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Log: Mute Healers
It's currently late spring on the northern continent.
The Starsmiths say it is the 19th Turn, 6th month, and 5th day of the 10th Pass.
"/Healers/," Rylsar agrees, his voice as much of a chirrup as something that deep could ever be; he seems slightly smug at the further confirmation of that hypothesis. Sniff, sniff. "Garlic, but not bad," he states after a thoughtful moment. "Even manure 'n garlic shouldn't chase off one little girl. Maybe," he brightens to think and gestures widely-- "Maybe she thought we were plottin' on debauchin' her. Y'know, taken-to-a-weyr-an'-subjected-to-countless-depravities." He's entirely too cheerful about it all.
Benched, two Candidates are doing what Candidates do best: a whole lotta nuthin'. The pair of them are just finishing up a strange engagement that seems to involve a lot of sniffing each other, and are now back to chit-chat. The former Harper has her sketchbook on her lap, the former Farmer has the sheen of leftover meatroll-grease on his fingers, and the afternoon tics away with the eggs doing their thing on the Sands below. "Please," Miahve counters, eyes rolled. "Even combined, the two of us may have almost as much sex appeal as a half-eaten egg salad sandwich, so I can't imagine that 'debauchery' is the first thing that sprang to that girl's mind."
Did someone say sex appeal? It's coming up the stairs -- er. Perhaps that's just Citlali, but she's actually wearing a decent-looking set of (runner) riding gear and knee-high boots, hair perfectly just-so in natural but carefully brushed waves. The shirt brings out her chest a little bit, so maybe she is actually providing the sex appeal; if that's her job, though, she's not aware of it. "/What/ girl's mind," she pries easily, plunking down on a seat nearby -- she knows these two, at this point, and so is apparently quite comfortable simply butting in.
"I dunno," Rylsar doubts, as a Doubting Rylsar should do: "I'd say at least a /full/ egg salad sandwich. Half eaten kinda indicates that someone would like us enough t' put their mouths on us." He's striving hard to keep his lips from turning up in amusement, and failing miserably. He eyes Citlali once but doesn't greet her: evidently, attractiveness only goes so far. He still remembers that one time, in the garden, with, er, his Hoar.
"Yes, but half-eaten evokes the fact that it's been sitting out in the sun for a bit, the mayo is probably off, and the flies have got at it." Miahve tweaks her palm in that so-so gesture again, like she can see Rylsar's point about the half-eaten issue, but still. She glances up, gives Citlali a look somewhere between acknowledging and appreciative [Hey, hot is hot.] and answers, "You just missed her, and it's one of those 'you had to be there' instances. You goin'? Somewhere?"
"Here," is Citlali's answer; she was apparently heading toward the galleries, or else that's just where she is now and doesn't intend to otherwise budge. "So as of this exact moment: no, I'm staying where I am. Came to -- I don't know, really, maybe see if the eggs got bigger. You two certainly work up a disgusting description of a meal."
Thoughtfully, Rylsar hears out the argument and bobs his head in grudging assent. "I s'pose." He doesn't sound /totally/ convinced but he'll give her this one point. He quirks a brow from Miahve to Citlali - more for Miahve than for Citlali. A spread of brief speculation that transforms into silently sly amusement. "Not really," to kitileelee over there: "Just talkin' bout sex appeal." Or presumable lack thereof.
Miahve scuffs the soles of her own practical little flats on the ground and asks, "You always put on the knee-highs for lurking in the galleries, do you?" She seems skeptical but, hey, it is a Weyr, so she's not putting it past someone. Sex appeal. "As it relates to egg salad sandwiches." She shakes her head as if that might dissuade any further questioning of the matter.
Now Citlali gets the source of the question, and so she laughs. "Oh! No, I just got back from somewhere, actually. They're riding boots, and I was riding." And when she's riding, she always wears riding boots that happen to go up to her knees. If they're sexy, it's news to her. (They probably are, but she didn't think about it.) "I never really thought about egg salad sandwiches as being a metaphor for much of anything, but actually, considering what I've overheard just now ..."
Rylsar considers the two girls a moment longer, shakes his head - cause that's what Rylsars do - and rises shambling to his feet. Kind of like a zombie, except he smells better and has less desire to eat anyone's brains. "A'ight," he announces: "Time for me t'get back t'chores. See ya'll later," amiably enough before he pounds down the stairs, two at a time, in that kind of unhurried speed that big men everywhere seem to possess.
Miahve, with a second look at the boots, nods her understanding and acceptance of the fact that they are, in fact, riding boots. "Makes sense," she decides, like it's hers to decide what is and isn't practical. "Well, they must be useful for something, right?" Egg salad sandwiches. "Certainly, no one eats them." Seeing as he's off like a shot, she doesn't bother trying to lob a farewell at Rylsar's retreating form, just watches him go for a second then adds, "He scared off a mute little Healer a moment ago, you know."
Brains are a valued commodity, and so Citlali is glad to be keeping hers. Rylsar's abrupt departure does startle her, though; is he really that uncomfortable around her? Does it, in fact, have anything to do with her at all? Her thoughts about it only last a second before she's moving back to actually conversing. "Useful as a metaphor," she muses. "Huh. Did he? I assume you don't mean Siyavri."
If Rylsar was still here, it's dubious what he'd laugh at harder: the thought that it was /he/ that scared the little lass off, or the idea of Siyavri as mute, of all things.
The presence of Rylsar's narrative influence is still valued.
Wait. "Siyavri's not mute, is she?" Miahve pauses, head cocked, reliving encounters with the Healer in question. Perhaps she's an elaborate marionette? Or a ventriloquism dummy? But, then, who's voicing her...? Anyway, she quickly clears her head, trying to break those particular images from taking hold, and explains, "Not Siyavri. Some Healer who couldn't speak. So I never got her name. Which, really, if all Healers could be mute, that would probably make them a lot more popular."
At least it's not too slowly that it dawns on Citlali, "Oh, you meant /literally/, not as in someone who was horrified and just stood there silently." She's got it now. Miahve's assessment on healers makes her giggle, or maybe it's slightly more than that -- a soft laugh. "Not that I can really see her doing that either, honestly. I wasn't aware you could actually /be/ a healer and not speak. How's that work? -- Sorry, I shouldn't assume you know, especially if, in fact, she couldn't tell you."
Miahve reiterates, "It's probably an improvement over most Healers, really. If nothing else, you know she's not nagging people or asking a bunch of stupid questions all the time." But, no, she doesn't know any better than Citlali does, and winds up having to shrug to confirm that's as much as she's got with regards to how muteness and healing coincide.
"I haven't got much experience," Citlali admits: she's one of those people who shirks her checkups and really never gets sick. "Only time I saw a healer really was the time I busted up my ankle, and there was really no actual -- talking. It was obviously broken and I was too busy screaming to actually say anything."
"So, see, she'd be perfect for something like that." Miahve gestures in the direction of the stairs, presumably the place where the Healer in question left the scene. A moment later, she stands, holding her sketchbook against her midsection. "Seeing as I don't think the eggs are really going to get any more picturesque in the next half hour, I better call it good-enough." Meaning, she's headed out, giving a last look down at the Sands - just in case something intriguing does happen before she escapes.
"Suppose you're right about that," Citlali agrees, and adjusts her posture slightly; feet up on the bench to sit with her knees bent, arms wrapped around them. "You don't really need to talk to someone whose problem is obvious enough to be sticking through skin. So there you go. I'll see you later -- and, um, I'll watch them for you a bit, call you back over if anything interesting happens."
Miahve's parting word is a quick, "Thanks." Not being a timid little Healer or a big bounding brute, she doesn't make much of an impression with her exit, just trots off.
The Starsmiths say it is the 19th Turn, 6th month, and 5th day of the 10th Pass.
Galleries
Level upon tiered level of hard stone seats, best cushioned for comfort if one is to stay long, arc in spacious, showy display -- all the better for viewing other spectators, as well as the heated sands so far below. Though centuries-old pillars suspend these galleries high in the air, the mammoth cavern's peak extends dragonlengths higher yet, the grey rock lending an illusion of clouded, nighttime skies that's only enhanced by the constellations of living, growing glows and the intense, perspective-warping heat.
Broad staircases spiral downward to the floor of the cavern, the middle of each step indented by generations of treading feet; a narrow walkway circles northeast towards the dragons' ledges.
Rylsar and Miahve are here.
"/Healers/," Rylsar agrees, his voice as much of a chirrup as something that deep could ever be; he seems slightly smug at the further confirmation of that hypothesis. Sniff, sniff. "Garlic, but not bad," he states after a thoughtful moment. "Even manure 'n garlic shouldn't chase off one little girl. Maybe," he brightens to think and gestures widely-- "Maybe she thought we were plottin' on debauchin' her. Y'know, taken-to-a-weyr-an'-subjected-to-countless-depravities." He's entirely too cheerful about it all.
Benched, two Candidates are doing what Candidates do best: a whole lotta nuthin'. The pair of them are just finishing up a strange engagement that seems to involve a lot of sniffing each other, and are now back to chit-chat. The former Harper has her sketchbook on her lap, the former Farmer has the sheen of leftover meatroll-grease on his fingers, and the afternoon tics away with the eggs doing their thing on the Sands below. "Please," Miahve counters, eyes rolled. "Even combined, the two of us may have almost as much sex appeal as a half-eaten egg salad sandwich, so I can't imagine that 'debauchery' is the first thing that sprang to that girl's mind."
Did someone say sex appeal? It's coming up the stairs -- er. Perhaps that's just Citlali, but she's actually wearing a decent-looking set of (runner) riding gear and knee-high boots, hair perfectly just-so in natural but carefully brushed waves. The shirt brings out her chest a little bit, so maybe she is actually providing the sex appeal; if that's her job, though, she's not aware of it. "/What/ girl's mind," she pries easily, plunking down on a seat nearby -- she knows these two, at this point, and so is apparently quite comfortable simply butting in.
"I dunno," Rylsar doubts, as a Doubting Rylsar should do: "I'd say at least a /full/ egg salad sandwich. Half eaten kinda indicates that someone would like us enough t' put their mouths on us." He's striving hard to keep his lips from turning up in amusement, and failing miserably. He eyes Citlali once but doesn't greet her: evidently, attractiveness only goes so far. He still remembers that one time, in the garden, with, er, his Hoar.
"Yes, but half-eaten evokes the fact that it's been sitting out in the sun for a bit, the mayo is probably off, and the flies have got at it." Miahve tweaks her palm in that so-so gesture again, like she can see Rylsar's point about the half-eaten issue, but still. She glances up, gives Citlali a look somewhere between acknowledging and appreciative [Hey, hot is hot.] and answers, "You just missed her, and it's one of those 'you had to be there' instances. You goin'? Somewhere?"
"Here," is Citlali's answer; she was apparently heading toward the galleries, or else that's just where she is now and doesn't intend to otherwise budge. "So as of this exact moment: no, I'm staying where I am. Came to -- I don't know, really, maybe see if the eggs got bigger. You two certainly work up a disgusting description of a meal."
Thoughtfully, Rylsar hears out the argument and bobs his head in grudging assent. "I s'pose." He doesn't sound /totally/ convinced but he'll give her this one point. He quirks a brow from Miahve to Citlali - more for Miahve than for Citlali. A spread of brief speculation that transforms into silently sly amusement. "Not really," to kitileelee over there: "Just talkin' bout sex appeal." Or presumable lack thereof.
Miahve scuffs the soles of her own practical little flats on the ground and asks, "You always put on the knee-highs for lurking in the galleries, do you?" She seems skeptical but, hey, it is a Weyr, so she's not putting it past someone. Sex appeal. "As it relates to egg salad sandwiches." She shakes her head as if that might dissuade any further questioning of the matter.
Now Citlali gets the source of the question, and so she laughs. "Oh! No, I just got back from somewhere, actually. They're riding boots, and I was riding." And when she's riding, she always wears riding boots that happen to go up to her knees. If they're sexy, it's news to her. (They probably are, but she didn't think about it.) "I never really thought about egg salad sandwiches as being a metaphor for much of anything, but actually, considering what I've overheard just now ..."
Rylsar considers the two girls a moment longer, shakes his head - cause that's what Rylsars do - and rises shambling to his feet. Kind of like a zombie, except he smells better and has less desire to eat anyone's brains. "A'ight," he announces: "Time for me t'get back t'chores. See ya'll later," amiably enough before he pounds down the stairs, two at a time, in that kind of unhurried speed that big men everywhere seem to possess.
Miahve, with a second look at the boots, nods her understanding and acceptance of the fact that they are, in fact, riding boots. "Makes sense," she decides, like it's hers to decide what is and isn't practical. "Well, they must be useful for something, right?" Egg salad sandwiches. "Certainly, no one eats them." Seeing as he's off like a shot, she doesn't bother trying to lob a farewell at Rylsar's retreating form, just watches him go for a second then adds, "He scared off a mute little Healer a moment ago, you know."
Brains are a valued commodity, and so Citlali is glad to be keeping hers. Rylsar's abrupt departure does startle her, though; is he really that uncomfortable around her? Does it, in fact, have anything to do with her at all? Her thoughts about it only last a second before she's moving back to actually conversing. "Useful as a metaphor," she muses. "Huh. Did he? I assume you don't mean Siyavri."
If Rylsar was still here, it's dubious what he'd laugh at harder: the thought that it was /he/ that scared the little lass off, or the idea of Siyavri as mute, of all things.
The presence of Rylsar's narrative influence is still valued.
Wait. "Siyavri's not mute, is she?" Miahve pauses, head cocked, reliving encounters with the Healer in question. Perhaps she's an elaborate marionette? Or a ventriloquism dummy? But, then, who's voicing her...? Anyway, she quickly clears her head, trying to break those particular images from taking hold, and explains, "Not Siyavri. Some Healer who couldn't speak. So I never got her name. Which, really, if all Healers could be mute, that would probably make them a lot more popular."
At least it's not too slowly that it dawns on Citlali, "Oh, you meant /literally/, not as in someone who was horrified and just stood there silently." She's got it now. Miahve's assessment on healers makes her giggle, or maybe it's slightly more than that -- a soft laugh. "Not that I can really see her doing that either, honestly. I wasn't aware you could actually /be/ a healer and not speak. How's that work? -- Sorry, I shouldn't assume you know, especially if, in fact, she couldn't tell you."
Miahve reiterates, "It's probably an improvement over most Healers, really. If nothing else, you know she's not nagging people or asking a bunch of stupid questions all the time." But, no, she doesn't know any better than Citlali does, and winds up having to shrug to confirm that's as much as she's got with regards to how muteness and healing coincide.
"I haven't got much experience," Citlali admits: she's one of those people who shirks her checkups and really never gets sick. "Only time I saw a healer really was the time I busted up my ankle, and there was really no actual -- talking. It was obviously broken and I was too busy screaming to actually say anything."
"So, see, she'd be perfect for something like that." Miahve gestures in the direction of the stairs, presumably the place where the Healer in question left the scene. A moment later, she stands, holding her sketchbook against her midsection. "Seeing as I don't think the eggs are really going to get any more picturesque in the next half hour, I better call it good-enough." Meaning, she's headed out, giving a last look down at the Sands - just in case something intriguing does happen before she escapes.
"Suppose you're right about that," Citlali agrees, and adjusts her posture slightly; feet up on the bench to sit with her knees bent, arms wrapped around them. "You don't really need to talk to someone whose problem is obvious enough to be sticking through skin. So there you go. I'll see you later -- and, um, I'll watch them for you a bit, call you back over if anything interesting happens."
Miahve's parting word is a quick, "Thanks." Not being a timid little Healer or a big bounding brute, she doesn't make much of an impression with her exit, just trots off.