Death and Sandwiches
Sandwiched (figuratively) between two stressful falls, Reyce and Neiran head out of the weyr to cheer themselves up. They discuss death and eat sandwiches (literally) until the rain comes.
2-18-2007 (Reyce, Neiran):
Mountain Waterfall
A half-day's brisk-paced hike from the Weyr, this clearing may just be worth the time it takes to get there.
Against the backdrop of the purple-grey mountains, this glade nestles a deep plunge pool churned by a waterfall plunging from a river high above. The river is clear and cold; it winds on through the wide meadow and into the woods, flowing swiftly down the mountainside. The plunge pool is deep enough for a dragon to swim in, though the thunder of the falls is loud and keeps the water forever chilly. Partway up the cliff face is situated a small outcropping of rock. The aesthetically minded may simply admire the little jut while the braver may use it as a diving launch. A dark overhang behind the waterfall suggests an alcove or opening, the presence of which is better known by common visitors.
The warmer season comes slowly to High Reaches and the grass now visible between lumps of melting snow is brown in some places, and absent in others. Chunks of ice bob in the frigid waters of the lake, and the melting of so much at once has made occasional thick and slurchy patches of heavy black mud. The waterfall sounds something like a running bath, a prominent trickle as free water spills around the ever thinning stalagmites of ice that winter created and that summer will ultimately destroy. The clouds hang heavy in the sky, a grey and ominous blanket that occasionally rolls and curls into darkening black pockets.
The humid, heavy weather and the hanging airs of spring could make this evening a lazy one for some, but perhaps no so for the healer who had to treat injuries at a Fall two days past, and may again tomorrow; certainly not so for the holder who rides with him, whose girlfriend is riding in both and has, as a result, evicted him from her weyr for the evening. At the moment he has the both of them moving at a gallop, his own skittish mare (the same as before, for all the problems she presents) proving surprisingly quick on her feet as she leads the way down the broad trail through the mountains. When they reach the clearing around the waterfall, Reyce swings his mare left so she won't be blocking Neiran's runner when he suddenly slows her, dragging her down to a circling trot against which she pulls her head and tries to speed back up. It takes him a few minutes to settle her, leaning forward to lay a hand on her sweat-dampened neck as he looks over to see how the healer's doing.
Neiran has his eyes on the sky when Reyce looks over to him, hands and legs working instinctually in coordination to give his gelding the signals that tell him to slow down, and sidestep closer to the skittish mare once he's come to a stop. The gelding is as even-tempered as always and obeys without trouble - that might have something to do with the crisp, candied fingerroots the Journeyman brought the grey before their ride. But even despite that, he finds the soft, yielding nature of the ground beneath his hooves somewhat disconcerting, and lets this be known by lifting one hoof, pawing at the air in mild dismay. Neiran looks down from the clouds, directly to the mud below. He purses his lips at it, but does not direct his melodramatic mount elsewhere. Instead, he pulls off his gloves in order to rearrange hair that's gotten mussed with the wind of their ride here. His unprotected cheeks, flushed red, show the reason for the gloves - there's yet a nip in the air, despite the onset of spring. The bobbing ice is another reminder, and that's what attracts the healer's eyes after he's given Reyce a silent look for a moment. He inhales the mountain air in a slow, deep breath, holds it, then exhales quietly.
Reyce's mare tilts her head sideways when the gelding approaches, watching him out of one eye and faking a nip in his direction. Her rider checks this with a light tap from his heel, bringing her attention to her other side as she turns around to sniff him and figure out just what nudged her. It doesn't take much concentration to do this, however, and meanwhile Reyce catches that look from the healer. His own gaze turns down to the water, catching sight of the bobbing ice and the cold that implies - greater here, in the middle of the mountains, than it was back at the weyr, yet he hasn't planned as well as the healer and does not wear gloves for it. Perhaps this is the reason he opts to keep his fingers near the mare's neck, from which the heat of sweat still rises. "Sorry," murmurs the starter of their impromptu run, perhaps a little belatedly now they've come to the end of it. "Felt like a run."
"There is no need to apologize," Neiran smoothly assures. "I would have thought the terrain yet somewhat too perilous for such a thing." He slides his fingers back into his gloves, curling the digits around the reins once more. The gelding seems unperturbed by the mare's nip, and more displeased by the squelchy soft mud under his hooves. Although he's stilled now, he leans his weight to one side, keeping his front hoof somewhat elevated. This shift in stance has the healer shift in his saddle to compensate so that he's not leaning awkwardly in the direction of the drop to the river. Maintaining what dignity he can with his gallant steed slouching lazily beneath him, Neiran lifts his chin and regards the man beside him, dark eyes flicking to his bootheels and his face again in a quick once-over. "But as you nor I fell to an untimely and humiliating demise on a mudded path, rest assured that I am not displeased."
Reyce, who was just nodding calmly over Neiran's comment about the terrain, is caught off guard by the statement that follows, blinking once before breathing a low snort of laughter. "Take your word it," he says, turning his hand over so the back of it may be warmed by the mare's sweat. "Tried to keep an eye out; figured, these runners would know the trail." Giving his mare's neck a final shake, cupping the top of it in the center of his palm, he heaves himself up in the stirrups for a good look at the land around him. "Move over there?" he suggests, twisting a thumb over his shoulder at a spot further from the river's incline. "Looks like it might be drier." Although he proposes the change, he doesn't initiate it; his mare, after all, doesn't seem to mind (or even notice) the soft mud in her fascination with the sounds and smells around her, standing poised with her head up and ears twitching as she tries to take in everything she can.
"Pardon my overzealous caution," Neiran murmurs. "Runners are not as always as sure-footed as we would have them be. And injuries sustained from falling from a runner are seldom easily dealt with." He explains the reasoning behind his concern crisply, avoiding the projection of distress or fretting. Lest he be tempted into dwelling in useless reiterations as is his wont, he remarks, "I am looking forward to the drier sevendays of spring." A nudge with his heel and a smart tug of his reins has his gelding turn about neatly, all too eagerly going where he is bid, so long as it's not towards worse mud. Neiran spares a passing look over his shoulder to be certain Reyce is coming, and inviting him to do so, lest he think he's decided to gain space of his own without forewarning.
Reyce accepts the explanation with a nod, unbothered by the caution Neiran shows (overzealous or not) for staying alive and intact. His mare skitters and snorts when the touch of his heel brings her back from her investigations, but the pull on the reins turns her head readily enough, and soon she follows the gelding to drier ground. "Yeah," her rider agrees with the healer's parting statement. "May be a while, usually is." After a moment he adds, drily, "Usually get sick this part of it, the rain."
"I am grateful that it did not deter you from joining me," Neiran murmurs, twisting slightly in his saddle while he holds the reins with one hand, using his legs primarily to guide the gelding to where it's already wanting to go. Neiran's forced to about-face and lean forward in the saddle when the gelding ascends a rocky outcropping, leading them to the higher, drier vantage point on the waterfall. The Journeyman lets the drumming roar of the water predominate, leaving his sentiments of appreciation simple and frank as they stand. He busies himself in leaning back slightly once the gelding has come to a comfortable stop (and begun mouthing at the ground in hopes of some grass), to rummage in his saddle bags and withdraw some foodstuffs. Even riding, the waterfall isn't entirely close to the Weyr, so naturally the Journeyman saw fit to take their gastrointestinal requirements into his own hands. Roast wherry sandwiches seem to be the order of the day, and one wrapped in a cloth napkin is held outstretched in Neiran's hand, ready for when Reyce arrives alongside him.
Reyce takes a bit longer to ascend the rocky slope, since his own mare decides she doesn't like the look of anything that goes upwards and promptly balks at the first rocky step. When encouraging clicks and presses from his legs don't convince her, he swats his hand behind the saddle and deals a glancing blow to her hindquarters, which startles the mare forward. From there they strike a weaving path, but they do make it up, and without more incident than the mare's attempting to stop again several times. All the same, once they've arrived at the safer spot Neiran's chosen, Reyce opts to dismount. The reins get pinched up together under the mare's jaw, holding her close, as he moves to her other side and close enough to take the sandwich from Neiran. "Thanks," Reyce says once he has it, retreating a step with his mare in case the healer also prefers to dismount. Picking up a thread of conversation left behind when they strung out to come up here, he says (as he eyes his sandwich), "Doesn't matter. Get sick anyway, not so bad." He takes a bite, and shrugs.
Neiran's open fingers hover for a moment after the sandwich has been taken, then retreat to attend to his own napkin-shrouded sandwich. Despite Reyce's courteous side-step, the Journeyman seems perfectly content to remain atop the gelding, neatly picking apart the knotted corners of the linen cloth so he can unfold it and get at the sandwich inside. He shifts in the saddle, getting comfortable before he picks up one half and takes a bite. He chews meditatively, bearing a look of such concentration that one could almost imagine he's counting each chew, and analyzing the effectiveness of his molar action in that very chew. As it turns out, he's simply allowing himself to be mesmerized by the water, staring at the distant cascade, an ever-changing focus for the eyes. At last he swallows his small mouthful, and ensures no sauce is left on his lips by a dainty sweep of his ring finger around the area. A sweep of his tongue across his teeth ensures that he won't be flashing Reyce with a sliver of wherry between his front teeth when he speaks next. "Illness is kept at bay with the proper precautions, but indeed small yearly nuisances are almost inevitable." Even Neiran was seen sniffling with a hankie under his nose in the midst of winter. "Fortunately we are young and in relative health so we are afforded the luxury of only minimal concern." For the elder people, of course, winter is often their last season - if not the cold, then an illness taking effect on a tired body sees to it.
Reyce stands with his back to the waterfall, so it certainly doesn't have him mesmerized, yet the silence passes comfortably enough as he, too, works on his sandwich. The mare, the grip on whose reins he has loosened somewhat, tries to get a sniff of this interesting food, but his elbow swings up to knock her nose away and she gives up with an offended snort, deciding instead to look over his shoulder and (like Neiran) watch the falls. "Guess so," Reyce puts in, pausing between bites of his sandwich. "Inevitable." What he guesses. A silence falls from him then, this one somehow not so comfortable as the last; perhaps because Reyce seems lost, briefly, in a frown directed at the sky as he leans back into his runner's neck, earning a curious whuff and shuffling of feet from the mare.
More mastication accompanies a seemingly thoughtful silence after Reyce's words. Some sense of that absence of total ease draws the healer's eyes from the study of falling water to his conversation companion, studying him mildly, without intensity. The look lingers and deepens, however, and after Neiran swallows he doesn't lift the sandwich for another bite, but continues ruminating on Reyce's visage. "Inevitable," he echoes. A moment later, he draws in a small breath and straightens in the saddle. "If this is following a line of conversation you would prefer not to discuss, simply say so and you will have my immediate apologies and the suggestion of another topic. But I cannot help but wonder...my experience, as a healer from adolescence, inevitably differs insofar as exposure to certain facts of life is concerned." A moment for breath, and for Reyce's brain to try and get one step ahead and anticipate the question before Neiran can ask it, so it won't seem such a sudden jab in the dark. "I am curious if you have had occasion to see many...or any...people pass away." His voice is soft, level, respectful of the topic without imbuing it with more mysticism than its practical reality deserves.
For all that something has distracted him, the small breath before Neiran shifts his posture in the saddle is enough to alert Reyce that the healer is ramping up for something, and to turn his restored attention to the other man. A blink greets the sentence offered, but though his lips part briefly he closes them before anything comes out, and waits for the rest of the inquiry. "Nothing I remember," he says, and although the answer is a mundane one, and do not require it, he has picked up Neiran's gentled tones. "Grandmother, that's it, and don't think I was even there." The gentled tones wear off somewhat as he speaks, and somewhat more when he shrugs afterwards. "Just got distracted, not - it's fine, discussing it." Another shrug, followed by a jerk from his elbow when he realizes that his mare has been sneaking her nose in towards his food again. She prances away this time, but his hold on the reins prevents her from going far. Once he has her stopped, Reyce tilts a look back towards the healer, his focus underscored by the fact that he (subconsciously) tilts his sandwich up as well. "See it a lot?" Death. He becomes aware of the sandwich and, with still one more shrug, brings it back so he can take a bite out.
The respectful solemnity of the broached topic is dispelled already by Reyce's shrug, but what wisps of it remain are shattered when a hunk of roast wherry falls out of the end of Neiran's sandwich as he takes a bite, and tumbles lengthwise down the front of his jacket to land on the saddle horn. The Journeyman is oblivious to this due to the swaddling effect of his jacket, and munches on unperturbed. The requisite preening mouth-check ritual must seem amusing considering the fact that there's a line of sauce down his front and a gob of meat sitting on his saddle horn waiting to be discovered or pointed out. As Reyce has accepted the topic and made overtures to perpetuate the discussion of it, he focuses on the Bendenite, gaze level and intellect attentive behind dark eyes. "A fair amount. South Telgar, where I apprenticed, was a final resting place for many elderly. Their deaths were part of the routine apprentices were accustomed to. A Weyr provides deaths of an...entirely different nature."
Reyce's eyes flick down when the piece of meat goes tumbling down, but if the solemn tone of the discussion has been ruined for him, he has the restraint not to interrupt it for Neiran, or at least not while he's still speaking. After, Reyce lowers his chin, leaving only his eyes easily visible from Neiran's angle, and once he's drawn attention there he flicks his gaze downwards. A jerk of his chin follows the glance, lest there be any doubt but what Neiran should look down. After that, he leaves the subject alone, returning his gaze to the sky for the length of time it takes the healer to clean up his front. "Yeah," he answers, back on topic, and with a wry quirk to his lips. "Sudden. It get to you?" His eyes check back in, to see whether Neiran's finished cleaning himself yet.
Neiran blinks once, but the next moment he grasps Reyce's gesture and looks down. He addresses the hunk of wherry with a frown, and picks it up between forefinger and thumb. He seems somewhat at a loss as to what to do with it, at first, before he decides that the flesh can go back to nature rather than in his mouth, and he flicks it towards the river. He frowns at his fingertips, now with sauce on them, as well as he frowns at the front of his coat. Luckily he was prepared for just such a mishap, and with surgical precision and a fair share of primness he dabs up all the evident sauce. With his rider moving a little more than usual in the saddle, the gelding's head swings back around, large brown eyes rolling and showing white in their effort to peer back and see what the nice man who brings treats and uses the currycomb liberally is up to. Neiran ignores this and resettles, still wiping some phantom crumbs off of one thigh by the time Reyce speaks. "No. It was perhaps the word inevitability which drew my mind there...in conjunction with what thoughts the waterfall inspired, relating to the transience of form and subsequently life. It simply occurred to me that you would be one with whom I could indulge my curiosity. I have honestly wondered how others view death, and how much of it they have seen."
The wry quirk on Reyce's mouth edges towards a smile, however briefly, when Neiran waxes (vaguely) philosophical on the significance of the waterfall. For his part, he continues to stand with his back to it, and even his mare has lost interest, now stretching her nose out toward the gelding in the hopes, perhaps, of making a new friend. "Not much," Reyce admits again, though he's keeping a careful eye on the runners now lest they get into a fight. For all her gestures of friendship, his mare remains slightly on edge, as though ready to jerk back at a moment's notice. "Deaths in my family been before I was born, mostly. All I would see." As the mare's nose gets closer to her goal, he lifts a steadying hand to her neck, receiving in response a convulsive little twitch of skin as though a fly had landed on her. "That your view of it, then?" he asks, taking his eyes off the mare to watch Neiran for a second. "Used to it."
Neiran's gelding is oblivious to the mare's edginess. His fight was cut off of him at a young age, and right now he's enjoying lipping at some grassoids he's found conveniently by a hoof. He proffers no information relating to familial deaths, his hands working to wrap the half of the sandwich that remains back in the napkin, neatly and effectively. He leans backwards and returns the thing to the saddle back, fastening the buckle with his outstretched hand. He rights himself and tugs the reins to the side, causing the gelding to shuffle lazily a little away from the mare. Noting his gelding's sudden decrease in sharpness of attention, Neiran frowns faintly down at the grey beast he's astride. "It is...dangerous to oversimplify death," he murmurs, lifting his eyes from the runner to Reyce. "But one becomes used to it. It is simpler for everyone involved when it is a natural conclusion."
Indifference is probably a good decision on the gelding's part, for Reyce's mare has not lost any of her youthful vigor, and no sooner has he moved away than she squeals a tiny objection, fakes another nip at him with ears laid back, and turns her head away as she suddenly becomes interested in something on the other side. Reyce lifts his elbow again to prevent her head from swinging into him as it turns, but otherwise ignores her. He is caught up in his own thoughts, a frown directed at the space her nose just occupied. "Think that's better?" he asks, shaking himself back into alertness when he realizes there's been a pause. His gaze refocuses on Neiran.
The squeal finally gets the gelding's attention, and his ears prick up and his head swings that way, eyeing the female warily. What was that for? A soft nicker confides his dismay in Neiran, who responds by reaching down to comb his gloved fingers through the creature's mane. He's still looking at Reyce, however, little things like waterfalls and runners no longer commanding his attention in irregular intervals. "Better than...many alternatives, yes. It is easiest for the family to accept the natural passing of their loved one. There are less complicating emotions involved in the scenario when the death is of a natural cause. Accidents...death by intention...there are complicating issues of guilt, blame, and helplessness. Of course it is better to expire naturally when it is time. Do you disagree? Have I misunderstood your question?"
Reyce has never been one to mince his answers, so he simply says, "Yes." The mediation follows in the form of a shrug, as he lifts a hand to calm his own runner with a hand laid over her mane. As his fingers dig into her neck, the runner gives a somewhat exasperated huff - she wanted an equine friend, and this is what she gets? - but slowly leans into the touch, her alert eyes slowly drooping closed. "Not that I disagree. Meant, though, you think it's better for you." His gaze transfers down to the mare's neck, and he watches his hand flex over it. "Don't have to answer. Were asking what I thought of it, wondered what you did."
The Journeyman stares at Reyce for a little while. Not accusingly, or even curiously - his eyes simply remain there while he mulls over the possible responses that surface in his brain. "I...am fortunate in that, due to my rank, the majority of the complexities involved after the death of a patient are not my purview." That's the caveat, there; the Journeyman has seen death and dealt with it, but he is by no means an expert, nor will he claim any universality beneath his comments. A brow lifts, and the air is left unoccupied by his own voice to let Reyce elaborate or question further if he chooses.
No sooner has Reyce opened his mouth than a round drop of water plunks on the end of his nose. This draws a quick snort and a shake of the head from the Bendenite, who tilts a glance up to eye the dark, looming clouds. "Have to wait," he decides out loud. Pulling his hand off his runner's neck, he walks around to her side, bracing a hand on the saddle as he swings himself back into it. "Rain's coming. Should start back before it does. Won't run this time," is his final promise before, touching the reins into his mare's neck, he swings her around in a tight, careful circle to lead the way back towards High Reaches.
2-18-2007 (Reyce, Neiran):
Mountain Waterfall
A half-day's brisk-paced hike from the Weyr, this clearing may just be worth the time it takes to get there.
Against the backdrop of the purple-grey mountains, this glade nestles a deep plunge pool churned by a waterfall plunging from a river high above. The river is clear and cold; it winds on through the wide meadow and into the woods, flowing swiftly down the mountainside. The plunge pool is deep enough for a dragon to swim in, though the thunder of the falls is loud and keeps the water forever chilly. Partway up the cliff face is situated a small outcropping of rock. The aesthetically minded may simply admire the little jut while the braver may use it as a diving launch. A dark overhang behind the waterfall suggests an alcove or opening, the presence of which is better known by common visitors.
The warmer season comes slowly to High Reaches and the grass now visible between lumps of melting snow is brown in some places, and absent in others. Chunks of ice bob in the frigid waters of the lake, and the melting of so much at once has made occasional thick and slurchy patches of heavy black mud. The waterfall sounds something like a running bath, a prominent trickle as free water spills around the ever thinning stalagmites of ice that winter created and that summer will ultimately destroy. The clouds hang heavy in the sky, a grey and ominous blanket that occasionally rolls and curls into darkening black pockets.
The humid, heavy weather and the hanging airs of spring could make this evening a lazy one for some, but perhaps no so for the healer who had to treat injuries at a Fall two days past, and may again tomorrow; certainly not so for the holder who rides with him, whose girlfriend is riding in both and has, as a result, evicted him from her weyr for the evening. At the moment he has the both of them moving at a gallop, his own skittish mare (the same as before, for all the problems she presents) proving surprisingly quick on her feet as she leads the way down the broad trail through the mountains. When they reach the clearing around the waterfall, Reyce swings his mare left so she won't be blocking Neiran's runner when he suddenly slows her, dragging her down to a circling trot against which she pulls her head and tries to speed back up. It takes him a few minutes to settle her, leaning forward to lay a hand on her sweat-dampened neck as he looks over to see how the healer's doing.
Neiran has his eyes on the sky when Reyce looks over to him, hands and legs working instinctually in coordination to give his gelding the signals that tell him to slow down, and sidestep closer to the skittish mare once he's come to a stop. The gelding is as even-tempered as always and obeys without trouble - that might have something to do with the crisp, candied fingerroots the Journeyman brought the grey before their ride. But even despite that, he finds the soft, yielding nature of the ground beneath his hooves somewhat disconcerting, and lets this be known by lifting one hoof, pawing at the air in mild dismay. Neiran looks down from the clouds, directly to the mud below. He purses his lips at it, but does not direct his melodramatic mount elsewhere. Instead, he pulls off his gloves in order to rearrange hair that's gotten mussed with the wind of their ride here. His unprotected cheeks, flushed red, show the reason for the gloves - there's yet a nip in the air, despite the onset of spring. The bobbing ice is another reminder, and that's what attracts the healer's eyes after he's given Reyce a silent look for a moment. He inhales the mountain air in a slow, deep breath, holds it, then exhales quietly.
Reyce's mare tilts her head sideways when the gelding approaches, watching him out of one eye and faking a nip in his direction. Her rider checks this with a light tap from his heel, bringing her attention to her other side as she turns around to sniff him and figure out just what nudged her. It doesn't take much concentration to do this, however, and meanwhile Reyce catches that look from the healer. His own gaze turns down to the water, catching sight of the bobbing ice and the cold that implies - greater here, in the middle of the mountains, than it was back at the weyr, yet he hasn't planned as well as the healer and does not wear gloves for it. Perhaps this is the reason he opts to keep his fingers near the mare's neck, from which the heat of sweat still rises. "Sorry," murmurs the starter of their impromptu run, perhaps a little belatedly now they've come to the end of it. "Felt like a run."
"There is no need to apologize," Neiran smoothly assures. "I would have thought the terrain yet somewhat too perilous for such a thing." He slides his fingers back into his gloves, curling the digits around the reins once more. The gelding seems unperturbed by the mare's nip, and more displeased by the squelchy soft mud under his hooves. Although he's stilled now, he leans his weight to one side, keeping his front hoof somewhat elevated. This shift in stance has the healer shift in his saddle to compensate so that he's not leaning awkwardly in the direction of the drop to the river. Maintaining what dignity he can with his gallant steed slouching lazily beneath him, Neiran lifts his chin and regards the man beside him, dark eyes flicking to his bootheels and his face again in a quick once-over. "But as you nor I fell to an untimely and humiliating demise on a mudded path, rest assured that I am not displeased."
Reyce, who was just nodding calmly over Neiran's comment about the terrain, is caught off guard by the statement that follows, blinking once before breathing a low snort of laughter. "Take your word it," he says, turning his hand over so the back of it may be warmed by the mare's sweat. "Tried to keep an eye out; figured, these runners would know the trail." Giving his mare's neck a final shake, cupping the top of it in the center of his palm, he heaves himself up in the stirrups for a good look at the land around him. "Move over there?" he suggests, twisting a thumb over his shoulder at a spot further from the river's incline. "Looks like it might be drier." Although he proposes the change, he doesn't initiate it; his mare, after all, doesn't seem to mind (or even notice) the soft mud in her fascination with the sounds and smells around her, standing poised with her head up and ears twitching as she tries to take in everything she can.
"Pardon my overzealous caution," Neiran murmurs. "Runners are not as always as sure-footed as we would have them be. And injuries sustained from falling from a runner are seldom easily dealt with." He explains the reasoning behind his concern crisply, avoiding the projection of distress or fretting. Lest he be tempted into dwelling in useless reiterations as is his wont, he remarks, "I am looking forward to the drier sevendays of spring." A nudge with his heel and a smart tug of his reins has his gelding turn about neatly, all too eagerly going where he is bid, so long as it's not towards worse mud. Neiran spares a passing look over his shoulder to be certain Reyce is coming, and inviting him to do so, lest he think he's decided to gain space of his own without forewarning.
Reyce accepts the explanation with a nod, unbothered by the caution Neiran shows (overzealous or not) for staying alive and intact. His mare skitters and snorts when the touch of his heel brings her back from her investigations, but the pull on the reins turns her head readily enough, and soon she follows the gelding to drier ground. "Yeah," her rider agrees with the healer's parting statement. "May be a while, usually is." After a moment he adds, drily, "Usually get sick this part of it, the rain."
"I am grateful that it did not deter you from joining me," Neiran murmurs, twisting slightly in his saddle while he holds the reins with one hand, using his legs primarily to guide the gelding to where it's already wanting to go. Neiran's forced to about-face and lean forward in the saddle when the gelding ascends a rocky outcropping, leading them to the higher, drier vantage point on the waterfall. The Journeyman lets the drumming roar of the water predominate, leaving his sentiments of appreciation simple and frank as they stand. He busies himself in leaning back slightly once the gelding has come to a comfortable stop (and begun mouthing at the ground in hopes of some grass), to rummage in his saddle bags and withdraw some foodstuffs. Even riding, the waterfall isn't entirely close to the Weyr, so naturally the Journeyman saw fit to take their gastrointestinal requirements into his own hands. Roast wherry sandwiches seem to be the order of the day, and one wrapped in a cloth napkin is held outstretched in Neiran's hand, ready for when Reyce arrives alongside him.
Reyce takes a bit longer to ascend the rocky slope, since his own mare decides she doesn't like the look of anything that goes upwards and promptly balks at the first rocky step. When encouraging clicks and presses from his legs don't convince her, he swats his hand behind the saddle and deals a glancing blow to her hindquarters, which startles the mare forward. From there they strike a weaving path, but they do make it up, and without more incident than the mare's attempting to stop again several times. All the same, once they've arrived at the safer spot Neiran's chosen, Reyce opts to dismount. The reins get pinched up together under the mare's jaw, holding her close, as he moves to her other side and close enough to take the sandwich from Neiran. "Thanks," Reyce says once he has it, retreating a step with his mare in case the healer also prefers to dismount. Picking up a thread of conversation left behind when they strung out to come up here, he says (as he eyes his sandwich), "Doesn't matter. Get sick anyway, not so bad." He takes a bite, and shrugs.
Neiran's open fingers hover for a moment after the sandwich has been taken, then retreat to attend to his own napkin-shrouded sandwich. Despite Reyce's courteous side-step, the Journeyman seems perfectly content to remain atop the gelding, neatly picking apart the knotted corners of the linen cloth so he can unfold it and get at the sandwich inside. He shifts in the saddle, getting comfortable before he picks up one half and takes a bite. He chews meditatively, bearing a look of such concentration that one could almost imagine he's counting each chew, and analyzing the effectiveness of his molar action in that very chew. As it turns out, he's simply allowing himself to be mesmerized by the water, staring at the distant cascade, an ever-changing focus for the eyes. At last he swallows his small mouthful, and ensures no sauce is left on his lips by a dainty sweep of his ring finger around the area. A sweep of his tongue across his teeth ensures that he won't be flashing Reyce with a sliver of wherry between his front teeth when he speaks next. "Illness is kept at bay with the proper precautions, but indeed small yearly nuisances are almost inevitable." Even Neiran was seen sniffling with a hankie under his nose in the midst of winter. "Fortunately we are young and in relative health so we are afforded the luxury of only minimal concern." For the elder people, of course, winter is often their last season - if not the cold, then an illness taking effect on a tired body sees to it.
Reyce stands with his back to the waterfall, so it certainly doesn't have him mesmerized, yet the silence passes comfortably enough as he, too, works on his sandwich. The mare, the grip on whose reins he has loosened somewhat, tries to get a sniff of this interesting food, but his elbow swings up to knock her nose away and she gives up with an offended snort, deciding instead to look over his shoulder and (like Neiran) watch the falls. "Guess so," Reyce puts in, pausing between bites of his sandwich. "Inevitable." What he guesses. A silence falls from him then, this one somehow not so comfortable as the last; perhaps because Reyce seems lost, briefly, in a frown directed at the sky as he leans back into his runner's neck, earning a curious whuff and shuffling of feet from the mare.
More mastication accompanies a seemingly thoughtful silence after Reyce's words. Some sense of that absence of total ease draws the healer's eyes from the study of falling water to his conversation companion, studying him mildly, without intensity. The look lingers and deepens, however, and after Neiran swallows he doesn't lift the sandwich for another bite, but continues ruminating on Reyce's visage. "Inevitable," he echoes. A moment later, he draws in a small breath and straightens in the saddle. "If this is following a line of conversation you would prefer not to discuss, simply say so and you will have my immediate apologies and the suggestion of another topic. But I cannot help but wonder...my experience, as a healer from adolescence, inevitably differs insofar as exposure to certain facts of life is concerned." A moment for breath, and for Reyce's brain to try and get one step ahead and anticipate the question before Neiran can ask it, so it won't seem such a sudden jab in the dark. "I am curious if you have had occasion to see many...or any...people pass away." His voice is soft, level, respectful of the topic without imbuing it with more mysticism than its practical reality deserves.
For all that something has distracted him, the small breath before Neiran shifts his posture in the saddle is enough to alert Reyce that the healer is ramping up for something, and to turn his restored attention to the other man. A blink greets the sentence offered, but though his lips part briefly he closes them before anything comes out, and waits for the rest of the inquiry. "Nothing I remember," he says, and although the answer is a mundane one, and do not require it, he has picked up Neiran's gentled tones. "Grandmother, that's it, and don't think I was even there." The gentled tones wear off somewhat as he speaks, and somewhat more when he shrugs afterwards. "Just got distracted, not - it's fine, discussing it." Another shrug, followed by a jerk from his elbow when he realizes that his mare has been sneaking her nose in towards his food again. She prances away this time, but his hold on the reins prevents her from going far. Once he has her stopped, Reyce tilts a look back towards the healer, his focus underscored by the fact that he (subconsciously) tilts his sandwich up as well. "See it a lot?" Death. He becomes aware of the sandwich and, with still one more shrug, brings it back so he can take a bite out.
The respectful solemnity of the broached topic is dispelled already by Reyce's shrug, but what wisps of it remain are shattered when a hunk of roast wherry falls out of the end of Neiran's sandwich as he takes a bite, and tumbles lengthwise down the front of his jacket to land on the saddle horn. The Journeyman is oblivious to this due to the swaddling effect of his jacket, and munches on unperturbed. The requisite preening mouth-check ritual must seem amusing considering the fact that there's a line of sauce down his front and a gob of meat sitting on his saddle horn waiting to be discovered or pointed out. As Reyce has accepted the topic and made overtures to perpetuate the discussion of it, he focuses on the Bendenite, gaze level and intellect attentive behind dark eyes. "A fair amount. South Telgar, where I apprenticed, was a final resting place for many elderly. Their deaths were part of the routine apprentices were accustomed to. A Weyr provides deaths of an...entirely different nature."
Reyce's eyes flick down when the piece of meat goes tumbling down, but if the solemn tone of the discussion has been ruined for him, he has the restraint not to interrupt it for Neiran, or at least not while he's still speaking. After, Reyce lowers his chin, leaving only his eyes easily visible from Neiran's angle, and once he's drawn attention there he flicks his gaze downwards. A jerk of his chin follows the glance, lest there be any doubt but what Neiran should look down. After that, he leaves the subject alone, returning his gaze to the sky for the length of time it takes the healer to clean up his front. "Yeah," he answers, back on topic, and with a wry quirk to his lips. "Sudden. It get to you?" His eyes check back in, to see whether Neiran's finished cleaning himself yet.
Neiran blinks once, but the next moment he grasps Reyce's gesture and looks down. He addresses the hunk of wherry with a frown, and picks it up between forefinger and thumb. He seems somewhat at a loss as to what to do with it, at first, before he decides that the flesh can go back to nature rather than in his mouth, and he flicks it towards the river. He frowns at his fingertips, now with sauce on them, as well as he frowns at the front of his coat. Luckily he was prepared for just such a mishap, and with surgical precision and a fair share of primness he dabs up all the evident sauce. With his rider moving a little more than usual in the saddle, the gelding's head swings back around, large brown eyes rolling and showing white in their effort to peer back and see what the nice man who brings treats and uses the currycomb liberally is up to. Neiran ignores this and resettles, still wiping some phantom crumbs off of one thigh by the time Reyce speaks. "No. It was perhaps the word inevitability which drew my mind there...in conjunction with what thoughts the waterfall inspired, relating to the transience of form and subsequently life. It simply occurred to me that you would be one with whom I could indulge my curiosity. I have honestly wondered how others view death, and how much of it they have seen."
The wry quirk on Reyce's mouth edges towards a smile, however briefly, when Neiran waxes (vaguely) philosophical on the significance of the waterfall. For his part, he continues to stand with his back to it, and even his mare has lost interest, now stretching her nose out toward the gelding in the hopes, perhaps, of making a new friend. "Not much," Reyce admits again, though he's keeping a careful eye on the runners now lest they get into a fight. For all her gestures of friendship, his mare remains slightly on edge, as though ready to jerk back at a moment's notice. "Deaths in my family been before I was born, mostly. All I would see." As the mare's nose gets closer to her goal, he lifts a steadying hand to her neck, receiving in response a convulsive little twitch of skin as though a fly had landed on her. "That your view of it, then?" he asks, taking his eyes off the mare to watch Neiran for a second. "Used to it."
Neiran's gelding is oblivious to the mare's edginess. His fight was cut off of him at a young age, and right now he's enjoying lipping at some grassoids he's found conveniently by a hoof. He proffers no information relating to familial deaths, his hands working to wrap the half of the sandwich that remains back in the napkin, neatly and effectively. He leans backwards and returns the thing to the saddle back, fastening the buckle with his outstretched hand. He rights himself and tugs the reins to the side, causing the gelding to shuffle lazily a little away from the mare. Noting his gelding's sudden decrease in sharpness of attention, Neiran frowns faintly down at the grey beast he's astride. "It is...dangerous to oversimplify death," he murmurs, lifting his eyes from the runner to Reyce. "But one becomes used to it. It is simpler for everyone involved when it is a natural conclusion."
Indifference is probably a good decision on the gelding's part, for Reyce's mare has not lost any of her youthful vigor, and no sooner has he moved away than she squeals a tiny objection, fakes another nip at him with ears laid back, and turns her head away as she suddenly becomes interested in something on the other side. Reyce lifts his elbow again to prevent her head from swinging into him as it turns, but otherwise ignores her. He is caught up in his own thoughts, a frown directed at the space her nose just occupied. "Think that's better?" he asks, shaking himself back into alertness when he realizes there's been a pause. His gaze refocuses on Neiran.
The squeal finally gets the gelding's attention, and his ears prick up and his head swings that way, eyeing the female warily. What was that for? A soft nicker confides his dismay in Neiran, who responds by reaching down to comb his gloved fingers through the creature's mane. He's still looking at Reyce, however, little things like waterfalls and runners no longer commanding his attention in irregular intervals. "Better than...many alternatives, yes. It is easiest for the family to accept the natural passing of their loved one. There are less complicating emotions involved in the scenario when the death is of a natural cause. Accidents...death by intention...there are complicating issues of guilt, blame, and helplessness. Of course it is better to expire naturally when it is time. Do you disagree? Have I misunderstood your question?"
Reyce has never been one to mince his answers, so he simply says, "Yes." The mediation follows in the form of a shrug, as he lifts a hand to calm his own runner with a hand laid over her mane. As his fingers dig into her neck, the runner gives a somewhat exasperated huff - she wanted an equine friend, and this is what she gets? - but slowly leans into the touch, her alert eyes slowly drooping closed. "Not that I disagree. Meant, though, you think it's better for you." His gaze transfers down to the mare's neck, and he watches his hand flex over it. "Don't have to answer. Were asking what I thought of it, wondered what you did."
The Journeyman stares at Reyce for a little while. Not accusingly, or even curiously - his eyes simply remain there while he mulls over the possible responses that surface in his brain. "I...am fortunate in that, due to my rank, the majority of the complexities involved after the death of a patient are not my purview." That's the caveat, there; the Journeyman has seen death and dealt with it, but he is by no means an expert, nor will he claim any universality beneath his comments. A brow lifts, and the air is left unoccupied by his own voice to let Reyce elaborate or question further if he chooses.
No sooner has Reyce opened his mouth than a round drop of water plunks on the end of his nose. This draws a quick snort and a shake of the head from the Bendenite, who tilts a glance up to eye the dark, looming clouds. "Have to wait," he decides out loud. Pulling his hand off his runner's neck, he walks around to her side, bracing a hand on the saddle as he swings himself back into it. "Rain's coming. Should start back before it does. Won't run this time," is his final promise before, touching the reins into his mare's neck, he swings her around in a tight, careful circle to lead the way back towards High Reaches.