With summer but a dream, gone are the scorching days and humid nights. Or at least, gone are the scorching days. Autumn's rains have set in and cast a dreary feel into the living caverns, the entryway wet and muddy. Hannah is tucked away, closer to the Nighthearth than not, with a mug of spiced klah and some hides to keep her company. Dressed in a simple blue sundress with simple blue strappy shoes, the goldrider seems to be caught up in the work she's drowning herself in, but some clue would lend a hint that her thoughts are so very far off the hides sitting right in front of her face. Perhaps it's the slow way she stirs the klah, or the idle way in which she winds a strande of loose blond hair around her finger. No longer short, she's let it grow out since the Flamethrower Incident.

Leaving the bowl behind, Torulik does his best to scrape mud from the bottoms of his boots in the usual place near the entrance. Once he's done as thorough a job as he can, he follows others' previous footprints farther into the caverns, eventually also angling toward the nighthearth. He sets down an oiled canvas duffel bag, then pokes around in it until he's found a pair of shoes. Then, he tugs off the boots and leaves them tilted near the hearth to dry a little faster, slips into the extra pair of shoes, and makes his way to an empty chair just a couple paces away from Hannah. He eases himself down to sit, stretches out his legs, then slouches back, holding thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose for a moment before turning to regard the weyrwoman briefly. "You're not weighing someone's life sentence, are you?" he says, tone bright even if his expression isn't.

Torulik's progress across the living caverns is only noted here and there, as Hannah is deep in thought about something, even if it's not the work in front of her face. She loses track of the farmcrafter until he sits down next to her and speaks, which causes her to look up with a faint smile. "No. Just weighing the consequences of a decision. It is trivial, some may think, to worry about the inner workings of the weyr when Thread's falling, but if there aren't enough pillows, blankets, bandages, and food, then we'll all fall, right?" It's a rhetorical question that, for all the dark content, is stated in a lightly musing manner. "This," she indicates the hides, "Tells me how much of everything we use and what we should stock up on. Renalde and Nora are good at running a tight ship, but still there are things that are worrisome. Like how many decrepit and falling down parts of the inner weyr we have." Stretching, the goldrider leans back and cups her mug in both hands, giving Torulik her full attention. "I'm sure I should know your name, but forgive me, my head is full of numbers right now. Numbers Bailey and I are working on to present to Lendai."

"Trivial? Hardly," Torulik counters as he crosses his ankles and rests his head against the back of his chair. He listens quietly, then smiles toward the end. "Torulik," he answers quietly, his voice a slightly scratchy baritone. "I grub around in soil all day to make sure people get fed. Some people think that's trivial, even though without it, they go hungry." He shrugs, grinning at her. "I think people just tend to confuse 'specialties' and 'detailed' with 'trivial'. Especially if it's too far out of their own areas of expertise." He shifts in the chair, getting a little more comfortable, then shoots a look at Hannah. "I'm pretty good at numbers, but someone who isn't? Yeah, might think it's just some silly made-up game."

"It is rare to find someone who truly appreciates the work you do in your area of expertise." Hannah's smile lights up her eyes before she lifts the mug to her lips and regards the farmcrafter from over its rim. The sweet hint of spices fan out lightly from the mug as the liquid is sloshed around. "Trust me," her tone might be dry but it's genuine, "There are those of us who are very grateful that your craft is here to help us fill our larders." She considers the journeyman for a long moment before putting the mug down. "How was the harvest this turn? Or what's been harvested already?" A brighter expression follows when she adds, "Fall is my favorite time of the turn. That's when the redfruits are usually harvested. I don't know if they grow here, because if I remember correctly, I think they need some months of frost?"

"And we're thankful in turn to the riders who have been making sure there are still harvests to gather," Torulik replies. He has a drawling, almost lilting way of speaking, while his accent is clearly that of Nerat. "All the outlying crops are in now. Sorry, no redfruit. We're trying an orchard, but it'll be another Turn or two before we see decent fruit. For the rest, it was a decent growing season, though we'll be moving a couple fields. A landslide changed a floodplain toward the end of summer," he explains while he rests his farmer's hands on the armrests. "If the weather holds, we'll get a nice bumper crop from the northern plots. Might need to call on you and Nora, actually, and conscript some of your leftover candidates at some point just to haul it in. Every day extra it takes is another we might lose to the storms." His left palm bumps against the armrest a couple times as he considers something, then gives Hannah a surreptitious look. "There was something a little odd, though. Wasn't sure whether or not to bother you guys with it, but if you have a minute." In case he hasn't already claimed several of those now.

"Too many have lost the understanding of the necessity of the give-and-take that is required," Hannah's muse is a quiet one, a murmured admission that's said over the rim of her mug, though she listens with bright eyes on Torulik. "Good, good. You can have as many of the former Candidates as you need. Some of them have lingered on past Khalyssrielth's clutch's Hatching. Those that have not been consumed into crafts or other jobs are yours for the asking." A brief smile touches on her lips before she considers the journeyman's demeanor. Brows draw inward as a trace of unease has the junior shifting in her seat. "Odd?" This never bodes well for Southern Weyr, and the slight hesitation that's in Hannah's voice is surely attributed to that. "Please, please. Tell me." Setting her mug down with a soft 'plunk', the woman leans forward, green eyes intent upon Torulik.

Torulik's nod of thanks is easy enough to read. Not as easy is his response to Hannah's prompting for more information, as if even after bringing it up finally, he might change his mind. That hand continues to bounce lightly, fingers splayed. "It's not bad… I don't think. Just odd. There's a cothold south of here, and they could have sworn they saw Thread fall onto their field, maybe a couple sevendays ago at this point. They got there to burn it, but there was nothing to burn. So when we were harvesting, I was keeping an eye out for a burrow and… nothing. There were two or three plants missing, but the rest was all there, and nothing that looked like something described in the records. So… just odd." That's good news. Right?

Hannah's brows draw inward ever further as Torulik continues on with this tale of oddness. With her fingernail, she taps the side of her mug in thought. "That is strange." She nibble her bottom lip, eyes unseeing for a moment, though when she speaks finally it is slow and thoughtful, "Let's keep an eye on it. After all that has happened in this place in the past two turns, I would not be surprised if this is another mystery to solve." A short laugh escapes, not a happy sound. "I'll see about speaking with the cotholders, to see if they've noticed anything weird or strange." The junior gives the tiniest of shrugs that goes with the most unsure of smiles, directed to the farmcraft journeyman, "That's all we can do, right? Thank you for passing it on. It is…" quiet pause, "… odd." And worrisome.

"Thank you, ma'am," Torulik answers, nodding his head toward her as he folds his hands across his small ribs, slouching in his chair as he is, elbows now propped on the armrests. "I'll chart out where the spot was. There's nothing to see now that the harvest is in, though we won't till there until Spring, so you might be able to find the… the blank spot, I guess I'd call it." Burly shoulders shift, not quite in a shrug. "For all I know, the place was just saturated from rain or something," though he sounds doubtful. "I don't remember there being reports of heavy rain, but you know how the weather can be here." He reaches up suddenly to scrub at about five days' worth of stubble. "The mud on my boots should be dry enough to shake off by now. I should let you get back to your work, and you can vouch for me when the headman roars about all that mud, right? I was careful," he drawls, winking at Hannah as he gathers his lanky frame to stand. "Thanks for listening, ma'am. If I hear of anything else, I won't wait so long to let you know."

"We'll definitely have to look…" Hannah's demeanor lightens somewhat as the topic shifts from the oddities of what's going on outside Southern to something far more in her control: dealing with Renalde. An impish look touches upon her features, emerald green eyes crafty as she makes shooing motions, "Go, go, quick before he comes in to see. The dinner crowd is starting to fill in and Renalde is nothing if not punctual!" Even if he isn't, it's as good excuse as any for Hannah to gather up her hides and her mug and offer a bob of her head to the farmcrafter. "Anytime, Torulik. I hope we can solve the problem, but it may be 'one of those things'," she awkwardly airquotes that while trying to balance mug and hides, "that happens in Southern." What happens in Soviet Southern, stays in Soviet Southern. "In any event, be careful out there, in the fields. There's still something leaving the rare ship and there's always the wildmen. Hopefully they don't steal too many crops." If at all, the junior's reaching into the dark here! "Good day, Journeyman." With a little (awkward) wave, the tiny weyrwoman meanders off, probably to seek a quieter place to work as more and more people slowly filter into the caverns.