[Kessian] Commission
A project given to be added to the graduation gifts for the weyrlings: first aid kits!
This time of night, the nighthearth's a warm and quiet retreat from the dulled hubbub of the living cavern or resident dorms. A pot of stew's growing a bit stale over the bricked hearth; nevertheless, a few are still taking late dinners. Kessian, though not eating, has pulled up a chair close by the damped fire, a cooled mug of tea at his elbow and chin cupped in his hand. He'd be reading the hides in his lap if his eyes weren't half-closed - every so often, he sits up and neatens the pages with a cough before slinking back down into a drowsy slouch.
K'del tracks dirty snow into the hearth area a he enters, and if that's not evidence enough that he's been out-of-doors, despite the hour, the sprinkling of white in his tousled hair and over his jacket must finish the job. He makes for the hearth, pulling off sodden gloves and tucking them under one arm as both hands are raised to meet the heat; his eyes close, too, his head tipping back just slightly, as though this is about as much as he can manage without falling asleep on his feet.
Heavy footfalls, a draft of cold air in a body's wake stir Kessian to struggle up in his chair. He was awake this whole time, really! A bleary gaze sweeps over his hides then beyond: first, K'del's boots, then drifting up to warming hands, finally settling on a jacket's knot. "Weyrleader, sir." Kessian salutes, if you can call touching two fingers to his temple and letting his hand flop down to his side again a salute. Stifing a yawn into his shoulder, the Healer sinks again into what appears to be a remarkably comfy chair. "Late night?" Noting K'del's dusting of snow.
If he's surprised at having been addressed - or at not being alone - K'del shows no sign of it as he swings around, letting his hands fall behind him so that they can continue to enjoy the warmth, as he considers Kessian. "Journeyman," he says, with a bob of his head, and maybe the faintest glimmer of unsuppressed amusement. "Isn't quite so late, at Tillek," he explains, after a moment more, shifting his shoulders in a careful stretch that results in one glove making a break for the floor. "But late enough. They working you /that/ hard, here?" That he's falling asleep in a chair, presumably.
"And what's there to be had at Tillek?" Shifting again, Kessian's elbow touches his mug and, reminded, the Healer reclaims it to drink. "Save yourself, sir." Brows gently lift in unison along with this slight lift in tone, falling again to a touch of levity in the curl of his lips. Kessian taps a foot outward, hoping to claim that glove - or maybe nudge it back toward K'del - as he replies, "No, no. Some light reading of my own. But between the warmth and the hour." He smiles and lifts one shoulder with the air of one saying, 'you caught me!'
Probably, K'del's gaze does note that fallen glove, but he makes no move to foil Kessian's efforts, whatever their intent. "Plenty of things in Tillek," he adds, then, conversationally. "My family, for one-- though they're not really relevant to this particular visit. Got weyrlings graduating in a few months. Gifts to commission." One of his hands - apparently now warm enough - is lifted up to run through his hair, shaking away some more snowflakes. "Right, of course. Done that plenty of times myself. Easy to do in here. Quiet."
Catching the leather thumb of the glove underfoot, Kessian draws it in and then bends to retrieve it properly. "Beyond the infrequent visit, I haven't seen many of your weyrlings," he muses. This is, presumably, a good thing. "They are all graduating?" Toying with K'del's glove inattentively, his mug set aside, Kessian glances up at the Weyrleader. "Gifts are... customary? I am not entirely familiar with Weyr traditions. Or are they only for favoured weyrlings?" Another smile, faint: he's not entirely serious, though he lets the question stand.
It makes K'del laugh - a genuine, light-hearted one. "Ooh, there's an idea. Gift boxes for the good ones, and the rest can go without, knowing we hate them and wish they weren't our riders." His hands seek his pockets, now, lounging in their in a relaxed, casual kind of manner. "Far as I know, they all are. Busy lot, in general. Lots to learn. And yeah, we give 'em all a box of gifts, from the Weyr. Bits and pieces from all over. Includ-- /actually/." He gives Kessian a considering glance.
"Or a gift box with signed transfer papers inside?" With the glove flattened against the arm of his chair and his spread his fingers against it, comparing, Kessian's amusement is apparent in a dry chuckle. "I suppose there is always more to learn. Regardless of -" Lifts that hand, taps knot. "... Actually?" The Healer prompts, tipping back his head to meet that study with a parting of his lips and a twitch of his eyebrows.
K'del's gaze linger on that glove and Kessian's hand for a moment, then lifts back towards the healer's face. "Or that," he says of the transfer papers, clearly much amused. But he's more business-like when he continues, even to the point of lifting one large hand from his pocket to tap at his lips. "Mm. We usually commission something from the healers, too. Usually the hall, but-- make more sense to use our /local/ healers, wouldn't it? First aid kit, something like that? Twenty of 'em?"
The glove's got about an inch on Kessian's redwort-stained fingers, and the healer wrinkles his nose down at the contrast. "Bandages, ointments and the like? Twenty." Kessian considers with a knuckle pressed to his chin. "Certainly, sir. I'd be happy to help." A smile crinkles the corners of his eyes; he adds with the tone of one thinking aloud: "I'll be sure to confirm with Delifa, I wouldn't want to commit supplies we can't spare - but yes, of course. It wouldn't do to interfere with Weyr traditions, would it?" Kessian extends that glove as if to seal the transaction.
The answer seems to please K'del, who grins cheerfully as he reaches to take his glove back. "Of course. Talk to Delifa, work out something with anyone else you need to - guess we need a bag or container or something to put whatever you end up making in, right? And price. Work that out, too." The glove gets stuffed into one of his pockets, now, along with the other, as he adds, "Don't really mind what goes in it, either. So long as it's useful. Have fun with it."
Minor details, which Kessian breezes away with a flick of his fingers into the air. It's too late to be thinking about such minutia. His curled smile is earnest nonetheless and his response no less sincere. "Your project is in good hands." There's a brief, pleased chuckle for K'del's last words, and Kessian repeats, "Have fun with it. I'll try, I'm sure, but there's something to be said for the practical." Not to say he hasn't taken the words to heart, though it'd be hard to tell behind that wide yawn which he's suddenly hiding behind a palm. "Pardon me. I really should be getting to bed, sir."
K'del admits, after a moment, "Suppose there's only so much fun a person can have with practical. /Still/." It's not going to destroy his smile, or his good mood. One less item to go chasing after! "Right-- of course. Ought to do something similar, I guess. Sleep well, Journeyman. And thank you."
And Kessian is ever practical: even getting to bed at a reasonable hour and such! He collects his mug and hides and nods curtly, politely. "My pleasure, as always, Weyrleader. Good night." After that quiet reply, he's slipping out past K'del into the inner caverns, steps light.
This time of night, the nighthearth's a warm and quiet retreat from the dulled hubbub of the living cavern or resident dorms. A pot of stew's growing a bit stale over the bricked hearth; nevertheless, a few are still taking late dinners. Kessian, though not eating, has pulled up a chair close by the damped fire, a cooled mug of tea at his elbow and chin cupped in his hand. He'd be reading the hides in his lap if his eyes weren't half-closed - every so often, he sits up and neatens the pages with a cough before slinking back down into a drowsy slouch.
K'del tracks dirty snow into the hearth area a he enters, and if that's not evidence enough that he's been out-of-doors, despite the hour, the sprinkling of white in his tousled hair and over his jacket must finish the job. He makes for the hearth, pulling off sodden gloves and tucking them under one arm as both hands are raised to meet the heat; his eyes close, too, his head tipping back just slightly, as though this is about as much as he can manage without falling asleep on his feet.
Heavy footfalls, a draft of cold air in a body's wake stir Kessian to struggle up in his chair. He was awake this whole time, really! A bleary gaze sweeps over his hides then beyond: first, K'del's boots, then drifting up to warming hands, finally settling on a jacket's knot. "Weyrleader, sir." Kessian salutes, if you can call touching two fingers to his temple and letting his hand flop down to his side again a salute. Stifing a yawn into his shoulder, the Healer sinks again into what appears to be a remarkably comfy chair. "Late night?" Noting K'del's dusting of snow.
If he's surprised at having been addressed - or at not being alone - K'del shows no sign of it as he swings around, letting his hands fall behind him so that they can continue to enjoy the warmth, as he considers Kessian. "Journeyman," he says, with a bob of his head, and maybe the faintest glimmer of unsuppressed amusement. "Isn't quite so late, at Tillek," he explains, after a moment more, shifting his shoulders in a careful stretch that results in one glove making a break for the floor. "But late enough. They working you /that/ hard, here?" That he's falling asleep in a chair, presumably.
"And what's there to be had at Tillek?" Shifting again, Kessian's elbow touches his mug and, reminded, the Healer reclaims it to drink. "Save yourself, sir." Brows gently lift in unison along with this slight lift in tone, falling again to a touch of levity in the curl of his lips. Kessian taps a foot outward, hoping to claim that glove - or maybe nudge it back toward K'del - as he replies, "No, no. Some light reading of my own. But between the warmth and the hour." He smiles and lifts one shoulder with the air of one saying, 'you caught me!'
Probably, K'del's gaze does note that fallen glove, but he makes no move to foil Kessian's efforts, whatever their intent. "Plenty of things in Tillek," he adds, then, conversationally. "My family, for one-- though they're not really relevant to this particular visit. Got weyrlings graduating in a few months. Gifts to commission." One of his hands - apparently now warm enough - is lifted up to run through his hair, shaking away some more snowflakes. "Right, of course. Done that plenty of times myself. Easy to do in here. Quiet."
Catching the leather thumb of the glove underfoot, Kessian draws it in and then bends to retrieve it properly. "Beyond the infrequent visit, I haven't seen many of your weyrlings," he muses. This is, presumably, a good thing. "They are all graduating?" Toying with K'del's glove inattentively, his mug set aside, Kessian glances up at the Weyrleader. "Gifts are... customary? I am not entirely familiar with Weyr traditions. Or are they only for favoured weyrlings?" Another smile, faint: he's not entirely serious, though he lets the question stand.
It makes K'del laugh - a genuine, light-hearted one. "Ooh, there's an idea. Gift boxes for the good ones, and the rest can go without, knowing we hate them and wish they weren't our riders." His hands seek his pockets, now, lounging in their in a relaxed, casual kind of manner. "Far as I know, they all are. Busy lot, in general. Lots to learn. And yeah, we give 'em all a box of gifts, from the Weyr. Bits and pieces from all over. Includ-- /actually/." He gives Kessian a considering glance.
"Or a gift box with signed transfer papers inside?" With the glove flattened against the arm of his chair and his spread his fingers against it, comparing, Kessian's amusement is apparent in a dry chuckle. "I suppose there is always more to learn. Regardless of -" Lifts that hand, taps knot. "... Actually?" The Healer prompts, tipping back his head to meet that study with a parting of his lips and a twitch of his eyebrows.
K'del's gaze linger on that glove and Kessian's hand for a moment, then lifts back towards the healer's face. "Or that," he says of the transfer papers, clearly much amused. But he's more business-like when he continues, even to the point of lifting one large hand from his pocket to tap at his lips. "Mm. We usually commission something from the healers, too. Usually the hall, but-- make more sense to use our /local/ healers, wouldn't it? First aid kit, something like that? Twenty of 'em?"
The glove's got about an inch on Kessian's redwort-stained fingers, and the healer wrinkles his nose down at the contrast. "Bandages, ointments and the like? Twenty." Kessian considers with a knuckle pressed to his chin. "Certainly, sir. I'd be happy to help." A smile crinkles the corners of his eyes; he adds with the tone of one thinking aloud: "I'll be sure to confirm with Delifa, I wouldn't want to commit supplies we can't spare - but yes, of course. It wouldn't do to interfere with Weyr traditions, would it?" Kessian extends that glove as if to seal the transaction.
The answer seems to please K'del, who grins cheerfully as he reaches to take his glove back. "Of course. Talk to Delifa, work out something with anyone else you need to - guess we need a bag or container or something to put whatever you end up making in, right? And price. Work that out, too." The glove gets stuffed into one of his pockets, now, along with the other, as he adds, "Don't really mind what goes in it, either. So long as it's useful. Have fun with it."
Minor details, which Kessian breezes away with a flick of his fingers into the air. It's too late to be thinking about such minutia. His curled smile is earnest nonetheless and his response no less sincere. "Your project is in good hands." There's a brief, pleased chuckle for K'del's last words, and Kessian repeats, "Have fun with it. I'll try, I'm sure, but there's something to be said for the practical." Not to say he hasn't taken the words to heart, though it'd be hard to tell behind that wide yawn which he's suddenly hiding behind a palm. "Pardon me. I really should be getting to bed, sir."
K'del admits, after a moment, "Suppose there's only so much fun a person can have with practical. /Still/." It's not going to destroy his smile, or his good mood. One less item to go chasing after! "Right-- of course. Ought to do something similar, I guess. Sleep well, Journeyman. And thank you."
And Kessian is ever practical: even getting to bed at a reasonable hour and such! He collects his mug and hides and nods curtly, politely. "My pleasure, as always, Weyrleader. Good night." After that quiet reply, he's slipping out past K'del into the inner caverns, steps light.