Homework
12-22-2006 (Reyce, Neiran, Laelle):
Caucus Common Area
The common area between the two barracks has been made over into a sort of lounge area. Several sitting areas have been marked out by the use of cheerful rugs and circles of chairs and couches. Low tables are set in the center of each of these areas, and provide a place to set mugs of klah or reading material. A small hearth has been built at the east end of the room. There are never less than two pots of fresh klah simmering over the fire built within.
A low buzz of activity fills the commons, from study groups reviewing the day's notes to gossip groups reviewing the day's activity. The latter category prevails: late in the afternoon, after all the day's tiring classes and with a full evening to enjoy before tomorrow's homework starts to loom, few students would choose to go straight to work. Reyce is, on some level, slacking with the best of them; on another level, however, he spent the whole first half of the afternoon studying, and the scattered remains of his work ethic crowd the table in front of him as evidence that he has, in fact, worked and that he is, in fact, due for a break. The Bendenite has held on to one of the quieter corners of the room, left alone mostly because it's furthest from the hearth, and sits with his head leaned over the back of a tall armchair, his coat balled up in his lap.
Despite the best efforts of the hearth, it's inevitable that every so often a draft from the frigid outside world manages to gust up the length of the tunnel and into the room. With one such gust, a thoroughly bundled figure briskly enters the commons. Snow and ice is melting on the shoulders of a wherhide jacket, and an identifying purple scarf flutters over over such shoulder as Neiran skirts the edge of the cavern and slips into the barracks. He's not too long in there, emerging some few minutes later with nose and ear-tips still red from his travels outside, a mug in one icy hand. As gaunt as he is, it's not hard to imagine he doesn't hold heat well - and he goes right to the fire, braving the groups chattering there to get some hot water for himself. Likely when he warms he'll be looking for an unoccupied corner, and, failing that, a recognizable face without lips flapping out the latest scandal.
Reyce can provide the reconizable face without flapping lips, and with the exception of his own quiet presence, the unoccupied corner as well. He does not, of course, provide advertisement: the only movement he makes to acknowledge the healer's entrance comes indirectly, when the gust of cold air makes it to his corner and he stirs against it with a frown. This proves that he is awake, despite his habit (familiar, perhaps, to Neiran) of pretending sleep to keep the obnoxious gossips from his quiet corner.
Reyce doesn't need to advertise - the unoccupied corners simply call to the Journeyman with their silence, and so it's practically inevitable that Neiran finds himself intruding upon Reyce's quiet corner. He has a steaming mug in his hands, suggesting his quest for hot water and warmth was successful. Pale hands are wrapped around the ceramic, desperately drinking in the warmth the familiar buttery yellow hued mug offers. A creature of habit, he uses that particular mug more often than not, and now, still clasping it close, he eases himself into a chair across from
Reyce without greeting the Bendenite. He's conspicuously without books or tote bag or any tools of productivity, simply sitting and hunching over the rising steam. If Reyce hasn't noticed him, likely the nasal sniff that the healer makes will 'awaken' him. He unbuttons his belt pouch then, in order to withdraw a folded square of plain cloth with which he dabs the tip of his wind and cold-stung nose.
Reyce warily cracks one eye open, staring down the tip of his nose at the unannounced intruder. Attuned as he is to the noises around him, he notices the approach of footsteps and the scrape of a moving chair long before that sniff the healer makes, but he's less alert after an afternoon of work and so slow to respond. When he does, and sees that it's Neiran across from him, he jerks out of his faked sleep with a heavy phlegm sound which precedes his simple "Oh" of realization, followed by the "Hey" of greeting. A hand slaps up to rub his jaw, as though that might stimulate him back to alertness.
Neiran's eyes fixate on the man's throat because of that phlegmy sound. The penetrating stare is directed at the skin that eclipses trachea, esophagus, epiglottis...the Journeyman lifts his eyes to Reyce's face the next moment, briefly making eye contact. His opinion of the sound of phlegm is clear, from the look of things - or perhaps his own battle with rhinorrhea has put him in a bit of a mood. If the Journeyman is feeling under the weather, he seems determined to hide it well; a moment later, a cordial and proper nod follows, and a properly verbalized greeting. "Good evening. I apologize if I've interrupted you...this is the only habitable corner of the room currently." A glance at the giggling, gossiping and space-taking peers scattered in the cavern's prime seating spots would be poignant here, but Neiran only looks down at his mug again.
Reyce has had time enough to get used to Neiran's occasional forays into mid-conversation medical exams, as well as his faintly disapproving looks, so he waits out that initial distraction with patient indifference. When, oddities out of the way, Neiran makes eye contact, Reyce meets him and adds in a little shrug. "It's fine. Not doing anything." His gaze flicks down to the table, the spread of work there seeming to give a lie to his statement, and draws in a little sniff of his own, with him more a question of habit than developing cold symptoms. He bends double and starts scooping his work together, papers scraped into one pile and books stacked in another.
Neiran's eyes go to the books and papers there, testament to the Bendenite's lie. But he doesn't call him on it, willing to accept the glossing-over of truth for the sake of convenience. And besides, books and hides have been known to be near a person without anything being accomplished. A silence falls, amiable enough on the part of the healer, with just the sound of background chatter and Reyce's item-gathering efforts in the air. After assessing the degree to which his tea has steeped, and finding it not yet satisfactory, it occurs to the Journeyman to say something towards the beginning of a conversation. "I had opportunity to complete much of my homework during my shift in the infirmary earlier today." He doesn't elaborate, of course, falling silent to see if Reyce bites the dangling topic or swims elsewhere.
Reyce has strewn his items around very haphazardly, and his reorganizing efforts don't do much to counter the effect: he gets his papers into a pile, sure, but he doesn't bother to straighten it, and his books have to be split into several stacks lest they topple under his careless efforts. "Yeah?" is as close to a bite as Neiran's dangling topic will get, the Bendenite seeming to expect the opener to lead somewhere. Leaving Neiran to do the leading, Reyce twists around in his chair, giving the healer his back for an instant while he digs between his leg and the cushions for a book that slipped away from him earlier.
We'll call it a nibble rather than an actual bite. And it seems to suit Neiran just fine. When Reyce's done rummaging for his book, he continues. "Yes. There was little for me to do during the day. The beds are mostly empty." No rounds to make, really, when Thread injures no one. Ignoring the potential dry amusement in the fact that the world's health is a healer's boredom, Neiran points out, "although I was required to remove slivers from a stable-worker's blistered hand." The recounting of the minor case is offered in his usual tepid tone, voice mellow and wandering as if he's in a perpetual reverie. "One stitch was required." A soft exhale follows, not to be mistaken with a sigh - he's simply blowing steam from his mug before he takes a sip, his gaze on Reyce.
Now that he has cleaned the table, Reyce has room to put his feet up, which at some point became the goal of the whole exercise. Nudging his respective piles of books and papers to the very edge of the table, precariously close to knocking them off the low edge, he drops back into his chair again and stretches his legs out with a muffled sigh. It occurs to him that there's still a conversation going on, but the realization takes its time going from thought to action, and to stall in the meantime his first response is, "Mmm." A beat later, he expands on the thought. "Bored with it?" He lifts his eyebrows, but barely.
Bored? "No. I thought that perhaps my hours may have been better spent in productivity, or... sleeping." The Journeyman has seen fresher-looking days, and cold air doesn't cause the lingering look of sleeplessness that's told in the faint darkness under his half-lidded eyes, all the more visible now that his skin has warm blood under it again. "Of course, that determination is only in retrospect. There is nothing for it." He removes a hand from his mug, and makes an ineffectual gesture in the air. "On the topic of productivity, I would like to acquire some time in which to interview Issa for my ethics assignment. If you would be so kind as to communicate this desire to her, I would be most appreciative." Neiran retrieves the folded kerchief from his knee, and daubs at the end of his nose again, on the heels of his words. A soft, stifled sniff can be heard behind the cloth.
Reyce's eyes flick down to Neiran's nose at the (repeated) sound of sniffling, but unlike the healer he's not fascinated by the underlying causes of the illness, and he gives it no more than a passing glance to show he's noticed. More involved is that last statement of Neiran's, which provokes a small frown from the Bendenite. "You're interviewing people?" There was a request somewhere in that distracting statement, but Reyce answers it belatedly, and with no more than a flick of his hand, hard to interpret but allowing that he'll mention it to Issa.
"I am only interviewing women," Neiran elaborates. The look he gives Reyce over his mug is wholly up to interpretation - a morsel of wry amusement at the predicament? Firm assurance that Reyce won't have to submit to such an interview? Displeasure that his surreptitious sniffing has been noticed? He sniffs once more, and lowers the cloth, but makes no concession that he's catching something. "My topic for G'thon's ethics course involves the status of women. I believe Issa's comments will be of much value," Neiran adds, forestalling further comment by another sip of tea.
Reyce flicks a quick scan over Neiran's features, but if this yields him a definitive way to interpret that enigmatic look the healer shoots him, it does not lessen the faint perplexity of his frown. This, too, he eventually dismisses with a flick of his hand and then, having leaned forward a bit to get a better look at the other man, drops back into his chair again. "Think Issa'd do it. Has another Fall coming up though, so probably after." His face has begun to tilt ceiling-wards, but he rolls his eyes down now to catch Neiran's gaze. "Surprised your doing interviews," he adds, by way of explaining his initial reaction.
"Of course." Neiran acknowledges the forthcoming Threadfall with a slow nod. It's hard for anyone to be ignorant of a forthcoming Fall in a Weyr, but it's negligence for a healer to be unaware of the inevitable increase in incoming cases. When Reyce confesses to the reason behind his reaction, Neiran hardly seems surprised. He simply continues to huddle around the small warmth his half-finished mug of tea affords, mostly expressionless. "I suspected that gathering contemporary verbal data would be a requirement of the assignment, but it was enforced by the instructor. It has not proven to be an inconvenience as of yet. I do have concerns about what the presentation's reception may be..." The Journeyman trails off, and the gentle gesture incised in the air with his thin-boned hand seems to dismiss further talk about himself.
Reyce keeps his eyes on the healer for only a moment longer, and then he gives in to the call of relaxation and rests his head wholly back on the chair, his eyelids allowed to slant closed. "Sure," he allows for the healer's whole explanation. A beat passes in silence, and then he asks, "So what is it?" Too lazy, at this point, to look at the healer again, he simply turns his palm over and aims his fingertips at Neiran to indicate his subject. "Topic."
Neiran is unoffended, by all appearances, as Reyce defies social requirements and relaxes and loses eye contact. With Reyce looking at the inside of his own eyelids, he too looks elsewhere, choosing an unoccupied spot on the table to stare at absently. "My twelve word statement was as follows: Women are continually prescribed roles for which they are not necessarily suited. I am to identify the ethical principle which this violates, if it is proven to hold true." Proving it true is really a trifling formality; no Caucus intellectual would argue that that's not the case. After a pause, and a silent, final sip of his mug, he remarks, "you can see how the topic may raise some controversy." The sound of his mug being placed on that spare patch of table concludes his sentence.
Reyce cannot see, as a matter of fact, if the return of his frown and the (newly arrived) tensing of his lips gives any indication. Soundlessly, he echoes back parts of the statement - 'prescribed roles' is clearly on the list, for he mouths its syllables with surprisingly ponderous care. At the end of it his lips press together, and then pop out a, "Maybe." A grunt trails on the end of this admission, and he shifts just slightly to be more comfortable in his chair. "Not sure I get your meaning. What roles you're talking about."
"Wife. Mother. Childbearer. Would you not agree that these are the prevailing expectations of women? Certainly women enter Halls, but within the Craft structure those expectations transmute themselves into limitations on their careers. The specifics of the complex situation are beyond the scope of this assignment. I believe I will be able to en masse enough information in order to make a thesis statement which will satisfy G'thon." Despite the potentially touchy subject matter, the healer is as dispassionate as ever - let it not be said he's on some feminist crusade. He would certainly be an unlikely flagbearer for such a thing. As he looks over towards the interior of the cavern, the landscape of moving and stationary bodies seems not to be his focus, but the goal of the far hearth and the kettle on it attracting more attention from him. But he doesn't rise, presumably waiting for Reyce's opinion.
Reyce tilts his chin down, bringing his face back into view. A grunted sound caught in the back of his throat indicates, without interrupting, that the roles Neiran describes are indeed the prevailing expectations, but aside from that he's silent, watchful, and still. And when he's finished? "Okay." An answer that's not worth the wait. He is still thinking, though, his eyes squinting down while he watches Neiran. "Just wasn't sure what you meant. There was another meaning for 'prescribed' or how you meant they're not suited. You're saying some get stuck mothers when that's not what they're looking to do?" Raised eyebrows beg clarification.
"I believe it would be dangerous for me to put words in the mouths of women. However, as a generalization, I believe that some would say they are dissatisfied with that expectation. Some may have never thought to attempt to exempt themselves from this concept of orthodoxy. In a Weyr, I believe many have been removed from its stricter requirements due to Impression. But, as I said, the violation of an underlying ethical principle is my primary concern. Pardon me. I require more hot water." The sound of shifting fabric signals his rise from the chair, the quiet steps of soft-soled indoor wear shoes moving away with him. When he returns, he's got his required water, and sinks into the armchair he's dubbed his for the time being, relaxed or tired enough to actually make use of the backrest.
Reyce spends the intervening time, while Neiran fetches new water, shifting his books and papers off the table and wholly onto the floor. Perhaps he's also reflecting on Neiran's assignment, but if so he keeps his thoughts guarded. Left to grow for too long, his curls fall almost into his eyes when he leans forward, and this alone prompts a quick snarl of displeasure from the Bendenite. He straightens up to fix this at the same time Neiran returns, but spares the healer only a look and doesn't at all let the other man's presence deter him from fussing his hair back into place, mostly just by raking his fingers through till his forehead's exposed and the curls learn to stay back. Even when finished with this, he says nothing, but - as he drops into the backrest, same as Neiran does - he watches the healer, not quite expectant, more open to continuing or dropping the subject at Neiran's discretion.
Among the various people lounging and mingling in the commons, Laelle has been sitting with her cousin over a single book. The darker one nodding and asking inaudible questions while the fairer one seems to be answering with the scant gestures of a pointed finger. Turned towards each other as they are, Laelle's back has been mostly towards Reyce and Neiran, offing only random glimpses of her profile now and then. It seems, however, that their study session is drawing to a close. Laelle flips the book shut and presses it towards her cousin before straightening her spine and rolling her shoulders back as if physically casting off this latest task. As Seleda packs up her things, Laelle makes a cursory glance around the room, though it doesn't quite encompass the two men behind her.
Neiran manages to get himself in a comfortable position, neither too lax in his posture, nor as prudently prim as he's wont to be. Here in their secluded little corner, he deems it safe to do so - the rest of the students and their guests here are preoccupied enough with each other that the pair of misers off in the cold corner likely won't be disturbed. It's a calculated risk, you see. "I apologize if the topics of discussion I have imposed upon you have been uninteresting. If you would prefer silence or an alternate course of discussion, I would not be displeased." Perhaps made self-conscious by Reyce's own grooming, he lifts a hand to surreptitiously ensure that there's no loose strands of hair falling from his ponytail. Afterwards, thin fingers readjust their hold on his mug, still sapping the warmth from the hot water contained within. Thin eyelids close as if in a blink which prolongs itself; several moments pass before Neiran opens them again, and focuses on the wall behind Reyce, as if staring through the man's head.
Reyce remains oblivious to the room, as ever he is, content to pretend that other people don't exist so long as he has his own quiet corner. "Doesn't matter," he tells Neiran, giving his head a small shake to emphasize the words. "Told you, not doing anything. Not like you imposed," he says, echoing the word after a brief pause while he fights down his habit of imitating speech patterns for the quotation. Indeed, it sounds strange hearing himself phrase something so formally, and to shake it off he tosses up a shrug. "Your thing," he concludes, back in his own idiom.
Seleda and Laelle make brief goodbyes and then the former heads off, leaving Laelle behind. She pulls out a book of her own, but sets it aside for now and instead busies herself with her hair. The wooden comb comes out and with thin, nimble fingers she makes quick work of twisting and rolling the blonde waves into a sleek knot and securing it once more. Both palms check to feel that everything is smooth and orderly. She turns her head to stretch her neck and only then, in so extreme a position, does she spot the two men behind her. Her glance slips over Reyce first, up from his feet and lingering for a beat on his face, then to Neiran and down again.
"I do not know that there is more for me to say on the issue currently. You are certainly welcome to express your opinion or share ideas, certainly," he allows. Even resting against the back of his chair, nursing his tea in his own version of leisure time, he doesn't spare the deliberate hand gesture that goes along with the invitation; a smooth, palm-up motion, as if waiting to receive a platter of hors d'oeuvres. It returns to his mug, of course, and the back of the man's head touches the back of his chair as his chin tilts upwards, relaxing in a way that just happens to expose his throat. So exposed, the sweep of Laelle's gaze can almost be felt - he lowers his chin, and turns his head to find the woman's gaze sweeping down.
"Don't know I have anything," Reyce answers, his voice turning towards laziness. Small as Neiran's allowed relaxation may be for an ordinary person, it's quite a concession from him, and the ease of it is beginning to affect Reyce and egg him along. He even starts to stretch his arms behind his head, but maybe he too feels some exposure from Laelle's look, for his arms suddenly snap back down and drop to his knees with an unceremonious thump. If the Neratian was the cause, however, it could only have been subconscious, for Reyce doesn't glance her way, nor does he follow Neiran's look: it's not especially uncommon for the healer to pass a glance at the room when there's no talking to distract him.
Laelle's jaw moves, slipping forward and back again. Her glance may have just missed Neiran's, but she sees his eyes look to her and brings her own back to meet them. However, she's not about to sit with her head all twisted around so that she can watch two men just sitting there. She turns forward again and reaches for her book. After thumbing through a few pages she finds a hide bookmark and plucks it out before she settling in to read. The thin slip of hide is held in her fingers and she waves it back and forth so that it barely brushes her cheek as it sways.
Neiran's shoulders seem to straighten a little more, now that a gaze has been felt in their quarter. He doesn't go so far as to return his spine to its usual ramrod straightness; leaning against the back of his chair a little bit is a concession he must feel he deserves, for whatever reason. He looks briefly at Reyce, communicating silently some acknowledgment that they both have been intruded upon in their lassitude by an onlooker. No annoyance, but simple observation and a check that Reyce saw, as well. His profile to the Bendenite, still regarding the woman, he murmurs, "I wonder if it would be imprudent to request an interview from her. She is a stranger to me." The latter is directed at Reyce in a forthright manner as he turns his head to look at him, although the entirety of his words were quite quiet. Dark eyes deviate from the Bendenite's visage a moment, checking the tea briefly, before he raises it to his lips.
Reyce has brought his arms down but he keeps his feet, stubbornly, propped on the table. Neiran's stare, prolonged, does eventually clue him in to Laelle's presence, as he follows the other man's gaze to find her reading across the way. Since, not having caught her look directly, this is no change from the way she was sitting there before, he cannot help the faint frown that crosses his features. "Sure," he advises the healer absently, the frown already gone by the time he looks back at him. "She's holder." What relevance this information has to the topic - as a reason to solicit Laelle's opinion, or a warning about her nature - isn't clear from his dismissive tone.
That slip of hide wags in the air for a few more moments before Laelle turns it between her first and second finger so that she might use the rest to steady her book while she turns to the next page. She sighs there, in the pause between pages, wets her lips and then goes back to reading. Meanwhile, she continues to idly twiddle with the bookmark, moving it from finger to finger and back again, at least until she fumbles and then the thin scrap goes fluttering away, sliding over the floor toward Reyce and Neiran. Surely, no one could do such a thing on purpose. She looks up with jolt to lose the piece of hide and frowns as her gaze follow its twirling path. She bites her lip and lifts her eyes to the men again.
Neiran pauses in mid-sip of his tea as the book-marker flutters towards the pair of them. He saves Reyce from social requirements by rising, slowly, to his feet. One would almost expect creaks to issue from his joints with that drawn-out shift from being seated to standing. The Journeyman unfolds his lanky frame rather patiently, but despite his best efforts there is a dull clunk from one of his shoulderblades as he squares his shoulders. Despite that, his mug is abandoned on the table, and with more duty than eagerness, he moves towards the bookmark to stoop, claim it, and deliver it to Laelle. Looming over her, the bookmark is proffered between two fingers, outstretched. "I believe we have met before," he remarks, ever soft-spoken. "And that this is yours."
Reyce follows the fluttering progress of the bookmark with a flat, totally disinterested expression; were it not for Neiran's well-trained politesse, the social overture would be totally wasted. While the healer is (not) creaking his way over to retrieve the thing, Reyce lifts his sober gaze to Laelle, blinks once, and then lets his vision become obstructed by the healer as he crosses in front with the retrieved bookmark. His interest scrolls away, then, scanning the room briefly - now that Laelle's presence has reminded him of its existence - before he returns to leaning back in his chair, head tipped up towards the ceiling.
While it may be Neiran who moves first, Laelle's glance is caught by Reyce's and she blinks back before her attention is stolen by the journeyman. She watches the healer's unfolding and her brow starts to inch upward at just how slow it is. By the time he's approached her, though, bookmark in hand, her expression has schooled itself to a polite smile. Her lashes stay low for a moment, her eyes more fixed on the bookmark than the man returning it, giving her a vaguely demure look while it lasts. "Thank you," she says first, taking the slip before she lifts her gaze to meet Neiran's. "Yes, we have."
Neiran has no qualms about staring down the bridge of his nose at the Neratian with kohl-limned eyes. Despite what the other girls (or fellows) might say about such use of cosmetics, it gives her a distinctness that's difficult to forget in the sea of less dramatic faces. "My apologies for broaching this question without much preamble, but I am not at liberty to engage in proper polite discussion at the moment. I would ask for you to assist me in compiling data for a Caucus project I am required to fulfill. It would require perhaps a half hour of your time, and your willingness to be interviewed on matters of perception and opinion." For the guy who must seem like the sort to be nervous around girls, he's certainly making it look easy to just sally up to one and ask for an interview.
While the journeyman talks, Laelle's eyes go from attentive to oddly flat. Perhaps he started to lose her in the middle somewhere. However, when he gets to the point she is quick to nod, so maybe she really was listening all the while. "Alright," she says flatly. Her glance flicks over him once more, sizing him up in a bold look that is not really demure at all. "When?" She tucks the bookmark into the crevice of her open book.
Neiran is unresponsive to the glazed expression; that he's used to. When he's summed up, however, his lips press together mildly in response, though the core emotion behind the facial expression is likely lost through connotation and interpretation. Thus, prim-lipped for his own reasons, he replies, "at your earliest convenience in coordination with my infirmary rotations and Caucus classes. According to your preference, I will allow you to seek me out during your spare moments or vice versa, or I shall produce a list of potential windows in my schedule and deliver it to you."
While the preliminaries of reintroduction and schedule arranging are carried out, Reyce carries out his own little ritual - for the third time - of gathering together books and papers into a barely manageable heap. It makes some noise, but he makes no effort to announce himself; if Neiran should happen to notice, and look, he'll explain "Dinner" and get on with it. Once he has all his work together (if just barely), and his jacket thrown over a shoulder, he detours to the barracks to drop off his things before vanishing from the commons.
Laelle's lips go thin also as Neiran starts to speak again and seems not to be inclined to stop. "Yes. Sure," she answers, almost interrupting him. But there's a breath of laugh that follows and helps to soften her apparent impatience. The return of her smile probably doesn't hurt, either. "Whenever we're both free," she agrees to the obvious. And even though she knows better than to expect anything but surly silence from Reyce, her eyes flick towards him anyway.
The woman's terseness evolving into pleasantries only keeps the Journeyman's lips pressed. He inclines his head to the woman, and utters, "very well. Thank you. I hope the remainder of your evening is pleasant." Evidently her near interruption gave him the hint, for his concluding remarks are uttered with brevity and a quicker cadence than his usual speaking speed. One last, brief nod, and he turns from her to seek solace back in the quiet corner, only to find Reyce departing. This isn't off-putting in the least, for he seems intent to just scoop up his mug, and turn his body towards the barracks, himself. "Bed," he informs Reyce, by way of declining the possible invitation to mealtime that might have been imbedded in the single word. Mug in hand, he too disappears into the barracks, to tuck in rather early.
Caucus Common Area
The common area between the two barracks has been made over into a sort of lounge area. Several sitting areas have been marked out by the use of cheerful rugs and circles of chairs and couches. Low tables are set in the center of each of these areas, and provide a place to set mugs of klah or reading material. A small hearth has been built at the east end of the room. There are never less than two pots of fresh klah simmering over the fire built within.
A low buzz of activity fills the commons, from study groups reviewing the day's notes to gossip groups reviewing the day's activity. The latter category prevails: late in the afternoon, after all the day's tiring classes and with a full evening to enjoy before tomorrow's homework starts to loom, few students would choose to go straight to work. Reyce is, on some level, slacking with the best of them; on another level, however, he spent the whole first half of the afternoon studying, and the scattered remains of his work ethic crowd the table in front of him as evidence that he has, in fact, worked and that he is, in fact, due for a break. The Bendenite has held on to one of the quieter corners of the room, left alone mostly because it's furthest from the hearth, and sits with his head leaned over the back of a tall armchair, his coat balled up in his lap.
Despite the best efforts of the hearth, it's inevitable that every so often a draft from the frigid outside world manages to gust up the length of the tunnel and into the room. With one such gust, a thoroughly bundled figure briskly enters the commons. Snow and ice is melting on the shoulders of a wherhide jacket, and an identifying purple scarf flutters over over such shoulder as Neiran skirts the edge of the cavern and slips into the barracks. He's not too long in there, emerging some few minutes later with nose and ear-tips still red from his travels outside, a mug in one icy hand. As gaunt as he is, it's not hard to imagine he doesn't hold heat well - and he goes right to the fire, braving the groups chattering there to get some hot water for himself. Likely when he warms he'll be looking for an unoccupied corner, and, failing that, a recognizable face without lips flapping out the latest scandal.
Reyce can provide the reconizable face without flapping lips, and with the exception of his own quiet presence, the unoccupied corner as well. He does not, of course, provide advertisement: the only movement he makes to acknowledge the healer's entrance comes indirectly, when the gust of cold air makes it to his corner and he stirs against it with a frown. This proves that he is awake, despite his habit (familiar, perhaps, to Neiran) of pretending sleep to keep the obnoxious gossips from his quiet corner.
Reyce doesn't need to advertise - the unoccupied corners simply call to the Journeyman with their silence, and so it's practically inevitable that Neiran finds himself intruding upon Reyce's quiet corner. He has a steaming mug in his hands, suggesting his quest for hot water and warmth was successful. Pale hands are wrapped around the ceramic, desperately drinking in the warmth the familiar buttery yellow hued mug offers. A creature of habit, he uses that particular mug more often than not, and now, still clasping it close, he eases himself into a chair across from
Reyce without greeting the Bendenite. He's conspicuously without books or tote bag or any tools of productivity, simply sitting and hunching over the rising steam. If Reyce hasn't noticed him, likely the nasal sniff that the healer makes will 'awaken' him. He unbuttons his belt pouch then, in order to withdraw a folded square of plain cloth with which he dabs the tip of his wind and cold-stung nose.
Reyce warily cracks one eye open, staring down the tip of his nose at the unannounced intruder. Attuned as he is to the noises around him, he notices the approach of footsteps and the scrape of a moving chair long before that sniff the healer makes, but he's less alert after an afternoon of work and so slow to respond. When he does, and sees that it's Neiran across from him, he jerks out of his faked sleep with a heavy phlegm sound which precedes his simple "Oh" of realization, followed by the "Hey" of greeting. A hand slaps up to rub his jaw, as though that might stimulate him back to alertness.
Neiran's eyes fixate on the man's throat because of that phlegmy sound. The penetrating stare is directed at the skin that eclipses trachea, esophagus, epiglottis...the Journeyman lifts his eyes to Reyce's face the next moment, briefly making eye contact. His opinion of the sound of phlegm is clear, from the look of things - or perhaps his own battle with rhinorrhea has put him in a bit of a mood. If the Journeyman is feeling under the weather, he seems determined to hide it well; a moment later, a cordial and proper nod follows, and a properly verbalized greeting. "Good evening. I apologize if I've interrupted you...this is the only habitable corner of the room currently." A glance at the giggling, gossiping and space-taking peers scattered in the cavern's prime seating spots would be poignant here, but Neiran only looks down at his mug again.
Reyce has had time enough to get used to Neiran's occasional forays into mid-conversation medical exams, as well as his faintly disapproving looks, so he waits out that initial distraction with patient indifference. When, oddities out of the way, Neiran makes eye contact, Reyce meets him and adds in a little shrug. "It's fine. Not doing anything." His gaze flicks down to the table, the spread of work there seeming to give a lie to his statement, and draws in a little sniff of his own, with him more a question of habit than developing cold symptoms. He bends double and starts scooping his work together, papers scraped into one pile and books stacked in another.
Neiran's eyes go to the books and papers there, testament to the Bendenite's lie. But he doesn't call him on it, willing to accept the glossing-over of truth for the sake of convenience. And besides, books and hides have been known to be near a person without anything being accomplished. A silence falls, amiable enough on the part of the healer, with just the sound of background chatter and Reyce's item-gathering efforts in the air. After assessing the degree to which his tea has steeped, and finding it not yet satisfactory, it occurs to the Journeyman to say something towards the beginning of a conversation. "I had opportunity to complete much of my homework during my shift in the infirmary earlier today." He doesn't elaborate, of course, falling silent to see if Reyce bites the dangling topic or swims elsewhere.
Reyce has strewn his items around very haphazardly, and his reorganizing efforts don't do much to counter the effect: he gets his papers into a pile, sure, but he doesn't bother to straighten it, and his books have to be split into several stacks lest they topple under his careless efforts. "Yeah?" is as close to a bite as Neiran's dangling topic will get, the Bendenite seeming to expect the opener to lead somewhere. Leaving Neiran to do the leading, Reyce twists around in his chair, giving the healer his back for an instant while he digs between his leg and the cushions for a book that slipped away from him earlier.
We'll call it a nibble rather than an actual bite. And it seems to suit Neiran just fine. When Reyce's done rummaging for his book, he continues. "Yes. There was little for me to do during the day. The beds are mostly empty." No rounds to make, really, when Thread injures no one. Ignoring the potential dry amusement in the fact that the world's health is a healer's boredom, Neiran points out, "although I was required to remove slivers from a stable-worker's blistered hand." The recounting of the minor case is offered in his usual tepid tone, voice mellow and wandering as if he's in a perpetual reverie. "One stitch was required." A soft exhale follows, not to be mistaken with a sigh - he's simply blowing steam from his mug before he takes a sip, his gaze on Reyce.
Now that he has cleaned the table, Reyce has room to put his feet up, which at some point became the goal of the whole exercise. Nudging his respective piles of books and papers to the very edge of the table, precariously close to knocking them off the low edge, he drops back into his chair again and stretches his legs out with a muffled sigh. It occurs to him that there's still a conversation going on, but the realization takes its time going from thought to action, and to stall in the meantime his first response is, "Mmm." A beat later, he expands on the thought. "Bored with it?" He lifts his eyebrows, but barely.
Bored? "No. I thought that perhaps my hours may have been better spent in productivity, or... sleeping." The Journeyman has seen fresher-looking days, and cold air doesn't cause the lingering look of sleeplessness that's told in the faint darkness under his half-lidded eyes, all the more visible now that his skin has warm blood under it again. "Of course, that determination is only in retrospect. There is nothing for it." He removes a hand from his mug, and makes an ineffectual gesture in the air. "On the topic of productivity, I would like to acquire some time in which to interview Issa for my ethics assignment. If you would be so kind as to communicate this desire to her, I would be most appreciative." Neiran retrieves the folded kerchief from his knee, and daubs at the end of his nose again, on the heels of his words. A soft, stifled sniff can be heard behind the cloth.
Reyce's eyes flick down to Neiran's nose at the (repeated) sound of sniffling, but unlike the healer he's not fascinated by the underlying causes of the illness, and he gives it no more than a passing glance to show he's noticed. More involved is that last statement of Neiran's, which provokes a small frown from the Bendenite. "You're interviewing people?" There was a request somewhere in that distracting statement, but Reyce answers it belatedly, and with no more than a flick of his hand, hard to interpret but allowing that he'll mention it to Issa.
"I am only interviewing women," Neiran elaborates. The look he gives Reyce over his mug is wholly up to interpretation - a morsel of wry amusement at the predicament? Firm assurance that Reyce won't have to submit to such an interview? Displeasure that his surreptitious sniffing has been noticed? He sniffs once more, and lowers the cloth, but makes no concession that he's catching something. "My topic for G'thon's ethics course involves the status of women. I believe Issa's comments will be of much value," Neiran adds, forestalling further comment by another sip of tea.
Reyce flicks a quick scan over Neiran's features, but if this yields him a definitive way to interpret that enigmatic look the healer shoots him, it does not lessen the faint perplexity of his frown. This, too, he eventually dismisses with a flick of his hand and then, having leaned forward a bit to get a better look at the other man, drops back into his chair again. "Think Issa'd do it. Has another Fall coming up though, so probably after." His face has begun to tilt ceiling-wards, but he rolls his eyes down now to catch Neiran's gaze. "Surprised your doing interviews," he adds, by way of explaining his initial reaction.
"Of course." Neiran acknowledges the forthcoming Threadfall with a slow nod. It's hard for anyone to be ignorant of a forthcoming Fall in a Weyr, but it's negligence for a healer to be unaware of the inevitable increase in incoming cases. When Reyce confesses to the reason behind his reaction, Neiran hardly seems surprised. He simply continues to huddle around the small warmth his half-finished mug of tea affords, mostly expressionless. "I suspected that gathering contemporary verbal data would be a requirement of the assignment, but it was enforced by the instructor. It has not proven to be an inconvenience as of yet. I do have concerns about what the presentation's reception may be..." The Journeyman trails off, and the gentle gesture incised in the air with his thin-boned hand seems to dismiss further talk about himself.
Reyce keeps his eyes on the healer for only a moment longer, and then he gives in to the call of relaxation and rests his head wholly back on the chair, his eyelids allowed to slant closed. "Sure," he allows for the healer's whole explanation. A beat passes in silence, and then he asks, "So what is it?" Too lazy, at this point, to look at the healer again, he simply turns his palm over and aims his fingertips at Neiran to indicate his subject. "Topic."
Neiran is unoffended, by all appearances, as Reyce defies social requirements and relaxes and loses eye contact. With Reyce looking at the inside of his own eyelids, he too looks elsewhere, choosing an unoccupied spot on the table to stare at absently. "My twelve word statement was as follows: Women are continually prescribed roles for which they are not necessarily suited. I am to identify the ethical principle which this violates, if it is proven to hold true." Proving it true is really a trifling formality; no Caucus intellectual would argue that that's not the case. After a pause, and a silent, final sip of his mug, he remarks, "you can see how the topic may raise some controversy." The sound of his mug being placed on that spare patch of table concludes his sentence.
Reyce cannot see, as a matter of fact, if the return of his frown and the (newly arrived) tensing of his lips gives any indication. Soundlessly, he echoes back parts of the statement - 'prescribed roles' is clearly on the list, for he mouths its syllables with surprisingly ponderous care. At the end of it his lips press together, and then pop out a, "Maybe." A grunt trails on the end of this admission, and he shifts just slightly to be more comfortable in his chair. "Not sure I get your meaning. What roles you're talking about."
"Wife. Mother. Childbearer. Would you not agree that these are the prevailing expectations of women? Certainly women enter Halls, but within the Craft structure those expectations transmute themselves into limitations on their careers. The specifics of the complex situation are beyond the scope of this assignment. I believe I will be able to en masse enough information in order to make a thesis statement which will satisfy G'thon." Despite the potentially touchy subject matter, the healer is as dispassionate as ever - let it not be said he's on some feminist crusade. He would certainly be an unlikely flagbearer for such a thing. As he looks over towards the interior of the cavern, the landscape of moving and stationary bodies seems not to be his focus, but the goal of the far hearth and the kettle on it attracting more attention from him. But he doesn't rise, presumably waiting for Reyce's opinion.
Reyce tilts his chin down, bringing his face back into view. A grunted sound caught in the back of his throat indicates, without interrupting, that the roles Neiran describes are indeed the prevailing expectations, but aside from that he's silent, watchful, and still. And when he's finished? "Okay." An answer that's not worth the wait. He is still thinking, though, his eyes squinting down while he watches Neiran. "Just wasn't sure what you meant. There was another meaning for 'prescribed' or how you meant they're not suited. You're saying some get stuck mothers when that's not what they're looking to do?" Raised eyebrows beg clarification.
"I believe it would be dangerous for me to put words in the mouths of women. However, as a generalization, I believe that some would say they are dissatisfied with that expectation. Some may have never thought to attempt to exempt themselves from this concept of orthodoxy. In a Weyr, I believe many have been removed from its stricter requirements due to Impression. But, as I said, the violation of an underlying ethical principle is my primary concern. Pardon me. I require more hot water." The sound of shifting fabric signals his rise from the chair, the quiet steps of soft-soled indoor wear shoes moving away with him. When he returns, he's got his required water, and sinks into the armchair he's dubbed his for the time being, relaxed or tired enough to actually make use of the backrest.
Reyce spends the intervening time, while Neiran fetches new water, shifting his books and papers off the table and wholly onto the floor. Perhaps he's also reflecting on Neiran's assignment, but if so he keeps his thoughts guarded. Left to grow for too long, his curls fall almost into his eyes when he leans forward, and this alone prompts a quick snarl of displeasure from the Bendenite. He straightens up to fix this at the same time Neiran returns, but spares the healer only a look and doesn't at all let the other man's presence deter him from fussing his hair back into place, mostly just by raking his fingers through till his forehead's exposed and the curls learn to stay back. Even when finished with this, he says nothing, but - as he drops into the backrest, same as Neiran does - he watches the healer, not quite expectant, more open to continuing or dropping the subject at Neiran's discretion.
Among the various people lounging and mingling in the commons, Laelle has been sitting with her cousin over a single book. The darker one nodding and asking inaudible questions while the fairer one seems to be answering with the scant gestures of a pointed finger. Turned towards each other as they are, Laelle's back has been mostly towards Reyce and Neiran, offing only random glimpses of her profile now and then. It seems, however, that their study session is drawing to a close. Laelle flips the book shut and presses it towards her cousin before straightening her spine and rolling her shoulders back as if physically casting off this latest task. As Seleda packs up her things, Laelle makes a cursory glance around the room, though it doesn't quite encompass the two men behind her.
Neiran manages to get himself in a comfortable position, neither too lax in his posture, nor as prudently prim as he's wont to be. Here in their secluded little corner, he deems it safe to do so - the rest of the students and their guests here are preoccupied enough with each other that the pair of misers off in the cold corner likely won't be disturbed. It's a calculated risk, you see. "I apologize if the topics of discussion I have imposed upon you have been uninteresting. If you would prefer silence or an alternate course of discussion, I would not be displeased." Perhaps made self-conscious by Reyce's own grooming, he lifts a hand to surreptitiously ensure that there's no loose strands of hair falling from his ponytail. Afterwards, thin fingers readjust their hold on his mug, still sapping the warmth from the hot water contained within. Thin eyelids close as if in a blink which prolongs itself; several moments pass before Neiran opens them again, and focuses on the wall behind Reyce, as if staring through the man's head.
Reyce remains oblivious to the room, as ever he is, content to pretend that other people don't exist so long as he has his own quiet corner. "Doesn't matter," he tells Neiran, giving his head a small shake to emphasize the words. "Told you, not doing anything. Not like you imposed," he says, echoing the word after a brief pause while he fights down his habit of imitating speech patterns for the quotation. Indeed, it sounds strange hearing himself phrase something so formally, and to shake it off he tosses up a shrug. "Your thing," he concludes, back in his own idiom.
Seleda and Laelle make brief goodbyes and then the former heads off, leaving Laelle behind. She pulls out a book of her own, but sets it aside for now and instead busies herself with her hair. The wooden comb comes out and with thin, nimble fingers she makes quick work of twisting and rolling the blonde waves into a sleek knot and securing it once more. Both palms check to feel that everything is smooth and orderly. She turns her head to stretch her neck and only then, in so extreme a position, does she spot the two men behind her. Her glance slips over Reyce first, up from his feet and lingering for a beat on his face, then to Neiran and down again.
"I do not know that there is more for me to say on the issue currently. You are certainly welcome to express your opinion or share ideas, certainly," he allows. Even resting against the back of his chair, nursing his tea in his own version of leisure time, he doesn't spare the deliberate hand gesture that goes along with the invitation; a smooth, palm-up motion, as if waiting to receive a platter of hors d'oeuvres. It returns to his mug, of course, and the back of the man's head touches the back of his chair as his chin tilts upwards, relaxing in a way that just happens to expose his throat. So exposed, the sweep of Laelle's gaze can almost be felt - he lowers his chin, and turns his head to find the woman's gaze sweeping down.
"Don't know I have anything," Reyce answers, his voice turning towards laziness. Small as Neiran's allowed relaxation may be for an ordinary person, it's quite a concession from him, and the ease of it is beginning to affect Reyce and egg him along. He even starts to stretch his arms behind his head, but maybe he too feels some exposure from Laelle's look, for his arms suddenly snap back down and drop to his knees with an unceremonious thump. If the Neratian was the cause, however, it could only have been subconscious, for Reyce doesn't glance her way, nor does he follow Neiran's look: it's not especially uncommon for the healer to pass a glance at the room when there's no talking to distract him.
Laelle's jaw moves, slipping forward and back again. Her glance may have just missed Neiran's, but she sees his eyes look to her and brings her own back to meet them. However, she's not about to sit with her head all twisted around so that she can watch two men just sitting there. She turns forward again and reaches for her book. After thumbing through a few pages she finds a hide bookmark and plucks it out before she settling in to read. The thin slip of hide is held in her fingers and she waves it back and forth so that it barely brushes her cheek as it sways.
Neiran's shoulders seem to straighten a little more, now that a gaze has been felt in their quarter. He doesn't go so far as to return his spine to its usual ramrod straightness; leaning against the back of his chair a little bit is a concession he must feel he deserves, for whatever reason. He looks briefly at Reyce, communicating silently some acknowledgment that they both have been intruded upon in their lassitude by an onlooker. No annoyance, but simple observation and a check that Reyce saw, as well. His profile to the Bendenite, still regarding the woman, he murmurs, "I wonder if it would be imprudent to request an interview from her. She is a stranger to me." The latter is directed at Reyce in a forthright manner as he turns his head to look at him, although the entirety of his words were quite quiet. Dark eyes deviate from the Bendenite's visage a moment, checking the tea briefly, before he raises it to his lips.
Reyce has brought his arms down but he keeps his feet, stubbornly, propped on the table. Neiran's stare, prolonged, does eventually clue him in to Laelle's presence, as he follows the other man's gaze to find her reading across the way. Since, not having caught her look directly, this is no change from the way she was sitting there before, he cannot help the faint frown that crosses his features. "Sure," he advises the healer absently, the frown already gone by the time he looks back at him. "She's holder." What relevance this information has to the topic - as a reason to solicit Laelle's opinion, or a warning about her nature - isn't clear from his dismissive tone.
That slip of hide wags in the air for a few more moments before Laelle turns it between her first and second finger so that she might use the rest to steady her book while she turns to the next page. She sighs there, in the pause between pages, wets her lips and then goes back to reading. Meanwhile, she continues to idly twiddle with the bookmark, moving it from finger to finger and back again, at least until she fumbles and then the thin scrap goes fluttering away, sliding over the floor toward Reyce and Neiran. Surely, no one could do such a thing on purpose. She looks up with jolt to lose the piece of hide and frowns as her gaze follow its twirling path. She bites her lip and lifts her eyes to the men again.
Neiran pauses in mid-sip of his tea as the book-marker flutters towards the pair of them. He saves Reyce from social requirements by rising, slowly, to his feet. One would almost expect creaks to issue from his joints with that drawn-out shift from being seated to standing. The Journeyman unfolds his lanky frame rather patiently, but despite his best efforts there is a dull clunk from one of his shoulderblades as he squares his shoulders. Despite that, his mug is abandoned on the table, and with more duty than eagerness, he moves towards the bookmark to stoop, claim it, and deliver it to Laelle. Looming over her, the bookmark is proffered between two fingers, outstretched. "I believe we have met before," he remarks, ever soft-spoken. "And that this is yours."
Reyce follows the fluttering progress of the bookmark with a flat, totally disinterested expression; were it not for Neiran's well-trained politesse, the social overture would be totally wasted. While the healer is (not) creaking his way over to retrieve the thing, Reyce lifts his sober gaze to Laelle, blinks once, and then lets his vision become obstructed by the healer as he crosses in front with the retrieved bookmark. His interest scrolls away, then, scanning the room briefly - now that Laelle's presence has reminded him of its existence - before he returns to leaning back in his chair, head tipped up towards the ceiling.
While it may be Neiran who moves first, Laelle's glance is caught by Reyce's and she blinks back before her attention is stolen by the journeyman. She watches the healer's unfolding and her brow starts to inch upward at just how slow it is. By the time he's approached her, though, bookmark in hand, her expression has schooled itself to a polite smile. Her lashes stay low for a moment, her eyes more fixed on the bookmark than the man returning it, giving her a vaguely demure look while it lasts. "Thank you," she says first, taking the slip before she lifts her gaze to meet Neiran's. "Yes, we have."
Neiran has no qualms about staring down the bridge of his nose at the Neratian with kohl-limned eyes. Despite what the other girls (or fellows) might say about such use of cosmetics, it gives her a distinctness that's difficult to forget in the sea of less dramatic faces. "My apologies for broaching this question without much preamble, but I am not at liberty to engage in proper polite discussion at the moment. I would ask for you to assist me in compiling data for a Caucus project I am required to fulfill. It would require perhaps a half hour of your time, and your willingness to be interviewed on matters of perception and opinion." For the guy who must seem like the sort to be nervous around girls, he's certainly making it look easy to just sally up to one and ask for an interview.
While the journeyman talks, Laelle's eyes go from attentive to oddly flat. Perhaps he started to lose her in the middle somewhere. However, when he gets to the point she is quick to nod, so maybe she really was listening all the while. "Alright," she says flatly. Her glance flicks over him once more, sizing him up in a bold look that is not really demure at all. "When?" She tucks the bookmark into the crevice of her open book.
Neiran is unresponsive to the glazed expression; that he's used to. When he's summed up, however, his lips press together mildly in response, though the core emotion behind the facial expression is likely lost through connotation and interpretation. Thus, prim-lipped for his own reasons, he replies, "at your earliest convenience in coordination with my infirmary rotations and Caucus classes. According to your preference, I will allow you to seek me out during your spare moments or vice versa, or I shall produce a list of potential windows in my schedule and deliver it to you."
While the preliminaries of reintroduction and schedule arranging are carried out, Reyce carries out his own little ritual - for the third time - of gathering together books and papers into a barely manageable heap. It makes some noise, but he makes no effort to announce himself; if Neiran should happen to notice, and look, he'll explain "Dinner" and get on with it. Once he has all his work together (if just barely), and his jacket thrown over a shoulder, he detours to the barracks to drop off his things before vanishing from the commons.
Laelle's lips go thin also as Neiran starts to speak again and seems not to be inclined to stop. "Yes. Sure," she answers, almost interrupting him. But there's a breath of laugh that follows and helps to soften her apparent impatience. The return of her smile probably doesn't hurt, either. "Whenever we're both free," she agrees to the obvious. And even though she knows better than to expect anything but surly silence from Reyce, her eyes flick towards him anyway.
The woman's terseness evolving into pleasantries only keeps the Journeyman's lips pressed. He inclines his head to the woman, and utters, "very well. Thank you. I hope the remainder of your evening is pleasant." Evidently her near interruption gave him the hint, for his concluding remarks are uttered with brevity and a quicker cadence than his usual speaking speed. One last, brief nod, and he turns from her to seek solace back in the quiet corner, only to find Reyce departing. This isn't off-putting in the least, for he seems intent to just scoop up his mug, and turn his body towards the barracks, himself. "Bed," he informs Reyce, by way of declining the possible invitation to mealtime that might have been imbedded in the single word. Mug in hand, he too disappears into the barracks, to tuck in rather early.