Something Brewing
Location: Infirmary
Time: Evening on Day 1, Month 3, Turn 3
Players: Neiran and Roa
Scene: Roa has a request. Neiran has tea.
Infirmary
The infirmary is divided into two sections. The larger of these is given over to injured dragons and is joined to the bowl by an immense tunnel. No less than six stone couches fill this area, with stations between each for medical supplies and personnel. The other side of the infirmary is for human patients and is furnished with double rows of cots. A large alcove near the exit to the living cavern houses the healers' area, where they store their supplies and can retreat for a moment of quiet before wading into the battle between life and death again.
The infirmary is quiet. The last Threadfall, some days ago now, yielded up no injured to tend and no deaths to mourn. The next Fall is yet more than a sevenday away, so the ritualized business of preparation has not yet begun. Even the weather is offering the healers a respite, as winter yields to spring and the more persistent sniffles and the occasional ice-related injuries occur less and less. With only a few patients occupying the cots, what healers are here find themselves with free time this late afternoon. A small assembly is monopolizing the warmth around the hearth, chatting in low voices, gesticulating with the anecdotes they relate. Beyond the reach of the hearth's warmth and the conversation, Neiran has converted a thick table into his workspace. Mortars and pestles and bits of dried herbs and a few clear jars have been shunted to one corner of it, room made on the apothecary's table for his books, hides, inkwell, and quill. And a mug, as well, steaming with the ubiquitous dose of herbal tea. Presently the healer appears to be giving his eyes a bit of a moment's break, his eyelids closed, his chin tilted towards the ceiling. Or perhaps he's visualizing - on the hide on front of him, a half-drawn draconic digestive system is sketched out in pencil.
Into this quiet space steps one more healer, though of the draconic variety. Her footfalls are soft and her attention moves, first, to the cluster of people talking by the fire. But her gaze flits away then to look around the rest of the room and to land on the seemingly somnambulant Journeyman and his drawing. Roa walks to his makeshift workspace and leans forward a bit, studying the image before clearing her throat softly. "Good afternoon, Journeyman. Is there somewhere private that we might speak?"
Neiran's eyelids peel back, dark pupils fixing on Roa's face without seeking. His chin lowers, and he turns in his chair so that he'll not need to crane his neck awkwardly to see the Weyrwoman. "Good afternoon," he replies after a moment, glossing over any surprise at finding her at his side, leaving it unacknowledged. Neiran looks at the drawing laid bare for her scrutiny, and after a moment of silent regard, he tucks it beneath a book, and makes overtures towards assembling his strewn items. "It is difficult to surmise the internal structures of a dragon when they have never before been seen," he murmurs, capping his jar of ink with adroit fingers, twisting to seal it. He raises his eyes to the Weyrwoman, and they remain on her face as he rises from his chair. "Certainly. Please, this way." Without evident guile or suspicion, the healer turns on his heel and approaches the portion of the infirmary that holds partitioned cots, curtains readily available to shield them from view. It's well beyond a comfortably distance of eavesdropping, as well, meant to house ailing and shy patients, and suitably secluded for it.
If Roa wanted to look at the drawing for longer, she is polite enough to lift her gaze as it is tucked away. "Have you considered asking one?" she queries. "I mean, I don't imagine a dragon can tell you what his innards look like, but he could answer questions about how it feels to eat or to chew stone." The weyrwoman follows after Neiran, tugging the curtain shut once they slip into the alcove. The room must meet with her approval, because she leans one hip against the cot and begins, carefully, "I have need of two healers. Not for myself, but for a situation which requires the level of discretion that you have demonstrated reliably in the past."
The brief nod that the Journeyman affords the goldrider as they proceed to the quietude of the far cots is, he presumes, sufficient to explain to her that he has considered such a possibility - and maybe even already pursued it. But the topic isn't pursued just now, left to fall by the wayside as a possible point to pick up and discuss later, forgotten for the present business. He folds his hands neatly while Roa closes the curtain, standing attentively, letting her lead the way. What he was expecting is unknowable, but it was not what Roa just said; a leaden brow raises, implying surprise and interest. "I am grateful, Weyrwoman, that you hold me in such regard," he replies diplomatically, ultimately leaving it to Roa to lead onwards and reveal her intentions. In the meantime, his brow lowers, expression returning to neutrality.
"I ask, obviously, that whether or not you decide to take on the task I offer, than you do not share what we discuss with anyone. I understand this is likely self-evident, but I feel better saying it aloud, anyhow." Roa pauses a moment to allow Neiran to offer up a response, but then she continues, "Have you heard the rumors that circulated some months back about an unknown greenrider at Telgar?"
The Journeyman's response is only to nod, and murmur, "of course." The question elicits a moment of thought, or at least the appearance thereof; Neiran's eyes slide to the corners of their sockets, as if looking to read a record in some dustier corner of his brain. "Yes," he recalls at length, returning his gaze to Roa. "I had overheard the discussion of such an issue."
"The truth of it is that there was an unknown greenrider at Telgar, and she was not from Ista. Nor was she injured. When she arrived." Roa lifts her gaze, meeting Neiran's squarely. "She was an exile caught over Greenfields and brought to Telgar for two weeks of...interrogation on orders from Telgar's weyrleader. Then she was released and sent home. The greenrider is willing to come forward and accuse S'lien for his mistreatment, and those concerned parties at Telgar have asked to use a place in High Reaches' coverage area as a safe meeting point. I would like, besides the harpers that will be there to take her statement, several healers to examine her for injuries and to determine if there is any medical proof to her words."
"Medical proof of...the injuries which she received during her time there." Neiran's echo creeps out of his mouth, low and quiet, the end of the sentence falling away rather than lifting up; it's a certainty, rather than a question. The healer's interlaced fingers part from one another and withdraw to smooth the black fabric of his cassock, eliminating an invisible wrinkle. "Given the...circumstances, I imagine I can see the necessity for solid verifications. I feel it prudent to inform you that although I am familiar with the sciences involved in identifying...the signs of mistreatment, I have no experience to commend me particularly to the task," Neiran replies modestly, fingers lacing once more.
"Yes," Roa agrees with a small nod. "My second request is that, if there is someone in good standing with the hall, whom you trust to assist...a Master preferably and, ideally, once with a bit of experience in...identifying such things, I would very much appreciate the suggestion. In order to keep accusations at a minimum, when this all becomes public, we are trying to have all interactions overseen by two people."
"That is understandable," Neiran replies, inclining his head briefly. His lips draw themselves into a thin line, and his eyes again venture to that corner of his mind where he considers things. "I do not know the Masters here well," he says. "As concerns my recommendations, I...can think of only one Master. He is well-regarded by the Hall, and has been so for his entire career. I do not know that he is especially skilled in such things, but he has traveled abroad extensively during the Interval and is similarly widely read. He is also scrupulous and trustworthy," he assures with the soft confidence a man usually reserves for speaking of blood relations alone, his shoulders squaring subtly as if these accolades must be conveyed only by the most perfect-postured of vessels. "He presently resides at South Telgar," the Journeyman adds.
There is another small nod from the weyrwoman. "You know him well, this master? May I ask his name?"
"Master Ceregar," Neiran replies, with that same tone that reveals a level of knowing, before confirmation is given. "Yes. I have had the privilege of knowing him well, although...to my regret, it has been some Turns now since we have seen one another," he replies, genuine regret matching the sentiments in a subdued, but nonetheless palpable manner. "Rest assured that the separation was not due to any parting of animosity, but simple business and distance. We are on cordial terms and maintain correspondence, and...if such a task is asked of him, I believe he will respond unhesitatingly."
The weyrwoman studies the journeyman for a long and quiet moment. Perhaps she is weighing his words or judging the intent behind them. Perhaps she is simply a bit floored by witnessing Neiran emote. Regardless, at the end of the brief study, Roa nods. "As you maintain a correspondence and are on cordial terms, perhaps you might contact him in regards to this? I'll write to him as well, but he might appreciate the opinions of someone he knows well, considering the unusual nature of the request." There is a small pause and Roa clears her throat. "Soon, I should hope. The meeting is scheduled for three days from now."
"If you wish a response swiftly with an assurance of privacy, I imagine that the missive should be sent by dragon courier, rather than the traditional means." On to the topic of the practicality of the message, what brief softness he exhibited dissipates entirely, replaced by his usual businesslike address. "I can write it immediately, if you would wish it. As I am certain you had noticed, the infirmary does not demand much of its healers tonight. I presume that you have a courier in mind to send such a message?" Neiran decides that a gesture would be appropriate, since he's been still for overlong, and so the question is accompanied by a vague motion of the hand, palm up as it sweeps a lazy arc in front of him, inviting elucidation before it returns to its place.
"I do," is Roa's simple reply. "I can pick up the letter myself and add my own. In, would a hour allow enough time, or do you need more?" Her hands move to rest lightly on the infirmary cot she continues to lean against, her posture as lazy as her words are urgent.
"I shall not need that long," Neiran assures, turning away from the goldrider to exit their sanctuary as soon as the words are spoken. But he pauses, hand hovering in the act of reaching to withdraw the curtain. It lowers, and he turns his head towards Roa. "Perhaps you should remain here in the meantime. I imagine it would appear unusual if you retired to a secluded cot in the company of a Journeyman, only to reappear a few moments later." And Roa without any visible physical difficulty. Appearances must be kept, although the Journeyman's lips press together in disapproval at the need for little deceptions.
The weyrwoman's own smile is small and wry. "Perhaps so," she agrees. Instead of standing, She pushes up with her hands and settles onto the cot. Her feet swing idly. "I'll just wait here and ponder the good health that allowed me to require a pretense at all."
Neiran's dark eyes flick over the Weyrwoman's features a moment, trying to read what's behind that wry smile, and her words. A moment later he disappears beyond the curtain, leaving Roa to ponder what she will. When he returns some thirty minutes later, he has not only a missive in hand, but further pretense as to why the Weyrwoman would linger behind a curtain for so long - tea. And if not a good cover, it's at the least a beverage in thanks for Roa's patience. "I have brought you tea," he says needlessly, turning the mug towards the Telgari, handle towards her. "The concoction is one often used to relieve muscular discomfort particularly associated with the uterus. Whether or not you choose to utilize that particular information as an alibi is your prerogative. Here is the message." A folded square of hide, held shut by a scrap of string, is presented by the healer's other hand.
Roa sits and waits. She studies her nails. She studies the cots and the curtains. She studies her boots. And then she looks up as Neiran returns with uterus tea. "So you have. Thank you." Her lips are trying hard not to smile, but they're failing. "I might suggest, in general, describing it some other way. Not every girl even knows what a uterus is. Feminine aches, perhaps. Monthly courses. Something of that ilk." She reaches out to accept both the beverage and the letter. One is blown on, steam drifting from the surface. The other is tucked into her pocket. "I haven't had much trouble in that area, but I suppose it can't hurt, can it."
The healer's brow quirks up at seeing the losing battle against amusement being waged by her mouth. "I was offering you the benefit of the doubt, and protecting the dignity of the discussion. Rest assured that I do modify my terminology in accordance with the patient I am treating." And it's a nod to Roa's intelligence and his regard for her that the word uterus was used. Presumably. Relieved of his burdens, the healer smoothes his cassock, and lifts his chin. "I would thank you once again for entrusting me with the delicacy of this situation. I will await your further word on this issue." Despite the disruptiveness of this, he takes it in stride, as just another task.
"And I rank a uterus," Roa offers very solemnly. "Thank you." Her eyes lower and she allows herself another thoughtful sip of tea. "Three days from now, an hour after dinner. I leave it to you to clear your schedule. Either the weyrleader or myself will come by to fetch you. I'll see about having Master Ceregar pay you a visit around that time, if he accepts."
"Unless there is a patient who needs his constant attention, he will accept," Neiran replies, confidence without bravado supporting his words. "I shall be free," he promises, with the same stoic assuredness. The Journeyman is conveniently ignoring the notion of Roa ranking a uterus - it'd be too easy for the healer to talk himself in circles and finally up against a wall if he attempted to clarify the issue, and that's a dance he doesn't feel like performing. "Unless you have further need of me, I believe it would be prudent of me to return to my duties." And allow the uterus to finish her tea without the burden of a looming, black-clad and dour man behind the curtain with her.
"All right," is the weyrwoman's amiable reply. Sip. "Thank you, Neiran." And that must qualify as some sort of dismissal, as her attention shifts back to the curtain and away from the Journeyman, allowing him the opportunity to move away and back to his duties.
Time: Evening on Day 1, Month 3, Turn 3
Players: Neiran and Roa
Scene: Roa has a request. Neiran has tea.
Infirmary
The infirmary is divided into two sections. The larger of these is given over to injured dragons and is joined to the bowl by an immense tunnel. No less than six stone couches fill this area, with stations between each for medical supplies and personnel. The other side of the infirmary is for human patients and is furnished with double rows of cots. A large alcove near the exit to the living cavern houses the healers' area, where they store their supplies and can retreat for a moment of quiet before wading into the battle between life and death again.
The infirmary is quiet. The last Threadfall, some days ago now, yielded up no injured to tend and no deaths to mourn. The next Fall is yet more than a sevenday away, so the ritualized business of preparation has not yet begun. Even the weather is offering the healers a respite, as winter yields to spring and the more persistent sniffles and the occasional ice-related injuries occur less and less. With only a few patients occupying the cots, what healers are here find themselves with free time this late afternoon. A small assembly is monopolizing the warmth around the hearth, chatting in low voices, gesticulating with the anecdotes they relate. Beyond the reach of the hearth's warmth and the conversation, Neiran has converted a thick table into his workspace. Mortars and pestles and bits of dried herbs and a few clear jars have been shunted to one corner of it, room made on the apothecary's table for his books, hides, inkwell, and quill. And a mug, as well, steaming with the ubiquitous dose of herbal tea. Presently the healer appears to be giving his eyes a bit of a moment's break, his eyelids closed, his chin tilted towards the ceiling. Or perhaps he's visualizing - on the hide on front of him, a half-drawn draconic digestive system is sketched out in pencil.
Into this quiet space steps one more healer, though of the draconic variety. Her footfalls are soft and her attention moves, first, to the cluster of people talking by the fire. But her gaze flits away then to look around the rest of the room and to land on the seemingly somnambulant Journeyman and his drawing. Roa walks to his makeshift workspace and leans forward a bit, studying the image before clearing her throat softly. "Good afternoon, Journeyman. Is there somewhere private that we might speak?"
Neiran's eyelids peel back, dark pupils fixing on Roa's face without seeking. His chin lowers, and he turns in his chair so that he'll not need to crane his neck awkwardly to see the Weyrwoman. "Good afternoon," he replies after a moment, glossing over any surprise at finding her at his side, leaving it unacknowledged. Neiran looks at the drawing laid bare for her scrutiny, and after a moment of silent regard, he tucks it beneath a book, and makes overtures towards assembling his strewn items. "It is difficult to surmise the internal structures of a dragon when they have never before been seen," he murmurs, capping his jar of ink with adroit fingers, twisting to seal it. He raises his eyes to the Weyrwoman, and they remain on her face as he rises from his chair. "Certainly. Please, this way." Without evident guile or suspicion, the healer turns on his heel and approaches the portion of the infirmary that holds partitioned cots, curtains readily available to shield them from view. It's well beyond a comfortably distance of eavesdropping, as well, meant to house ailing and shy patients, and suitably secluded for it.
If Roa wanted to look at the drawing for longer, she is polite enough to lift her gaze as it is tucked away. "Have you considered asking one?" she queries. "I mean, I don't imagine a dragon can tell you what his innards look like, but he could answer questions about how it feels to eat or to chew stone." The weyrwoman follows after Neiran, tugging the curtain shut once they slip into the alcove. The room must meet with her approval, because she leans one hip against the cot and begins, carefully, "I have need of two healers. Not for myself, but for a situation which requires the level of discretion that you have demonstrated reliably in the past."
The brief nod that the Journeyman affords the goldrider as they proceed to the quietude of the far cots is, he presumes, sufficient to explain to her that he has considered such a possibility - and maybe even already pursued it. But the topic isn't pursued just now, left to fall by the wayside as a possible point to pick up and discuss later, forgotten for the present business. He folds his hands neatly while Roa closes the curtain, standing attentively, letting her lead the way. What he was expecting is unknowable, but it was not what Roa just said; a leaden brow raises, implying surprise and interest. "I am grateful, Weyrwoman, that you hold me in such regard," he replies diplomatically, ultimately leaving it to Roa to lead onwards and reveal her intentions. In the meantime, his brow lowers, expression returning to neutrality.
"I ask, obviously, that whether or not you decide to take on the task I offer, than you do not share what we discuss with anyone. I understand this is likely self-evident, but I feel better saying it aloud, anyhow." Roa pauses a moment to allow Neiran to offer up a response, but then she continues, "Have you heard the rumors that circulated some months back about an unknown greenrider at Telgar?"
The Journeyman's response is only to nod, and murmur, "of course." The question elicits a moment of thought, or at least the appearance thereof; Neiran's eyes slide to the corners of their sockets, as if looking to read a record in some dustier corner of his brain. "Yes," he recalls at length, returning his gaze to Roa. "I had overheard the discussion of such an issue."
"The truth of it is that there was an unknown greenrider at Telgar, and she was not from Ista. Nor was she injured. When she arrived." Roa lifts her gaze, meeting Neiran's squarely. "She was an exile caught over Greenfields and brought to Telgar for two weeks of...interrogation on orders from Telgar's weyrleader. Then she was released and sent home. The greenrider is willing to come forward and accuse S'lien for his mistreatment, and those concerned parties at Telgar have asked to use a place in High Reaches' coverage area as a safe meeting point. I would like, besides the harpers that will be there to take her statement, several healers to examine her for injuries and to determine if there is any medical proof to her words."
"Medical proof of...the injuries which she received during her time there." Neiran's echo creeps out of his mouth, low and quiet, the end of the sentence falling away rather than lifting up; it's a certainty, rather than a question. The healer's interlaced fingers part from one another and withdraw to smooth the black fabric of his cassock, eliminating an invisible wrinkle. "Given the...circumstances, I imagine I can see the necessity for solid verifications. I feel it prudent to inform you that although I am familiar with the sciences involved in identifying...the signs of mistreatment, I have no experience to commend me particularly to the task," Neiran replies modestly, fingers lacing once more.
"Yes," Roa agrees with a small nod. "My second request is that, if there is someone in good standing with the hall, whom you trust to assist...a Master preferably and, ideally, once with a bit of experience in...identifying such things, I would very much appreciate the suggestion. In order to keep accusations at a minimum, when this all becomes public, we are trying to have all interactions overseen by two people."
"That is understandable," Neiran replies, inclining his head briefly. His lips draw themselves into a thin line, and his eyes again venture to that corner of his mind where he considers things. "I do not know the Masters here well," he says. "As concerns my recommendations, I...can think of only one Master. He is well-regarded by the Hall, and has been so for his entire career. I do not know that he is especially skilled in such things, but he has traveled abroad extensively during the Interval and is similarly widely read. He is also scrupulous and trustworthy," he assures with the soft confidence a man usually reserves for speaking of blood relations alone, his shoulders squaring subtly as if these accolades must be conveyed only by the most perfect-postured of vessels. "He presently resides at South Telgar," the Journeyman adds.
There is another small nod from the weyrwoman. "You know him well, this master? May I ask his name?"
"Master Ceregar," Neiran replies, with that same tone that reveals a level of knowing, before confirmation is given. "Yes. I have had the privilege of knowing him well, although...to my regret, it has been some Turns now since we have seen one another," he replies, genuine regret matching the sentiments in a subdued, but nonetheless palpable manner. "Rest assured that the separation was not due to any parting of animosity, but simple business and distance. We are on cordial terms and maintain correspondence, and...if such a task is asked of him, I believe he will respond unhesitatingly."
The weyrwoman studies the journeyman for a long and quiet moment. Perhaps she is weighing his words or judging the intent behind them. Perhaps she is simply a bit floored by witnessing Neiran emote. Regardless, at the end of the brief study, Roa nods. "As you maintain a correspondence and are on cordial terms, perhaps you might contact him in regards to this? I'll write to him as well, but he might appreciate the opinions of someone he knows well, considering the unusual nature of the request." There is a small pause and Roa clears her throat. "Soon, I should hope. The meeting is scheduled for three days from now."
"If you wish a response swiftly with an assurance of privacy, I imagine that the missive should be sent by dragon courier, rather than the traditional means." On to the topic of the practicality of the message, what brief softness he exhibited dissipates entirely, replaced by his usual businesslike address. "I can write it immediately, if you would wish it. As I am certain you had noticed, the infirmary does not demand much of its healers tonight. I presume that you have a courier in mind to send such a message?" Neiran decides that a gesture would be appropriate, since he's been still for overlong, and so the question is accompanied by a vague motion of the hand, palm up as it sweeps a lazy arc in front of him, inviting elucidation before it returns to its place.
"I do," is Roa's simple reply. "I can pick up the letter myself and add my own. In, would a hour allow enough time, or do you need more?" Her hands move to rest lightly on the infirmary cot she continues to lean against, her posture as lazy as her words are urgent.
"I shall not need that long," Neiran assures, turning away from the goldrider to exit their sanctuary as soon as the words are spoken. But he pauses, hand hovering in the act of reaching to withdraw the curtain. It lowers, and he turns his head towards Roa. "Perhaps you should remain here in the meantime. I imagine it would appear unusual if you retired to a secluded cot in the company of a Journeyman, only to reappear a few moments later." And Roa without any visible physical difficulty. Appearances must be kept, although the Journeyman's lips press together in disapproval at the need for little deceptions.
The weyrwoman's own smile is small and wry. "Perhaps so," she agrees. Instead of standing, She pushes up with her hands and settles onto the cot. Her feet swing idly. "I'll just wait here and ponder the good health that allowed me to require a pretense at all."
Neiran's dark eyes flick over the Weyrwoman's features a moment, trying to read what's behind that wry smile, and her words. A moment later he disappears beyond the curtain, leaving Roa to ponder what she will. When he returns some thirty minutes later, he has not only a missive in hand, but further pretense as to why the Weyrwoman would linger behind a curtain for so long - tea. And if not a good cover, it's at the least a beverage in thanks for Roa's patience. "I have brought you tea," he says needlessly, turning the mug towards the Telgari, handle towards her. "The concoction is one often used to relieve muscular discomfort particularly associated with the uterus. Whether or not you choose to utilize that particular information as an alibi is your prerogative. Here is the message." A folded square of hide, held shut by a scrap of string, is presented by the healer's other hand.
Roa sits and waits. She studies her nails. She studies the cots and the curtains. She studies her boots. And then she looks up as Neiran returns with uterus tea. "So you have. Thank you." Her lips are trying hard not to smile, but they're failing. "I might suggest, in general, describing it some other way. Not every girl even knows what a uterus is. Feminine aches, perhaps. Monthly courses. Something of that ilk." She reaches out to accept both the beverage and the letter. One is blown on, steam drifting from the surface. The other is tucked into her pocket. "I haven't had much trouble in that area, but I suppose it can't hurt, can it."
The healer's brow quirks up at seeing the losing battle against amusement being waged by her mouth. "I was offering you the benefit of the doubt, and protecting the dignity of the discussion. Rest assured that I do modify my terminology in accordance with the patient I am treating." And it's a nod to Roa's intelligence and his regard for her that the word uterus was used. Presumably. Relieved of his burdens, the healer smoothes his cassock, and lifts his chin. "I would thank you once again for entrusting me with the delicacy of this situation. I will await your further word on this issue." Despite the disruptiveness of this, he takes it in stride, as just another task.
"And I rank a uterus," Roa offers very solemnly. "Thank you." Her eyes lower and she allows herself another thoughtful sip of tea. "Three days from now, an hour after dinner. I leave it to you to clear your schedule. Either the weyrleader or myself will come by to fetch you. I'll see about having Master Ceregar pay you a visit around that time, if he accepts."
"Unless there is a patient who needs his constant attention, he will accept," Neiran replies, confidence without bravado supporting his words. "I shall be free," he promises, with the same stoic assuredness. The Journeyman is conveniently ignoring the notion of Roa ranking a uterus - it'd be too easy for the healer to talk himself in circles and finally up against a wall if he attempted to clarify the issue, and that's a dance he doesn't feel like performing. "Unless you have further need of me, I believe it would be prudent of me to return to my duties." And allow the uterus to finish her tea without the burden of a looming, black-clad and dour man behind the curtain with her.
"All right," is the weyrwoman's amiable reply. Sip. "Thank you, Neiran." And that must qualify as some sort of dismissal, as her attention shifts back to the curtain and away from the Journeyman, allowing him the opportunity to move away and back to his duties.