Sleepless
Location: Classroom
Time: Wee hours of Day 27, Month 2, Turn 2
Players: Roa and G'thon
Scene: Neither G'thon nor Roa can sleep, and one happens to come across the other.
Classroom
One of several classrooms used by the Weyr, this is the largest and most versatile. The walls adjacent to the bowl are lined with sandtables and high shelves that neatly store a variety of writing implements. Rather than the typical arrangement of student desks and benches lined up to face the front of the room, that furniture has been arranged in a broad semi-circle surrounding a bare work area. A single desk occupies the corner nearest the door exiting into the records room, providing a place for the current instructor to store their materials.
The wee hours. Why does it seem like the wee Telgari is always up during those hours, doing something or other. Tonight, it's sitting in an empty classroom, bent over a hide and carefully scritching down words and images. Shoulders are hunched, head down, and the only other thing that is on the desk besides hide, inkwell, and stylus, is a half-filled mug of klah. Sitting on another desk is a small pitcher, still steaming faintly.
G'thon, for his part, is up at this time of night because he hardly sleeps. Not that this is widely known; but then, it might be widely supposed, from the hollows that tend to reside beneath his eyes. His steps are quiet, very slightly arrhythmic, and they stop suddenly about six paces off from the desk where the Telgari is working. He glances from her to the pitcher and back, then makes a soft rough noise in the back of his throat: announcement.
The girl startles slightly at the clearing of a throat. For all that G'thon walked in with no attempt at silence, she was preoccupied enough that it's only the throat clearing that draws Roa out. And now, why look, her dark circles match the once-weyrleader's and she blinks slowly, brows furrowing. It is all together unnatural to be seeing this man not behind his grand table or his grand desk with tea ready to be served. "Good evening G-...W-...S-..." she quiets and shakes her head. "I have no idea what to call you now."
"G'thon," smiles the man, softly. He steps closer to the desk with the pot atop it and lays a long hand aside the pot's base, forming the instep where thumb and forefinger meet to the curved warmth. "Some have insisted on Ganathon, but I find that it hurts more than helps. Still, I will answer to it if I think to." He draws his hand up away from the pot, having watched it sit there in pale contrast to the color of the ceramic, and with the other hand's fingertips strokes the warm spot left behind upon his skin. "You should be sleeping," he suggests, looking up, as if it just now occurs to him that it's this late. "What keeps you studying so late?"
"Everyone should be sleeping," is the girl's simple reply. "And yet it can be harder that it seems, can it not?" He is, after all, awake as well. "I think there's a second mug somewhere about if you'd like some klah?" Her fingers of the hand that doesn't hold the stylus brush lightly along the edges of the hide. “Wayward thoughts that might prove useful," she says glancing down again. "Or maybe not. But either way, it keeps me busy. And you s...G'thon? What has you wandering?"
"I don't drink klah," smiles G'thon, mild even in this slightest of rebuffs; it seems almost more like a confession or a secret shared. He steps around another of the desks and then, of all things, slips in behind one to sit. At the Telgari's explanation of what's on her document, one silvered brow slides upward, but he tends to her question first: "I was looking for someone." That done, he has breath to spare on: "'Wayward thoughts?'"
Roa sets her stylus down and turns the hide so that it faces G'thon before lifting it up and setting it on his desk. A pair of students they are, sneaking notes before a phantom professor. If G'thon had hoped for secret thoughts on the going-ons at High Reaches, he will be disappointed. Rather, it's a collection of drawings of various dragon wings, extended, each sporting some sort of twisting wound. Beside those are various sketches of stitch types and questions and notations in the margin. Things like 'will linked stitches tug at skin?' with an arrow to a particular knot. Or '3/8" best for this' beneath another.
The man looks on the document for a moment, then his characteristic smile slopes up the right-hand side of his mouth and a faint light dances for a moment in those sleepless eyes. "I imagine Diya would be proud," G'thon remarks, and passes the hide back to its owner. "But this is what keeps you awake?"
The girl accepts the working back, though at the mention of Diya, her own shy little smile falters. Vanishes. "No sir," she murmurs, slipping so easily into old habits. "I don't think she'd be very proud at all." Her fingers slide again over the hide, though now she doesn't look down at it anymore, but across the room at a glow basket with a single greeny-yellow orb that dims and brightens amid the others as its strength wavers. "This is what I do when I cannot sleep, to keep myself from thinking about that which keeps me awake," is Roa soft, unhappy explanation.
"Ah," says G'thon, and for a time it might seem he'll leave it at that. He sits there, a strange student in one of the desks. He cannot help but be awkward: his back is too straight, his age apparent; he can't seem to figure out where to put his hands or whether to sit forward or sideways. "I still think she might like the effort you're putting into the work. If not the purpose. If not the - avoidance." Giving up on dignified purpose for his hands, the man raises them and, with fists like a small child, rubs knuckles into his eyes. "Then you should be doing the work in your bed," he suggests from behind the balled blinds of his hands. "So that when you escape your thoughts and sleep has a chance to steal you, you can go."
Roa tips her head to the side, watching that child-like gesture executed by this man who is anything but. It is utterly endearing. "Your advice seems a little hypocritical to me, all things considered." Then, after a small pause she adds, more solemnly, "When I spoke before, I wasn't referring to the drawings."
"Because I am not myself in my bed? Ah, but it has been a little longer than I had planned, my arranging for myself someplace with sanctity to sleep." G'thon finally drops his hands, eyes shadowed moreso if anything for the near-bruising attention of his fists. "Yes." Solemn, suddenly, he stares at Roa with an expression something like horror, then nods once before adding, "Of course. Do you think she will be - uninterested in hearing you out, then? Or - ?" But whatever 'or' would be, G'thon does not yet give voice.
"I don't know," is nearly whispered. "I don't even know what I should say to her. I don't...think I really understand what's going on." One hand comes up, rubbing at Roa's own face as the other tucks the stylus into the inkwell. "She has every right to turn me away, to refuse to listen to me."
"Sometimes," muses G'thon, flattening a palm on the top of the desk, "I have to say I don't know myself." With his arm as lever he pushes himself up from the chair, sliding sideways to escape from the space between desk and seat. "The question, however, is whether she has yet done so. If you haven't asked, you can't know." A few soft steps and he's beside Roa's desk, and then, strangely, his hand is there, palm up, waiting. An offer. "Let me walk you to the barracks, Roa, and I can at least fool myself into thinking I left you likely to try to sleep - and I'll go home, and you can think the same of me."
Roa studies that hand, offered palm up, though this time what it offers seems far more innocuous. Small hand is slipped into larger and, gathering shoulder bag and ink and quill and hides, she stands to follow. "As you will," the girl sighs, "though I fear we'll only be lying to one another."
Time: Wee hours of Day 27, Month 2, Turn 2
Players: Roa and G'thon
Scene: Neither G'thon nor Roa can sleep, and one happens to come across the other.
Classroom
One of several classrooms used by the Weyr, this is the largest and most versatile. The walls adjacent to the bowl are lined with sandtables and high shelves that neatly store a variety of writing implements. Rather than the typical arrangement of student desks and benches lined up to face the front of the room, that furniture has been arranged in a broad semi-circle surrounding a bare work area. A single desk occupies the corner nearest the door exiting into the records room, providing a place for the current instructor to store their materials.
The wee hours. Why does it seem like the wee Telgari is always up during those hours, doing something or other. Tonight, it's sitting in an empty classroom, bent over a hide and carefully scritching down words and images. Shoulders are hunched, head down, and the only other thing that is on the desk besides hide, inkwell, and stylus, is a half-filled mug of klah. Sitting on another desk is a small pitcher, still steaming faintly.
G'thon, for his part, is up at this time of night because he hardly sleeps. Not that this is widely known; but then, it might be widely supposed, from the hollows that tend to reside beneath his eyes. His steps are quiet, very slightly arrhythmic, and they stop suddenly about six paces off from the desk where the Telgari is working. He glances from her to the pitcher and back, then makes a soft rough noise in the back of his throat: announcement.
The girl startles slightly at the clearing of a throat. For all that G'thon walked in with no attempt at silence, she was preoccupied enough that it's only the throat clearing that draws Roa out. And now, why look, her dark circles match the once-weyrleader's and she blinks slowly, brows furrowing. It is all together unnatural to be seeing this man not behind his grand table or his grand desk with tea ready to be served. "Good evening G-...W-...S-..." she quiets and shakes her head. "I have no idea what to call you now."
"G'thon," smiles the man, softly. He steps closer to the desk with the pot atop it and lays a long hand aside the pot's base, forming the instep where thumb and forefinger meet to the curved warmth. "Some have insisted on Ganathon, but I find that it hurts more than helps. Still, I will answer to it if I think to." He draws his hand up away from the pot, having watched it sit there in pale contrast to the color of the ceramic, and with the other hand's fingertips strokes the warm spot left behind upon his skin. "You should be sleeping," he suggests, looking up, as if it just now occurs to him that it's this late. "What keeps you studying so late?"
"Everyone should be sleeping," is the girl's simple reply. "And yet it can be harder that it seems, can it not?" He is, after all, awake as well. "I think there's a second mug somewhere about if you'd like some klah?" Her fingers of the hand that doesn't hold the stylus brush lightly along the edges of the hide. “Wayward thoughts that might prove useful," she says glancing down again. "Or maybe not. But either way, it keeps me busy. And you s...G'thon? What has you wandering?"
"I don't drink klah," smiles G'thon, mild even in this slightest of rebuffs; it seems almost more like a confession or a secret shared. He steps around another of the desks and then, of all things, slips in behind one to sit. At the Telgari's explanation of what's on her document, one silvered brow slides upward, but he tends to her question first: "I was looking for someone." That done, he has breath to spare on: "'Wayward thoughts?'"
Roa sets her stylus down and turns the hide so that it faces G'thon before lifting it up and setting it on his desk. A pair of students they are, sneaking notes before a phantom professor. If G'thon had hoped for secret thoughts on the going-ons at High Reaches, he will be disappointed. Rather, it's a collection of drawings of various dragon wings, extended, each sporting some sort of twisting wound. Beside those are various sketches of stitch types and questions and notations in the margin. Things like 'will linked stitches tug at skin?' with an arrow to a particular knot. Or '3/8" best for this' beneath another.
The man looks on the document for a moment, then his characteristic smile slopes up the right-hand side of his mouth and a faint light dances for a moment in those sleepless eyes. "I imagine Diya would be proud," G'thon remarks, and passes the hide back to its owner. "But this is what keeps you awake?"
The girl accepts the working back, though at the mention of Diya, her own shy little smile falters. Vanishes. "No sir," she murmurs, slipping so easily into old habits. "I don't think she'd be very proud at all." Her fingers slide again over the hide, though now she doesn't look down at it anymore, but across the room at a glow basket with a single greeny-yellow orb that dims and brightens amid the others as its strength wavers. "This is what I do when I cannot sleep, to keep myself from thinking about that which keeps me awake," is Roa soft, unhappy explanation.
"Ah," says G'thon, and for a time it might seem he'll leave it at that. He sits there, a strange student in one of the desks. He cannot help but be awkward: his back is too straight, his age apparent; he can't seem to figure out where to put his hands or whether to sit forward or sideways. "I still think she might like the effort you're putting into the work. If not the purpose. If not the - avoidance." Giving up on dignified purpose for his hands, the man raises them and, with fists like a small child, rubs knuckles into his eyes. "Then you should be doing the work in your bed," he suggests from behind the balled blinds of his hands. "So that when you escape your thoughts and sleep has a chance to steal you, you can go."
Roa tips her head to the side, watching that child-like gesture executed by this man who is anything but. It is utterly endearing. "Your advice seems a little hypocritical to me, all things considered." Then, after a small pause she adds, more solemnly, "When I spoke before, I wasn't referring to the drawings."
"Because I am not myself in my bed? Ah, but it has been a little longer than I had planned, my arranging for myself someplace with sanctity to sleep." G'thon finally drops his hands, eyes shadowed moreso if anything for the near-bruising attention of his fists. "Yes." Solemn, suddenly, he stares at Roa with an expression something like horror, then nods once before adding, "Of course. Do you think she will be - uninterested in hearing you out, then? Or - ?" But whatever 'or' would be, G'thon does not yet give voice.
"I don't know," is nearly whispered. "I don't even know what I should say to her. I don't...think I really understand what's going on." One hand comes up, rubbing at Roa's own face as the other tucks the stylus into the inkwell. "She has every right to turn me away, to refuse to listen to me."
"Sometimes," muses G'thon, flattening a palm on the top of the desk, "I have to say I don't know myself." With his arm as lever he pushes himself up from the chair, sliding sideways to escape from the space between desk and seat. "The question, however, is whether she has yet done so. If you haven't asked, you can't know." A few soft steps and he's beside Roa's desk, and then, strangely, his hand is there, palm up, waiting. An offer. "Let me walk you to the barracks, Roa, and I can at least fool myself into thinking I left you likely to try to sleep - and I'll go home, and you can think the same of me."
Roa studies that hand, offered palm up, though this time what it offers seems far more innocuous. Small hand is slipped into larger and, gathering shoulder bag and ink and quill and hides, she stands to follow. "As you will," the girl sighs, "though I fear we'll only be lying to one another."