==== January 3rd, 2013
==== E'don Nora
==== Just some light banter in the storerooms. Nothing serious to see here.

Who E'don , Nora
What Just some light banter in the storerooms. Nothing serious to see here.
When It is the ninth day of Spring and 70 degrees.
Where The Stores

edon18 Nora11.jpg


The Stores
It's a place where you store stuff.

It seems weyrlings have been dropping like flies lately, at least in the proverbial sense; young men and women have been tapped into full riderhood at an alarming rate. Those that haven’t, the late bloomers of the bunch, have been relegated to a holding pattern, practicing drills early in the morning before being sent off to help with other duties in the weyr. Biding time, they call it. E’don is no exception to this, ever the latest of bloomers of the bunch. After an early morning of expected duties, firestone hauling, wing formation drills, and a long and much needed run along the beach’s shore; the bronzerider has ended up in the stores with one very long list of necessities. The Candidate barracks are in need of new bed, bath, and beyonds, and E’don has been roped into collecting it. He is perched on top of a crate, his whipcord frame hunched over as he glowers over his list in the dim glowlight. Pondering? Plotting? Waiting for someone to assist him? Maybe all of the above. Maybe he’s just not doing any work. Wouldn’t that be a surprise?

There's a conversation coming down the stairs, two women, one of whom must be wearing heels since they sound out over the conversation with every step she takes. They're talking about flower, no, flour. And bugs. And then the one with the quiet step is gone and it's just Nora sweeping through the aisles with her shoes clacking away. White shoes. White blouse, black skirt. There's a blanket folded over her arm, a clipboard in her hand, a hand in her hair as she checks the smooth crown and the snug cinch around a ponytail. She's about to walk right past E'don when his utter idleness draws her up. It draws a brow up, too. "Need help?" she guesses with a touch of wry humor in the offer.

“Uh.” E’don is an eloquent wordsmith along with being a dashing dragonrider, and he extends the list out for Nora with a tentative jerk of his arm towards her position. HERE TAKE THIS LIST. He doesn’t even move from his spot as he gazes side-long at the Assistant Headwoman, brows tentatively bunched together. “Yeah—linins. And pillows. And maybe some deloused bedrolls of you have them.” He finally shoves himself off the crate, feet hitting the ground with a soft ‘thunk.’ Then there’s a moment of silence, and then E’don is all smart-ass. “Oh! And throw pillows. I need some matching throw pillows too.” He’s moving off down the aisle and tips open the top of the nearest crate with a sniff. “And some of those muffins if you can bring them up too.” He must be an asshole today, but the small, meek smile he passes back the woman’s way belies that he might just be kidding. If she catches it. “Almost forgot to ask. How are you today, Nora?”

Nora does NOT take that list. She just looks at it, lets her mouth pinch and that fine brow arch even more sharply as she turns her head to bounce a sidelong look back at him. "Oh really." Her amusement is dry, but it's there, at least until E'don chucks himself off his seat to start ambling around and lobbing more requests. Then it drains a little more. "You don't say." It's not until he mentions the muffins that she might suspect his lofty demands are partially an act. So her lashes narrow as she tracks his progress, a twist on her mouth that doesn't get in the way of a lilting reply. "Busy as usual. How are you, E'don? Is this your first time in the stores?" Of course that's unlikely, but the implication is clear enough, as innocently as its delivered: he'd have to be new to think that she's going to run around doing his chores for him.

“No, not my first time.” E’don lobs back with a distracted hum as he cracks open another box to peer inside, before letting it drop back shut. “They used to stick me in here a lot when I was a candidate. I think they figured I’d be less trouble than in the kitchens.” Another crate is opened and this time, something is interesting enough for the bronzerider to reach inside and fish long arms deep into the depths of the crate. “Oh, you know, fine as always. Flying drills, keeping Jiamoth and Cerise company in the infirmary, reliving the horrors of threadfall. You know; same old.” He says this with such lackaday, and he flashes Nora a tight, quick smile before he’s pulling out the corner of something from the crate—a rug. Not what he’s looking for. Back it goes. “But really though, where can I find linins and bedrolls? They need refreshing in the candidates barracks.” Ah-ha, real work! Sometimes he does it! “If you aren’t willing to do it all for me, the least you could do is point me in the right direction, aye?”

"Yes, we might have," Nora replies with a little shift of her weight, just to make the dark skirt swing about her calves. She may have been involved in such assignments, whether or not there was actually any concerted effort to keep E'don from touching the food. Mention of Cerise has her swallowing as if she might speak to that, but first, "Come," she says with a tip of her head to lead them in the proper direction down the aisle. "We've moved things around since you were a candidate. Always moving things, really. Someday it will be perfectly balanced, just the right amount of space for the right amount of things for whatever our population… evens out to." Now there's a cheery thought. "Have you seen her today?" Does she need to say who?

“Ah. Tricky.” E’don shoves hands into his pockets as he turns to follow after Nora, shuffling quickly after her to keep pace. “I think I know where all the things are in here and then you go about, changing everything on me. At this rate, I’ll never find anything without asking permission.” Perhaps that’s the point, after all. Nora’s question to the subject of Cerise is met with a moment of silence, and then E’don clears his throat. “No, not today,” there’s not even a need to inquire over who she’s asking over, “I try to stagger my visits—I don’t want her getting any ideas that we’re attached or friends, you know?” There’s a joking lilt to his voice in the way he responds, and he’s tilting his head to one side, as if checking with a distant somewhere. “Qianvaelth says Jiamoth is doing better though. Always says, ‘She’ll be fine. She’ll be fine.’” He mimics the bronze’s deep baritone, waving one hand in the air flippantly. “He’s so positive, even at the thought of someone losing a limb.”

"Ah, right." It would seem it takes Nora to remember the details of Cerise and E'don's relationship, but that she is, in fact, familiar with enough information to understand. "I try to… I don't want her to think I'm fussing over her, that I think she needs to be fussed over." Though if that requires some amount of trying, perhaps fussing is the impulse. "And there's only so much time in the day. — But you are friends; she knows you're friends," the headwoman is quick to add as they move past racks of jacket and then an accumulation of wooden chairs. There's perhaps something notable about the absence of commentary on attachment. "She will be fine. I think the greater challenge now is just…" Does she fade off because they've reached a stretch of shelves dedicated to linens or does she just remark on it to avoid finishing her thought? "Here. Did you need sheets or blankets or both?" she wonders, moving to add her own armful of gray blanket to the mostly-organized shelf.

“Well, you know Cerise,” E’don responds back, arms outstretched to take any bundles of blankets and sheets from the headwoman. “She doesn’t like to be fussed over. I can’t imagine how I’d act if Qian was hurt that much, but I’d imagine I’d want some coddling.” Nora’s assertion gets a snort in response, a mixture of indignation and amusement. Friends? Oh, sure. If you say so. “I’ve been told that they’ll be grounded for nearly a turn, with the rehabilitation and all. No thread fighting for them—possibly for the foreseeable future. I guess in a way, she’s lucky, you know?” He motions to the pile of sheets on the shelves, “Just those. The barracks are usually stifling, especially in spring.” And then, back to the more serious conversation, “And I mean, as I was saying—she’s lucky. Us riders with fighting dragons? High fatality. I’ll be dead in a decade or so.” That last part is said like it’s no big deal.

"Exactly," Nora injects when E'don shares his own understanding of Cerise and fussing, herself happy to bustle on with the tugging of sheets from the shelves and handing them back. But the mention of coddling stalls her for a beat, a concerted stare and a waiting hand on the round corner of folded linens. "How many?" she asks, starting up again. There's doubt, however, when she muses, "We'll see," about the projected recovery time. "I don't know if I'd call it lucky. She's still a fighting dragon. You don't need four feet to fly and flame. She'll do those things again. And meanwhile," as she turns to push another stack into the bronzerider's arms, "You should try not to die." She doesn't give him a great big weighty stare when she looks up at him, but she does hold a bit of eye contact to be clear with her order.

“Uh, I guess a few more will do for now.” Whatever amount of sheets the bronzerider needs, he’s eyeballing it, and he shifts his armload to make more room. “And common’ wouldn’t you want someone to take care of your every need if your dragon’s limb has been amputated? Shards, I’d have trouble wipin’ my own ass.” This is said absently to the universe, that is, until Nora is pushing more linen into his awaiting arms. “Oy, she’ll fly, but never in a fighting wing, that’s for sure. Maybe she’ll be Weyrlingmaster! Wouldn’t that be great.” It seems E’don is amused now, and he lets loose a bark of a laugh as he tries to mimic losing his hand. Levity at its finest. “It’ll scare the pants off the new weyrlings, that missing paw.” Nora’s eye contact is met for a moment, until the man looks right over her head with an uncomfortable cough. “It’s not like I’m trying to. Here, gimmie one more blanket.”

Oh, she'll give him a blanket. It's shoved, hard, at him. Her eyes snap and Nora growls out a low and meted, "Don't you ever say that again. Not to me. Not to her." He might, in fact, be lucky that he didn't just get smacked across the face. "They'll fight. They can." It might even catch her up a little bit, just how sharply her reaction has come, and how it flickers uncertainty into her eyes afterwards. "Just…" She needs a second, to draw herself back together with a breath, to leave the blanket with him and let her shoulders relax. "Don't say that." There's still a little twitch remaining, flexing across her throat. And then she turns to survey the wall of bedding as if it didn't happen. "It has been busy, yes. Or it was." Before the long waiting continued to turn up day after day of nothing. "What else is on your list?"

Oft. To say E’don is not expecting the blanket shoved into his chest would be an understatement. It’s a hard enough push to cause him to stagger back a step or two, and he’s meeting Nora’s look with a steely, startled glare, jaw tensing with agitation. There’s a mixture of both embarrassment, and perhaps an underlying tone of anger in the bronzerider’s voice, “I won’t,” before he falls back into a steely awkward silence again. The list is surveyed for a moment over his armful of blankets and sheets with another scrunch of brows, “pillows. I need pillows and a few bed rolls—you know, wait.” Ah, moving on? Pretending like it never happened? E’don can’t help himself here; he’s gotta have the last word. “You should know that I care about Cerise, just as much as you. And Jiamoth. And if they never fought thread again in a fighting wing, they’d be safer for it.” There’s a sudden force in the tone of the rider’s voice, before he’s waving it off. “I’ll get the pillows later. M’arms are full for now.”

"Pillows." Nora points down a ways, to a higher shelf packed with pillows of various height. "Bed rolls." Across the aisle and low. So there, she's helped him, and her glance is skimming over the array now with a different kind of calculation, probably one more of totals and space than anything else. And it continues on with a little less interest as E'don insists on his last word. Again, that tendon throws into relief at her neck, a pulse at her jaw, but when he's through, it's time for another round. "Safer, yes. And feeling less-than, left behind, unable to do anything to help the people they care about. Just sitting here on the ground with the rest of us, waiting and hoping and powerless." She turns a cool eye on E'don, firm but not unfeeling. "Does that sound like Cerise to you? Jiamoth? I want them alive too, and I can't…" It all breaks a little, cracking into a wince of her expression. "I don't know what it must be like to think of fighting again after this. Fear. And pain." Too much to be more than fragments of thought that glaze her eyes for a passing moment. "But I'll not have anyone tell her she can't do it." There's a dare in there, too. Just try her.

“Well, knowing Cerise and Jiamoth, they’ll do what they want, regardless of how limited they are.” E’don responds back flippantly, his gaze following Nora’s motion towards the pillows and bedrolls down the aisle. Then he seems to make a motion to leave, brushing past the headwoman with a curt nod of his head. But then he stops, turns to study Nora sidelong, head tilted to one side in silent contemplation, before rolling his shoulders back with a shrug. “Just because a dragon and their rider isn’t fighting thread, doesn’t make them meaningless. Or powerless. You know that.” If there’s any challenge in his voice the entire conversation between them, it’s then, but he’s again making a move towards the exit, sheets in tow. “Thanks for your help Nora.” And as he leaves, he calls out sing-song back at her, saccharine and sarcastic and he moves out the door. “Enjoy torturing those new ~candidates~.”

Nora might want to say something, but it stumbles at her lips, leaves enough of a flinch at her lashes that it might actually have been… prepare for the whiplash, agreement. But the bronzerider is turning to go and she's certainly inclined to let him, and to linger on here, if somewhat needlessly, refolding one of the less-neat pillowcases. She glances over at his moment's study just in time to catch the shrug, so she's looking when he lays his challenge. It strikes close enough to home to keep her silent, even as he calls his sing-song parting jab back at her. Though after that there is a gust of breath, maybe an empty laugh, hard to tell.

Add a New Comment