individuals of similar nature have just made acquaintance. With no need to linger further, the Healer Journeyman straightens, seeking by an inhale of musty air to shed the slight haze of mental focus gained from being immobile and reading for a space of time, in dim light. He pauses but a moment further, as if struggling to think of an appropriate farewell for a handful of heartbeats. Nicety is dismissed with a mild blink, a simple incline of his head, and then he turns on his heel to exit the caverns after his productive evening.
The farewell is greeted in kind. Miniyal simply inclines her head a quarter of an inch or so before rising with her usual lack of grace to begin returning the unneeded records to their place. The only sound to be heard after he exits is a soft thud as she knocks something over and a heartfelt, "Stupid sharding bench," muttered loudly enough to carry.
When: Current turn, late in the evening
Where: Records Room, HRW
What: Neiran comes for information.
1/25/2006
It's not late, but it's getting later by the minute. Not that it doesn't normally, but this means that right now there's no one around in the records room but a lone person. Near the back of the room, a bit of dust gathering in her hair and on her dress, is Miniyal. Coughing softly she pulls several hide cases from a shelf and carries them to a table where several baskets of glows are already waiting for her. As she walks she bumps into things. A table, several stools, all of them quite easily out of her way, but somehow she manages to find them anyway.
With a measure more grace, Neiran enters the caverns. The musty smell is one most minds usually associate immediately with scholarly retreat and quietude; the moment this scent registers, Neiran closes his eyes and allows a relaxed breath to wind from his nostrils. Eyelids raise, and with unhurried scrutiny he casts his gaze from his vantage point near the entrance to the Upper Caverns. Finding the place nearly abandoned, there is a small pressing of lips together in the precursor to a smile. But, the coughing noise halts the expression mid-way, eyebrows raising instead. His eyes follow her perhaps disconcertingly as he moves into the room.
Giving a final bump into the table she was heading for, Miniyal sets, not drops, never drops, the tubes down and then rubs at her eyes. She looks around for a stool, finding one she hasn't knocked over and pulling it close. Something gives away the fact there is a visitor, it's the feeling given when one was alone and now is not. Head snapping up she looks around, peering into the soft darkness and focusing on the patches of light where other glow baskets sit. "Hello?" she asks, focusing in on Neiran. "Can I help you with something?"
Neiran comes to a stop just a short distance away from Miniyal, mouth an expressionless line. "Good evening. Yes, you might be able to." Briefly, his dark eyes survey their match in the shadows where pools of glow light do not fall, looking towards the fathomless records. "I wish to read what treatises the Weyr possesses on the subject of dragonhealing, as well as any records of the lives of riders who have lost their lifemate." The reasoning behind both requests is surely transparent, in light of recent events, and in his confidence that he shall be pointed in the right direction without delay, the Healer's chin lifts ever so slightly.
Miniyal's head cocks to the side. "There's some," she says with a nod, setting her own research aside as she stands up, bumping into the table. "We don't have a whole lot," she says. "And plenty of people have been asking. I can't let you leave with them you understand." Straightening herself up, not impressively tall at all, she nods her head once firmly. "I can let you look at them. Or copy anything we have. But I can't allow them to leave."
Neiran frowns mildly. "I see." It is not the notion of being disallowed from leaving with them that displeases him - to that, he nods with respectful understanding if not blitheness, and murmurs, "of course." Therefore, the suggested lack of resources to view is the cause of that expression two degrees less cheerful than his usual dispassionate mien. "I would be grateful if you would show me what you have. All of it."
"Of course. If you'll sit down I'll get what we have for you," Miniyal says, gesturing to a table. She carefully sets the tubes she was going to look at so they won't roll over. Without waiting to see if she's been listened to she heads for a set of shelves. There's no hesitation so perhaps she's just gotten them so much recently she knows. Or maybe she just knows where everything is in the same sometimes creepy, sometimes sad way that doddering old ladies do when they spend all their time doing one thing. of course, she's not old, but she gives that impression. Like she will be soon enough and is just waiting to catch up to her mind.
Neiran sits down at the table, folding his slender fingers together to await Miniyal's return with utmost patience. He watches the dutiful records-keeper vanish from his field of view, and then turns his gaze upon the ceiling. It's naturally impossible to tell what he might be thinking as he waits, though the sheer blandness of expression and vacancy of gaze promotes the idea that he's thinking nothing whatsoever.
Miniyal bustles about until she has what she wants. When she returns she has quite the small group of hides. Setting them down on the table he selected she smiles apologetically. "I'm sorry there is not much. It's so rare, you know? I mean, losing a lifemate. I guess we'll have to find more. I'll add it to my list of things to track down." Another fleeting smile and then she steps away from his table with a shrug. "Anyway, there is what we have. If you decide you want copies we can certainly make one for you."
"If you could indeed procure such documents, I would be appreciative. And I believe it would be to the benefit of the Weyr." The small stack is given a somewhat disbelieving look. Surely, there must be more on such an important arena of knowledge as the the healing of those beasts that keep their skies Thread-free? He draws the stack closer to himself, to gently leaf through the documents. "I wonder if utter ignorance or poor documentation is to blame for this deficincy in critical information," the young man mutters to the parchmentine leaflets.
Drawing herself up to her full height once again, and it's still not impressive, Miniyal sniffs. "Oftentimes such records are not stored here in the main records room. Some crafts prefer to keep things separate. It is not our fault they do not feel the need to allow us to hold such documents as well. Where they can be cataloged and carefully stored and be available and in the proper place. It would make things much easier for everyone I think."
"But is dragonhealing not the purview of the Weyrs alone? There's certainly very little literature on it in the Healer Hall," he drones, lifting his eyes only once from his survey of what has been brought, to look at Miniyal with his deadpan gaze. "Without official craft status, I would say it /is/ the duty of the main Weyr records room to collect and store such information. I would have thought better preparatory measures would have been taken before the initiation of the Pass itself." His words are critical, though perhaps his mellow voice takes any potentially scathing edge from them. He pauses, hand stayed from moving another leaf, to lift his chin and look at Miniyal.
"We can't force people to give us things," Miniyal says, voice soft enough to barely be heard even in the silent room. Soft in volume, but hard as the stones carved to make the weyr in force. "Things are scattered. Old hides were borrowed and not returned. Or left to fade somewhere and we couldn't find it once it was out of this room. We have done -everything- we can to preserve and maintain everything in here. The problem is it's a scattered knowledge. No one, that I've found, has been able to get a decent store of hides together. Some people are not willing to share information."
"That is unfortunate," Neiran states. His tone is disapproving, but this disappointment is by no means new to him. "I imagine someone more enterprising than myself might undertake the project of gathering more information together, and making legible copies. I'm frankly surprised no one has done so as of yet. Now it would be even more difficult." With the advent of Thread, and the preoccupation of Weyrleaders with more important things. He sniffs faintly, the result of a latecoming nasal drip. Any further words go unsaid, inner decision made that perhaps he's already spoken too much. "Thank you. I shall read these now. Will you be here for the next..." An appraising eye is cast over the sheets. "Two hours?" It's likely not enough time to read and digest them all, but that seems to be the time period the Journeyman is allowing himself this eve.
A frown has formed and is not going to go away now. Miniyal opens her mouth and then snaps it closed. Taking a deep breath she says in a flat, even tone, "We are doing everything we can. It's part of my new assignment to better organize the records room and make sure all records are available and up to date. I assure you, if you find the information lacking you simply have to make the proper request stating what information is needed and I will see that it is found." Turning sharply on her heel, ruining it by knocking into a stool she keeps her head down and heads for the table was going to use earlier, mumbling, "Yes. I will be here at least two more hours."
Neiran watches Miniyal go, and then merely lowers his head to his task. However, he stares at the topmost sheet without his eyes moving, merely thinking for a few moments. He draws in a soft breath to preclude his words. "It was not a criticism of you, but of your predecessors and the traditional methods which are ineffective in times of crisis. I anticipate you will fulfill your assignment well." That said, he falls to silence once more, and his eyes begin moving on the page. It is only a short time before he'll place that one aside, and begin on the next.
Miniyal takes a deep breath, not touching her work yet. Instead she sits still, shoulders hunched and head down as she looks at the table. "I am sorry," she mumbles quietly. "I didn't mean to. . .sound snappish." And that's it.
"There is no need to apologize. I was not offended, and it is understandable given the hour and my own remarks." Unfalteringly he speaks, hand hovering at the bottom of his current piece of hide, ready to move it aside once his eyes have glutted themselves on it. Something attracts his attention, and his knuckle goes to his lips in a thoughtful, unconscious gesture. He's immersed in his world of study now, silent within the quiet surroundings, and will be thus for the next two hours as indicated, unless interrupted.
Miniyal is quite done talking. She won't actually look at what she seems to have planned on working on. Instead she sits there, still and staring off at nothing while allowing him the silence to work.
Two hours of utter silence, but for the occasional punctuation by parchment's rustle. Perhaps remarkably, each item was visually examined not once, but twice. Granted, some more thoroughly than others, but all nonetheless. As though possessing an internal timepiece with relative accuracy, around the prescribed time, he leans back in his chair and stares vacantly for a few moments. Then, in a fluid motion, he gathers up the hides carefully, to step directly towards Miniyal, wherever she may be.
There was not a move from Miniyal. She sat still, not doing a thing, but with the attitude of someone quite used to sitting still and doing nothing at all. Her breathing was the only noise she made and even that was barely noticeable in the silence. When her table is approached her head lifts and she looks up at him. Some might speak then, but not her. She just sits, blinking a couple of times like her eyes haven't even done that since he went to studying.
"I am done with these," Neiran informs Miniyal mildly, laying down one portion of the stack on one side of the table, slightly to his left. "I would appreciate it if copies could be made of these, for my own collection." A much smaller selection is laid to the right. These are the few tidbits of more obscure or involved knowledge, beyond simple method for application of numbweed; deep scores, severe wing injuries, and the odd account of truly unusual and threatening wounds that might prove invaluable to reference some day in the disconcertingly near future. Atop the stack is a labeled wing diagram, notably.
Looking at the stacks, there's a nod that could almost be missed. "I can see to that. It will be two days before they are ready. Please do not come poking about asking for them beforehand as it will simply slow down the process." It's not a real friendly thing to say, but her tone has no accusation in it. She's simply stating the facts. The larger stack is glanced at and then dismissed as she turns her attention to the ones that she, most likely, will be seeing to. "When they are ready I will send word to you that they are ready and you may come get them." Some people's tone might imply that this means one could look them over and see if they are suitable. There is nothing to that in hers.
If anyone can appreciate a simple statement of the facts without pandering or overflowering the issue at hand, that one is Neiran. He nods in reply, just enough to make his gesture clear in meaning. "Thank you." He smooths the fabric of his billowsome sleeve, eyeing the grey fabric momentarily. "I imagine my name might be useful. It is Neiran."
Head lifting from leafing through the hides she will be copying, Miniyal gives a nod of her head. "It will make it easier, yes," she replies. Someone more socially able might have even turned that into a sort of amused tease or something of that sort. Not her. She simply, once again, says it as if that is the case. "I'm Miniyal," she adds as an afterthought as if quite sure her name wasn't going to be important, but it's only polite to offer it back.
"Well met." Thankfully, the absence of humor is not irksome to Neiran at all. His own grave nature reflects it, in fact, and it would seem that in the shadowy records room, two young individuals of similar nature have just made acquaintance. With no need to linger further, the Healer Journeyman straightens, seeking by an inhale of musty air to shed the slight haze of mental focus gained from being immobile and reading for a space of time, in dim light. He pauses but a moment further, as if struggling to think of an appropriate farewell for a handful of heartbeats. Nicety is dismissed with a mild blink, a simple incline of his head, and then he turns on his heel to exit the caverns after his productive evening.
The farewell is greeted in kind. Miniyal simply inclines her head a quarter of an inch or so before rising with her usual lack of grace to begin returning the unneeded records to their place. The only sound to be heard after he exits is a soft thud as she knocks something over and a heartfelt, "Stupid sharding bench," muttered loudly enough to carry.