C'daer ambles in from the inner cavern.
Ilesyn's entrenched at the corner of one of the tables, a piece of hide in front of her, stylus in hand. It appears as though she's taking notes; she has her head lifted, to watch people, jotting down a few words every so often. She's got her legs curled up beneath her, giving her extra height to peer over people, no doubt to get a better view of what they're doing.
C'daer slips unobtrusively into the cavern, carefully juggling a stack of hidework and a plate of snacks, with a half-full mug tucked in the crook of one elbow. He first stops at the closest table to rearrange his armful as he glances around; noting Ilesyn, he moves towards her table with a subdued, "Good day."
"Afternoon," agrees Ilesyn quietly, barely a moment after C'daer has himself spoken, with an alert intensity further remarking upon her present occupation. "Trying to find a quiet spot in which to work without interruption?"
"Actually," he says, slipping into a seat near her without invitation, "this is stuff that could just as easily wait. But it's a bit cold to do drills with the weyrlings, and I feel as though I should get something done, so I set them all to Harper lessons and thought I'd catch up."
Ilesyn scratches another note onto her hide, rolling the top back to create a buffer between it and the table. "What happens if it remains this cold all winter? Will you keep working on hidework, so that you can avoid the weather?" She readjusts her limbs, reasserting her height with the rearrangement, which has her sitting higher still.
C'daer rolls his eyes. "Of course, Healer," he remarks with sarcasm, dipping a finger into his steaming mug to test the heat; a wince as he takes it back. Still hot. "But you don't take a group of young weyrlings, many of whom aren't from the Weyr, and set them to doing intense outside drills in the wet snow - you end up with a barracksful of sick weyrlings."
"I certainly understand that, even with my limited knowledge of physical healing," agrees Ilesyn. "But that doesn't answer my question. Is it better to keep them back in their training, but keep them all healthy, or try and forge ahead as best you can, in the hope that at least some of them won't get sick, and will be ready on time?" Her expression is calm; there's a smile, creeping upon her lips, just quietly.
"Their training," Daer says, sounding put-upon, "will advance at the pace that is best for both them and the Weyr. Their dragons are too young to do drills that need to be done outside, and the Weyrlings need to be literate just as much as they need to be physically strong. Does that answer your question?"
"Yes." Ilesyn smiles broadly - showing, as a consequence, more gaps than teeth - as she inclines her head forward into a nod. "Perfectly. Thank you. I had some concerns, but you've relieved me of those, which is wonderful."
C'daer shoots an aggrieved glance sideways at her and harrumphs, fiddling through his hidestack. "I'm so glad. You do realiize that weyrlings train for two turns, and one day would make no difference in the long run in any case?"
Ilesyn's expression seems to become only more amused than ever at C'daer's glances; she tilts her head to the side, considering, "I was never talking about just one day, I assure you, Weyrlingmaster. I could never fault you for seeing to your own needs - your desire to stay warm and dry - for one day out of the winter."
"I've lived through Fort winters all my life," he parries, visibly ruffled, "and it's no problem to me to supervise them in the cold. Perhaps it's selfish of me, rather, not to want to deal with twenty sniffly, sick, whiny weyrlings with miserable dragons, when it can be prevented so easily?"
"I think you're coddling them, and in doing so, are coddling yourself." Ilesyn's lips part again, in almost a cruel gesture of mocking fun. "What will they do when they have sweeps in the wet, the wind, and the snow, when they're used to just going in and working with the Harper in such weather conditions?"
C'daer leans his elbow on the table and looks over Ilesyn, lip curled. "And have you been outside today, Healer? It's damned cold, and if I wasn't 'coddling' them we'd end up with the Southern ones having frostbite and all of them having colds and sniffles. Now, if you're so insistent that I'm coddling them, I'd be glad to rustle them out, if you would want to participate yourself. Then you would have -your- own- experience to decide from. Like the ice skating."
Ilesyn lifts her eyebrows, the bushy, near monobrow nearing her hairline. "My goodness but you're testy today, Weyrlingmaster. Is there something you'd like to talk to me about, get it off your chest? Is it Miake, perhaps? Pregnant women can get quite difficult to handle this close to the birth." She takes a breath, then remarking, "I've been outside today, Weyrlingmaster, and I know what it's like. I think you need to build up their immunity, though. That's all."
C'daer snorts. "They've been outside every day for the past two weeks. What was your point, exactly? That they need to be exposed to the coldest weather yet this year for no reason other than to say 'Oh look, it's colder than yesterday?' I happen to think I am competent at this without -your- advice, Mindhealer." He is touchy today - rather bristly.
"There's more reason than that," insists Ilesyn, with a potentially infuratingly sweet smile. "If they can get through a day in this weather fine, then they will manage in any weather. Besides which, if you keep them moving fast enough, they'll stay perfectly warm." She holds up her hands, one with stylus still held in it, "I yeild. Of course, let me allow you to train the weyrlings as you see fit. I still think you need to chill a bit."
Drumming his fingers on the table, Daer asks, "So I should take these weyrlings, mostly under eighteen, some of whom have been here less than six months and have never experienced snow, out in the coldest weather of the year when they have a full two years to acclimate to it?"
Ilesyn merely nods her head. "Yes. If you coddle them, they will come to expect not to have to work when it's very cold, and that is hard to train out of them, whether you have two turns or twenty." She drops her hands back towards the table, twining fingers around each other, and the stylus in front of them.
"Except they're still working," Daer says, apparently not willing to let this go. "They're working on something different but equally important. Some of them hate it more than firestone, actually." He takes a drink of his cider, cooled to palatability now.
"Someone is going to hate any activity you throw at them, Weyrlingmaster," insists Ilesyn, repositioning herself yet again. "And I bet plenty of them are chafing to get outside, no matter the weather."
Again he shakes his head, exasperated, "It's not as though they -can't- go outside if they have the burning need. Faranth, you're almost as bad as Avila." He sulks down in his seat, focusing on the stack of hides without really looking interested in them.
Ilesyn's lips twitch wryly, as she comments, leaning back in her chair so that the front two legs lift off from the ground - she holds herself stable by grasping on to the table. "I'm sure Avila would be most offended to hear that, though you're right. We're alike enough that our differences ensure we don't get along."
C'daer taps his finger on the topmost hide, looking up at her. "I assume you remember that S'vilen's been set out to defang Avila. Shall I see if I can't find someone to do the same for you?" He adds a sweetly insincere smile.#
"I have not forgotten that, no," agrees Ilesyn, equally sweet. "Indeed, she's not been looking all that happy of late, so I'll assume he's begun at that. Who would you suggest, Weyrlingmaster? I shall be interested to see if it's possible."
That being a harder question, Daer mulls it over for a scant minute, reaching for a fingerroot from his place and crunching upon it. "Perhaps Sanriel? Or would you have anyone in mind yourself? Or perhaps a Master Mindhealer."
Ilesyn's laugh is openly amused - there's nothing false about it, her whole face lit with the chuckle. "Faranth, Sanriel and I have our altercations often, and she's never done a thing to curb my tongue. If you wish to recruit a Master Mindhealer, go ahead. I won't stop you, though since I've worked with many of them, and they never managed to do so when I was apprentice, I doubt that will have any effect, either."
"She probably hasn't -tried-." He looks disgruntled and again fiddles with the hides, flipping through a few. "Maybe if you just realized how off-setting your manner is and worked a bit at not insulting people and winning friends, you'd have an easier time of it."
"I think she has," insists Ilesyn, though not with any force; instead, she's rather lazy in one. "I'm sorry to say, but I don't think there's anything to do about it. You'll just have to cope." She draws the front two legs of her seat back down onto the ground, adding, "Who said that I had it hard?"
C'daer snipes, "The people who have to deal with you. Can there be any other reason for your aggressive, irritating, often childish behavior?" He's really going for a fight today, it seems, as he suggests, "Maybe it's overcompensation for your appearence."
Sanriel ambles in from the inner cavern.
Ilesyn is the epitome of placid, her eyebrows lifting curiously as she tilts her head to the side. "Is that right now? Because I have no friends - your definition, not mine - I'm agressive and irritating, not to mention childish? And - oh, my, you have to bring in my appearence as well? My goodness, you're really trying to hurt me, aren't you?"
"I didn't say that it was because you had no friends," Daer cracks back, his voice raising slightly; though he and Ilesyn are alone at a corner table, the others using the cavern are starting to take notice. "And that was just a -theory. Obviously you're trying to make up for some, what do you call it? deficiency."
An instrument case tucked under one arm, the resident Harper meanders into the room, nodding to the assemblage and moving towards an out-of-the-way shelving unit, obviously looking for something.
"Actually, I'm not." Ilesyn is absolutely pleasent - she's not even started to raise her voice, and, in fact, looks as though she's rather enjoying this. "I have my deficiencies, certainly, but I am definitely not trying to overcompensate for them." She's relaxed enough that she even lifts a hand in greeting towards Sanriel.
C'daer insists, stubbornly, "I think you are." He narrows his eyes at hew, jaw set, and then shrugs, relaxing slightly: "What would it take to get you to stop being so irritating, then?" His back's toward Sanriel, blocking her view of the hidework, plate, and cup in front of him.
Sanriel is a bit surprised at the Healer's greeting, but smiles and waves, heading in that direction before she catches a few of C'daer's words and pauses, undecided.
Ilesyn shakes her head. "Why would I do that, Weyrlingmaster? It would be more than hypocritical of me. I cannot claim perfection, but I'm doing my best to avoid falling back on cheap attempts at making myself feel better." She slides back again, chair legs lifting off the ground once more, and, as she catches on the table to support herself, adds, "I don't know. I've never been anything but irritating." There's a winning - toothless - smile, there.
With a slight shudder, Daer looks away and down at his hides. "But you only make everyone around you feel worse when you're humiliating them, second-guessing them, and just being all-around annoying. Is that what you really want? Is that what you're supposed to be doing as a Mindhealer?"
"Of course it is!" Sanriel answers for Ilesyn, laying a hand lightly on C'daer's shoulder and letting it fall away as she walks past to stand at the edge of the table between the two. "Is yet another victim asking you to remove your claws, Ilesyn?"
"I make people think, though," explains Ilesyn. "And maybe they don't like what I say, but they often go off and think about it, and it helps. I make sure they know that it isn't okay - it inspires people to change. That's what I'm suppoed to be doing as a Mindhealer." She adds, with eyebrow raised. "Am I humiliating you, Weyrlingmaster? I'm not quite sure what he's trying to do, Sanriel, although it's interesting me, certainly."
C'daer pauses to look up at Sanriel and give her a smile - tighter than usual, as the discussion progresses - he's not exactly in a good mood. "Ilesyn, the point is that you do it in public, without them -asking- for you to do it. It's completely tactless. It's like if I stood up and yelled, 'Ilesyn sleeps naked in a runner stall every night.' It wouldn't make you feel good, -especially- if it was true."
There are better things she should be doing, but nothing as potentially interesting so, uninvited, Sanriel pulls up a chair and girds herself for what could turn into a /very/ amusing conversation. C'daer's comment about runner stalls earns raised eyebrows and a questioning look towards Ilesyn.
Ilesyn deliberately retorts, with some glee, "People know that I hate animals, so they'd obviously know that that wasn't true. Besides which, I don't honestly care what people think of me - I would've thought that that might have become obvious by now." Sanriel's questioning look draws only a smile.
"It was a bad example," Daer grouches, leaning back in chair and crosses his arms sullenly. "If I stood up and shouted something that was one of your failings or weaknesses, then. All right? Don't take everything so literally." He nudges his plate of finger snacks towards Sanriel in invitation.
Sanriel accepts the offering, poking through for a tidbit that looks tasty and munching on it absently. "This debate never ends, you know..." She breaks in conversationally. "Every one says, 'Ilesyn, be nice: Avila, stop gossipping' and neither ever, ever happens."
"I know what my failings and weaknesses are," says Ilesyn, the epitome of calm. "And I don't see a problem with other people knowing. If they know, then they know that those are things I need to work on, and it's good to be open with such things." She intentionally does not glance at the snack plate, adding towards Sanriel, "Although S'vilen is working on Avila."
C'daer eyes Ilesyn and snorts, turning towards Sanriel. "Do you know anyone else on Pern as unwilling to listen to a little helpful criticism? She needs to work on her 'bedside manner' even away from the bedside."
Very, very tempted to say something off the subject, Sanriel eyes the Weyrlingmaster for a long moment before answering. "She perhaps runs a close second. What did she say to you, to start up this refrain?" Because it /is/ a refrain... Poor Ilesyn to hear it so many times and do nothing.
"Who's first? I should like to know, so that I can beat them." Ilesyn is entirely unconcerned by this, and even smiles brightly. "Oh, I chided him over coddling the weyrlings. That's what began it all."
"Which, as we've established, was hardly coddling," Daer chimes in as quickly as he can. "She thinks keeping them out of the bitter, frostbite and cold-causing weather is 'coddling' them."
"Tell that to K'dir," Sanriel shakes her head in concern. "He's out entirely too much, and /will/ catch his death of cold, I'm sure." Another bit is plucked from the plate of goodies ad considered for a momnt before being consumed. "Avila and the girls were considering transplanting the entire Weyr for the season - and I can't say it's a bad idea... But at least you don't have to fight Thread in this weather!"
"I said," repeats Ilesyn, obviously interested. "Who's first on the list?" Her expression remains cheerfully lazy as she adds, "They need to build up tolerance. Even if they're only out there for a little while, it would do them good. K'dir's another story - he's too kind hearted to say no if something needs doing, and that ends him up out there an unhealthy amount, I will agree." She adds, quietly, "Us all going to Monaco wouldn't be a bad thing, though I suppose what with relations as they are between our Weyrwomen, it might be less of a good idea."
C'daer repeats, "They have two turns to build up tolerance." Then, seizing on Ilesyn's last sentence, he queries, "Why would that be a good thing, at all? Fort is our home, those of us who ride and live here. Though I suppose I wouldn't expect a posted crafter to feel any attachment. It's obvious you don't," he adds, then turns towars Sanriel. "Yes, who is the first?"
"Eliwys?" Sanriel queries. Stretched, it /could/ be an answer to the 'who's first' question, but her next addition makes it unlikely. "Her and Jalis?... Ooh, I heard something about that, I remember. What's going on?"
"Fort is my home, and I would live nowhere else," says Ilesyn, her expression changing - if only slightly. "I speak only of a break from the winter weather, nothing more. And it was certainly not /my/ idea. Speak to Shoshana and Avila, if you think it such an awful idea." Her eyes lift towards Sanriel's answer, and she smirks. "I rather think she could be, though I don't think that's what you meant. As I hear it, they've banned each other from each other's weyrs. And I still want an actual answer to that question."
C'daer guesses, "You mean Avila, Sanriel? Though I haven't heard her gossip any more about us, which means that maybe that was some improvement." He tilts his neck sideways sharply, popping it, then yawns and glances down at his hides. "I should start a betting pool on whether S'vilen succeeds."
"If anyone could, S'vilen can." Sanriel says confidently. "Though even that is questionable - Avila is only not gossiping about us because there's nothing interesting to gossip /about/! 'My goodness, did you hear? Sanriel got baby-spit all over her good tunic, and C'daer is coddling more dragonbabies!' isn't exactly the most titillating conversation..." Sanriel rolls her eye before turning back to Ilesyn. "Athalegar. Most assuredly."
"I have no doubts that he's the best person for the job, but we'll see whether he can. I rather think she may be temporarily curbed, but that won't last." Ilesyn uncurls her legs, which she's been sitting on, stretching them out in front of her, beneath the table. "Athalegar? Oh - your Master. I remember that, now. " She adds, after a thoughtful pause, "I bet you could make a fortune on such a betting pool. Could be an interesting experiment, too; it would detail what people really think about Avila."
C'daer purses his lips, content to listen to their conversation for a few minutes as he actually reads over the first hide in his stack. After a moment, he asks, "Where is Cedriel, anyway?"
Sanriel shrugs. "I left him sleeping with Enwe. Actually didn't expect to be gone this long, you see." The instrument case is brought forth and opened upon the table, revealing a small four-stringed instrument that looks a bit like a gitar, but isn't. "Maveril and Sarine brouht this to me the last time they came up, and it needs a chamoise and some atention." she explains.
Ilesyn goes silent, at mention of Cedriel, picking up her discared stylus to jot another note or two down upon her hide - no doubt a complaint about children being mentioned in adult company.
"A what?" C'daer peers at the instrument, "I thought a chamoise is some sort of nightgown." He adds, "Miake thinks any day now. Any hour, even." Putting the hide back down, he draws the food plate slightly closer to him and munches on the vegetables.
"Noo," sanriel giggles. "A chamoise is a soft bit of doeskin. Although it /might/ make comfortable nightclothes." Mention of Miake and her iminent offspring elicits a small frwn from the Harper. Competition. Wnderful. TUrning back to Ilseyn, she comes up with "Well, I see no one's punched /you/ lately."
"Remind me to stay away from the infirmary," says Ilesyn, somewhat dismally, her head shaking. "Babies, ugh." Sanriel's comment draws a sweet smile. "No, I'm afraid people are generally managing to control their urge for violence around me."
C'daer turns to Ilesyn, suggesting without rancor, "I could fix that, if you're lacking." All the better to ignore Sanriel's discomfort.
Sanriel just laughs, turning her attention to the instrument, fiddling -quite literally- with the tuning pegs before lifting it from the case.
"I usually prefer to keep such acts of violence to the infirmary." Ilesyn nods, wryly. "Besides which, I don't /request/ such things, nor am I particularly fond of them. Keep your hands to yourself, unless you really can't."
"I think that won't be a problem," murmurs Daer, as he scrapes a dark spot off the surface of his fingerroot. "Are you sure you don't like it? It doesn't make you feel important?"
"Mindhealer abuse, or babies?" Sanriel wonders idly.
Ilesyn repeats, after a hesitant pause in which she puts on a quisical expression, "Like it? Make me feel important? Certainly not. I have my faults, but attention seeking is certainly not one." She tilts her head at Sanriel, lips twitching.
"All right, all right," Daer says to Ilesyn, backing off. "Look, just forget we ever had this discussion. It's done nothing for your credibility, as I'm sure you're aware."
"And nothing for yours, either," remarks Ilesyn, whether this is true or not. "But I honestly don't care what you think about me, besides."
C'daer shrugs, "I bet you say that to all your admirer," he says sourly, and glances over at Sanriel. "So what is it you're doing to that.. thing?"
"Trying to clean it up." Sanriel explains, removing the bow and trying innefectively to smooth the hairs together. "I haven't played one since apprenticeship, and I rather miss it. Sarine found this one for me in a closet at the Hall...."
Ilesyn lifts her eyebrows, "All my admirers? If they exist, certainly. I don't care a jot what people think, and that's the honest truth." She glances back at Sanriel, and her task, and says nothing - it's back to writing down random notes, upon her scrap of hide.
C'daer mutters, "Maybe that's your problem," and leans over to glance at the bow. "Eh. I see. Good luck to you." He stacks his hides up, and scoots his chair back. "Time for me to go and hup-hup the weyrlings, I'm afraid."
"Have fun," Sanriel waves the bow at C'daer before turning back to Ilesyn. "I suppose you've things to do as well, hmm?"
Ilesyn flicks her gaze up, eyebrows raising, although she says nothing. Well - nothing except for "And whatever could that mean, I wonder?" She glances at Sanriel, shrugging. "I'm doing things, as always."
Sanriel nods, pausing just a moment before she offers - tentatively and expecting a rebuff - "I've, umm, got a nice vintage I've been hiding, if you'd like to, ah... Come chat?" Lonely for some adult company, perhaps!
Ilesyn's eyebrows raise. "And you would invite /me/ to share this? I should be looking for ulterior motives, shouldn't I? No. No, thank you. I prefer not to go where I shall have to watch my step." She looks, if anything, slightly disquietened.
C'daer leans over to murmur in Sanriel's ear. He mutters to Sanriel, "... out... be... saw... end of... luck..." He nods to Ilesyn, and leaves quickly.
"I've noticed," Sanriel says quietly for C'daer's benefit, not-quite-scowling at Ilesyn. Her expression smooths, though, as she snaps the instrument case shut. "Your loss." She says cheerfully. "Have fun in the Infirmary, watching the parade of disquieting humanity and messy births." She stands up, chair pushed in with one hip, and heads out the door.
"I think I'll avoid the infirmary, all the same, thank you," responds Ilesyn, face kept smoothly impassive as she inclines her head toward towards the Harper. "Good day."
Sanriel walks off outwards to the busy inner cavern.
Posted by Louise at January 29, 2003 04:35 PM