Evening at Southern finds many still taking shelter within the Weyr's walls, before spring's soaring temperatures dip down into something slightly less sweat-inducing. Most can be found getting dinner at this hour, but there are always some folk to be found avoiding the crowds. And while Rhuysarr may not be deliberately seeking to avoid the dinner rush, he is lingering in the quiet calm of the library, painstakingly sorting through records. Two candidacies have taught in a great deal in terms of reading and writing, but the wildling man hasn't put in much time or effort outside of required lessons — not to mention he's struggling against a lifetime of no formal education — and so making his way through ledgers is still a task which takes every ounce of his attention.

Some people also come to the library at this time not to avoid getting dinner, but because they have way too much work and it's one place that has both books and food! Whoever put that food-cart in here was a genius! Or else, they knew that plenty of wingleaders and wingseconds tend to work way too much and might not eat if food wasn't conveniently nearby. D'wane happens to be in one of those workaholic moods today, although he's abandoned his table with the maps and the charts and other important stuff that has been keeping him from the beach and is currently staring at the food cart intently. "Do they got anything not tiny?" Maybe that was a rhetorical question, but the big man is not good on the whole indoor voice thing, so in the nearly empty library, the sound carries well.

Remember how reading takes every ounce of Rhuysarr's attention? Well, D'wane's booming voice is like the crack of a rifle, shattering that carefully constructed focus and making the wildling man's head shoot up in annoyance. "I thought it was your people's custom to respect the quiet of this place," he utters, loud enough to be heard without moving from his spot, swallowed up by ledgers and records that speak to the history of the Weyr. He may not have D'wane's mass, but that doesn't mean he can't be heard, especially in the echoing space of the archives. "I doubt they wish for large messes in their archives." Hence, tiny! Of course, to his eye any sort of food or beverage spilled upon these tomes might very well ruin them, but they aren't his responsibility.

It's fine though, if they want to have tiny sandwiches. It just means D'wane's going to take like six tea sandwiches. That maybe equals one full sized normal sandwich, right? The bronzerider is a little rusty on his sandwich conversion ratios, but it feels like the right weight of sandwiches. As for Rhuysarr's words, that does have the man turn around, eyeing the wildling up and down and then just a shrug. "Maybe some. But apparently I don't know how to behave in a library." The wingsecond and one particular archivist have had a long series of words before on whether shirts are or are not necessary. Apparently the archivist won because the man is wearing a shirt today. And so he takes his sandwich bounty back to his table, which just so happens to be not too far from the other man's. "So… what's it you're working on that can't keep your attention?"

Ten is probably more accurate, but the good news is that the food cart isn't going anywhere. That is, unless burly bronzeriders keep draining it of its resources and the caverns workers can't keep up, but that's just a worst case scenario. Rhuysarr can't even begin to resume his studies with D'wane looming there, so the wildling carefully notes his place before looking back toward the man. "It's a learned skill." Library behavior. He's not shirtless either, but he's not likely to be the favorite of the archivists, either. His adherence to the rules of civilization is lazy, at best. "I was doing research." Rhuysarr has a knack for stating the obvious, it seems, because with the piles of resources around him, that answer should be self-evident.

If there's one thing Southern does not have a shortage of, it's burly bronzeriders. And murder. And probably a lot of other things, but those get talked about a lot. Luckily the caverns workers have become accustomed to having to keep the burly bronzeriders supplied with adequate food, but usually that's in the living caverns and nighthearth and not the archives, but still. Food shortage is probably not a concern. Probably. D'wane's sitting down again so he can attack his sandwiches. He can't help it if he still looms even when sitting. He's not trying. "Research about?" Apparently the wingsecond's concern for library rules does include not eating while reading books (because you might get food on the pages!) so he'll settle for questioning Rhuysarr to kill the time.

Rhuysarr stares quite blatantly at the other man, with none of the shame or self-consciousness which might come from years of being taught proper manners. Mostly, he's watching as the bronzerider consumes that sandwich, counting down the moments until an archivist materializaes to let him have it. There's a faint smile which curls his lips at the thought, taking some pleasure in the prospect of seeing someone else suffer the sharp tongues of those who call this space home. "History." Sorry, D'wane. Rhuysarr isn't the most helpful customer when it comes to unlocking the riddles of his thoughts or motivations. He closes the book directly before him, hiding its mysteries behind the cover. "What are you working on?"

But see, Rhuysarr, D'wane's got an advantage in having a fancier knot. He may have a sort of truce with the archivists because if they don't deal with him, then they have to deal with K'vvan more and who wants that? So he's going to brazenly sit here and eat his sandwich. Maybe he's actually just looking to get into an argument with the archivists. But if they didn't want people eating sandwiches near the books, they shouldn't have put sandwiches near the books! D'wane nods along with the one word answer. Continues to eat a few more bites of sandwich, but no more details seem to be forthcoming. "History's a mighty big subject. You'll be there forever. I'm working on sweep schedules." He waves to the maps and the charts which appear to be of some of the outer areas that Southern still patrols.

Rhuysarr has long since given up on resolving the mystery of why the weyrfolk do what they do. Certainly there can be no answer as to why a group so determinedly against any damage to their precious books would allow food to rest so close by. "Southern's history." Slowly but surely, more detail is coming out. Maybe if D'wane stays here for another few hours, he'll have something resembling the full story, painstakingly pulled word by word from the wildling. "How much writing do you do?" he asks suddenly, the question drawn by the mention of sweeps schedules. As he can't focus on his own work, he stretches his limbs and then moves to get to his feet, coming close enough to look over all of those charts with a considering eye.

And a TREE! Don't forget the tree, Rhuysarr. Clearly Southern's archivists are all crazy. Harper Hall's Master Archivist would have a stroke if he ever came down here. "So half of forever." D'wane will concede as the subject gets narrowed down just a tad. Look, he's a former guard. He's used to dragging information out one word at a time. He can do this all day. Or at least until he gets bored and decides to do something else or go back to his own work. He shrugs in response to the writing question. "Depends on what happened that day." And regardless of how much writing he does and how well it might be done, K'vvan's just going to recopy it all anyway. Dang perfectionist. He'll watch the man as he goes to the charts, but nothing secret in those particular items. Just lists of how frequently the cotholds have been visited by sweepriders. And another of the charts is a threadfall schedule for the next month. And some weather reports are in there too.

It's not just Southern's archivists who are crazy by the wildling's estimation, but that's a good start. He happens to like the tree — even if it should be growing out in the wild, instead of trapped indoors. "So one must know how to write." They're calculating, those words, as Rhuysarr makes quiet note of everything spread out before him. He pulls one chart closer to his body with the tip of one finger, studying it with a slightly narrowed gaze as he tries to make sense of what's before him. Some of this has come up in his short-term education, surely, but it's still a riddle which he's struggling to solve. Any mentions of cotholds will particularly draw his eye, but his reasoning remains locked away. Instead, he stares at the things with an intense focus, making it difficult to tell whether he's merely that invested in the contents of the charts, or if it's jsut a true struggle to comprehend what's in front of him.

"You'd think that. But I swear one of my riders writes worst than a drunk firelizard," Has D'wane actually seen a drunk firelizard? Probably not, but it seems to describe that particular bronzerider's wherry scratch perfectly, since it's gone beyond mere wherry scratch. It could practically be it's own art form. The rider eyes the man with the chart as he continues to knock out sandwich number three. Once that sandwich is gone and the man is still reading, the bronzerider tilts his head. "It's really not that interesting of a chart?" Or maybe it is. Does it have to do with that history that Rhuysarr was studying? Only the wildling would know for sure.

Rhuysarr seems to consider the prospect of a drunken firelizard's attempts at writing for a moment, a frown upon his lips. The urge to point out that firelizards cannot write is clearly present, practically written in the slight furrow of his brow. But he restrains himself, this time. "I don't read well." It's easy enough to admit, for his pride isn't at stake with this explanation. Reading and writing were of little use to him before he came to Southern, and even his reluctant acceptance of their necessity here have not improved his outlook on the activity as a whole. But still, literacy struggles aside, his attention has lingered on this charge far longer than it should. "Who decides where you fly? Your Weyrleader?"

D'wane knows that firelizards can't write! That's part of the point. So imagine how bad a drunk firelizard would write (if firelizards can even get drunk). At the confession of the lack of literacy skills, D'wane will nod. "I didn't either. Made weyrlinghood a real pain." But here he is now. Reading and writing like a professional. And apparently a good enough rider to be put in charge of other riders. "Usually the Weyrsecond, but yeah. They tell the wingleaders which area each wing will be covering for a certain period of time, then the wingleaders or their 'seconds make up sweep schedules. Make sure to balance sweeps with drills and PT and any other tasks a wing might be assigned. Oh, and Search now too." Cause that's something that's happening with a nice, large clutch all freshly laid.

Hasn't anyone ever told D'wane not to throw drunk firelizard metaphors at the extremely literal? For just a moment, that stoic expression of Rhuysarr's flickers with surprise to learn that D'wane was not raised from birth to read and write as so many seem to be. "I had some lessons in candidacy." Start 'em early, so weyrlinghood is only half as painful. "But our memories can last just as long as a chart." As long as those who know the information keep passing it along to the next generation. There's a brief, considering nod from the man. "The Weyrsecond," is musttered under his breath, a mental note being catalogued in that well-practiced wildling memory. "You do that often." Search, that is. How many clutches has the man seen come and go by now? He can't even recall.

No, literally nobody has ever told D'wane that and he'll just keep on throwing drunk firelizard metaphors at the extremely literal. Even if they had told him, he'd probably still do it cause it's kind of amusing to see the wheels turning as those literal minds try to puzzle out exactly how it might work. And sure, D'wane was given harper lessons, like once a month during the late spring through early fall when the travelling harper could make it up to his tiny mountain cothold, but during those brutal winter months? Nope. So his formal education was more sparse than most, also until candidacy. "They can, but when you start dealing with many, many holds and cotholds and can end up visiting six places with only slightly differing names over the course of a single day?" He traces a finger over one of the more common sweep routes he had marked out on that particular map. "Being able to write down what happened is useful. Also, because you never know who all else might end up dealing with that particular cothold. Regardless, they'll be the records here." Well, he gestures to the War Room cause that's where sweep reports end up being stored for some unspecified amount of time. "Search? Depends. Sometimes Rocketh gets in the mood for it and insists. I think he's already up to four this clutch? You enjoy your last candidacy?"

"I see." Does he see? It's hard to tell with that unchanging expression of his, but eventually Rhuysarr tires of that chart and shifts it back into place. "We remember the names of the other clans, as many as our people know." His knowledge, no doubt, is far more expansive than that of his distant tribe, whose worldview continues to be far more contained despite the incursion of northerners. It's difficult to avoid the clawing grasp of the civilized world, but not impossible. "And if this all burned? How would your people fare, then?" It's spoken blandly, and probably (okay, definitely) not a threat. Merely the curious words of a man who sees this reliance upon charts and records to be more of a handicap than a help, especially in a place like Southern. They aren't exactly known for their good luck, after all. He glances in the direction D'wane offers, again making a silent note, adding to his own mental archives. "So he insists a great deal this time." There's a faint smile for that, although Rhuysarr may not know one bronze from another. "It was better than the first. They all seem very much the same. Strange eggs strying to get inside your head, children fighting for the right to die, and chaos when the shells crack."

"If this all burned? There are other records, not everything, but the important stuff, elsewhere. Harper hall for one. Starcrafters keep the threadfall and weather reports. Healers the injuries…." And D'wane could go on and on about which crafts keep what records. There's trails of everything. Except maybe those sweep reports. But do they really need turns and turns of those? Everything seems to be in at least duplicate. "He does. Maybe he's trying to impress a green or something. Maybe he'll get bored and not Search any more for the rest of the clutch." The rider shrugs. "Sometimes the dragons are even stranger than the eggs they came from. Sounds like you wouldn't be very keen to Stand again? Seeing as everyone else are children fighting for the right to die?" There's an eyebrow raised at this as he watches the man closely.

"Still, it could all be lost." And then where would you be? It's the unasked question in the slight lift of his brow. Rhuysarr is among those who have been taught by time to expect the worst, even when it seems unlikely, so it should be no surprise that the man immediately leaps to the promise of destruction. In some cases, such pessimism might be life-saving, but in most it merely makes him the designated mood-killer. "Are other dragons impressed but these things?" It seems he still has a great deal to learn about the strange whims of dragons. "I have no doubt," he agrees, with the recollecting gaze of one who has seen as much. He may not have impressed any of those dragons, but he has heard stories from those riders who once stood with him. "It was not a criticism." His lips draw in a grimace. "Not entirely. I know what I wish to achieve when I stand on the sands, and too many do not."

D'wane shrugs. "And if it is, we start again. It's not like it hasn't happened before." There was that whole comet hitting Crom thing. Pern's seen more than it's share of disasters and always come out the other side. Sometimes the worse for wear, but still alive. What really is the mood killer is that D'wane's finally reached his last sandwich. Sad times, but he's going to savor this last one. "I don't know. He seems to think it'll work." And Rocketh is the dragon, so who better to know if it would actually impress one of his own kind? At the last, he's going to lean back in his chair, with his arms crossed, staring at the wildling. "And what is it that you wish to achieve?" Is this a test?

"You should make more use of memory." Just to be safe. Poor, poor D'wane. Luckily, that food cart probably has more to offer if he has the strength to move all that muscle toward more sandwiches. Rhuysarr does eye the man's final sandwich, but as ever-helpful as the wildling man is, he's making no move toward helping the bronzerider to another. "I did not think most cared about people other than their riders." But in spite of the length of time he has spent lingering around Southern, the number of dragons Rhuysarr knows is relatively small in the grand scheme of things. He may know nothing at all. "I wish to ensure better protection for the people of the jungle. A greater understanding between wildlings and Weyr."

"I'll be sure to pass that recommendation on to my wingleader," D'wane will be sure not to pass that along to his wingleader. K'vvan would probably insist he go see a mindhealer at that suggestion. Very colorfully suggest it. He'll take one last look at his sandwich, maybe committing it to memory, before consuming it. All that are left are some crumbs, which he'll so helpfully sweep onto the floor. Nothing to see here now. "Some do, some don't." Dragons really are a mystery and just when you figure one out, another will come up that's the COMPLETE OPPOSITE. D'wane will nod seriously at the last, seeming to approve of the response. "So if you were asked to Stand again, you'd accept?"

Just wait until all the records mysteriously burn to the ground and see what K'vvan says then! It's Southern, it could happen. (But just for the record, it won't be Rhuysarr starting the fire.) While D'wane makes lasting memories of his… dinner? Snack? Rhuysarr turns back to his own archival mess and begins straighting up, so throughly derailed that there seems no point in getting back to his work now. Or perhaps the man simply guesses where all of this is leading, recognizing a familiar line of question and anticipating the need to shelve his plans until a later date. He nods at this assessment of dragons, accepting that which he does not know wordlessly. Then, "Yes. My desires and concerns have not changed."

D'wane will also start tidying up his own things. Apparently that map that he's been drawing on is his, which is good or else he'd seriously have a run in with the archivist, as he's going to roll it up and slip it in a tube, along with some of the charts. Really, he was just here for the table space. And maybe the tiny sandwiches. "Well then, I guess you're making five now." He takes a minute to rummage in his jacket pocket and pulls out a familiar white knot which gets tossed to the table Rhuysarr is tidying up. "Need a refresher on the rules?" Cause he can go over this now or they can pretend he did.

Can we all just take a moment to appreciate the beauty that is a man like D'wane eating tiny sandwiches? ….. All done? Good. Rhuysarr manages to stack things into a few semi-tidy piles, which at least the archivists will be able to sweep away with relative ease. He does take a moment to eye the last ledger he was studying, committing the name to heart so that it will be easy to track down again when he has a free moment. "Some green will be impressed," he comments as he finishes cleaning up his area, leaving just enough space for that white knot to land. He picks it up, eyeing the familiar marker with a faintly amused expression breaking through that stoic mask. "Memory, remember?" He taps his forehead with that white knot. No refresher course required.

And even with the wildling's claim to excellent memory, it's probably best the volumes are neatly left on the table and not attempted to be put back where they were found. Somehow it's always done wrong. Always. And yes, D'wane will eat the tiny sandwiches if they are the only thing available. The juxtaposition makes a lovely image though. It's like he's at a little girl's tea party (which he probably has also gone to for his nieces who he spoils). He'll nod for the memory comment. "Okay then." This is a grown man that's done this a time or two before. If he doesn't know the rules, it's only his own fault if he gets himself kicked out. "Let's go then." D'wane will jerk his head towards the exit and lead the way. In manly silence.