In which Neiran and Sefton plot a course for the future...
Who: Sefton and Neiran.
What: Neiran tries to get a good mark with good manners and threats, an unusual combination. Also, a deal is struck.
When: After Sefton's second class sometime.
Where: Sefton's quarters.
Background: Firstly, I challenge anybody who thinks they've ever drawn a bigger Neiran-pose to come out with it. Surely I win. Secondly, this scene is particularly important because it sets up something which continues to this day. Neiran meets with Sefton about once a week, is given a book to read, and reports back on the last effort. Some are works of history, politics, geography, the usual. Some are not. Once, Neiran was given one of Bailie's horrifyingly trashy romances to read, with the request that he return prepared to discuss why they were so popular. Really, Sef half just wanted him to get caught reading it in public, and he was. Muahaha. These days, one might almost say the men get on with each other. One might almost say they quite enjoy debating the texts.
Sefton's Room
The primary advantage of this room is that it's big, and it needs to be. A large bed in one corner is piled up with furs, and next to it sits a long desk covered in piles of books, scrolls and hides. A battered sofa provides somewhere to sit, and thick tapestries and rugs ward off the cold, covering the better part of the walls and floor. A long stretch of bookshelves takes up most of the wall-space, Sefton's considerable library neatly housed there. A pair of chests sit near the base of the shelves, both open -- he's unpacked his books, but he still hasn't unpacked his clothes.
Out
The lunchtime roar is dying down in the living cavern, and riders, weyrfolk and students are slowly breaking up to make their way to various duties. Sefton has his door open, his usual signal that he is available to students, but has assumed a far from formal position. He's sprawled on his sofa, head on one arm, knees bent so he can prop his feet against the other. A glass of something clear and orange-tinted in one hand, what might be a letter in the other.
Neiran suddenly appears in the doorway, devoid of prop or ominous black cassock, looking almost approachable in his simple winter garb, expression typically blank. He clears his throat faintly, to draw attention to himself. He can enter a room at times and go completely unnoticed by some people, but others look up with the sudden weight in the atmosphere; unsure of which sort Sefton is, the subtle noise is merely a precaution.
The hand holding the letter raises a finger, indicating Sefton's awareness of his guest, but he pauses several moments longer before he looks up, setting the letter aside. "Why, it's Penny's Healer." His drawl is instantly amused, and he straightens up to swing his legs off the sofa, coming to his feet. "How may I serve?" The question's not quite as polite as it sounds, diminished by his tone.
Neiran frowns at that epithet, attributed to him unwillingly. His displeasure is seen in a subtle shift of his mouth, and a tilt of his chin downward. He clears his throat yet again, and folds his hands behind the small of his back. "I might ask you for a moment of your time, if you are ready to accept my assignment proposal."
Perhaps Sefton notes the disapproval -- if so, it must be this that causes the faint twitch at one corner of his mouth. "Absolutely, Neiran. Would you like a drink?" The instructor crosses the room to drop the letter onto his desk, turning to lean back against it, still nursing his own poison of choice.
"What kind of drink?" He asks, eyes diverting towards the man's glass. "If it is alcoholic, I will decline your offer." He takes two steps forward at an almost meandering pace, not disguising his survey of the room whilst he keeps his hands clasped behind his back. The library attracts most of Neiran's attention, his dark eyes scanning the spines for any potentially discernable titles, or recognizable bindings.
"I think I've got some juice somewhere I use to mix with," Sefton murmurs by way of reply, tilting his head back to examine the bottles that are set out along the top shelf. The books themselves are by far the neatest thing in the room, filed neatly and more or less by subject -- mostly covering history, politics, and economics.
"You needn't trouble yourself, I've just had water recently." No dismissive gesture accompanies his words, hands remaining restrained. He examines the books further, feeling no haste in charging towards his assignment. "I don't suppose you have anything that might be of interest to a Healer amongst your tomes, would you?"
"Mmmm. I don't have medical texts, but I imagine you've had plenty of access to those." Sefton surveys the books from his perch against the desk, head tilted a little to one side. "I've plague journals, a social history of a post-plague period, those have illness in them. Otherwise, I can suggest some good general works to round out your knowledge. I imagine that's part of what they had in mind, when they sent you."
"Indeed. Books are not always prolific things, and one never knows whose collection might hold a piece of information that could be essential later on in life." Neiran muses aloud, almost at ease with conversation whilst he's absorbed in his thoughts, giving voice to catechisms. He gathers himself but a moment later, however, and looks towards his entrepeneurial teacher. "I presume you're a busy man. Shall we begin, then?"
"Very true. You're welcome to borrow any of them that take your eye, as all my students are." Sefton's drawl is still half-amused, and he downs a decent mouthful of his drink before he nods, reaching up to push his hair away from his eyes. "I've all the time in the world to listen. Tell me what's on your mind, Neiran."
Neiran nods faintly. "Very well." He closes his eyes, and opens them slowly as if drawing back the shutters to his thoughts. "My approach is multitudinous. I will outline the steps I have taken in the pursuit of this assignment, and I believe you will agree once I come to my conclusion that it would be expedient for you to award me more than simply a passing grade." While he does not smile or inject anything of goading charm into his manner, there is perhaps a certain amount of persuasive weight to his words due to their simplicity and eloquence. His voice is mellow and standardized Fortian in quality and accent, unnhurried and measured. He continues in that even tone. "I applied my mind to how I might best gain this grade. I realized that since you were the holder of the reward, I would have to find a way to approach you. This was not something I could obtain for myself. Bribery was implausible, as I could not fathom what would win you; also, I had no guarantee that you might not simply take what I offered and refuse to give the grade in return. I realized I could not further consider how to approach you if I did not know more about you. I employed one method suggested during your lecture, which was to utilize connections. I forged an acquaintance with a classmate, and asked her for information. The information which I gained was valuable, and thus far has not exacted any obligation from me in return. So, I am negotiating with you, and pleading my case. This presented itself as the most effective method for both of us; I was told you react well to surprises, and I thought that a simple, direct method might be...refreshing." His lips twitch, briefly. "Furthermore," and here he draws in a breath, sitting upright, leveling his gaze and squaring his narrow jaw, "it presented itself as a dignified alternative to other methods suggested. I trust I have been convincing enough in my reasoning to entice you into awarding me a sufficient grade. Let me remind you, nevertheless, how I disapprove of your recommendations towards alternative methods of convincing. And let me further remind you of my continual access to extensive supplies of toxicants, the properties of which I am thoroughly acquainted." A subtle ultimatum woven into the end of his speech, delivered smoothly and plainly to a man who can surely understand. "I thought about suggesting that I had advised the Healers in the infirmary to refuse treatment should you go to them with some gastric malady, but I realized you would not accept such an obvious bluff. Rest assured, however, that I am not bluffing about the means to which I will go in order to secure myself a winning grade for this initial assignment of yours. I don't know if you are a stubborn man, Sefton - I certainly hope, for both our sakes, that you are not. I have displayed my reasoning and intellect in this exercise, and I believe that you realize you have nothing to gain in withholding a grade from me, and hours of comfort and dignity to lose. If you'll notice, I subtly employed flattery just now by giving you the benefit of the doubt. That is yet another method which I have employed." He falls silent for a long pause, letting the tapestry of his woven arguments seep into his instructor's mind. Both eyebrows inch upward moderately, voicing silent question with lips set in a neutral design, suggestive of nothing.
Sefton is all polite attention as he listens, working his halfway down his glass in a series of small and thoughtful sips. He seems to be more interested in examining Neiran's features than listening to his words. As the journeyman falls silent his lips twitch to another hint of a smile, a suggestion of laughter suppressed. "Let me be entirely clear, Neiran. You wish me to give you a good grade because you are asking nicely, and if I fail to do so, you intend on on making me ill. Is that more or less the crux of it?" He doesn't sound disapproving -- or anything much, other than faintly amused.
Neiran remains standing there, looking entirely unperturbed by Sefton's apparently amused reaction to his proposal. "If you want to overlook the fact that other methods were considered, eliminated, or employed, than yes. Truthfully, there is no reason you should deny this grade to me. This is merely an exercise; in a real situation, I would likely not be involved. Politics are not something I am interested in, but one presumes that if I were, realistically a polite request would be the method I would first employ, and I would explain to my target what it was I desired of him. Unless he was unreasonable or foolish-" he pauses, "I would expect him to comply for the sake of harmony and agreement, and perhaps the promise of my alliance in the future."
Sefton smiles again, shaking his head slightly -- just shifting an inch in either direction. "Suggesting your opinion of me will be lowered won't aid you, Neiran. I am less concerned with it than I might be." He pushes away from the desk, walking around behind the student to tilt his head back, surveying the shelves. "Tell me, is there not some sort of oath your craft takes, to avoid inflicting injury?" One hand goes up, and he eases a book out of a pile, flipping it open to study the first page.
Is that a smile, or an unholy grimace threatening to curve his lips upwards? It's disconcertingly difficult to tell, really, just what the Healer is thinking. His voice is as even as ever, however, betraying nothing when Neiran replies. "Yes. Indeed, there is. To serve, and never to harm. ...though, I am curious as to why you think my opinion of you would be lowered. Did I say, or mistakenly imply as much? I wouldn't think less of a teacher for awarding his pupil what he believed he was deserving of. And, unless I am mistaken, I sense my grade will definitely not be exemplary, and might only perhaps be acceptable as a pass." His voice drops off somewhat dryly at the end.
Sefton laughs, still studying the book. "You suggested someone foolish or unreasonable would fail to agree to your request. I do not tremble at the thought of my students thinking me so." His head comes up, and he turns to hold up the book for examination. "Read this. It's an excellent general history, and one of the only ones that gives sufficient weight to the Crafts, I find." A pause then, as though he's debating whether to continue. "You've wavered a little too quickly. Too soon to mention the possibility of merely passing." This, in his instructor's voice.
"I meant that someone unreasonable or foolish would fail to agree to the voice of reason, which suggests that something freely given at no cost to one's self ought to be given in the vein of cooperation - ah, but I suppose in presuming that I've forgotten the reality of human greed." He sighs faintly, and tilts his head back to eye the chamber ceiling for a few moments. The instructor's voice draws his gaze back down, and he finds the book offered. He reaches out to draw it to himself, to examine it and see if he's not read it already. The instructor's revelation of his misstep meets with no visible tic, but a deliberate nod. "Perhaps I didn't find out enough about your character, then. I study organs, Sefton. Not personalities," he states with candor.
"In fairness, asking Penny about my personality was probably a mistake. She's far too close to have perspective." Sefton hands over the book with a faint smile, and turns to reach up for the bottle that matches what he's drinking. "Even Crafters need to know how to handle people. Historically speaking, as I'm sure you know, your craft has more than once been caught in the midst of conflict, remaining in place where others have withdrawn." The bottle is uncorked, and a generous measure poured. "One day, for all you know, you might sit at a Conclave or Council, and need to advocate as best you can for your people." The bottle is replaced, and he turns to lean back against the shelves. "You've tried something unfamiliar, that pleases me. Read that book, and come back in a sevenday. I'll trade it for another. We'll pursue that course for the next few months, and I'll give you a B. Acceptable?"
Neiran inclines his head in agreement to Sefton's call back to history, and the possibility of the future. The notion of him sitting in an advocate's chair, however, draws a light frown as if he's been forced to take a pungent herb. He stands there, holding the book on loan in both hands, receiving his grade with a straight face. "That is acceptable. And thank you for the loan of this book. I'll read it shortly." He turns his upper body, but suddenly pauses, drawing his gaze back to his instructor. "Might I ask what other methods the students have employed, and their various rates of success?"
"Do so, I'd like to hear your opinion within seven days." Sefton's leaning against his desk again, turning his glass slowly in circles, both eyes on its progress. "I mean you to read it, and I give you your grade on good faith, expecting that you'll continue reading the books I give you for at least three months." His gaze comes up then, usual hint of a tease gleaming in dark eyes. "I don't think it's fair to dissect your fellow students just yet. Some of them are yet to make their case, or are doing so on an ongoing basis. If you like, ask me again after the assignment has concluded."
"I shall do so." Both in the case of continuing to read the books, and to return and ask about what methods had been employed. "Thank you for your time. Unless there is any other instruction you wish to give me...?" Neiran trails off, slender fingers readjusting themselves on the book, curling around it like the spindly legs of a dying spinner.
Sefton is silent for several moments, and then he shakes his head, prompting his hair to fall down into his eyes. "Nothing more, no. Not so bad, Neiran. You hadn't the benefit of the practice they all got in their last assignment." And this said, Sefton pushes away from the desk, and turns to examine the papers scattered there. Dismissed, apparently.
And that is that. No poison, simply a frank conversation between student and instructor, which does not seem to have soured or bettered Neiran's mood at all. With his acceptable grade and some reading material to occupy what spare hour he might have in the evening between homework, volunteer infirmary duties, and his own personal chores, the Journeyman vacates the room.
What: Neiran tries to get a good mark with good manners and threats, an unusual combination. Also, a deal is struck.
When: After Sefton's second class sometime.
Where: Sefton's quarters.
Background: Firstly, I challenge anybody who thinks they've ever drawn a bigger Neiran-pose to come out with it. Surely I win. Secondly, this scene is particularly important because it sets up something which continues to this day. Neiran meets with Sefton about once a week, is given a book to read, and reports back on the last effort. Some are works of history, politics, geography, the usual. Some are not. Once, Neiran was given one of Bailie's horrifyingly trashy romances to read, with the request that he return prepared to discuss why they were so popular. Really, Sef half just wanted him to get caught reading it in public, and he was. Muahaha. These days, one might almost say the men get on with each other. One might almost say they quite enjoy debating the texts.
Sefton's Room
The primary advantage of this room is that it's big, and it needs to be. A large bed in one corner is piled up with furs, and next to it sits a long desk covered in piles of books, scrolls and hides. A battered sofa provides somewhere to sit, and thick tapestries and rugs ward off the cold, covering the better part of the walls and floor. A long stretch of bookshelves takes up most of the wall-space, Sefton's considerable library neatly housed there. A pair of chests sit near the base of the shelves, both open -- he's unpacked his books, but he still hasn't unpacked his clothes.
Out
The lunchtime roar is dying down in the living cavern, and riders, weyrfolk and students are slowly breaking up to make their way to various duties. Sefton has his door open, his usual signal that he is available to students, but has assumed a far from formal position. He's sprawled on his sofa, head on one arm, knees bent so he can prop his feet against the other. A glass of something clear and orange-tinted in one hand, what might be a letter in the other.
Neiran suddenly appears in the doorway, devoid of prop or ominous black cassock, looking almost approachable in his simple winter garb, expression typically blank. He clears his throat faintly, to draw attention to himself. He can enter a room at times and go completely unnoticed by some people, but others look up with the sudden weight in the atmosphere; unsure of which sort Sefton is, the subtle noise is merely a precaution.
The hand holding the letter raises a finger, indicating Sefton's awareness of his guest, but he pauses several moments longer before he looks up, setting the letter aside. "Why, it's Penny's Healer." His drawl is instantly amused, and he straightens up to swing his legs off the sofa, coming to his feet. "How may I serve?" The question's not quite as polite as it sounds, diminished by his tone.
Neiran frowns at that epithet, attributed to him unwillingly. His displeasure is seen in a subtle shift of his mouth, and a tilt of his chin downward. He clears his throat yet again, and folds his hands behind the small of his back. "I might ask you for a moment of your time, if you are ready to accept my assignment proposal."
Perhaps Sefton notes the disapproval -- if so, it must be this that causes the faint twitch at one corner of his mouth. "Absolutely, Neiran. Would you like a drink?" The instructor crosses the room to drop the letter onto his desk, turning to lean back against it, still nursing his own poison of choice.
"What kind of drink?" He asks, eyes diverting towards the man's glass. "If it is alcoholic, I will decline your offer." He takes two steps forward at an almost meandering pace, not disguising his survey of the room whilst he keeps his hands clasped behind his back. The library attracts most of Neiran's attention, his dark eyes scanning the spines for any potentially discernable titles, or recognizable bindings.
"I think I've got some juice somewhere I use to mix with," Sefton murmurs by way of reply, tilting his head back to examine the bottles that are set out along the top shelf. The books themselves are by far the neatest thing in the room, filed neatly and more or less by subject -- mostly covering history, politics, and economics.
"You needn't trouble yourself, I've just had water recently." No dismissive gesture accompanies his words, hands remaining restrained. He examines the books further, feeling no haste in charging towards his assignment. "I don't suppose you have anything that might be of interest to a Healer amongst your tomes, would you?"
"Mmmm. I don't have medical texts, but I imagine you've had plenty of access to those." Sefton surveys the books from his perch against the desk, head tilted a little to one side. "I've plague journals, a social history of a post-plague period, those have illness in them. Otherwise, I can suggest some good general works to round out your knowledge. I imagine that's part of what they had in mind, when they sent you."
"Indeed. Books are not always prolific things, and one never knows whose collection might hold a piece of information that could be essential later on in life." Neiran muses aloud, almost at ease with conversation whilst he's absorbed in his thoughts, giving voice to catechisms. He gathers himself but a moment later, however, and looks towards his entrepeneurial teacher. "I presume you're a busy man. Shall we begin, then?"
"Very true. You're welcome to borrow any of them that take your eye, as all my students are." Sefton's drawl is still half-amused, and he downs a decent mouthful of his drink before he nods, reaching up to push his hair away from his eyes. "I've all the time in the world to listen. Tell me what's on your mind, Neiran."
Neiran nods faintly. "Very well." He closes his eyes, and opens them slowly as if drawing back the shutters to his thoughts. "My approach is multitudinous. I will outline the steps I have taken in the pursuit of this assignment, and I believe you will agree once I come to my conclusion that it would be expedient for you to award me more than simply a passing grade." While he does not smile or inject anything of goading charm into his manner, there is perhaps a certain amount of persuasive weight to his words due to their simplicity and eloquence. His voice is mellow and standardized Fortian in quality and accent, unnhurried and measured. He continues in that even tone. "I applied my mind to how I might best gain this grade. I realized that since you were the holder of the reward, I would have to find a way to approach you. This was not something I could obtain for myself. Bribery was implausible, as I could not fathom what would win you; also, I had no guarantee that you might not simply take what I offered and refuse to give the grade in return. I realized I could not further consider how to approach you if I did not know more about you. I employed one method suggested during your lecture, which was to utilize connections. I forged an acquaintance with a classmate, and asked her for information. The information which I gained was valuable, and thus far has not exacted any obligation from me in return. So, I am negotiating with you, and pleading my case. This presented itself as the most effective method for both of us; I was told you react well to surprises, and I thought that a simple, direct method might be...refreshing." His lips twitch, briefly. "Furthermore," and here he draws in a breath, sitting upright, leveling his gaze and squaring his narrow jaw, "it presented itself as a dignified alternative to other methods suggested. I trust I have been convincing enough in my reasoning to entice you into awarding me a sufficient grade. Let me remind you, nevertheless, how I disapprove of your recommendations towards alternative methods of convincing. And let me further remind you of my continual access to extensive supplies of toxicants, the properties of which I am thoroughly acquainted." A subtle ultimatum woven into the end of his speech, delivered smoothly and plainly to a man who can surely understand. "I thought about suggesting that I had advised the Healers in the infirmary to refuse treatment should you go to them with some gastric malady, but I realized you would not accept such an obvious bluff. Rest assured, however, that I am not bluffing about the means to which I will go in order to secure myself a winning grade for this initial assignment of yours. I don't know if you are a stubborn man, Sefton - I certainly hope, for both our sakes, that you are not. I have displayed my reasoning and intellect in this exercise, and I believe that you realize you have nothing to gain in withholding a grade from me, and hours of comfort and dignity to lose. If you'll notice, I subtly employed flattery just now by giving you the benefit of the doubt. That is yet another method which I have employed." He falls silent for a long pause, letting the tapestry of his woven arguments seep into his instructor's mind. Both eyebrows inch upward moderately, voicing silent question with lips set in a neutral design, suggestive of nothing.
Sefton is all polite attention as he listens, working his halfway down his glass in a series of small and thoughtful sips. He seems to be more interested in examining Neiran's features than listening to his words. As the journeyman falls silent his lips twitch to another hint of a smile, a suggestion of laughter suppressed. "Let me be entirely clear, Neiran. You wish me to give you a good grade because you are asking nicely, and if I fail to do so, you intend on on making me ill. Is that more or less the crux of it?" He doesn't sound disapproving -- or anything much, other than faintly amused.
Neiran remains standing there, looking entirely unperturbed by Sefton's apparently amused reaction to his proposal. "If you want to overlook the fact that other methods were considered, eliminated, or employed, than yes. Truthfully, there is no reason you should deny this grade to me. This is merely an exercise; in a real situation, I would likely not be involved. Politics are not something I am interested in, but one presumes that if I were, realistically a polite request would be the method I would first employ, and I would explain to my target what it was I desired of him. Unless he was unreasonable or foolish-" he pauses, "I would expect him to comply for the sake of harmony and agreement, and perhaps the promise of my alliance in the future."
Sefton smiles again, shaking his head slightly -- just shifting an inch in either direction. "Suggesting your opinion of me will be lowered won't aid you, Neiran. I am less concerned with it than I might be." He pushes away from the desk, walking around behind the student to tilt his head back, surveying the shelves. "Tell me, is there not some sort of oath your craft takes, to avoid inflicting injury?" One hand goes up, and he eases a book out of a pile, flipping it open to study the first page.
Is that a smile, or an unholy grimace threatening to curve his lips upwards? It's disconcertingly difficult to tell, really, just what the Healer is thinking. His voice is as even as ever, however, betraying nothing when Neiran replies. "Yes. Indeed, there is. To serve, and never to harm. ...though, I am curious as to why you think my opinion of you would be lowered. Did I say, or mistakenly imply as much? I wouldn't think less of a teacher for awarding his pupil what he believed he was deserving of. And, unless I am mistaken, I sense my grade will definitely not be exemplary, and might only perhaps be acceptable as a pass." His voice drops off somewhat dryly at the end.
Sefton laughs, still studying the book. "You suggested someone foolish or unreasonable would fail to agree to your request. I do not tremble at the thought of my students thinking me so." His head comes up, and he turns to hold up the book for examination. "Read this. It's an excellent general history, and one of the only ones that gives sufficient weight to the Crafts, I find." A pause then, as though he's debating whether to continue. "You've wavered a little too quickly. Too soon to mention the possibility of merely passing." This, in his instructor's voice.
"I meant that someone unreasonable or foolish would fail to agree to the voice of reason, which suggests that something freely given at no cost to one's self ought to be given in the vein of cooperation - ah, but I suppose in presuming that I've forgotten the reality of human greed." He sighs faintly, and tilts his head back to eye the chamber ceiling for a few moments. The instructor's voice draws his gaze back down, and he finds the book offered. He reaches out to draw it to himself, to examine it and see if he's not read it already. The instructor's revelation of his misstep meets with no visible tic, but a deliberate nod. "Perhaps I didn't find out enough about your character, then. I study organs, Sefton. Not personalities," he states with candor.
"In fairness, asking Penny about my personality was probably a mistake. She's far too close to have perspective." Sefton hands over the book with a faint smile, and turns to reach up for the bottle that matches what he's drinking. "Even Crafters need to know how to handle people. Historically speaking, as I'm sure you know, your craft has more than once been caught in the midst of conflict, remaining in place where others have withdrawn." The bottle is uncorked, and a generous measure poured. "One day, for all you know, you might sit at a Conclave or Council, and need to advocate as best you can for your people." The bottle is replaced, and he turns to lean back against the shelves. "You've tried something unfamiliar, that pleases me. Read that book, and come back in a sevenday. I'll trade it for another. We'll pursue that course for the next few months, and I'll give you a B. Acceptable?"
Neiran inclines his head in agreement to Sefton's call back to history, and the possibility of the future. The notion of him sitting in an advocate's chair, however, draws a light frown as if he's been forced to take a pungent herb. He stands there, holding the book on loan in both hands, receiving his grade with a straight face. "That is acceptable. And thank you for the loan of this book. I'll read it shortly." He turns his upper body, but suddenly pauses, drawing his gaze back to his instructor. "Might I ask what other methods the students have employed, and their various rates of success?"
"Do so, I'd like to hear your opinion within seven days." Sefton's leaning against his desk again, turning his glass slowly in circles, both eyes on its progress. "I mean you to read it, and I give you your grade on good faith, expecting that you'll continue reading the books I give you for at least three months." His gaze comes up then, usual hint of a tease gleaming in dark eyes. "I don't think it's fair to dissect your fellow students just yet. Some of them are yet to make their case, or are doing so on an ongoing basis. If you like, ask me again after the assignment has concluded."
"I shall do so." Both in the case of continuing to read the books, and to return and ask about what methods had been employed. "Thank you for your time. Unless there is any other instruction you wish to give me...?" Neiran trails off, slender fingers readjusting themselves on the book, curling around it like the spindly legs of a dying spinner.
Sefton is silent for several moments, and then he shakes his head, prompting his hair to fall down into his eyes. "Nothing more, no. Not so bad, Neiran. You hadn't the benefit of the practice they all got in their last assignment." And this said, Sefton pushes away from the desk, and turns to examine the papers scattered there. Dismissed, apparently.
And that is that. No poison, simply a frank conversation between student and instructor, which does not seem to have soured or bettered Neiran's mood at all. With his acceptable grade and some reading material to occupy what spare hour he might have in the evening between homework, volunteer infirmary duties, and his own personal chores, the Journeyman vacates the room.