==== December 22, 2013
==== Zeyta and Mayte
==== Mayte goes into the Archives to do some research, and Zeyta helps her out. Kind of.

Who Zeyta and Mayte
What Mayte goes into the Archives to do some research, and Zeyta helps her out. Kind of.
When Four months and 27 days until the 12th Pass
Where Archives



A grand room, lost to more pressing concerns, the Archives hold many treasures well past their prime, from instruments to examples of older flying gear and agenothree tanks. Faded and disused Records lean tiredly against their shelves, their bindings peeling and creating layers of dust on surfaces long left without maintenance. The floors are dirty, various footprints creating crisscrossing paths between rickety wooden chairs and drunkenly off-kilter tables. Columns rise upward to the ceiling, hung with glow-baskets scarcely tended and fast losing their strength. The hum of activity is duller, here in this forgotten space — few visit in search of historical facts.

A sandstorm rages outside, eclipsing the hot Igen sun so midmorning sits in the dark, natives gone indoors and underground until the worst of the weather dissipates. Zeyta, far from a people person, slinks furthest back into the tunnels, slipping past the guard posted outside the administrative quarters to claim a silent refuge in the archives. A frequent visitor, she occupies a lone table in the back, one rickety leg propped up by a block of stone. A fresh-ink well with a stylus dipped inside shows her to be writing, at least formerly. Currently, her desk is actually vacant, with the brownrider lost amongst the stacks collecting materials to study and transcribe.

With all these damn sandstorms, one enterprising apprentice has gone searching for historical anecdotes, hints or tips on keeping things alive, or anything. Mayte's brought a basket which is slowly being filled with books; unfortunately, this leads to shifting the basket back and forth several times, scraping along walls or against tables as she wobbles along. Making her way into the back, the short apprentice pauses and rests her basket on the very table that seems to be unused; from there, Mayte decides to leave it for a minute, while going to hunt a few more interesting locations for a book or two.

Sanctum invaded, Zeyta exits the narrow aisle she disappeared down, one red leather-bound tome tucked under her arm. Her vision drops on her abandoned space, gold-brown eyes tightening around the corners where a basket sits. Sweeping past her desk, she stalks down the shelves until she espies Mayte, throat-cleared. "Girl. This is not a library. Deposit each and every one of those items back on a desk and return that basket from whence it came. No records leave the archives," she commands, though who deputized her the book-police—well.

Is there anyone who reacts well to being called 'girl'? Mayte stops and turns, the smallest edge of a frown turning into a very polite smile. "Oh, I'm not removing them from the archives," she explains, "There are just too many for my arms to carry at once." Holding out her arms to show the shortness of them, Mayte adds, "I'm just searching for one last text, and then I'll remove the basket. A wave behind her, "I think it's just over on that shelf," though unfortunately for Mayte, that shelf is clearly marked as holding the Anals of Great Accountants. "Just one more Igen Almanack." And the girl is already turning away to investigate.

Frowns, smiles— general emotion bears no effect on Zeyta, a small, but intimidating presence with her hard-set features more evocative of cold marble statues than a person with a conscience. "Mm." She purses her lips, processing the excuse given before passing judgment. In the end, she gives a small dip of her chin, relenting. "Very well. Make sure each book finds its proper home when finished. Now, this way." She beckons with a curl of her finger and break into a clipped pace, footsteps beating a staccato rhythm on the floor as she ushers Mayte towards the section of archival material she seeks. "To whom do you report?"

Great, this means that the rider will leave her in peace now, right? Mayte is already closely examining the information provided on those books, but there's nothing about farming at all! Mayte pulls back in annoyance and eyes Zeyta's back before trotting to keep up. It's a moment before Mayte answers, partly because she's trying to keep pace, "Journeywoman Eollyn, Vintner. We run the Corks and Works wine-shop." Too much information? The apprentice continues, as if it's the logical next question to be asked, "We're just off the Bazaar, on the Sidestreet." Mayte starts to lag slightly, looking around at this novel area of the Archives, confessing, "Huh. Haven't been in this section before."

Unlikely; Zeyta specializes in scaring people away from her like it's nobody's business. It's a craft to her, almost. She scans the rows of books in front of her with a rapid-paced skim of a well-practiced librarian, shaking her head. "These are not what you're looking for, I do not know why I bothered assuming you were in any way competent." Encouraging. "Here." She points to two rows down, where agricultural records are kept, of this she is certain. "Mmm. Vintner. Getting the rest of Pern drunk when they would be better working. Interesting, the things we consider a skillset, no?"

What is the sound of a Master of a one-person Craft? Mayte gives the back of Zeyta's head a narrow look, though after a moment, she grins. To say something, or not? What the shell: "To each their mastery," though her level voice sounds a bit too even, "I'll make the wine, you can find books and flame Thread." And together, that will keep Pern happy, right? Hardly. "Besides, I would have found this place sooner or later." Well, later, "But now I can find what I need faster. Thanks!" Yup, that tone is pure annoy-someone-through-cheerfulness as Mayte moves past to start browsing what the Archives provide."

Oh, Mayte: you'll meet your match in Zeyta, she's worse than the Grinch. No good cheer can make her heart grow up from anything but a withered husk buried deep inside her chest. Slim fingers fly across the space in front of her, exacting a heavy, mouldering volume with yellow pages, its jacket a dust-covered and faded olive. "I could care less about wine or Thread. In fact, perhaps it'd be better for the both of us if I forgot to flame over your vineyards." She smiles, albeit it is a devious indicator of a dark mood. "You're welcome. Now scatter from my sight. And stay away from my desk."

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