In the grand tradition of Southern Weyr, there's been a body found, so the living caverns are alive with hissed whispers of who-dunnit. Assuming of course that someone did. You never know at Southern. Amidst the chatter and babble, a lone, balding man has commandeered a table for himself and though it's small, it's piled with haphazard piles of skin, on one of which he's writing. In one tight corner, there's an empty plate and a still-steaming mug of klah at Donatien's elbow, likely in danger of getting knocked off anytime soon. He's just finishing one letter up, and then straightens, cracks his back (to the annoyance of those around him), and starts tidying up those sheets into new piles. Oh look, some room has appeared!

The figure that enters from the bowl seems a bit skittish - Quentin's eyes are definitely on the wide, and slightly wild, side as he looks around, seemingly a bit overawed by the size of the caverns, or perhaps by all the people gathered within. With the agility of youth, he manages to worm through those coming and going from the sideboard without causing too much chaos, pausing only briefly to snag a meatroll and a mug of juice before pausing in a corner, eyes flickering to and fro as he searches for somewhere to sit. His gaze lights upon Donatien's table - and, perhaps, on Donatien's knot - and he hesitates briefly, then plunges into the mass and winds his way in the weaver's direction. He flings himself from the crowd and on the journeyman's mercy with a stuttered, "Please, sir, do you mind..?" and a desperate gesture at the newly cleared space.

Having just rescued his mug from certain shattering on the floor by taking it up, Donatien's mid-sip when Quentin's voice chimes into his awareness. Looking at the lad, the Weaver gives him the once over even as his mug is waving Quentin into the chair opposite. "Please, sit." Donatien's voice seems amused more than anything else and he shuffles a few papers closer to him for Quentin's dining pleasure. "A young man like yourself shouldn't be standing to eat; you need your strength for growing." Maybe Dien's feeling obnoxious today. He starts reorganizing piles one-handedly, cutting and shuffling them like a deck of cards. Very large, floppy cards. "I don't think I've seen you about, young man. Are you new to Southern Weyr?"

A dull blush rushes to Quentin's cheeks beneath his ever-present tan, and he fumbles his way into the vacant chair, gaze turned down to watch ever so carefully as he places plate and mug upon the table. "Thank you," he mumbles gratefully as he scoots the chair around so that the back is to the wall, placing him out of the way of anyone moving past. "There's just so many people here," is added to the table - or, perhaps, to the weaver, even if the boy's attention is still directed downwards. "Didn't expect th' crowd." Donatien's observation brings a wry quirk to the lad's lips, and he peeks up at the journeyman from beneath the curling fringe of his bangs. "Aye, just came in a bit ago. Ain't quite what I expected."

"Well, a tragedy," of which Donatien doesn't look very tragic about, "will always bring folks together." Elbows rest on the tables and Donatien peers over at Quentin from behind his mug: "Not what you were expecting, eh? Thought it might be quieter?" A flash of sympathy over Dien's face precedes, "This isn't too bad a time of day, but when it starts raining in Winter…" a shake of his bald scalp, "The worst of it is the smell. That many wet people, packed in here?" There's a teasing grin, inviting Quentin to join him in amusement. Anyways: "I'm Weaver Journeyman Donatien. Specialize in boots and cobblery." A knot can only describe so much, after all. "And you?"

"Tragedy?" Not here long enough to have caught more than a snippet or two of the rumors flying about the Weyr, Quentin looks confused, his gaze still half-hidden behind the fall of curls. "Heard somebody passed - ain't heard much more'n that. Wasn't something expected, then?" A brief flicker of consternation flashes in his blue eyes, though it quickly fades into the careful mask of any apprentice who knows he might be stepping on boggy ground. "Sorry. Uh - I just never realized there'd be so many people here. Keroon and the Hall're big, but not…" At a loss for words he gestures vaguely to the caverns, lips curving upwards at Donatien's next comment. "I imagine as bad as the smell of wet people is, it probably doesn't quite compare to the kennels after a storm. I'm Quentin," he adds, with a hint of shyness. "Herder Apprentice, with the canines. Pleased to meet you, sir." And, despite the fact that he has yet to actually meet Donatien's gaze, this last statement seems relatively true.

If Donatien doesn't watch it, one of the old Aunties (because they spread like rumours, probably WITH rumours) will carry poor Quentin off to fill his ear with the Mystery of Southern (this week's edition). "Tragedy. The acting Weyrleader's gone and gotten himself poisoned." Let's blame the victim. Donatien sips before continuing: "No one knows who, or why, though there are plenty of suspicions." Donatien does eye the apprentice for a moment and adds, "And it'd be worthwhile keeping it under your hat, from your Hall 'mates, so we can keep getting people down here. Southern's got enough bad rumours floating." Whatever those are, Dien's onto a new topic, more boisterously replying, "Well met, Herder Apprentice with canines Quentin." From such loudness, Donatien falls silent to study Quentin's face and wonder, "So. Did you request to come here, or get voluntold like most of my apprentices?" Back to Mr. Congeniality.

At the mention of poison and the Weyrleader, Quentin's head jerks up, eyes widening slightly in a paling face - the expression comes and goes in an instant before he drops his head again, color once more suffusing his features. "Right, not Q'fex any more," he can be heard to mutter to himself as he calms. "That's a shame," is added in a more normal tone of voice. "Bad thing, poison. I'm sorry for th' Weyr's loss. But don't worry," and here another quirk tugs his lips upwards, "my Hall won't hear it from me." As the Journeyman changes the topic, a wary look enters the boy's face, and his eyes study the weaver thoughtfully. Finally, "I asked to come here. They weren't too happy," he adds with a wrinkle of his nose, "but, uh… they agreed." Or something like it, from his tone of voice.

Donatien doesn't miss Quentin's reaction but other than one eyebrow rising a millimetre, he only contributes: "No, not bronzerider Q'fex. That greenrider. Ja'kai was his name." Dien shakes his head briefly as if puzzled, but oh well. His lips crook into a little grin and the Weaver regains boisterosity: "Good to hear. An apprentice needs to know when to keep quiet!" Anyways, he does miss the look on Quentin's face about his reasons for coming, staring mournfully at the bottom of his klah mug which seems to have emptied itself into his stomach, and he sounds a little absent, "Many crafts are still not enthused about this place. Too many rumours, or somesuch. But you can't beat the weather, the women, or the food!" Even though Dien's grinning broadly, his hand creeps down under the table, resting on the knee just peeking out from under the lip. Occasionally, the hand massages that joint a little. And a new subject again: "Have you been down to see the new Ice Hold? Any potential for Herding there?" Because who hasn't gone to see it yet? Apart from Donatien.

"Good, that would be bad," Quentin replies distractedly, his own gaze sliding down to his cooling meatroll and warming juice as he chews thoughtfully over the weaver's words. "My masters are not, uhm… they aren't entirely enthusiastic about a lot of things," he replies circumspectly, "but they were good enough to give me leave to come, and I hope I can prove to them that this Weyr isn't so bad." His eyes flick up, studying the Journeyman carefully. "Were you.. here, before…? Or did you come…?" It may be obvious what he's asking. It's certainly clear he's not quite certain how to - or if he should - address the question to the older man. Donatien's own inquiry earns him a blank look from the young man, along with a confused "Ice Hold? What's that?"

The news that the Crafts aren't enthusiastic about things isn't really 'news' to Donatien - he mphs quietly, but watches as Quentin looks him over. A moment to puzzle out what the Herder's asking but Donatien answers non-commitally: "I only arrived a couple of Turns ago." Crooked grin again, "Or was it three… You start losing time when you age, you know." A thoughtful finger tap to his chin, "And before that, I travelled around a bit." That Quentin doesn't know of Ice Hold has Dien's face lighting up with the delight of a Journeyman who has News: "It's the new Hold that Ja - acting Weyrleader Ja'kai had ordered set up before he was unable to do so. It's in some ice hole or field out there, and is bitterly cold, so I hear." The finger on his chin is now waved almost admonishingly but in combination with, "And that is something you can write home about."

Quentin takes his own moment to puzzle through Donatien's reply before he finally figures out the answer he was looking for. "Ah," comes the noncommital grunt from the apprentice, as he begins to pick apart his meatroll. "Do you like Southern Weyr? We don't get to hear much about it." We, most likely, being the apprentices, for reasons all too clear. The boy lapses into silence as the Journeyman waxes enthusiastic over the new hold, his expression betraying his curiosity - or maybe he's just trying to figure out what exactly is in his meatroll, as that's where his attention seems to be directed. When Donatien finishes, however, Quentin is quick to reply with, "Sounds like an interesting place. A new Hold - ice? I thought the South was all heat," he adds, with just a hint of teasing. "I'll be sure to include it in my first letter home," is added dutifully.

"I like Southern Weyr just fine," Donatien's happy to say, "The heat is good for my knee, there's ladies of all interests here, and plenty of work to be had." A nod to Quentin's modesty, "And well wise to not boast of what you don't know." That's definitely approval in Donatien's voice. As for ice on the Southern Continent, Dien shakes his head, aghast, "I'll be the first to say I wasn't expecting a new Hold, nor in such conditions, on this continent. It's a spring day, and already so warm." A responding grin at Quentin's conscientious reply, which drops as do Dien's eyes. His tone is hushed, just between the two of them, "The meatroll's dead, lad. Nothing you can do for it now but eat it." A speculative, if merely curious, eye is directed at the Herder. Maybe both eyes.

"I hope I will like it here," Quentin replies meditatively. "You hear things, of course, but I've kind of learned you can't always believe what you hear. Sometimes you just gotta see it for yourself." A faint blush fills his cheeks as he realizes how pompous that sounds and he hurries to add, "I'm very interested in learning new things." And if there's a bit of emphasis on the word 'new', well, the boy's expression is innocent enough. "Warm." The dryness of the lad's response could make Igen look like a swamp. "Is that why I saw the cooks frying eggs in the bowl as I came in?" Flushing yet again - this time all too aware that his response might be taken as sass, he rushes on with, "I was just hoping to cool it down a bit." Gamely, he scoops up some meatroll innards in a scrap of the outer skin and pops it in his mouth. "Nope," he mumbles around the mouthful, "still hot."

A shrug to hearing things, but Donatien's not about to censure the apprentice, while giving him a long, studying look. "A wise counsel that I wish my apprentices would learn faster," he'll admit finally. He will crack a grin at Quentin's joke and shake his head, "Now, now, we don't fry eggs in bowls. Everyone knows we use the walls, here." A finger wave at the surrounding walls of the caverns which are suspiciously egg-free. "Wait for winter, after you've been here a few Turns. Winter will be as cool as anyone could wish." A tip of the head, and Dien adds, "Or you could always visit Ice Hold for a wee while." The youthful apprentice raises Dien's eyebrows as he watchess the eating of some meatroll: "I didn't mean right away," Dien prclaims, "Just to stop playing with the poor thing."

Shrugging self-consciously, Quentin keeps his gaze fixed on his plate. "I like learning." Clearing his throat, he pushes around the mess of meat and vegetables and whatever else goes in a meatroll with a scrap of roll, never quite getting around to rolling it up. "I might visit the Hold - it would be interesting to see, I think. And I'd like to see what it's like there, to see what kind of animals might do best there. Not every animal does well in every climate," he adds sagely, though there's the faintest hint of a smile hovering at the edge of his thin lips. "Like I'm glad I didn't bring my canine with me - she has long hair, and would probably be miserable here. But I might consider getting one of the shorter-haired breeds."

"Good man!" Ol' gregarious Donatien returns, a smile like quicksilver over his face, though it doesn't disappear from his eyes. "Aye, it will be," he says, and starts to gather his papers, nodding appropriately about Quentin's long-haired own canine, and then hehs. "Well, my lad, I'd best be getting back to my workroom and seeing about some boots." It's a pretty generic closing line, but Dien also adds, "Feel free to come see me if your boots are getting a little uncomfortable. I've got some new ones," and the Weaver's totally not above checking out Quentin's feet, "Around your size, should you need 'em." With that, the Weaver slowly moves to stand, steading himself on the table; once steady, he gives the Herder a nod and "Good day," before grabbing his sheafs and walking out slowly - maybe there's a little limp.

"Good day, sir," Quentin replies, raising his head to give the Journeyman a genuine smile and nod his head courteously as the older man turns away. Still playing with his meatroll, he watches the weaver leave the caverns, then, gathering his things, follows, heading to his own duties - or, rather, to find out what his own duties might be. He is, after all, quite new.