To the mutual advantage
10-26-2006 (Neiran, Reyce):
Craft Hall
This wide hall serves as an informal meeting and planning area for members of the Crafts. It's been stocked with plenty of tables, chairs, couches and even a number of narrow sandtables. There's also a small hearth that is kept burning day and night, causing the rich scent of fresh klah to wisp from the pots kept simmering constantly there. A number of doors lead off of the hall into offices, workrooms and classrooms. Plates next to each indicate what can be found inside.
How quickly desolation comes to High Reaches. It seems only yesterday that the weather was suitable for peaceful walks outside of the Bowl proper -- and now the long winding path towards the caldera of the Weyr has been made a slickened avenue of mud, perilous for the wheels of tithe trains and messenger runners alike. If the weather were not enough to put a damper on the Weyr, certainly the unpleasant Fall only four days past is. Dragonriders have no doubt drunk away the loss of their comrades, but for those who must continue to care for the injured, there's less hard and fast respite. There are the simpler pleasures to be attained when time allows, and one particular Journeyman has decided, in a rare moment of lassitude, that he is deserving of a break. Neiran is at a long worktable that is conspicuously devoid of other people; they prefer the couches, and the hearth there. Some stacked hides suggest Neiran's repast has not been entirely for leisure, and even now he has a thick book open in two hands, the embossed title visible along the spine: Apprentice Seacrafter's Essentials. Above the quiet din of early evening conversation, the occasional notes of stringed instruments being tuned pipe up. This is, after all, the Craft Hall, and a quartet of young Harpers has claimed a corner as their own to practice at.
Reyce has made all the necessary adjustments for the suddenly cool season - a return to heavy sweaters and his leather jacket - except one. His usual boots, heavy and well-made for any weather, have been exchanged for a pair of leather sandals, so old that parts of them have worn from brown to black and the yellowed stitching has come loose at the heels and on the straps. With his boots, to which he is accustomed, he can move rather silently despite the weight of the footwear; with his sandals, he cannot help but make an obnoxious slapping noise with every ill-controlled step. He emerges from a door marked 'Master Putnam,' one situated a good way down the hallway, and since his eventual goal is out, that leaves him flip-flopping his way across the entire hallway. He passes close by Neiran's worktable, flicking the healer a glance and a short, grunted, "Healer," to acknowledge him. His right hand - still splinted, as per doctor's orders - curls instinctively towards his chest.
Neiran's dark eyes slide from the diagrams on the page to identify the obnoxious sandal-wearer. His face remains inscrutable upon seeing Reyce, a cordial nod serving as better sign against any suspicion of ill mood. The absence of heavily lidded eyes or dark shadows beneath them does well to establish that the Journeyman is not in one of his worse states, and the attentiveness with which his gaze shifts to the curled hand surely affirms it all the more. "Good evening," he replies, utterly unhastily; it's the kind of tone that demands he not simply be passed over. The kind of mellow, sedate tone which tells any socially aware person to slow their step, and pause for at least some minimal chitchat. In case his tone was too subtle, his eyes remain on the injury, and his own able hands move to mark the page with a slip of ribbon before setting the tome aside in a single fluid gesture.
Reyce has never been known for his social acumen. He drops a nod on the greeting, perfectly ready to let that be the end of the exchange while he, and his slippered feet, makes an escape. Were it not for the piling up of obvious hints, he might succeed in doing just that, but as he remains ever alert to any attention fixed upon his hand, he cannot help but notice the healer's pointed stare. So he makes it to the end of the table, but no further: it's clear that he's been halted, rather than paused by his own will. He makes no bones about this, simply turning back to the healer and leaning his (good) hand on the desk, giving it a little tap as though he needed to announce his continued attention. "Doing all right?" he asks, his lip twisting in at the corner for his own forced social gambit.
Neiran watches the power of his concentrated social signals come to fruition and cause Reyce to halt; for a man who so often seems determined to go unnoticed, discovering that even still such an ability is within your grasp is subtly satisfying. Neiran straightens his shoulders slightly, just as the Harper quartet of violin, cello, flute, and lap harp begins a soft background melody. The scale and tempo lend it an oriental air, low and sonorous to suit the evening. "I am doing well, thank you." Neiran's attention briefly diverts to the quartet, and it seems that with effort after letting his attention linger there he looks back to the Bendenite. "It is serendipitous that you are here; I was preparing to instigate a search for you, in order that I may ensure your hand is healing well." Belatedly realizing he's skipped over his own required social niceties in his eagerness to perform his professional duties, he smoothly adds, "I hope that you are doing well, despite it...?"
Reyce ignores the harpers more successfully than he ignored Neiran's social signals, simply dropping his eyes to the table while the healer looks off that way. He keeps his face pointed down at the table when he realizes he's being addressed again, raising only his eyes to meet the healer's level glance, and that only for a moment. Then he just lets the words flow over him, obediently raising his injured hand and setting it down on the table, not bracing it (as his other hand) but simply flopping it down in plain view. "Sure," he answers the inquiry, after a beat - it takes him a second to recognize that his question has been returned. "Hasn't been hurting. Just hard to write with." The fingers twitch at these words, his uninjured index finger coming down to meet his thumb in a brief illustration of how hard it is to hold any kind of writing implement.
"That is to be expected," the Journeyman replies sedately, leaning forward somewhat to see the man's hand better. "If it has not been painful, I believe it is safe to assume you did not irreparably tear any vital ligaments." Although he is regarding the hand intently, as if his eyes could penetrate skin to see muscle, vein, and connective tissue, he does not reach out to touch the injury with his own hands; they remain at ease, framing his book. "It is fortunate," Neiran murmurs slowly after a time, voice distant with the reverie he's indulging in, "that you are not a Harper. Hands are exceptionally valuable, but I imagine that that Craft would suffer even the smallest reduction of mobility with a sense of loss." As though only now realizing he's spoken aloud, his eyes take a path up Reyce's arm, to hover at his face. He leans back without looking away, his own hands sliding off of the table's surface to rest in his lap.
Reyce eases his weight to the left, leaning more heavily down on his uninjured hand and turning himself more towards the healer's seat. His right hand, after that brief twitch it made towards movement, now holds entirely still: perhaps he's grown used to Neiran's uncanny investigations in the check-ups he's had to endure since getting the injury. "Yeah, well," he answers unhelpfully. Noticing the other man lean back, he takes it for an end to the investigation and reclaims his hand, using the back of his wrist to scratch ineffectively at an itch on his neck. Since shaving is another difficult task for the one-handed, he's allowed it to grow in especially thick; fortunately, he is one of those men for whom facial hair grows quickly the first few days, and then seems to stop entirely; were not for that, he might well have a beard by this point. "Not really much chance of that. Don't like music."
The Journeyman is more interested in watching the quartet perform than scrutinizing Reyce's facial hair. But in case the Blooded rogue is desperate enough to ignore the music that he's staring at Neiran's chin, it is without beard, as usual. Not even the shadow of a promise of stubble ever seems to appear there, one of those bloodlines that simply fails to manifest such a manly attribute. Ignoring Reyce's stated disinterest in music, he observes mildly whilst watching the quartet, "this composition is especially mathematically advanced..." He deigns to remind himself of Reyce's presence once more, turning his face towards the scruffier version of his fellow student. "I apologize if you are lingering on my account. It had been my intention to ensure your hand was not causing you discomfort during the healing process." That done, it seems as though the passage is cleared for him to leave.
Reyce's interest has been acquired, too bad for Neiran. With him, of course, it is the word 'mathematically' that does it: suddenly he has a frown for the suggestion, a frown for the harpers' quarter playing off in their corner. The injured hand lingers by his throat, the scratching grown slow now that he's distracted, then it gives one final rub and falls away, dropping back to the table (but lightly, resting only the palm there). His frown dispersed, he returns his gaze to the healer, but there's something almost like suspicion in it now, in the way he narrows his eyes and darts them back and forth across Neiran's features as though trying to read some ulterior motive there. It does not last very long, though, and finding only the healer's usual impassivity, he dares to ask, drawing the words slowly, "Mathematically?" The 'mat' gets a heavy emphasis, dragging his doubt all the way through the word: perhaps Neiran has been in enough classes with Reyce to recognize this as the way he, however rarely, asks his instructors to clarify an unexpected point.
Neiran's face remains neutral under scrutiny, his usual angular features seeming as placid as their geometry allows. His brow does pique briefly, slowly lowering afterwards when his head inclines. Surely Neiran cannot be oblivious to his classmate's penchant for math, though the comment seemed convincingly casual just moments ago. "Yes," he replies, unintimidated by the man's transparent skepticism. He pauses in that customary way of his when he's gathering words and stringing them together for best effect. "Music is composed mathematically; the staff sets a timed meter which must be adhered to, and each note is assigned a specific value. A composition's technicality indicates the skill of its composer, and unconsciously affects its audience in different ways, depending on the equations it builds. Each note on the scale relates to one another mathematically, as well. That is what I have been told; I have not been at leisure to make a study of it." That said, his hands return to the tabletop, slender fingers twining together while he watches Reyce receptively.
Reyce's eyes squint down as he absorbs this explanation, his focus remaining narrowly on Neiran. From time to time his forehead twitches, registering the points of this new idea, but none of his frowns come to fruition. When the healer finishes, Reyce falls silent for a while, letting his gaze track over towards the harpers and their quarter. It's less intense, now, but still clearly concentrated; he gives himself a while to register notes in their new song, then looks back at Neiran with a restored frown. "I don't see it," he says simply. But, evidently, he intends to, because his foot sneaks out to one of the other chairs arranged around the desk, drawing it towards him with a loud dragging noise that (rudely) interrupts the sounds from the quartet. Fortunately they have enough training (and determination) to ignore him, but it may be more bothersome for those closer by - say, Neiran himself - and Reyce himself doesn't seem to notice at all, dropping into the chair without a word of apology.
The only sign of Neiran's displeasure is the small twitching of the delicate skin underneath his left eye as he struggles against a wince - and ultimately wins. "Listen," he advises temperately. The man's lips are pressed into a thinner line, his customary thinking expression. "I would advise focusing on the cello's line initially. It is the simplest; the others are in different metres...I cannot explain it more thoroughly," he confesses, admitting a lack of knowledge where there is one. "What I know I only acquired accidentally from my Turn near Harper Hall." His frank apology laid out, he silences to allow the Bendenite to try and find the math in the music. With such a vague explanation of his meaning, it might be too much to wish for. Even still, he watches Reyce with half-lidded eyes as if the turning gears of his thought processes were exposed.
Reyce settles forward in his chair, elbows propped on the table in front of him with his injured hand cupped over his mouth. He stares levelly at the healer, but his attention is not so focused this time - he seems to be splitting it between Neiran's words and the notes of music drifting over from the practicing quartet. His thumb sneaks around to rub absently at the edge of the bandage, working strings free around the edge; once he's directed towards the cello line, the motion of his thumb - after a pause, while he attempts to separate the cello from the rest of the sound - begins to echo the simple line, twitching off another bit of string with every note he hears. That doesn't seem to help him, though: after about twenty seconds of this, he drops his eyes towards the table, both of his hands going back to wind through his hair - the injured one more awkwardly - and hold his head down, ears exposed while he tries to simply listen, without any unnecessary input. This, it seems, works better for him, though it takes patience: after perhaps two minutes, he makes a small, "Mmm," sound. Recognition. Another half a minute gives him time to process, and then his eyes open, still staring down at the table though his next words would have to be directed at Neiran: "Yeah, okay. Think I got - the notes."
Neiran is never unnerved by silences; he does not disrupt it. The surgeon watches Reyce settle into contemplation, disdaining motion himself. It allows him to simply listen, his eyelids remaining at half-mast as the intriguing melody continues. It's just when the Bendenite grasps it that it begins to wind to a close; the Harpers are oblivious to their experiment and impromptu self-teaching, and draw the last notes with smiles shared amongst them for a song well played. "I imagine your mental processes would be awarded an advantage if you were to see the music itself. The mathematical structure of it would become rapidly apparent," he assures Reyce, his voice now in the relative silence of the air in the Crafthall. "I find it difficult to believe that anyone could dislike music," the Journeyman adds after a few heartbeats, a slightly contemplative note working its way into his even timbre. "It is immensely varied."
Reyce's eyes slip back to Neiran during his answer, peering through the crook of his elbow at the still-composed healer, taking in with a few swift flicks the details of his post-musical expression. "Yeah," he agrees slowly, drawing the word down with him as he sinks towards the table. It's just to give his hands a better angle on his head, the left hand giving the curls back there a brief scratch to reshuffle them after his posture a few minutes ago pressed them down. "Not so much listening to it I don't like," he explains, the scratches stopping only when his words do. He pulls himself back up, dropping both hands down to the table in front of him and crossing them at the wrist. His left remains on top, so he can worry his thumb at the now-loosened edge of the bandage, a sudden habbit he doesn't seem to notice as he's doing it. "More that I don't like working with it. Just listening, I don't usually care." He offers a shrug here, dismissive, but there's also a curious tilt to his head, a wandering of his eyes to the recently-quietened harper quartet. There's also the word 'usually.'
Neiran motionlessly regards Reyce, his hands folded and ever still upon the tabletop. "I find it soothing," he states briefly, as if only now recalling that he's not supposed to be social. In actuality, his eyes have caught sight of the timepiece on the mantle, and the slim metal arms that point him towards duty once more. He closes his eyes for a moment, and rises fluidly from his chair. Now looming over Reyce, he resumes his contemplative stare, the bridge of his nose serving as a sight. "If you pursue the mathematical properties of music, I would be grateful for your secondhand elucidation on the subject. As it is, I do not have the time...and presently I am needed in the infirmary." He bows his head for a moment, and the gesture can be seen as either obeisance to duty or acknowledgment to Reyce. He slips behind his chair to neatly tuck it in, and quietly begins gathering his hides and his book into a bag previously unseen on the seat of a nearby chair. "It is with regret that I must absent myself. If it is not too presumptive to say so, I believe this is an interest which we could discuss at length to the mutual advantage of our intellects."
Reyce's eyes wander back from the harper quartet, who have now gone on a break to chat quietly and fuss with their instruments. Or perhaps they're done, it's hard to tell. Either way, Reyce seems to have no intention of leaving immediately, nevermind the way he tried to flee the Craft Hall earlier. His mouth twists slightly inwards at the healer's words, wry, but he offers a mild nod instead of whatever unpleasant thought just came his way. "Yeah, seems interesting. Probably look into it, tell you what I find." His thumb has now worked enough of the bandage free that he can just slip the tip of it underneath, pressing relief into the itchy skin that's been locked away beneath the gauze for so long now. The action soothes away the last traces of that wry expression on his face, twisting it, instead, upwards into the barest sliver of a half-smile. "So next time, then."
Craft Hall
This wide hall serves as an informal meeting and planning area for members of the Crafts. It's been stocked with plenty of tables, chairs, couches and even a number of narrow sandtables. There's also a small hearth that is kept burning day and night, causing the rich scent of fresh klah to wisp from the pots kept simmering constantly there. A number of doors lead off of the hall into offices, workrooms and classrooms. Plates next to each indicate what can be found inside.
How quickly desolation comes to High Reaches. It seems only yesterday that the weather was suitable for peaceful walks outside of the Bowl proper -- and now the long winding path towards the caldera of the Weyr has been made a slickened avenue of mud, perilous for the wheels of tithe trains and messenger runners alike. If the weather were not enough to put a damper on the Weyr, certainly the unpleasant Fall only four days past is. Dragonriders have no doubt drunk away the loss of their comrades, but for those who must continue to care for the injured, there's less hard and fast respite. There are the simpler pleasures to be attained when time allows, and one particular Journeyman has decided, in a rare moment of lassitude, that he is deserving of a break. Neiran is at a long worktable that is conspicuously devoid of other people; they prefer the couches, and the hearth there. Some stacked hides suggest Neiran's repast has not been entirely for leisure, and even now he has a thick book open in two hands, the embossed title visible along the spine: Apprentice Seacrafter's Essentials. Above the quiet din of early evening conversation, the occasional notes of stringed instruments being tuned pipe up. This is, after all, the Craft Hall, and a quartet of young Harpers has claimed a corner as their own to practice at.
Reyce has made all the necessary adjustments for the suddenly cool season - a return to heavy sweaters and his leather jacket - except one. His usual boots, heavy and well-made for any weather, have been exchanged for a pair of leather sandals, so old that parts of them have worn from brown to black and the yellowed stitching has come loose at the heels and on the straps. With his boots, to which he is accustomed, he can move rather silently despite the weight of the footwear; with his sandals, he cannot help but make an obnoxious slapping noise with every ill-controlled step. He emerges from a door marked 'Master Putnam,' one situated a good way down the hallway, and since his eventual goal is out, that leaves him flip-flopping his way across the entire hallway. He passes close by Neiran's worktable, flicking the healer a glance and a short, grunted, "Healer," to acknowledge him. His right hand - still splinted, as per doctor's orders - curls instinctively towards his chest.
Neiran's dark eyes slide from the diagrams on the page to identify the obnoxious sandal-wearer. His face remains inscrutable upon seeing Reyce, a cordial nod serving as better sign against any suspicion of ill mood. The absence of heavily lidded eyes or dark shadows beneath them does well to establish that the Journeyman is not in one of his worse states, and the attentiveness with which his gaze shifts to the curled hand surely affirms it all the more. "Good evening," he replies, utterly unhastily; it's the kind of tone that demands he not simply be passed over. The kind of mellow, sedate tone which tells any socially aware person to slow their step, and pause for at least some minimal chitchat. In case his tone was too subtle, his eyes remain on the injury, and his own able hands move to mark the page with a slip of ribbon before setting the tome aside in a single fluid gesture.
Reyce has never been known for his social acumen. He drops a nod on the greeting, perfectly ready to let that be the end of the exchange while he, and his slippered feet, makes an escape. Were it not for the piling up of obvious hints, he might succeed in doing just that, but as he remains ever alert to any attention fixed upon his hand, he cannot help but notice the healer's pointed stare. So he makes it to the end of the table, but no further: it's clear that he's been halted, rather than paused by his own will. He makes no bones about this, simply turning back to the healer and leaning his (good) hand on the desk, giving it a little tap as though he needed to announce his continued attention. "Doing all right?" he asks, his lip twisting in at the corner for his own forced social gambit.
Neiran watches the power of his concentrated social signals come to fruition and cause Reyce to halt; for a man who so often seems determined to go unnoticed, discovering that even still such an ability is within your grasp is subtly satisfying. Neiran straightens his shoulders slightly, just as the Harper quartet of violin, cello, flute, and lap harp begins a soft background melody. The scale and tempo lend it an oriental air, low and sonorous to suit the evening. "I am doing well, thank you." Neiran's attention briefly diverts to the quartet, and it seems that with effort after letting his attention linger there he looks back to the Bendenite. "It is serendipitous that you are here; I was preparing to instigate a search for you, in order that I may ensure your hand is healing well." Belatedly realizing he's skipped over his own required social niceties in his eagerness to perform his professional duties, he smoothly adds, "I hope that you are doing well, despite it...?"
Reyce ignores the harpers more successfully than he ignored Neiran's social signals, simply dropping his eyes to the table while the healer looks off that way. He keeps his face pointed down at the table when he realizes he's being addressed again, raising only his eyes to meet the healer's level glance, and that only for a moment. Then he just lets the words flow over him, obediently raising his injured hand and setting it down on the table, not bracing it (as his other hand) but simply flopping it down in plain view. "Sure," he answers the inquiry, after a beat - it takes him a second to recognize that his question has been returned. "Hasn't been hurting. Just hard to write with." The fingers twitch at these words, his uninjured index finger coming down to meet his thumb in a brief illustration of how hard it is to hold any kind of writing implement.
"That is to be expected," the Journeyman replies sedately, leaning forward somewhat to see the man's hand better. "If it has not been painful, I believe it is safe to assume you did not irreparably tear any vital ligaments." Although he is regarding the hand intently, as if his eyes could penetrate skin to see muscle, vein, and connective tissue, he does not reach out to touch the injury with his own hands; they remain at ease, framing his book. "It is fortunate," Neiran murmurs slowly after a time, voice distant with the reverie he's indulging in, "that you are not a Harper. Hands are exceptionally valuable, but I imagine that that Craft would suffer even the smallest reduction of mobility with a sense of loss." As though only now realizing he's spoken aloud, his eyes take a path up Reyce's arm, to hover at his face. He leans back without looking away, his own hands sliding off of the table's surface to rest in his lap.
Reyce eases his weight to the left, leaning more heavily down on his uninjured hand and turning himself more towards the healer's seat. His right hand, after that brief twitch it made towards movement, now holds entirely still: perhaps he's grown used to Neiran's uncanny investigations in the check-ups he's had to endure since getting the injury. "Yeah, well," he answers unhelpfully. Noticing the other man lean back, he takes it for an end to the investigation and reclaims his hand, using the back of his wrist to scratch ineffectively at an itch on his neck. Since shaving is another difficult task for the one-handed, he's allowed it to grow in especially thick; fortunately, he is one of those men for whom facial hair grows quickly the first few days, and then seems to stop entirely; were not for that, he might well have a beard by this point. "Not really much chance of that. Don't like music."
The Journeyman is more interested in watching the quartet perform than scrutinizing Reyce's facial hair. But in case the Blooded rogue is desperate enough to ignore the music that he's staring at Neiran's chin, it is without beard, as usual. Not even the shadow of a promise of stubble ever seems to appear there, one of those bloodlines that simply fails to manifest such a manly attribute. Ignoring Reyce's stated disinterest in music, he observes mildly whilst watching the quartet, "this composition is especially mathematically advanced..." He deigns to remind himself of Reyce's presence once more, turning his face towards the scruffier version of his fellow student. "I apologize if you are lingering on my account. It had been my intention to ensure your hand was not causing you discomfort during the healing process." That done, it seems as though the passage is cleared for him to leave.
Reyce's interest has been acquired, too bad for Neiran. With him, of course, it is the word 'mathematically' that does it: suddenly he has a frown for the suggestion, a frown for the harpers' quarter playing off in their corner. The injured hand lingers by his throat, the scratching grown slow now that he's distracted, then it gives one final rub and falls away, dropping back to the table (but lightly, resting only the palm there). His frown dispersed, he returns his gaze to the healer, but there's something almost like suspicion in it now, in the way he narrows his eyes and darts them back and forth across Neiran's features as though trying to read some ulterior motive there. It does not last very long, though, and finding only the healer's usual impassivity, he dares to ask, drawing the words slowly, "Mathematically?" The 'mat' gets a heavy emphasis, dragging his doubt all the way through the word: perhaps Neiran has been in enough classes with Reyce to recognize this as the way he, however rarely, asks his instructors to clarify an unexpected point.
Neiran's face remains neutral under scrutiny, his usual angular features seeming as placid as their geometry allows. His brow does pique briefly, slowly lowering afterwards when his head inclines. Surely Neiran cannot be oblivious to his classmate's penchant for math, though the comment seemed convincingly casual just moments ago. "Yes," he replies, unintimidated by the man's transparent skepticism. He pauses in that customary way of his when he's gathering words and stringing them together for best effect. "Music is composed mathematically; the staff sets a timed meter which must be adhered to, and each note is assigned a specific value. A composition's technicality indicates the skill of its composer, and unconsciously affects its audience in different ways, depending on the equations it builds. Each note on the scale relates to one another mathematically, as well. That is what I have been told; I have not been at leisure to make a study of it." That said, his hands return to the tabletop, slender fingers twining together while he watches Reyce receptively.
Reyce's eyes squint down as he absorbs this explanation, his focus remaining narrowly on Neiran. From time to time his forehead twitches, registering the points of this new idea, but none of his frowns come to fruition. When the healer finishes, Reyce falls silent for a while, letting his gaze track over towards the harpers and their quarter. It's less intense, now, but still clearly concentrated; he gives himself a while to register notes in their new song, then looks back at Neiran with a restored frown. "I don't see it," he says simply. But, evidently, he intends to, because his foot sneaks out to one of the other chairs arranged around the desk, drawing it towards him with a loud dragging noise that (rudely) interrupts the sounds from the quartet. Fortunately they have enough training (and determination) to ignore him, but it may be more bothersome for those closer by - say, Neiran himself - and Reyce himself doesn't seem to notice at all, dropping into the chair without a word of apology.
The only sign of Neiran's displeasure is the small twitching of the delicate skin underneath his left eye as he struggles against a wince - and ultimately wins. "Listen," he advises temperately. The man's lips are pressed into a thinner line, his customary thinking expression. "I would advise focusing on the cello's line initially. It is the simplest; the others are in different metres...I cannot explain it more thoroughly," he confesses, admitting a lack of knowledge where there is one. "What I know I only acquired accidentally from my Turn near Harper Hall." His frank apology laid out, he silences to allow the Bendenite to try and find the math in the music. With such a vague explanation of his meaning, it might be too much to wish for. Even still, he watches Reyce with half-lidded eyes as if the turning gears of his thought processes were exposed.
Reyce settles forward in his chair, elbows propped on the table in front of him with his injured hand cupped over his mouth. He stares levelly at the healer, but his attention is not so focused this time - he seems to be splitting it between Neiran's words and the notes of music drifting over from the practicing quartet. His thumb sneaks around to rub absently at the edge of the bandage, working strings free around the edge; once he's directed towards the cello line, the motion of his thumb - after a pause, while he attempts to separate the cello from the rest of the sound - begins to echo the simple line, twitching off another bit of string with every note he hears. That doesn't seem to help him, though: after about twenty seconds of this, he drops his eyes towards the table, both of his hands going back to wind through his hair - the injured one more awkwardly - and hold his head down, ears exposed while he tries to simply listen, without any unnecessary input. This, it seems, works better for him, though it takes patience: after perhaps two minutes, he makes a small, "Mmm," sound. Recognition. Another half a minute gives him time to process, and then his eyes open, still staring down at the table though his next words would have to be directed at Neiran: "Yeah, okay. Think I got - the notes."
Neiran is never unnerved by silences; he does not disrupt it. The surgeon watches Reyce settle into contemplation, disdaining motion himself. It allows him to simply listen, his eyelids remaining at half-mast as the intriguing melody continues. It's just when the Bendenite grasps it that it begins to wind to a close; the Harpers are oblivious to their experiment and impromptu self-teaching, and draw the last notes with smiles shared amongst them for a song well played. "I imagine your mental processes would be awarded an advantage if you were to see the music itself. The mathematical structure of it would become rapidly apparent," he assures Reyce, his voice now in the relative silence of the air in the Crafthall. "I find it difficult to believe that anyone could dislike music," the Journeyman adds after a few heartbeats, a slightly contemplative note working its way into his even timbre. "It is immensely varied."
Reyce's eyes slip back to Neiran during his answer, peering through the crook of his elbow at the still-composed healer, taking in with a few swift flicks the details of his post-musical expression. "Yeah," he agrees slowly, drawing the word down with him as he sinks towards the table. It's just to give his hands a better angle on his head, the left hand giving the curls back there a brief scratch to reshuffle them after his posture a few minutes ago pressed them down. "Not so much listening to it I don't like," he explains, the scratches stopping only when his words do. He pulls himself back up, dropping both hands down to the table in front of him and crossing them at the wrist. His left remains on top, so he can worry his thumb at the now-loosened edge of the bandage, a sudden habbit he doesn't seem to notice as he's doing it. "More that I don't like working with it. Just listening, I don't usually care." He offers a shrug here, dismissive, but there's also a curious tilt to his head, a wandering of his eyes to the recently-quietened harper quartet. There's also the word 'usually.'
Neiran motionlessly regards Reyce, his hands folded and ever still upon the tabletop. "I find it soothing," he states briefly, as if only now recalling that he's not supposed to be social. In actuality, his eyes have caught sight of the timepiece on the mantle, and the slim metal arms that point him towards duty once more. He closes his eyes for a moment, and rises fluidly from his chair. Now looming over Reyce, he resumes his contemplative stare, the bridge of his nose serving as a sight. "If you pursue the mathematical properties of music, I would be grateful for your secondhand elucidation on the subject. As it is, I do not have the time...and presently I am needed in the infirmary." He bows his head for a moment, and the gesture can be seen as either obeisance to duty or acknowledgment to Reyce. He slips behind his chair to neatly tuck it in, and quietly begins gathering his hides and his book into a bag previously unseen on the seat of a nearby chair. "It is with regret that I must absent myself. If it is not too presumptive to say so, I believe this is an interest which we could discuss at length to the mutual advantage of our intellects."
Reyce's eyes wander back from the harper quartet, who have now gone on a break to chat quietly and fuss with their instruments. Or perhaps they're done, it's hard to tell. Either way, Reyce seems to have no intention of leaving immediately, nevermind the way he tried to flee the Craft Hall earlier. His mouth twists slightly inwards at the healer's words, wry, but he offers a mild nod instead of whatever unpleasant thought just came his way. "Yeah, seems interesting. Probably look into it, tell you what I find." His thumb has now worked enough of the bandage free that he can just slip the tip of it underneath, pressing relief into the itchy skin that's been locked away beneath the gauze for so long now. The action soothes away the last traces of that wry expression on his face, twisting it, instead, upwards into the barest sliver of a half-smile. "So next time, then."