Threvobek's shadow touches the stone in the archives for the second time in month but it still feels as if he shouldn't quite be here. No ominous signals raise the hair on his arms, but he always expects some ranking figure to drill him on his purpose for stirring the Sacred Dust. It's too quiet so perhaps he is alone. Threvobek's guard is allowed to fall to half-mast as he passes the first rank of shelving. He thinks he knows the correct area to begin at, the Weyr's mound of genealogy. The door of opportunity might either open or close and breathing harder than he thought, rolls up his sleeves. Let's get down to business.

Since arriving at Igen, Catryn has had her work cut out for her in the archives: dusting, organizing, shelf shifting, the whole nine yards. At the moment, she's near the top of an eight foot ladder attempting to refill some of the low hanging glow baskets. A pair of black heels have been shed at the bottom of the ladder as she is barefoot and on tippy-toes trying to reach just that extra inch further. "Oh, shells." is grumbled (quietly) under her breath as her arm extends further than she'd like to go.

Catryn's influence is evinced by the ramparts of stacked tomes older than Threvobek's great-grandparents (whoever they are). He circles around a broom and comes face to face, more accurately face to feet, with someone. Recycling some phrases in his head, for he doesn't want to scare her into stumbling off the ladder, he tries for the straightforward approach: "I'm behind you just so you know." So if you fall, there's some stableboy cushioning.

After Turns of being around people who skulk through stacks, Catryn is rather immune to surprises or scare tactics in any archive. The young man's voice is rather unexpected, though, so she withdraws her reach and places both hands on the ladder once again. Glancing down at the tall lad, her face flushes a bit at the realization that she's on top of the ladder with a skirt on. "Oh, I didn't think anyone else was here." Stepping down until she meets the floor again, the Harper brushes her hands together and nods toward the glowbasket. "Think you can reach it? It just needs a refill. I suppose I could, but not without toppling over into some bookshelves afterward." A librarian's worst nightmare.

Maybe Catryn's already gotten to the spot he thought he remembered, what he thought were genealogy records are tithe ledgers looking like they're about to decompose into fertilizer at the slightest touch. He juts his head forward to make sure that's truly what the label on their spines say, then counting on Catryn to return to the floor safely. His glance didn't tangle her skirts for long because maybe she read his mind and hurried. "Sure." No hesitation, fingers and feet on the ladder at once. "You have fresh ones?"

"Yes, they're in the basket hanging from the top step. Just to your left." Catryn says, looking up at the lad ascending the ladder. She watches a moment longer to make sure he has the situation under control before slipping into her black pumps. "I don't suppose you came here to escape the heat? I hear it's dangerously hot outside." Like she would know. One of the perks of working in the archives is that the area remains a steady, cool temperature all Turn long (great in the summer, not so much in the winter).

Threvobek's lightweight garb slinks quietly over the rungs as his torso passes them over in his ascent. The replacement glows are noted in a basket before his head smacks into it, and the switch is made without sudden catastrophe. "There." His boots are back on the ground and they left a wad of hitchhiking manure on one rung. It's how he says REV WUZ HERE. "It's… balmy. Can you point out where the birth records would be?"

Stepping over to grab a rag from her bucket of cleaning supplies, Catryn wipes her hands. Her dark colored, knee length skirt has already found dust and she has given up at trying to remain spotless. It's just not going to happen in this library. "Thank you!" is given in praise as Threvobek descends back onto the floor. "No we can see what we're doing." At his question, she taps her chin in thought before whirling around on a dime. "Yes, over here. Follow me." Heels clack against the stone floor as she weaves through the stacks: "Any particular date you are looking for?" More clacking.

The manure will be his little secret. Eye shift. Threvobek regathers each sleeve at his elbows again, no conscientious tidy rolling involved, just bunched with force. "You're welcome, ma'am." As he follows the harper's lead, one hand will inevitably help the other. Catryn's question urges a pause that their footfalls fill at first. "Uh, whatever ones that hold information from sixteen turns ago, if possible." Hazel eyes search for further differences in the chamber and he feels somewhat cagey.

With Threvobek trailing behind, Catryn is on a serious mission to find the exact item he's looking for. When she turns to clack her way down an aisle, it doesn't take long until she stops abruptly to reach for some dusty collection of hides. Fingers trail along their spines and then "A-ha!" is expressed. "Here you go. These particular hides range from fifteen to twenty Turns. The date you are looking for should be covered." Turning around to hand the item to Threvobek, Catryn is positively beaming. "The infirmary stores their archives here and I believe they house copies of the last five Turns in their records room. But, I've yet to confirm that with the Master Healer." It's on her to-do list.

Threvobek pretends to wipe crumbs from his bottom lip, fingers stretching it out beyond that original reason because he's slightly anxious. A few more irregular clumps of half-dried dung mark his passage but he shows only gratefulness when the appropriate book slides into his hands. "Thank you. I think I would have missed supper looking." Catryn's also strikes him as a strange face, pretty, but in none of his memories. "You are new to the Weyr?" Now that he has what he's looking for he's almost scared to look at it, postponing it for small talk.

Catryn nods her response to his question: "Yes, I'm new. I transferred from Fort Hold's Harper Hall, but I am originally from High Reaches Weyr." Glancing around the lad at his trail on the floor, she quirks a brow and then locks eyes with him. "And judging by the new grime you are leaving, I'd say you work with animals?" His knot proves her right. Stepping toward him to retrace her steps back to the bucket of cleaning supplies, it doesn't take long until she's sweeping up the remnants. "My name is Catryn." is her official introduction as she tidies up the floor. "And who shall I add to my 'problem patron' list?" A wink and a half smile is given to show that she's jesting.

Think of them as bread crumbs in case he should get lost? Threvobek names a chair for himself, the one matching a slanted desk by the window. “Uh, yeah, sorry.” A quick boyish grin is used for getting out of scrapes. It’s an age old tactic and hard telling how much longer it’ll work as he ages. If had any honor he’d clean up the mess himself but the bound documents are alive in his hand. His heart keeps the pace of a locomotive as the cover’s unfolded but what’s inside derails his pulse. The ornate script is both ambiguous and heavily faded. The index also appears to be a separate book entirely. Staring down it feels like the book’s bitten him and he starts to see the color of futility. “Rev. It’s short for Threvobek.” Each word feels like lead. “Ma’am, does this have another that goes with it?” Enter the expert.

"Well met, Threvobek. Let me see." Catryn pauses her sweeping to step over to the desk and thumb through the first few pages of the book. "Hmm. You're right, there's should be an index." Broom is then leaned against some shelving and she turns to head down another aisle. As her heels continue to clack, Catryn can be heard rifling through some larger books on a separate shelf before sliding the one she needs into her arms. Dust puffs everywhere: "Can you bring me the feather duster? Should be somewhere near your desk." Stepping out of the cloud, the book is brushed off with her bare hand for now.

Dumbly Threvobek reaches for the requested item, thumb fanning the feathers. Some of them look wherry in nature. “You think they’da called it feathered duster seeing as how it doesn't dust just feathers. I mean, who dusts feathers anyway?” This is the kind of stuff he comes up with when he has free time. Hurry, Catryn, by all the Ancients found holy, hurry. He brings it to her with proper haste seeing as how she may have found the right index. Dust means nothing to him, he breathes it, wears it, eats it. An Igenite’s body is composed of it in the same ratio as water. Then it’s all grabby hands, grabby hands.

Catryn exchanges the book for feathers, quickly dusting the item off before Threvobek can haul it away. "I believe that's the proper index you're looking for. I haven't gotten this far down the stacks with my cataloging project, so let me know if it's not what you need." The feathers are then utilized to brush the dust away, but her efforts are futile since it's all going to settle in a new a new location. A few sneezes that mirror tiny squeaks make known as she steps away from her 'cleaning'. "I don't know why I bother." With dusting, that is. "Is there anything else that I can help you find?" Threvobek's face is studied for a moment, causing her to narrow her eyes ever so slightly.

Threvobek’s case of nerves have abated enough to smile unevenly, more pull to the left side, at the archivist. “I’m looking to see if my parents’ names have been recorded. They should be, right? I mean, we band the avians in the stables, someone must keep track of people.” The fact is his parentage, or more accurately its lack, had never troubled him before. All Weyr Aunties and Uncles were his, nannies were not too violent, and love was communal. As Turns progressed, however, and the youth were getting groomed for their inheritance of tradition— more bakers out of bakers’ daughters, more smith sons from the loins of their fathers— Threvobek had no such guidance. Grew restless. He rebuffed the crafthalls, couldn’t settle for the guard, even the dragonets in clutches past found better to align themselves with. The stables, though not a choice of prominence, didn’t refuse anyone. For those that saw low standards Threvobek saw opportunity, the stables yielded a humble grace from manual dexterity, nutrition, physics, linebreeding, anatomy, and the patience to train two thirty-six hundred pounds of horned muscle to sink to the ground in unison with only a syllable.

Threvobek could pinpoint the numerical figures of dates and pages. Flipping to the corresponding page of his presumed birth year, “I can’t make out anything,” look for a Th, look for a Th… and maybe she can read the rest?

"If your mother gave birth at Igen, her records would be here. It should say who your father is as well, unless she did not want to share that information with the healer." Catryn offers to take the book and set it on the table for better review. A few pages are flipped through and she uses her index finger to draw down the list of names. "Do you know anything about your parents? Your mother's name? Perhaps an Auntie mentioned something to you when you were younger?" The more information they have will help narrow down their search. "Hmm. It is rather difficult to determine the letters on this page. Of course the lighting here is horrendous." Straightening up, Catryn runs her hands down her hips to smooth some wrinkles in her skirt. "Would you like to take this index out of the archives?"

Threvobek’s weight hasn’t sunk fully into the tall stool, poised as if to relocate any second. Solemnly, “no ma’am, taking it outta here won’t be necessary.” He taps the ends of his fingers on the desk while still trying to crack the compactly decorative script. At the hard question of his origins, Rev’s grimness lessens when his eyebrows flinch higher. “Nothing, nothing I can remember.” Stepping out of the bathwater of the past, Rev has washed his hands clean of family regrets some time ago. “All I know is I’ve breathed Igen from day one of my memory and I never seemed to miss anyone or anything like I was rooted here from someplace else.” With that, he shows conviction. “That’s an -obek I’m sure of it! Look.” Point!

Catryn looks where Threvobek is pointing and squints a little in an attempt to decipher the text. Her lower lip is bit for a moment as the word is very difficult to spell out, but there's a bit of information she can determine: "Look here. This is definitely marked as a male. See?" Pointing to a single letter on the same line, Catryn grins a little at the finding. "Let me get an eyeglass." Turning around, the Harper makes her way back to her desk and rummages through a few drawers before grabbing hold of the item. Upon her return, the basket of glowlights is also collected and brought back to the desk. "Here." The eyeglass is surrendered before a few glows are placed on the desktop for better lighting. "It looks…like it could be a match."

Caught in the moment Threvobek crowds Catryn, the smell of desert, clean sweat and fading cologne that used to cover both. “That’s me alright.” A fingertip slides across the page to keep his place but whatever ink was used was not good quality. “It’s blank.” Pulse rapid he can feel it crash into his abdomen. So Rev licks his lips, suddenly parched. Quickly his eyes jerk to where a father’s name would be jammed, sifting through floral Y’s and elegant G’s overlapping from the line above. “Fayden (HPW),” letters spelled out hesitantly with a query to his tone.

The eyeglass is taken back when Threvobek steps closer, but she's still able to lean in for a better look. The glass is held up to the parchment and helps to magnify the letters: "I see 'Fendan'." Squinting a bit at the faded text, Catryn then shakes her head at the misread words. "And that," Finger is pointed at the so-called 'HPW', "is certainly High Reaches Weyr. I know because it's a common misinterpretation based on how Harpers scribed then." A lot has changed in the formalities of record keeping, even if it's only been fifteen Turns or so. "Can you make out your mother's name?" The eyeglass is slid over to Threvobek should he wish to give it a try.

Threvobek lifts himself off the stool to see the name agan, nose practically touching the vellum. “Fendan.” The name holds power to the boy who repeats it. He pushes his hair back when offered the eyeglass only to warm it in his hand. “There’s nothing there. Whoever wrote it just had “trader” to go from. It doesn’t make much sense, does it?” He stares down at the sheet which may as well hold hieroglyphs. The last meal in his stomach sours. “I’m not even of Igen.” Eyes, fixed at a distant point of no consequence, abstain from blinking at the dissolution of his assumed heritage. If the truth’s razed his past it at least contributes to a future. “So… guess that’s my starting point. I’m grateful for your help, ma’am. Here’s your eyeglass back.” The ample fingerprints on it total gratuity.

Catryn looks over at Threvobek and places a gentle hand on his arm, smiling a bit as she does. "You've got a start. I will continue studying this for you and I might even be able to call upon my colleagues at Harper Hall for a more thorough analysis." The boy is in obvious need of some answers and she feels a bit bad that the records were kept so poorly in this case. But, that's why she's here. Igen needs help with their archives and she's here to remedy that situation to the best of her ability. "You can come back anytime and view this whenever you'd like. You know where to find it." The eyeglass is then taken and placed in her skirt pocket before she steps to the other side of the desk to gather up the items.

Threvobek closes the record book gently and steps back to again allow Catryn the full reign of her realm. “You did perfectly, ma’am. I know incomplete information must weigh on you but please don’t trouble the Hall. My bet is her name isn’t there for a reason, an unwedded one.” Being illegitimate doesn’t scar his heart— Weyrs’re full of such affiliations. He has a gentleman’s grin to prove both that sentiment and his overall thanks. “This hole in the wall is under good hands.” Look, a compliment, really! A vague bow as his weight’s already shifting and Rev’s out the door.

"All right then. Well met, Threvobek." Catryn says with a smile as the stablehand turns toward the door. The missing information is rather intriguing and being the curious, librarian type, she must know more. Grabbing hold of the record book, she follows him a few short feet until veering left down an aisle of books. A wave is given and a heartfelt, "Good luck with your search." Heels sound against the stone floor as she busies herself with some reshelving.