"I agree with the Headmaster. You must not move"
Who: G'thon, Neiran and Sefton
Where: Sefton's room
What: The inevitable.
The girls of the lower caverns have been kept busy. One has been sent to summon the ethics instructor, another to fetch hot water, another to supply something to eat. Small tasks, each complete, and now the Headmaster awaits his two expected guests. The pitcher of hot water is covered with a knitted cosy, small wisps of steam escaping. Sweetened cakes sit on a tray beside it, the Headmaster's desk cleared for the purpose. The man in question stands beside it, one of the small cakes half eaten, held between two sticky fingers, studying the contents of a small wooden box -- its lid has been set to one side, and the interior is divided into small squares, each containing a small sack.
Neiran arrives, and enters without knock or ceremony. He's sure to shut the door behind him, and as he strides towards his Headmaster, the reason why is clear: A small phial is in his hand, holding an off-yellow liquid that jostles with each swift step. His eyes sweep the array of tea preparations, and roost on Sefton firmly after that brisk surveillance. "G'thon's cup, if you please. I would advise pouring the water and setting the herbs to steep now, in anticipation of his arrival." His eyes don't leave Sefton's face; the faintly anxious thought of the ethics instructor striding through the door at any moment is all too clearly readable on his own countenance. Ready for the cup to be handed forth to him, he unstoppers the phial.
"Neiran," Sefton drawls, as polite, and as slow in his speech as ever. No hurry, not even now. "Settle yourself, there is adequate time." The cups are not those from Boll, often used by Sefton when making his imported brews, smaller, and without handles. These are instead Fortian, designs painted onto the outsides in that hold's colours. They sit, three in a row, beside the wooden box. "Here, closest to me." He lifts one of the small sacks of tea from the box full of dividers, and lifts it to his nose to inhale it. "This is comprised of citrus and berry. Will it upset your head, or do you prefer your own mix?"
"I am settled," the Journeyman replies, even as he heeds his Headmaster's advice and eases the tension in his shoulders he wasn't acknowledging, and chases away his niggling anxieties with a solid frown. At another time, the craftsmanship of the mugs might gain a little remark from the surgeon, but he's too distracted with the forthcoming operation to take notice of superfluous tools laid out on his tray. The phial is overturned into the empty mug indicated, the small quantity of concentrated oleander extract making the barest little slosh of a sound as it flows from phial to mug. Neiran stoppers the empty phial and secrets it into the pouch at his hip, sure to snap it securely closed afterward. Only then does he look at the satchel of herbs, nostrils flaring sightly to subtly grasp at a chance of its aroma. "I believe that will not do any harm. Thank you for your consideration."
The next sound is the rap, soft, of what will prove to be pale and slender knuckles high upon Sefton's door. There is a silence that follows, for the sound of fingertips pressed against wood may not be heard through the wood itself. Finding the door latched rather than merely snug against its frame, the man who knocked, the third member of this invitational, slips his pale hands into his black pockets and awaits, expression bemused already.
"The door please, Neiran," Sefton murmurs, pulling the cover free of the pot of hot water, and pouring. He has a glance ready to go back over his shoulder at the appropriate moment, brows drawn slightly together, a question in his drawl. "Was it locked?" He has only time for that, before he must look back down, and move on to fill the second cup with hot water, and the third.
The door is unlatched, and gives way to air, and the standing Journeyman healer in G'thon's view. "My apologies," Neiran says, lifting his chin as is necessary to look upon the taller man. "I did not realize I had shut the door so firmly." He sweeps aside and welcomes the ethics instructor with an outstretched arm and a slight incline of his upper body, demonstrating what his etiquette instructors have imparted upon him. He remains in his half bow, waiting for the older man to pass, so he might shut the door behind him and trail him to their tea, face as noncommittal and blank as always.
The bemused expression, having served its purpose in greeting Neiran and inspiring that apology, gives way swiftly to a gracious nod and one-sided smile. "None needed," Gans replies, and after all that he -himself- nudges the door back into its latch with a casual backturned palm before he follows Neiran's welcome inward. "Good day," he adds, lifting his tone to address both men now present. "And thank you for the invitation, sir." A slow tip of his head for Sefton.
"Indeed," Sefton drawls, setting down the pitcher. "I have a new shipment from my brother. Can I tempt you to sample it with me? Neiran has agreed he will chance his hand on something unknown." There is a low, amused note in Sefton's voice, as he turns his head for a moment to regard their mutual student. "Berries and citrus, I believe."
Neiran hovers nearby, but not too close at hand, essentially Sefton's opposite shadow, utterly without humor in his expression. Now that water has been set to the herbs, his nostrils flare again, trying to detect the nature of these 'berries.' "This is from Boll, then?" He inquires, doing his part to remain verbal, and present in the situation. It's impolite to hover and skulk, after all.
"Thank you. I would be delighted," Gans replies Sefton, and looks upon the cups thus poured; something about them causes one pale brow to slip upward, but he remarks no further upon the tea. A glance notes the cakes and brings him a little bit better crook of a smile, and with that smile arranged the ethics instructor selects a place out of the way to turn and regard the Headmaster's quarters with thoughtful eye. It might just be the cleanness of the desk that prompts a museful, mostly-to-himself, "Miss Fort must have said something to the staff about the state of housekeeping lately."
Sefton opens the small parcel he withdrew from the wooden box, drawing out three small sachets -- he drops one into each of the three mugs, and stows the rest, replacing the lid of the box. "Miss Fort has a great deal to say on the subject of my housekeeping," he replies, rueful, indulgent -- a man prone to affection where the Lady in question is concerned, and prone to yield up these small matters. "I have asked Neiran to join us because he has agreed to allow me to speak to his Hall on the subject of my borrowing him for a period of time after he finishes his classes with us. This will facilitate his continued work in his area of interest, and certainly will benefit the Caucus instructors fortunate enough to make use of his research skills."
"The Headmaster graciously flatters me to say so," Neiran replies on cue, thanking Sefton further with a small nod of his head. "It is as much a favor to me as it is a service to my Hall and this Weyr that Sefton has me remain here. The Weyr presently offers an unprecedented opportunity for me to pursue all my avenues of interest at once." The Journeyman looks to G'thon, then, the opportunity for further social niceties striking him then, visible as a brief blink. "Already High Reaches has given me...unprecedented opportunities. I would thank you for your role as my ethics instructor."
"No doubt," asides Gans, for Sefton's benefit, dry. He regards the books for a time, the great shelves of them not entirely unlike his own in build if not in precise contents, then turns so he can more properly look upon Neiran, the subject of conversation. "Unprecedented indeed," says he after the journeyman has added his bit, and though it might be a little regretful, the former weyrleader can manage a little bow of his head and twitch of his one-sided smile for those opportunities High reaches has granted Neiran, and other men. "You are welcome, but I doubt that role can be so significant in your case, Journeyman. I serve only to describe possibilities, to offer alternatives, and encourage my students to consider their choices in context - Healer Hall would teach no less."
"No less, but perhaps -- with the greatest of respect --" Sefton murmurs in his drawl, "in a narrower context." The steam rising from the three Fortian-made mugs is slowly spiraling upwards, scenting the air, and wafts towards the Headmaster's two guests as he turns back towards it. "You must forgive my hospitality, or lack of it," he continues, using a spoon to fish out each of the three bags in question, and taking up the mug from the centre, and one from the end. "My tea service suffers by comparison. But I intended on speaking to you of the possibility of a subject for the senior students. Will you sit?" Two mugs are proffered, one to each man.
Neiran remains silent while G'thon replies. The man's words wash over him with seemingly little effect, his only response a meaningless nod on the heel of his instructor's statements. "The Headmaster is correct; while Healer Hall gave me what ethics were pertinent to my Craft, your tutelage has broadened my scope of the subject." He watches the Headmaster fuss with the tea while he speaks, as sharp as bits of volcanic glass, and just as black. He reaches out with his pale, bony hands for the cup when it's offered, taking it into his grasp with an adroit curling of those long digits. He falls silent, making way for the new conversation topic to be laid out first by the men who outrank him in Turns and by their knots. Wordlessly, he slides into an available chair, the mug not jostled one bit by his smooth descent.
"Perhaps," allows the ethics instructor, for Sefton's sparing support for Neiran's flattery. Then he tips up his chin and draws a long breath, savoring the scent of the brew. "No forgiveness required if the tea is fine," says Gans, putting out his long palm to collect the cup from the Headmaster before turning to decide upon a place to sit. That there -are- places to sit seems to amuse him somewhat, and he chooses one of them for himself, lowering into place with an aged grace. "Should I be anxious that I am selected for this conversation, sir?" He makes no show of anxiety, instead reposing himself well into the chair's embrace, elbows for its arms, cup curled in his large hands, legs crossing at the knee.
Sefton takes up his own mug, curling one hand around it, and turning to lean back against his desk. "Rather pleased at selection, I should hope," he drawls, lazy and amused. "I had hoped to borrow your expertise. I had in mind a sort of round table seminar for some of the students in their final turn with us. Ethics, politics, strategy -- a combination of subjects. I thought we might, perhaps, assign each of them a hypothetical role, and then unleash on them a set of hypothetical circumstances, and allow them to inform us of their reactions. To which we would, in turn, provide a series of responses." He lifts his own mug, closing his eyes to inhale the steam, then sips.
Neiran's knees are set firmly together, lap serving as table for his mug while his fingers remain curled around it loosely, absorbing the heat. He is hearing Sefton's proposal for the first time, himself, and so has nothing to add. Silence reigns, the man's expression placid. He doesn't sip his tea yet, gauging it to be too hot for his tastes still. After Sefton has finished speaking, he looks towards G'thon in anticipation of his answer, eyes fixed upon his mouth.
Gans, while Sefton describes the purpose of the discussion they're to have, lifts his own cup and blows across the surface of the liquid within to cool it. The one-sided smile subsides and he tips up the tea for a sip, which of course obliges his first comment to be, "Very fine indeed," about the brew. Then he glances at Neiran, whose presence here might seem so far irrelevant (however honored by his likely continued service) to the Headmaster's proposal. The smile twitches back into place on the right-hand side of the ethics instructor's mouth, and the brow prior lifted lofts a little higher. "Ah," he provides, since Neiran will not, and looks back at Sefton. "A practicum, then; somewhat summarizing their skills in the upper subjects."
"That was my notion," Sefton replies, mug still lifted so he can inhale the steam. "I had in mind that you might assist me in concocting the relevant scenarios, and that Neiran might lend us his research. Rather than informing the students of our best guess of the reaction to their chosen courses, I think the exercise would be richer if Neiran were able to provide historical precedent." Another mouthful, swallowed slowly. "My brother indulges me, with his shipments."
"A historical precedent would be appreciated by the more skeptical of the students, and a welcome legitimization for the entire exercise," the Journeyman remarks, contributing his opinion in as demure a voice as possible, letting the movers and shakers - the men with the Caucus reins in their hands - craft the way. He offers no hint of whether or not such research would be a tax on his willingness or abilities; since he's present here, it must be assumed that both are adequate. He raises his hands to his mouth, and takes a most ladylike sip of the beverage. Enough to get a taste, however, for his next remark is a quiet comment on it: "Headmaster, this is very agreeable. I would be appreciative if you would express such to your brother."
That the tea is a little sweet may be excused by the berry component of its infusion; that it appeals to Gans especially may be excused by his fairly well-known taste for sweet. He indulges in the drink while listening to the Headmaster, and perhaps seeks to be sure the man will say everything he can be brought to say before requiring another response by being so busy with the tea. "And you indulge us by sharing," he says of it, laughter warming his words without actually emerging as such. "My thanks to both of you, also." This said, he turns his attention to Neiran: "You are an historian also, then, Journeyman - or you will be taking charge of the appropriate research?"
"We teach our students as best we can, and in the end they learn to question our every word," Sefton observes with a grin, white teeth flashing against his darker skin, losing several turns off his appearance in the effort. "We will have Neiran and his records to back our claims, with any luck." Another sip. "High Reaches Weyr itself will provide an excellent study for future generations, I suspect. There are many here who have made momentous decisions. The paths not taken might have been very different."
The healer raises his brow at Sefton's grinned observations, and goes on to speak sensibly for himself after a sip of tea; "I am only an historian inasmuch as Caucus demands of me. However, research in any field is little different than research in any other, and most healers spend as much, if not more time dealing with hide and ink than with herb and blood during their training." Neiran's eyes merely linger on the Headmaster as his remarks teasingly touch upon the idea of Reaches' historical import. "The tome of Reachian Weyr history you had me read is already sufficiently large enough," he dryly contributes.
Though he takes refuge in it through some of the remarks about history and research, Gans must put his tea down upon the name of his Weyr. For a moment there might be something like weary warning in his bright, aged eyes; they hold a place on Sefton's face, then slip over to the journeyman, for whom he affords a somewhat relaxed expression and a smile. "I might beg to differ. Research in history is complicated by its nature; I assume - " A little nod toward Sefton, then another toward Neiran, acknowledges the possibility that his assumption is incorrect. "- that there are fewer cases of entitled omissions on behalf of other studies." His gaze settles on the healer, a little grave if warm, and he raises the tea for another sip.
Sefton meets the once-Weyrleader's gaze squarely, his own lazy grin squarely in place. "I was thinking more of recent history at our Weyr, Neiran," he drawls, almost insolent, until the older man looks away. "Decisions taken by individuals in recent times would also provide fuel for ethical and political debate, I should say."
Neiran looks between Sefton and G'thon, finding a lazy grin on one side and a grandfatherly stern look on the other. "I did not mean to suggest historical research to be without its subtleties, only that I have not yet found such subtleties too difficult to conquer." His brows lift, silently asking if he's cleared anything up at all by stating such. To the headmaster his attention turns right after. "I understood; I was merely suggesting that any additions to the already considerable tome of the Weyr's progressing history would make it unmanageably large for a single volume. I imagine this means I have not yet become very skilled in attempting witticisms." Seemingly oblivious that it's his lukewarm, starchy delivery that drowns his feeble attempts every time, the Journeyman returns his gaze to a neutral point in the air near neither man, and takes a more sizable sip of his tea. The cakes, of course, have drawn not an ounce of interest this entire time.
It could be, certainly, what Sefton says that makes Gans pause with his cup still raised, a mouthful unswallowed, but the ethics instructor's gaze remains with Neiran and a little pleasant light remains in his hazel regard, so there might be question about the reason. When he lowers the cup, he does so with strange, ginger effort, dwarfing it in the palm of one long, large hand. "Ah. Subtleties. No, I was not suggesting omissions of any - subtle nature." To Neiran's explained joke he offers a smile that seems, at best, pained, and then he turns to the Headmaster with a request whose omission from history books would be quite a shame: "Have you any water, Sefton?"
"Of course, Neiran," Sefton murmurs, as though the fault is entirely his, for failing to pay proper mind. "What had you in mind to suggest, then?" This, for G'thon, as the Headmaster sets down his tea, and rises from his perch on the desk. "I believe I have some. There is the boiled water, but it will take some time to cool. Is your tea too warm?" His words are solicitous, as he crosses the room, gazing up at the rows of bottles, as though one might yield the answer. "I did think I had water, perhaps I was mistaken."
At what must be the first signs of suffering, Neiran's attention is sharp again, all attitude of a feline batting at a string of conversation out of bored obligation dismissed, replaced by a harnessing of diagnostic attention that has him staring fixedly at the ex-bronzerider. His eyes dart about, gathering what signs he can; respiratory rate, any indication of pain in the left side, mouth movements that might suggest queasiness, numerous other minutiae. He is a healer, after all, and it's questionable whether or not he's responding to his indoctrination as such, or merely performing his role so as not to elicit suspicion. He doesn't question yet, but his lips are pressed tightly closed on an inquiry that hovers right behind them.
"Something else, then, Sefton." This request is uncharacteristically grave, and Gans is uncrossing his legs as he speaks. He turns in his seat, turning his head in a way that suggests a stretch of his neck, blinking too often. And goes on talking (of course), pressing something of a strained, lighter tone into his words. "Only that if acts of great consequence bear playing out in Caucus, the exercise should be repeated for far more momentous decisions than any - " This pause is long; it allows him to slip back into his chair and arrange himself in a sudden effort at comfort. "- carried out here - " Comfort fails him. He moves the teacup, gingerly again, into his right hand and says, grave all over again, "Neiran."
"I have spirits, but they are rather stronger. Wine, perhaps," he continues, reaching up to pull down a wineskin, and examining the seal. "Come now," he considers. "There is no cause for modesty, we have made decisions ourselves worthy of study. As are their consequences. Perhaps none of it will go commented upon, though." It is the sound of his student's name that summons the Headmaster's gaze, and he turns with the wineskin in his hand, gaze enquiring.
Neiran's eyebrows raise subtly with his name, and it is not long before his body follows them upwards, responding to his name like a summons. His arm outstretches, his own mug deposited on the headmaster's desk, left there. "Yes. Are you well, instructor? You seem to be experiencing some form of discomfort." He looks for any sign of a pulse in his neck, any signs of sweating upon that same skin, before looking to the man's face. His hands hover at his sides, not quite at rest, ready to ease or spring into action at a word. A brief, stolen glance to Sefton, and the ethics instructor has all the sharp focus of his attention again.
"I think," Sefton murmurs, his drawl low, as sure as ever, "that you had better remain here. It might be unwise to exert yourself with stairs." There's a note of steel underlying that drawl, though his words aren't shortened at all. "There is no need to move."
"I doubt that." It is a somber statement, for Sefton alone. Gans does not appear to sweat. He is obviously, however, uncomfortable, and gives up seeking comfort in the chair by preference of sliding forward, preparing with deliberate slowness to gain his feet. "Accompany me upstairs, please," he says, and leans down like he might plan to put his teacup on the floor - the floor! But the hand holding the cup is paler than ever, turning blue around the nails, and the old bronzerider is obliged by some inner strain to close his eyes.
Neiran frowns and steps closer to G'thon, stooping quickly to take the teacup from him and put it out of spilling distance, upon the desk's top. He employs his slender arms in bracing G'thon, then, holding across his shoulders and using what sinew-given strength he has to encourage the man back into the chair. "I agree with the Headmaster. You must not move. Describe the sensations you are experiencing," he says, voice close to G'thon's ear as he leans over, reaching for the man's wrist so he can take the instructor's pulse.
"I think that might," says Gans, for Neiran, turning his head a little away from the nearby voice, allowing himself - he seems really more or less unable to help or resist - to be unfolded into the chair's embrace. "Be a waste of breath." Sefton said it all: there is no need to move. The eyes that closed remain so, and the pulse that flutters unpredictably beneath the healer's fingertips does so with increasing rarity. His wasted breath is slow and weak; and then, that too is gone.
Sefton watches impassively, arms folded across his chest, entirely silent until that last breath fades out. Only then does he speak, pushing away from the bookshelves. "I am so very sorry, G'thon," he murmurs, quiet. "That is all, Neiran?"
Neiran's head is tilted as though listening for something, his hands still on the man's wrist, body hunched like he's half hugging the man in the chair. After Sefton's words is a period of silence, and the Journeyman's fingers are still, waiting to see if the heart conspires for one last flutter. At last Neiran rises, unburdening himself of G'thon by arranging him more properly in the chair. He's staring, and only belatedly takes a moment to brush the man's eyelids with his fingers to ensure that they won't slide open and stare back at him. "He is dead." It's a soft confirmation, spoken as the healer takes a step back from the lifeless cadaver left in the chair.
"In that case, I suppose I ought to run for help," Sefton replies. "Do what you would, were you making an attempt to revive him. If you would be so good as to drop his tea onto the floor, please?"
"Yes, Headmaster." He picks up the cup, holds it over G'thon's hand, lets it drop. He begins wrestling the corpse from the chair, to lay it out on its back on the floor, to go through the motions of resuscitation. For the moment, though, he remains there on his knees, regarding the man's expressionless features. "I would be obliged if you would make a commotion when you and whomever you recruit approach the door." Neiran looks away from the corpse, to the remaining conspirator in the room.
"Indeed," Sefton murmurs, having made no move to assist with the corpse-wrangling. "I will be sure to do so." He crosses to the door, and lifts one hand to unfasten the latch that the dead man fastened. A breath in, a breath out, and he opens the door, his posture changing dramatically as he ducks through it, slamming it behind him.
Where: Sefton's room
What: The inevitable.
The girls of the lower caverns have been kept busy. One has been sent to summon the ethics instructor, another to fetch hot water, another to supply something to eat. Small tasks, each complete, and now the Headmaster awaits his two expected guests. The pitcher of hot water is covered with a knitted cosy, small wisps of steam escaping. Sweetened cakes sit on a tray beside it, the Headmaster's desk cleared for the purpose. The man in question stands beside it, one of the small cakes half eaten, held between two sticky fingers, studying the contents of a small wooden box -- its lid has been set to one side, and the interior is divided into small squares, each containing a small sack.
Neiran arrives, and enters without knock or ceremony. He's sure to shut the door behind him, and as he strides towards his Headmaster, the reason why is clear: A small phial is in his hand, holding an off-yellow liquid that jostles with each swift step. His eyes sweep the array of tea preparations, and roost on Sefton firmly after that brisk surveillance. "G'thon's cup, if you please. I would advise pouring the water and setting the herbs to steep now, in anticipation of his arrival." His eyes don't leave Sefton's face; the faintly anxious thought of the ethics instructor striding through the door at any moment is all too clearly readable on his own countenance. Ready for the cup to be handed forth to him, he unstoppers the phial.
"Neiran," Sefton drawls, as polite, and as slow in his speech as ever. No hurry, not even now. "Settle yourself, there is adequate time." The cups are not those from Boll, often used by Sefton when making his imported brews, smaller, and without handles. These are instead Fortian, designs painted onto the outsides in that hold's colours. They sit, three in a row, beside the wooden box. "Here, closest to me." He lifts one of the small sacks of tea from the box full of dividers, and lifts it to his nose to inhale it. "This is comprised of citrus and berry. Will it upset your head, or do you prefer your own mix?"
"I am settled," the Journeyman replies, even as he heeds his Headmaster's advice and eases the tension in his shoulders he wasn't acknowledging, and chases away his niggling anxieties with a solid frown. At another time, the craftsmanship of the mugs might gain a little remark from the surgeon, but he's too distracted with the forthcoming operation to take notice of superfluous tools laid out on his tray. The phial is overturned into the empty mug indicated, the small quantity of concentrated oleander extract making the barest little slosh of a sound as it flows from phial to mug. Neiran stoppers the empty phial and secrets it into the pouch at his hip, sure to snap it securely closed afterward. Only then does he look at the satchel of herbs, nostrils flaring sightly to subtly grasp at a chance of its aroma. "I believe that will not do any harm. Thank you for your consideration."
The next sound is the rap, soft, of what will prove to be pale and slender knuckles high upon Sefton's door. There is a silence that follows, for the sound of fingertips pressed against wood may not be heard through the wood itself. Finding the door latched rather than merely snug against its frame, the man who knocked, the third member of this invitational, slips his pale hands into his black pockets and awaits, expression bemused already.
"The door please, Neiran," Sefton murmurs, pulling the cover free of the pot of hot water, and pouring. He has a glance ready to go back over his shoulder at the appropriate moment, brows drawn slightly together, a question in his drawl. "Was it locked?" He has only time for that, before he must look back down, and move on to fill the second cup with hot water, and the third.
The door is unlatched, and gives way to air, and the standing Journeyman healer in G'thon's view. "My apologies," Neiran says, lifting his chin as is necessary to look upon the taller man. "I did not realize I had shut the door so firmly." He sweeps aside and welcomes the ethics instructor with an outstretched arm and a slight incline of his upper body, demonstrating what his etiquette instructors have imparted upon him. He remains in his half bow, waiting for the older man to pass, so he might shut the door behind him and trail him to their tea, face as noncommittal and blank as always.
The bemused expression, having served its purpose in greeting Neiran and inspiring that apology, gives way swiftly to a gracious nod and one-sided smile. "None needed," Gans replies, and after all that he -himself- nudges the door back into its latch with a casual backturned palm before he follows Neiran's welcome inward. "Good day," he adds, lifting his tone to address both men now present. "And thank you for the invitation, sir." A slow tip of his head for Sefton.
"Indeed," Sefton drawls, setting down the pitcher. "I have a new shipment from my brother. Can I tempt you to sample it with me? Neiran has agreed he will chance his hand on something unknown." There is a low, amused note in Sefton's voice, as he turns his head for a moment to regard their mutual student. "Berries and citrus, I believe."
Neiran hovers nearby, but not too close at hand, essentially Sefton's opposite shadow, utterly without humor in his expression. Now that water has been set to the herbs, his nostrils flare again, trying to detect the nature of these 'berries.' "This is from Boll, then?" He inquires, doing his part to remain verbal, and present in the situation. It's impolite to hover and skulk, after all.
"Thank you. I would be delighted," Gans replies Sefton, and looks upon the cups thus poured; something about them causes one pale brow to slip upward, but he remarks no further upon the tea. A glance notes the cakes and brings him a little bit better crook of a smile, and with that smile arranged the ethics instructor selects a place out of the way to turn and regard the Headmaster's quarters with thoughtful eye. It might just be the cleanness of the desk that prompts a museful, mostly-to-himself, "Miss Fort must have said something to the staff about the state of housekeeping lately."
Sefton opens the small parcel he withdrew from the wooden box, drawing out three small sachets -- he drops one into each of the three mugs, and stows the rest, replacing the lid of the box. "Miss Fort has a great deal to say on the subject of my housekeeping," he replies, rueful, indulgent -- a man prone to affection where the Lady in question is concerned, and prone to yield up these small matters. "I have asked Neiran to join us because he has agreed to allow me to speak to his Hall on the subject of my borrowing him for a period of time after he finishes his classes with us. This will facilitate his continued work in his area of interest, and certainly will benefit the Caucus instructors fortunate enough to make use of his research skills."
"The Headmaster graciously flatters me to say so," Neiran replies on cue, thanking Sefton further with a small nod of his head. "It is as much a favor to me as it is a service to my Hall and this Weyr that Sefton has me remain here. The Weyr presently offers an unprecedented opportunity for me to pursue all my avenues of interest at once." The Journeyman looks to G'thon, then, the opportunity for further social niceties striking him then, visible as a brief blink. "Already High Reaches has given me...unprecedented opportunities. I would thank you for your role as my ethics instructor."
"No doubt," asides Gans, for Sefton's benefit, dry. He regards the books for a time, the great shelves of them not entirely unlike his own in build if not in precise contents, then turns so he can more properly look upon Neiran, the subject of conversation. "Unprecedented indeed," says he after the journeyman has added his bit, and though it might be a little regretful, the former weyrleader can manage a little bow of his head and twitch of his one-sided smile for those opportunities High reaches has granted Neiran, and other men. "You are welcome, but I doubt that role can be so significant in your case, Journeyman. I serve only to describe possibilities, to offer alternatives, and encourage my students to consider their choices in context - Healer Hall would teach no less."
"No less, but perhaps -- with the greatest of respect --" Sefton murmurs in his drawl, "in a narrower context." The steam rising from the three Fortian-made mugs is slowly spiraling upwards, scenting the air, and wafts towards the Headmaster's two guests as he turns back towards it. "You must forgive my hospitality, or lack of it," he continues, using a spoon to fish out each of the three bags in question, and taking up the mug from the centre, and one from the end. "My tea service suffers by comparison. But I intended on speaking to you of the possibility of a subject for the senior students. Will you sit?" Two mugs are proffered, one to each man.
Neiran remains silent while G'thon replies. The man's words wash over him with seemingly little effect, his only response a meaningless nod on the heel of his instructor's statements. "The Headmaster is correct; while Healer Hall gave me what ethics were pertinent to my Craft, your tutelage has broadened my scope of the subject." He watches the Headmaster fuss with the tea while he speaks, as sharp as bits of volcanic glass, and just as black. He reaches out with his pale, bony hands for the cup when it's offered, taking it into his grasp with an adroit curling of those long digits. He falls silent, making way for the new conversation topic to be laid out first by the men who outrank him in Turns and by their knots. Wordlessly, he slides into an available chair, the mug not jostled one bit by his smooth descent.
"Perhaps," allows the ethics instructor, for Sefton's sparing support for Neiran's flattery. Then he tips up his chin and draws a long breath, savoring the scent of the brew. "No forgiveness required if the tea is fine," says Gans, putting out his long palm to collect the cup from the Headmaster before turning to decide upon a place to sit. That there -are- places to sit seems to amuse him somewhat, and he chooses one of them for himself, lowering into place with an aged grace. "Should I be anxious that I am selected for this conversation, sir?" He makes no show of anxiety, instead reposing himself well into the chair's embrace, elbows for its arms, cup curled in his large hands, legs crossing at the knee.
Sefton takes up his own mug, curling one hand around it, and turning to lean back against his desk. "Rather pleased at selection, I should hope," he drawls, lazy and amused. "I had hoped to borrow your expertise. I had in mind a sort of round table seminar for some of the students in their final turn with us. Ethics, politics, strategy -- a combination of subjects. I thought we might, perhaps, assign each of them a hypothetical role, and then unleash on them a set of hypothetical circumstances, and allow them to inform us of their reactions. To which we would, in turn, provide a series of responses." He lifts his own mug, closing his eyes to inhale the steam, then sips.
Neiran's knees are set firmly together, lap serving as table for his mug while his fingers remain curled around it loosely, absorbing the heat. He is hearing Sefton's proposal for the first time, himself, and so has nothing to add. Silence reigns, the man's expression placid. He doesn't sip his tea yet, gauging it to be too hot for his tastes still. After Sefton has finished speaking, he looks towards G'thon in anticipation of his answer, eyes fixed upon his mouth.
Gans, while Sefton describes the purpose of the discussion they're to have, lifts his own cup and blows across the surface of the liquid within to cool it. The one-sided smile subsides and he tips up the tea for a sip, which of course obliges his first comment to be, "Very fine indeed," about the brew. Then he glances at Neiran, whose presence here might seem so far irrelevant (however honored by his likely continued service) to the Headmaster's proposal. The smile twitches back into place on the right-hand side of the ethics instructor's mouth, and the brow prior lifted lofts a little higher. "Ah," he provides, since Neiran will not, and looks back at Sefton. "A practicum, then; somewhat summarizing their skills in the upper subjects."
"That was my notion," Sefton replies, mug still lifted so he can inhale the steam. "I had in mind that you might assist me in concocting the relevant scenarios, and that Neiran might lend us his research. Rather than informing the students of our best guess of the reaction to their chosen courses, I think the exercise would be richer if Neiran were able to provide historical precedent." Another mouthful, swallowed slowly. "My brother indulges me, with his shipments."
"A historical precedent would be appreciated by the more skeptical of the students, and a welcome legitimization for the entire exercise," the Journeyman remarks, contributing his opinion in as demure a voice as possible, letting the movers and shakers - the men with the Caucus reins in their hands - craft the way. He offers no hint of whether or not such research would be a tax on his willingness or abilities; since he's present here, it must be assumed that both are adequate. He raises his hands to his mouth, and takes a most ladylike sip of the beverage. Enough to get a taste, however, for his next remark is a quiet comment on it: "Headmaster, this is very agreeable. I would be appreciative if you would express such to your brother."
That the tea is a little sweet may be excused by the berry component of its infusion; that it appeals to Gans especially may be excused by his fairly well-known taste for sweet. He indulges in the drink while listening to the Headmaster, and perhaps seeks to be sure the man will say everything he can be brought to say before requiring another response by being so busy with the tea. "And you indulge us by sharing," he says of it, laughter warming his words without actually emerging as such. "My thanks to both of you, also." This said, he turns his attention to Neiran: "You are an historian also, then, Journeyman - or you will be taking charge of the appropriate research?"
"We teach our students as best we can, and in the end they learn to question our every word," Sefton observes with a grin, white teeth flashing against his darker skin, losing several turns off his appearance in the effort. "We will have Neiran and his records to back our claims, with any luck." Another sip. "High Reaches Weyr itself will provide an excellent study for future generations, I suspect. There are many here who have made momentous decisions. The paths not taken might have been very different."
The healer raises his brow at Sefton's grinned observations, and goes on to speak sensibly for himself after a sip of tea; "I am only an historian inasmuch as Caucus demands of me. However, research in any field is little different than research in any other, and most healers spend as much, if not more time dealing with hide and ink than with herb and blood during their training." Neiran's eyes merely linger on the Headmaster as his remarks teasingly touch upon the idea of Reaches' historical import. "The tome of Reachian Weyr history you had me read is already sufficiently large enough," he dryly contributes.
Though he takes refuge in it through some of the remarks about history and research, Gans must put his tea down upon the name of his Weyr. For a moment there might be something like weary warning in his bright, aged eyes; they hold a place on Sefton's face, then slip over to the journeyman, for whom he affords a somewhat relaxed expression and a smile. "I might beg to differ. Research in history is complicated by its nature; I assume - " A little nod toward Sefton, then another toward Neiran, acknowledges the possibility that his assumption is incorrect. "- that there are fewer cases of entitled omissions on behalf of other studies." His gaze settles on the healer, a little grave if warm, and he raises the tea for another sip.
Sefton meets the once-Weyrleader's gaze squarely, his own lazy grin squarely in place. "I was thinking more of recent history at our Weyr, Neiran," he drawls, almost insolent, until the older man looks away. "Decisions taken by individuals in recent times would also provide fuel for ethical and political debate, I should say."
Neiran looks between Sefton and G'thon, finding a lazy grin on one side and a grandfatherly stern look on the other. "I did not mean to suggest historical research to be without its subtleties, only that I have not yet found such subtleties too difficult to conquer." His brows lift, silently asking if he's cleared anything up at all by stating such. To the headmaster his attention turns right after. "I understood; I was merely suggesting that any additions to the already considerable tome of the Weyr's progressing history would make it unmanageably large for a single volume. I imagine this means I have not yet become very skilled in attempting witticisms." Seemingly oblivious that it's his lukewarm, starchy delivery that drowns his feeble attempts every time, the Journeyman returns his gaze to a neutral point in the air near neither man, and takes a more sizable sip of his tea. The cakes, of course, have drawn not an ounce of interest this entire time.
It could be, certainly, what Sefton says that makes Gans pause with his cup still raised, a mouthful unswallowed, but the ethics instructor's gaze remains with Neiran and a little pleasant light remains in his hazel regard, so there might be question about the reason. When he lowers the cup, he does so with strange, ginger effort, dwarfing it in the palm of one long, large hand. "Ah. Subtleties. No, I was not suggesting omissions of any - subtle nature." To Neiran's explained joke he offers a smile that seems, at best, pained, and then he turns to the Headmaster with a request whose omission from history books would be quite a shame: "Have you any water, Sefton?"
"Of course, Neiran," Sefton murmurs, as though the fault is entirely his, for failing to pay proper mind. "What had you in mind to suggest, then?" This, for G'thon, as the Headmaster sets down his tea, and rises from his perch on the desk. "I believe I have some. There is the boiled water, but it will take some time to cool. Is your tea too warm?" His words are solicitous, as he crosses the room, gazing up at the rows of bottles, as though one might yield the answer. "I did think I had water, perhaps I was mistaken."
At what must be the first signs of suffering, Neiran's attention is sharp again, all attitude of a feline batting at a string of conversation out of bored obligation dismissed, replaced by a harnessing of diagnostic attention that has him staring fixedly at the ex-bronzerider. His eyes dart about, gathering what signs he can; respiratory rate, any indication of pain in the left side, mouth movements that might suggest queasiness, numerous other minutiae. He is a healer, after all, and it's questionable whether or not he's responding to his indoctrination as such, or merely performing his role so as not to elicit suspicion. He doesn't question yet, but his lips are pressed tightly closed on an inquiry that hovers right behind them.
"Something else, then, Sefton." This request is uncharacteristically grave, and Gans is uncrossing his legs as he speaks. He turns in his seat, turning his head in a way that suggests a stretch of his neck, blinking too often. And goes on talking (of course), pressing something of a strained, lighter tone into his words. "Only that if acts of great consequence bear playing out in Caucus, the exercise should be repeated for far more momentous decisions than any - " This pause is long; it allows him to slip back into his chair and arrange himself in a sudden effort at comfort. "- carried out here - " Comfort fails him. He moves the teacup, gingerly again, into his right hand and says, grave all over again, "Neiran."
"I have spirits, but they are rather stronger. Wine, perhaps," he continues, reaching up to pull down a wineskin, and examining the seal. "Come now," he considers. "There is no cause for modesty, we have made decisions ourselves worthy of study. As are their consequences. Perhaps none of it will go commented upon, though." It is the sound of his student's name that summons the Headmaster's gaze, and he turns with the wineskin in his hand, gaze enquiring.
Neiran's eyebrows raise subtly with his name, and it is not long before his body follows them upwards, responding to his name like a summons. His arm outstretches, his own mug deposited on the headmaster's desk, left there. "Yes. Are you well, instructor? You seem to be experiencing some form of discomfort." He looks for any sign of a pulse in his neck, any signs of sweating upon that same skin, before looking to the man's face. His hands hover at his sides, not quite at rest, ready to ease or spring into action at a word. A brief, stolen glance to Sefton, and the ethics instructor has all the sharp focus of his attention again.
"I think," Sefton murmurs, his drawl low, as sure as ever, "that you had better remain here. It might be unwise to exert yourself with stairs." There's a note of steel underlying that drawl, though his words aren't shortened at all. "There is no need to move."
"I doubt that." It is a somber statement, for Sefton alone. Gans does not appear to sweat. He is obviously, however, uncomfortable, and gives up seeking comfort in the chair by preference of sliding forward, preparing with deliberate slowness to gain his feet. "Accompany me upstairs, please," he says, and leans down like he might plan to put his teacup on the floor - the floor! But the hand holding the cup is paler than ever, turning blue around the nails, and the old bronzerider is obliged by some inner strain to close his eyes.
Neiran frowns and steps closer to G'thon, stooping quickly to take the teacup from him and put it out of spilling distance, upon the desk's top. He employs his slender arms in bracing G'thon, then, holding across his shoulders and using what sinew-given strength he has to encourage the man back into the chair. "I agree with the Headmaster. You must not move. Describe the sensations you are experiencing," he says, voice close to G'thon's ear as he leans over, reaching for the man's wrist so he can take the instructor's pulse.
"I think that might," says Gans, for Neiran, turning his head a little away from the nearby voice, allowing himself - he seems really more or less unable to help or resist - to be unfolded into the chair's embrace. "Be a waste of breath." Sefton said it all: there is no need to move. The eyes that closed remain so, and the pulse that flutters unpredictably beneath the healer's fingertips does so with increasing rarity. His wasted breath is slow and weak; and then, that too is gone.
Sefton watches impassively, arms folded across his chest, entirely silent until that last breath fades out. Only then does he speak, pushing away from the bookshelves. "I am so very sorry, G'thon," he murmurs, quiet. "That is all, Neiran?"
Neiran's head is tilted as though listening for something, his hands still on the man's wrist, body hunched like he's half hugging the man in the chair. After Sefton's words is a period of silence, and the Journeyman's fingers are still, waiting to see if the heart conspires for one last flutter. At last Neiran rises, unburdening himself of G'thon by arranging him more properly in the chair. He's staring, and only belatedly takes a moment to brush the man's eyelids with his fingers to ensure that they won't slide open and stare back at him. "He is dead." It's a soft confirmation, spoken as the healer takes a step back from the lifeless cadaver left in the chair.
"In that case, I suppose I ought to run for help," Sefton replies. "Do what you would, were you making an attempt to revive him. If you would be so good as to drop his tea onto the floor, please?"
"Yes, Headmaster." He picks up the cup, holds it over G'thon's hand, lets it drop. He begins wrestling the corpse from the chair, to lay it out on its back on the floor, to go through the motions of resuscitation. For the moment, though, he remains there on his knees, regarding the man's expressionless features. "I would be obliged if you would make a commotion when you and whomever you recruit approach the door." Neiran looks away from the corpse, to the remaining conspirator in the room.
"Indeed," Sefton murmurs, having made no move to assist with the corpse-wrangling. "I will be sure to do so." He crosses to the door, and lifts one hand to unfasten the latch that the dead man fastened. A breath in, a breath out, and he opens the door, his posture changing dramatically as he ducks through it, slamming it behind him.