Who

Renalde, Chyrean

What

Renalde comes for an update on the Archives and the Archivist has a small confession.

When

7th day of the 4th month of the 2nd turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Records Room

OOC Date

 

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Records Room

Standard archives. There's a locked part in the back, for sensitive folders, long communal tables for reading, hard benches and an archivist that will glare at you for talking too loud.


A few days into her appointment as Acting Assistant Archivist, Chyrean has managed to rearrange most of the Records to her own satisfaction. At the end of this day, she’s staring in particular satisfaction at a set of records, wiping the dust from her hands. Her hair is more random than usual and there’s a smudge of dust along one cheek. “Well,” she announces to the room in general, “That takes care of that subject!” She moves back towards the Archivist’s desk and, comfortable in her solitude, lets her rump fall more solidly into the chair than usual. Breaktime. Long fingers pick up a sheet that has numerous marks and lines through it before letting it fall to take up a stylus and start writing on another sheet.

Never one to allow a moment to micromanage go by, Renalde steps purposefully into the records room of the Hold. Sometime in the previous days the firm cast has been removed from his leg, and he has discarded the full length crutches in favor of a single beautifully carved cane. (The healers aren’t happy, Renalde doesn’t seem to care.) The tap of cane on stone floor proceeds him into the room and he comes to a pause as he allows his eyes to cast across the records already put in place, mentally performing his own check.

So lost in her preoccupying writing, Chyrean doesn’t hear the taptap of a cane. Head bent low, she’s staring at the page she’s writing marks onto until her other hand rises to rub at her neck. Might be time for a break. Chy lays down her stylus and exhales in a soft sigh that is caught suddenly when she spots Renalde. Pushing herself hurriedly to her feet, the Assistant Acting Archivist pales slightly: “Sir! I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.” One hand goes to smooth her skirts and the other to tuck recalcitrant hair behind her ear. Once Chyrean’s looking slightly more presentable, she moves around the side of the desk, hands clasped before her. “How do you do, sir?”

Even when Chyrean notices his presence Renalde does not begin to speak right away. Instead he takes a few steps closer to the shelves and reaches upwards to brush a hand across the assorted records placed neatly thereon. After a moment of silence, “How goes the reorganization Chyrean?” His tone is mild, and without judgement… for the moment.

“It’s continuing,” Chyrean replies, one hand fluttering to the room before clasping the other again, “I have most of the mess from the last sevenday cleared up, though some volumes remain mixed in, but that will soon be to rights.” A moment of fidgeting, “And, the shipment of books did come in, and they’re in the process of being sorted.” Chy looks over reflexively at a table where books are being piled, seemingly haphazardly.

Renalde’s steps are deliberate as he moves forward, hand dusting along all of the volumes on the highest shelf. When he comes to the end he turns and makes his way over to where the newest shipment is. The topmost book is picked up, opened, and then snapped closed. “How much longer will you need?” His eyes are examining, perhaps trying to figure out how they are organized.

Chyrean watches, a little nervously, as Renalde moves to the table, but doesn’t move to assist. “Ah, I think two more days, three at most.” Eyes trained on the book Renalde is looking over, “And I understand there’s another shipment arriving next seven-day?” Slowly Chyrean slips into a more comfortable role of Assistant Archivist, Acting, “It will be much easier to sort and shelve records once the system is cleared and sorted.”

“Yes. It was unfortunate timing that led me to return to the weyr when I did.” Renalde’s tone is a bit absentminded as he puts the book down. Eyes cover the books in front of him again before he is turning to train those cool blue eyes of his on the archivist. “Yes, though that should be the last of the outside records. From thereon we will be creating our own as the hold is formally established and the work is completed.” In a Renalde-like shift in conversation, “Where are the records of expenses so far from the klah stand we are setting up?” Maybe it’s a test.

“I’m sure the Weyr was thankful for your services again, sir,” Chyrean replies demurely, eyes trained on the books. She does look up briefly when Renalde announces the Hold will make their own Records now, nodding but when he asks about expenses, a look of panic crosses her face. Swallow. Breathe. “Ahh, they’re, they’re over this way, sir,” and Chyrean moves to take up a hide that she brings back to the table. “They’re just notes I took at the time,” she says quietly while handing it over, and does the page ever look it: disorganized, scribbled over, crossed out, comments scrawled into margins, “of items I noticed coming in with the records.”

Renalde glances at the hide handed over to him. An eyebrow slowly raises as his eyes move down the hide. Too proper is he to actually mouth the words as he reads them, though it is clear he is reading them… every. single. one. Even the crossed out ones, and the scribbled comments. When he finally does speak, his tone is mild. “I trust that this is not the final copy.” Mild, but dangerous.

Waiting and fiddling her skirt between fingers, Chyrean’s eyes are wide and more blue with anxiety while she watches Renalde read all of her notes. Good thing she hasn’t put happy or frowny faces as punctuation. “Oh, no!” she gasps out, “No, no, not at all. I would never submit a final report written so sparsely.” Wince. “And I would have added more detail of the contents,” because ‘labor’, ‘pipe-things’, and ‘mugs’ isn’t very descriptive. “Would, ahh, you like me to re-write and submit this to you, sir?”

“I have very specific expectations of those who work under me Chyrean.” Renalde’s tone is precise as he lays the record down on the pile of books before him. Turning he’ll meet her gaze full on unless she drops her own. “Records in particular are the lifeblood of hold or weyr. Without accurate records it would be impossible from year to year to be sure that proper supplies are ordered, and that all forms are being followed to the letter. Any organization which does not keep careful, neat, and,” Renalde puts a slight emphasis on the next word, “exact records is doomed to disorganization and eventual ruin. If you feel that your training has not prepared you for this….” He leaves it hanging, allowing her to fill in her own ending to his lecture.

Chyrean flushes pinkly and shifts on her feet. “Yes, sir,” she replies, her own gaze indeed dropping after a moment, caught in the embarrassment of staring at the Headman. “I will ensure my tallies are much more detailed in the future.” There’s no ‘but no one said’ wailing, Chyrean just assumes this is a new task to take on but her hands rub against her skirt as she says, voice higher in worry, “Oh, no, sir, this… this was a lapse that won’t be repeated.” Sniffle.

Renalde will allow that disapproving look to linger for a moment longer, allowing the silence between them to stretch. Finally he sighs, just slightly and shifts himself, bracing on his cane. Reaching forward he puts a hand on the archivist’s shoulder. “I am sure that things will be more detailed. You are new to the way things are run, and perhaps I have put too much on your shoulders too soon. If you ever do feel that this task is too much you may ask for assistance and I will endeavor to find some for you.”

Chyrean’s shoulder shivers slightly when Renalde’s hand lands on it and she looks up with a little surprise. She blinks and slowly nods, “Of course, sir.” Something rankles in her eyes when Renalde suggests help, and she pauses before saying, “It wouldn’t be one of the wildlings, would it?” Her voice is wary, but red hair waves slowly back and forth, “My apologies, that was inappropriate. I will make do, sir.”

Renalde’s grip on her shoulder tightens, but not uncomfortably so. When he speaks, it is with the careful precision of one who is not looking for his words to be misunderstood, and holds an expectation that she will answer honestly. “Has there been an issue which I need to be aware of?”

Chy’s eyes dart away for a moment before she replies, slowly: “Um. I wouldn’t… consider it an issue, if it does not re-occur.” Uncomfortably because she’s said more than she wants to, “One of the men… er, pressed upon me about my,” deep breath in, “un-married status.” Deep breath out. “But it’s a trivial matter and if I should take my meals elsewhere, it won’t happen again.” See, the Archivist’s a problem-solver!

Inside of his shoe Renalde’s toe taps slowly. “You will not be taking your meals in any other place then our dining hall.” For just a moment it seems like Renalde might actually be upset with Chyrean for suggesting it, before he continues. “You are a member of the staff of this hold and will not be chased out. What exactly did he say?” Ice cold eyes are settled right on the archivist as he does not take his hand away. No escaping Chy!

Problem-solving fail. Chyrean looks flustered, her mouth framing a ‘but’ that stays silent. Lips press together before she replies quietly, “Yes, sir.” She nods agreeably enough to Renalde’s reassertion of her position, but she frowns unhappily for a moment, perhaps in memory, “He was… asking about the proper titles for people, such as miss,” one hand indicates herself, “or mister, but then he kept asking why… why I wasn’t married.” Chyrean’s deepening flush and averted eyes indicate her discomfort and embarrassment.

“Was he inappropriate in his comments?” Renalde isn’t about to allow Chyrean’s embarassment to get out from him getting a full report of the man’s comments. He should probably reassure the woman that she is not in trouble, but he’s kind of a bastard and wants answers right now.

That question makes Chyrean pause and think. “In that he would not cease questioning,” she will say, “But his… words were… not crude.” That comes out a bit strangled, like she can see the upset coming to nothing. The last of it rushes out, “So I left the dining hall quickly.” At least she can have some dignity in that. “And I sincerely hope he doesn’t address another woman in the same fashion.” A delicate sniff and Chyrean starts to look more collected.

“What is his name?” Renalde has come to the crux of the matter, and the one thing he suspects the archivist would rather not give. “Or, if you know it not, a description. No woman should be made uncomfortable in my hold.” Okay, so a SLIGHT note of possessiveness there.

Entirely correct. Chyrean’s slate eyes close briefly and open to admit, “He called himself Hjaskr… though I don’t know what he does.” A slightly wobbly smile, “He claimed to do a little of everything.” Clasping her hands to her bosom, Chy slowly shakes her head a little, “My apologies for not having any further details, Mister Renalde.” Her eyes have fallen to her hands which clasp together between herself and the Headman.

Chyrean’s status clicks up a notch in Renalde’s book, perhaps erasing the downward tick caused by her messy tally keeping. “Very well. If this Hjaskr has any further words which make you uncomfortable, you will report them to myself. A simple note left on my desk will suffice.” As it doesn’t seem like the purported Wildthing has actually done anything which Renalde can act upon, he’ll simply have to wait. “Am I understood Chyrean?”

Pressing her lips together, Chyrean nods solemnly. “I shall endeavor to ensure your trust in me is not misplaced,” she says in general terms and offers the Headman her smile again. “Thank you, sir,” is said a little more quietly. Eyes dart to the books and Chy coughs delicately. “Are there… any further tasks that I should be prepared for?”

Renalde finally allows his hand to drop to his side. “Just continue to get the archives under control. I see no reason to assign other duties to you until this is complete.” Away from the table he shifts, taking a firm grip on the cane. Walking is still a bit painful, but no one will ever hear the reserved man complain about it.

“Yes, sir,” Chyrean says obediently and watches Renalde’s movement cautiously, hands clenching around each other as she steps out of the path he’s lining up for, so she thinks. From the earlier flush, Chyrean’s almost reach her normal pale complexion, but she watches the man and impulsively offers, “I was about to make some tea, if you’d rather have a seat?” A risk, asking your boss over for tea, but it’s just tea, right?

Renalde only takes a few steps before he pauses at her invitation. This is the difference between the weyr and the hold- apparently people aren’t so afraid of him as to make invitations like that. But, it is just tea, and at this hour Renalde was actually about to pack it in for the night. “Very well, what kind of tea is it?” Turning his steps Renalde limps towards one of the chairs and settles himself down, leaning the cane against a bookshelf.

“Some herbal concoction, I confess.” The archivist moves away to where a small, smokeless brazier has been set up, and a pot of water has been sitting over it to keep warm. One mug is present at the desk and Chyrean has to open a few drawers before the clinking indicates she’s found the mugs again. A second joins its brethren and some loose leaves are added to the pot to steep briefly before she pours out two mugs to bring over. “My mother says it’s good for concentrating,” Chy says as she sets both mugs down and then tentatively takes a seat herself.

Renalde will take that mug, warming his hands with it. Despite the jury rigging that Arlemond had been able to set up to spread the heat of the springs about, there is still a distinct chill in almost every corridor in the hold. It chills the fingers. “Tell me about yourself my dear. Where you are from, and what brought you to Southern Barrier Hold.” It has a real name.

Seizing her own tea, Chy copies Renalde’s grip around the mug. There’s a kind of uncomfortable quiet from the archivist for a few moments, but she looks up at Renalde, squinting a little as she takes her first sip of tea. “Well, I’m from Tillek…” she starts, “And my father was a fisherman and my mother, a laundress…” As steam rises from their mugs, Chyrean describes herself and her career path up to now, taking later into the night than either intended and a few more mugs of tea before each bids the other good night and retire to their respective sleeping arrangements.

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