Scenes in the Last Two Weeks
Curious as to what's been happening on HT in the last month? These scenes are a quick way to catch up!
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There have been 42 scenes in the last 10 days.
Title | OOC Date | Cast | Summary | ||||||||||
Hope vig
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"How you thinkin' dreams get started, princess?" Sriella walked behind the little herd of bovines, her staff comfortable in her hand. Kip darted one way and Sriella whistled a soft command. When the canine bolted the other way, Sriella whistled a different sound. She wasn't giving the command and then making Kip do it - she was going the other way. Kip did a thing, and Sriella named the action. It was a technique Helena had taught her down in Boll, and now that Kip was old enough, it was time to start training in earnest. Kip darted forward and Sriella called, "Down," and the canine took a few more steps. "Down," Sri called again, and Kip fell to her belly. "That's a girl," Sri cooed, walking up to ruffle the canine's ears. She was in that ridiculous stage of puppy growth where she was all legs and ears, and Sri couldn't imagine she would ever look like a well-proportioned canine. The bovines paused, and Sriella gave them a minute, crouching beside the canine and gently scratching her neck beneath her collar. 'Kip' was stamped into the leather, an iron ring ready to clip on a lead if needed, but the canine hardly left Sriella's side. Unless there was work to be done. "Alright girl," Sri murmured, giving a whistle. She was pleased when Kip went the way she wanted her to. Weaving back and forth behind the herd, they kept them moving down the pasture and then brought them back. Using her staff, Sriella guided the beasts into the barn for their evening meal and some rest, and she headed into the house. She had high hopes for the canine, that she'd grow into as good a herding canine as Tweed had been, and even better with runners and bovines. Tweed had been trained on ovines, and had always been a little tentative around the larger animals. She hoped that Kip wouldn't have those issues. So far she was showing promise. Hope. She had a lot of hope about a lot of different things. It had been on her mind a lot, especially after her talk with Khy'ai. She'd wanted to explain to him more about hope, but she hadn't been able to find the words. About how she'd lost hope for her future, about how she'd clawed it back. About how she had to nurture it, tend to it, feed it with dreams.
She had little dreams that she was nurturing. Giving that attention and that thought. She was pushing back the 'what ifs' and the darker thoughts of past mistakes, and instead planting seeds of hope for the future. Even if they were small hopes. Even if they were nothing more that the hope for a nice day the next day, or the hope of seeing a beautiful sunset. The hope of Evie sleeping through the night without any nightmares, the hope of seeing Daemon smile. Small things. Little things. Hope. "Daddy, why did you name Grace, Grace?" she asked her father. She'd heard the answer hundreds of times but she still liked it. "Because your mama was my saving grace, peanut," he said with a soft smile. If I ever have another daughter, maybe I'll name her Hope. Hope was a soft, constant refrain as she moved through her days. Small, but there. Dusty, but tenacious. Holding on, despite the rocky soil of her soul. She'd lost hope for a while. For turns, she'd lost hope. But she'd found it again. Somewhere, somehow, she'd found it again and she cradled it and she wasn't going to let it go so easy this time. Her wagon was ready to go, and she really should have been on the road a month ago. But sometimes time just gets away from a girl. She'd enjoyed being home. Helping her family with harvest and preparations for winter. Getting to know her newest sibling, and giving her mother a break. Plus, Sriella had to admit, Evie was getting so big that it was nice to hold a baby. Sometimes she wondered if she'd paid enough attention to Evie's early months, or if she'd been too caught up in her own troubles to really focus. No going back now, but she vowed that if she ever had another child that she'd be more present. And she made a point to be present for Evie now. She had a few more jobs scheduled, and then she would get on the road. Angle further south, to avoid the worst of the snows. It was a wagon, after all, not a sleigh. It was going to be fine. What was freedom if not a chance to make your own choices? And right now she wanted to stay at home. Surround herself with family, and let Evie spend more time with her father. And let Daemon spend more time with his daughter. She wasn't in any hurry. She was nurturing her hope, letting it grow in the warmth of her family's love. Cahia looked down at the paperwork in front of her, in the Harper's office of Igen Weyr. "And you're sure this is what you'd like to do?" the man asked. "I'm sure," she said, reaching for the stylus to put her name to the parchment. Gullian did not want to keep the bakery, and Cahia didn't want to come back from Southern. So the next logical step was to sell it. To sell Miss June's gift. It was a decision that weighed heavy on her heart, but she knew it was the right one. She wondered if she should send Miss June a letter, but every time she tried to write one it all fell flat. There was really nothing to say. Was it a failed business? She'd kept it for a while. It was successful when she had it. Was the definition of success that it never ended? Was that all she wanted out of her life? She wanted more. She wanted something different for now. She had hope for a different future for herself. She had hope that she could make something of Whiskers & Words. That Southern would be good for her. A place she could flourish, like the summer flowers. She had hope for more. She signed the paperwork to put Miss June's up for sale, and sent out flyers to the weyrs to post. Bakery for Sale - Igen Bazaar - Contact Cahia in Southern Weyr for Details She had hope that the bakery could find a new owner, someone who would love it as much as she had. And she had hope that she could grow in this new home, and find her feet again, and put her fears and failures behind her. She held that hope tight in her hands, and breathed it into everything she baked. She let it carry her forward. Hope Hope vig has 1 comments. |
18 Mar 2024 07:00 |
Sriella and Cahia ponder their futures and the hopes that they are nurturing. |
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Ripples
"I feel like so many things end up being lies." Cove A saber's curl along the coast of the Azov Sea, the cove is a clash of green and black; where deeply forested jungles encroach upon the curving expanse of this tiny cove, found only past the rocky barrier that serves as demarcation between cove and beach. Lacking the softly ground sand of the beach, the cove is made up of dark, volcanic pebbles, making it trickier to navigate than the beach itself. Yet, what a surprise is given if one braves the less comfortable path that curves around a long-forgotten cinder cone to find the quiet tranquility of seclusion. Brilliant against the black pebbled beach, greenery is only enhanced by the purest of turquoise waters, pleasantly warm all turn from the heat of a deep volcanic vent and churned by hidden currents that further feed into the relative calm of the sea itself. A small school of rainbow fish and yellowfish swims around here. Sometimes you're not yet ready to go to bed. Sometimes memories are a greater pull than sleep, and sometimes… sometimes you just need to get out for a bit. Which is why, after finishing up mailing the books to River Bend, Sriella and Kip did not head for their little room, but instead she let her feet carry her along very familiar paths. Back to the Cove she walked, letting Kip off the leash so the canine could bound around. The cove is empty this time of night, the moons and stars bright above. She adjusts the sleeves on her loose tunic to cover her arms as buzzing insects dart about, but she isn't too worried. She has very few natural talents, but avoiding bites from bugs seems to be something she's good at. They weren't hardly ever interested in her. She'll take the anonymity and be happy with it. Bending down at the edge of the water she finds a stone and chucks it into the water, not trying to skip it, but instead to watch it sink and watch the ripples flow from the center point. She smiles, picking up another one to toss with a satisfying *plop*. Sriella wasn't truly alone her in the saber's curl of cove, no, for Khy'ai had been walking the farthest distance. Nothing more than a blurry shadow at the edge of her vision at first, but his footsteps measure the distance slowly between them. Night breezes ruffle his hair, gilded silver in the moonlight. All of him is washed clean of color until he's nothing but a daguerreotype image of himself. Eventually, eventually, steps carry him closer to Sriella and his voice sounds in surprise, "Sri?" Perhaps he thought of her and now here she appeared. Shifting until moonlight shafts across his features, silvering the shape of his cheek and scruffy jaw and darkening his eye sockets like a Kabuki mask of another time and place. "What are you doing out here?" Sometimes the beaches of Southern give you exactly what you're looking for. She turns and smiles, Kip bounding across the stones to him with tail wagging happily. "Getting some air." Or does he mean Southern? "Had a few jobs. I looked for you earlier." She closes the distance between them, arms opening for a hug. First Kip gets a ruffled-fur greeting, becasue Khy'ai has a soft spot for animals, and then Sriella gets enveloped into a bear hug. "Glad you stuck around," he says, voice rumbling through his chest in sincere tone. "Good to see you. How've ya been?" The last time they spoke, they'd both been walking a wobbly road. "Any job that brings you back down this way is a good one," he adds, pulling back with a grin. Kip wiggles in delight, leaaaaning against Khy'ai's legs and hoping for more pets while Sriella hugs him back tightly. "Careful before you say that, you don't know what I was doing," she teases, but her eyes are bright in the moonlight with good humor. "All legit, I promise." She watches him for a moment and then smiles. "I'm… I'm good, Khy'ai. Better." And she can't ask for more than better than she was, right? "How are you?" she eyes him thoughtfully. "I'm not afraid to get dirty," Khy'ai laughs. "New canine?" If he knew of Tweed's retirement, he's forgotten in this strange, chance run in with her in the dark of night. "Now that," he slings an arm around Sriella in an easy embrace of comforting friendship, "is good to hear." He cants a look down at her, shadows intermingling across his face, shielding him from prying eyes. At least, immediately. "I'm okay. I don't know if I'd say 'good'," unless he said he was 'fine' while the world burned down, "but I'm not… not good either. Just… living, I guess." Sriella laughs. "So if I told you I was stealing herdbeasts to sell to an illicit ship on the Black Rock River, you'd be okay with it?" "Yeah," she nods, "Tweed had to take an early retirement. This is Kip. I'm… trying to train her from scratch. It's been interesting." Challenging, as her arm slings back around his waist for a tight side-hug. For a woman who seems to revel in pushing people away, she really does like physical contact with people she cares about. She craves it. "Just living?" she asks softly, peeking up at him in concern. "I meant actual dirt, not criminal activities," Khy'ai frowns, shooting her a look. Maybe he's unsure if she means it or not, or what. But… He's quick to let it go, not wanting to argue over the RIGHTS and WRONGS of life. "Kip is adorable," he has zero clue on training, so he'll comment on what's right in front of him: the adorableness of the Kipster. "Nothing especially exciting to report," and his secret of wandering out to the northern edges of the Southern Continent and sending love letters to a girlfriend he no longer has… well, he's not going to confess to that. It seems — feels — lame. "I don't know," rueful note, with a hint of sadness. A harkening back to the Khaetien who came to Southern Weyr filled with pain and sorrow. "Maybe I've peaked already in my life." And the rest… like a boulder going downhill hitting all the sad notes. Don't worry your sweet moral compass, Khy'ai, she was kidding. She gives his waist a tight squeeze. "I don't envy your lack of freedom." She, at least, can get a wagon and hit the road. He has duties. "Oh? At…" how old is he? "Your mid 20's? What does Raiyodakarith have to say about that? He content to coast through the rest of life?" "I haven't let him try for …" Khy'ai might look a little ashamed were it not for the cloak of night. Yet, he turns his face away from hers all the same. "… anything. Oh, he'll fly the odd gold or two, but for anything bigger, no. It is hard to think that the one time we won might have been an accident." For he neither shined brightly nor fell spectacularly in his tenure as Weyrleader. "I feel like so many things end up being lies. Lies told to us as we grow up, lies told to us by accident, lies told to us to make us feel better, to humor us, but in the end it's all lies and no happiness exists." Sriella frowns when he looks away, but that expression only deepens as he continues to speak. Her heart thuds painfully in her chest and she is both guilty she hasn't been around as much as she thinks she should be, and also at the depth of his despair. She shifts away from him but only so her fingers can tangle with his in a tight clasp of palm-to-palm. Giving him a slight tug, she starts to walk along the water's edge. "Tell me about lies," she says quietly. "What lies weigh so heavy on your soul, Ten." Khy'ai clasps her hand and lets her lead him along the water's edge. "That everything will be all right. That your decisions, if made in the right heart, will end up all right. That life will end up okay, but it's lies. Don't mistake me," he shoots her a look, "My life isn't awful. I've got a weyr, I've got a dragon… Just because I can't have what I wanted out of life doesn't mean it's bad. But… It's hard to let go of the stories I thought I'd be writing in my life. It's hard to see… that, none of it has worked out how I thought. I don't know where I fit anymore… Sriella, I am isolated and alone." Sriella watches their feet move together on the pebbles of the shore as she listens to him, and she frowns. "So the truth is that everything is shit? That you make decisions and they're always wrong? Khy'ai," she says with a soft sigh. "I know, I understand, believe me. The loss of that future, of those stories, of those dreams… it cuts deep. Especially when you were the one who set yourself on that path." She looks down again, giving her arm a little shake and reaching for Kip's ears to ruffle as the canine bounds past. "But you can't keep looking back and wishing for what is already past. You can't keep reaching back." She gives his hand a firm squeeze, a tug towards the water - into the shallows. "If you went under, would you give up and let the sea take you?" she asks him seriously, turning to walk backwards into deeper water, pulling him with. "Have you lost so much hope in your future?" Khy'ai remembers the boy he was when he arrived to Southern: riddled with the guilt of his part to play in his sister's death. Riddled with the guilt of the pain he caused his entire family. Riddled… "I don't know," he admits, unwilling to comment on her other statements and does not answer whether or not he'd let the water take him away. In truth, Raiyodakarith would not let him, and would probably fish him out so it's a moot point, but the idea of getting lost… "I almost let myself get lost in Raiyodakarith. I almost gave myself over fully to the bond and let him… be me." It was a very fine line, though the bronze had better behavior than his rider did, for he'd shoved Khy'ai back to balance the pendulum. "I don't know what I'm doing. I want…" He trails off. His wants are impossible to achieve. Sriella takes both his hands in both of hers when she's thigh-deep in the water, letting the currents bouy her weight somewhat, letting the waters flow around her legs. "That's possible?" she asks in some surprise. She didn't know that was even a thing with dragonriders. She knows so little about that bond. "What do you want," she pushes. "Tell me. What would bring my best friend back." "Everyone's bond is different," Khy'ai comments, shooting Sriella a glance. "Just like anything else." For him, the waters eddy around his legs though he stands as solid as stone. A slight smile and he shakes his head, "Nothing you can do. I have to — it's something I have to do for myself, Sri. I have to find my way. I have to find the purpose I lost." It is an inner battle that no one can fight for him, he knows it. "But thank you. It means a lot — to ask, but there is something out there for me, I know it. Some drive, some focus, some… passion. I merely have to find it." Sriella lets the nuances of dragon-bonds slide by, because really… she has nothing to offer on that. But it's curious, just the same. She frowns a bit, giving his hands a tight squeeze. "I know this is a journey you need to go on, I know," the pain of her own journey, so similar to his, shows in her pale eyes, "but I…" She gives her head a firm shake, tears springing to her eyes. "I want to help. And I know I can't, I understand, I went through it, I'm still going through it, I know, but." She looks up at him, expression pained. "I want you to be happy again, Ten. I want that for you so badly." "I'm not unhappy," Khy'ai answers honestly, his hand squeezing around hers, "It's an adjustment, to life after everything that happened. Weyrleader, Kovie… Raiyodakarith wants so very much to try again, and I don't let him, so it's a struggle. Without Kovie… it's difficult, yes, but more… I think I'm realizing how much of who I am has been put on external choices, external events. What rank I have, who I'm with. Nothing about me, the man, and what I want to do with my life." Does she understand? Are his words sufficient to paint a picture of his failings to harbor a port for his life's desires. "I don't know — anymore now than before I Impressed — what I want to do when I 'grow up' and I'm grown now. With a dragon and a wing and still, something is missing." Sriella watches him, nodding slowly as she listens to him explain more. "I understand," she says softly. "It's hard to start…within. So much of life is focused on the outside, isn't it. Rank, job, success or failure, relationships, married, unmarried, mother…". She nods. She gets it. "Who are you without him? Who am I without my Craft? I don't think it's a bad thing for some of your identity to come from outside things, but." She finally lets his hands go and bends into the water, digging for stones to pull up and hold in her palms. Why are they out here? She lets the stones fall from her hand, watching the ripples expand from the point of impact, hitting their legs and rebounding to other places. "You're not unhappy, but are you happy?" There's a difference, in her mind. He gives a brief squeeze before she lets go, and Khy'ai tucks his into his pockets, digging deep. "Yes, no. Not really? I'm not unhappy, that's the best I can say. I'm living in a day-to-day mundanity that feels impossible to break out of. I feel both useful and useless." He nibbles the inside corner of his mouth, his hair too long, his facial hair too scruffy. In general, the bronzerider looks and feels a little too unkempt, as if he walks a scrubby line of uncaring about his appearance. "Gotta lotta self-work to do. I'm going home in a seven or so for a little vacation. Nothing big, a few days. It'll be good to be home with my family." Yet, he also knows he'll spend some of that time with his guilty pleasure, sending unsent love notes into the ocean. Sri would have Things to Say if she knew about that. :( "I'm worried about you," she says honestly, with a sigh. "But I get it. I'm not…like. I'm not trying to swoop in here and make you better, I know it's a journey, a process, but I am worried about you. Do you remember when you found me over there," she points up the beach towards the rocks, "and you brushed my hair and took care of me? I want to do that for you, Ten, but I don't know what you need. I don't know how to help. But I'm glad you're going home for a bit." "Oh Sri," Khy'ai once again leans in for an arm around her shoulders, giving her a big hug. "Thank you, that means a lot. I'm not… in bad shape. For all my words, I'm not lingering in unhappiness. Am I stupid happy? No, but then not every moment in life will be that way. I don't know, I have to figure myself out. I don't know — and if I'm honest with myself, after getting Weyrleader, I didn't let myself process that. The whole event, the ending of it. The desire," he inhales sharply as if admitting something he doesn't want to admit, "to try again. To do better. To see if we can try again and this time, make our mark." Sriella folds into his embrace for a tight hug. "Okay," she says quietly against his tunic. "I believe you." And she does. She will. "And I believe in you. If you want to try again, go for it. Rare is the time when you excel the first time you try something." She grins. "Ask me how Kip's training is going," she teases herself a bit. Another squeeze and she steps back, bending for more stones. "I love you, Khy'ai. I want only the best for you and your life." "I love you too," Khy'ai says after a chuckle over the when plans first meet the enemy. "Actually, I do want to hear all about your training and kip. Hang out with me tonight, you can stay in my weyr and tell me all about it. I've a bottle of wine and haven't eaten dinner." It's an invitation to spend the night chatting about her life and — "Also, when are you traveling again? Is the wagon all fixed up?" Because that leads into even deeper questions of Sriella's life, and of course, "And Evie. She's two turns now? I've got a turnday gift for her… I forgot to send." That? Is one sheepish look, especially relieved as the conversation turns away from him and his woes. Sriella studies him for a long moment, as if weighing something, and then she smiles. "I'd love to stay. If you can find me a ride back home in the morning, and cancel my ride tonight." She starts to splash towards the shore, bending to let fingers trail along the waters surface as she does. "Oh, I'm not sure. The wagon is ready but I'm lingering at home…" For Reasons! "She's two, yes, if you can believe it. I can't understand how time has moved so fast…" A warm smile given as she stands, dripping, on the shore. "Don't worry about it. She'll be delighted to get a present out of the blue!" Post-birthday gifts are the best. Bonus prizes! "That is what Raiyodakarith is for," Khy'ai grins, for his bronze will be happy to ferry her home at the butt-crack of dawn tomorrow morning. "It's almost like someone has their finger on a giant lever to speed up time against our will," he grins, joking. "Good, c'mon. I'm hungry and want to hear about where you're going to go to next…" And he does — he truly is interested in all of Sriella's travels and her struggles and joys and successes in training. It's a night of friendship and brotherly love, of stories and general good companionship. And maybe, when he takes her home and sees his parting smile, Sriella will realize that merely being there, spending time with him and telling him of the joys and trials of her life has helped him in small, but very measurable ways. And that gift for Evie? Is a tiny bronze dragon as copper-bright as the sun with a tiny little dude leaning up against his haunch: a replica of Raiyodakarith and little Khy. And Sriella will tell him everything. About her travels, about her hopes for where she's going next, about her and Daemon and how she's finally let go of the past and is looking to - hopefully - build something new. She talks of hope like it's a living thing she is carefully nurturing, regrowing within herself. About how his parole is almost up and she's not sure what will happen next. About Grace's engagement and how she's having a wonderful time finding strippers and would he maybe be interested in being their designated flyer for the evening? When he drops her off Evie is there, toddling happily to the steps to greet her mama with squeals of delight and a wave and happy yell for "Unka Kai!" She will treasure that little figure, balancing it so carefully on the roof of her dollhouse the next time she's at her father's. "Top." She will insist. All dragons go up. Ripples has 1 comments. |
18 Mar 2024 07:00 |
Khy'ai and Sriella talk about life, choices, and hope. |
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A Day at the (Dolphin) Races A Day at the (Dolphin) Races
Floating Race Stands Race day or not, these stands are comfort in itself. A boat landing, small in size, strays off to a walkway, leading to the stands proper. The lower level houses sturdy wooden tables, coupled with gently padded chairs of metal. A small metal mini-bar resigns in one corner, ready to serve any who wish to watch the races 'in style.' Up a few steps and you'll reach the standard benches for some old-school race viewing. It can be a herculean task sometimes to juggle the calendars of two adults with all their various responsibilities to find a moment of spare time, often times requiring planning at least three sevendays in advance. And other times, the stars just align and two otherwise busy adults may find themselves with a spare moment at the exact same time like today. There was no planning on Ilyana's part aside from walking down to the boardwalk with a great big sunhat and towel over her shoulder and sans children for once. She just so happened to run into a certain bronzerider on the way down at the same time a group of dolphin-apprentices rushed by squealing about their need to get to Ista and how they couldn't miss the start of the races. "Dolphin-races? Sounds like a sight to see!" "Dolphin races? I've never seen dolphin races. We could go!" R'zel's up for a new experience, it seems, and so it's not long before Verokanth is taking off for Ista. Actually finding the races takes a bit of asking around, but eventually they find their way to the stands, where there is a conveniently empty table with a decent view and two free seats. "I think we've missed the start," R'zel says, which seems a good bet as there are dolphins visibly racing and everyone else in the stand is cheering on their favourite! "If they're anything like runner races, the early ones are just warm ups. You save the real attractions until prime time, where people either have more marks to spend from previous winnings or they're more willing to go big to make up for earlier losses," Ilyana says with a smile, her Bitran childhood showing through a bit there as she slides her seat around the table to sit next to R'zel's and get a view of the action as well. "Do you have a wager for the next match? Even if the wager is just between the two of us?" R'zel gives a regretful chuckle. "I'm not much into wagering - especially when I have no idea who's racing and I've only got the marks I happened to have on me, which I'm inclined to save for getting something to eat in a bit. But if you can work with that…" He peers towards what seems to be a starting point, though nobody's actually ready for the off just yet. "Ah, looks like they start on those yellow lines. Right, I'm going to go for the one in the middle lane." There are cheers as the current race finishes. "As children, we wouldn't wager marks, since we rarely had them. But didn't stop us from placing up doing chores. Or various sweet treats," Ilyana reminisces slightly, not often she talks about her own childhood. "Though don't think I'd be much help doing most of your chores without a dragon of my own." A wink there. "I always did like an underdog. I'll go for the smallest dolphin in the second lane. He looks speedy!" "The middle one looks quite powerful," R'zel replies, defending his totally random choice with a grin. "And I doubt I'd be much better at your chores. Now, are they racing with partners, or without?" There are dolphineers in the water, but it's not clear to him why they're there. "Oh, look, they're getting to the start marks now!" He leans forward, keen to see how the start is done. "Power takes time to get up to full speed. He better hope he can catch up with speedy!" Ilyana is also going to claim that her choice is based on something besides just random feelings. "And you at least have an idea of my chores… the official ones anyways. Farming is a lot like gardening on a grander scale." And she scoots her chair forward, the excitement building. By the time the bugle blows the start, she jumps up to give a hearty cheer. R'zel jumps up when the race starts, too, but soon sits again for the sake of the people behind, though he's on the edge of his seat. How convenient to get a table with such a good view! And it seems Ilyana's right, Middle Lane Dolphin does get off to a slow start, but as the race continues he - or perhaps she, as R'zel has no clue how to tell the difference - starts to catch up. "Well, mine's in last place - but I think he's gaining on the rest!" Ilyana bashfully sits back down as well, taking her hat off as well so as to less block anybody's view. "Mine isn't doing that much better," the littlest dolphin is still ahead of the middle one, but he's struggling to try and catch up with the rest. "May have been a case number one will indeed be number one." Ilyana can't help it. As the dolphins come back into view again, she lets out a loud whoop and enthusiastic clapping as if that will urge her pick on. It doesn't, but it's the thought that counts. "Do the dragons ever have races like this? Not in the water, clearly." "Oh, sometimes. I mean, sometimes people race for fun, you know?" R'zel's answering but his eyes are on the race. Is that middle dolphin gaining some more as they approach the finish? It looks like it, but there's not far to go! Formal races, though - there are inter-Weyr games when we're not too busy with Thread, but it's been turns since anything like that happened. I think it's more of an Interval thing." Ilyana pumps her arm in the air, on the edge of her seat for the final stretch. "That makes sense, the too busy during a Pass. But with all the logistics needed for runner races and those still happen for Big Gathers, even having herders make journeys across the continent to be at especially important ones, seems like a slightly more formal race every now and again would be a thing. People do love a good excuse to party." A grin there as getting swept up in an excuse to party might be this very afternoon, seeing as she didn't know dolphin racing was a thing an hour ago and now she's here. "At this point in the Pass, there's Thread somewhere pretty much every day, so it's hard to find an opportunity to get all the Weyrs together," R'zel explains. "And it's just not that important. I think some individual Weyrs still had their own internal things early on. Oh, they've finished! If wonder if there are races over different distances." None of the chasers has managed to catch the leader, though a couple were a bottlenose apart behind him or her. Ilyana lets out a little aww as her pick surged forward giving it his or her all and yet in the end, the little dolphin was one of those just missing by a bottlenose or two. "I'm sure there must be other distances. Or races with partners. Variety and all. And true about the Thread everywhere," A sigh at that. It's a fact of Pass life, even she barely remembers a time before Thread. "Just another thing to add to the list of things to look forward to for the Interval. Only…. nineteen or so more turns to go." Whose counting? "Do you want to go find a meal?" The stands seem to be clearing out for now, competitiors swimming away and none taking their space yet. An intermission in the festivities. "Yes, let's do that." R'zel stands, saying quietly, "It's too far ahead for me to start looking forward to it, really. For Vero and me, we're just over halfway there." Nineteen turns of Threadfighting is a long time, even if it's less time than they've already been doing it. He continues more brightly, "Do you fancy fish, seeing as we're in Ista?" And the day continues with a meal and more racing, and just maybe they'll get a bit better at spotting the winners! A Day at the (Dolphin) Races has 0 comments. |
17 Mar 2024 00:00 |
An overheard remark leads to an afternoon out. |
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Igen Visit Igen Visit
Galleries Though occasionally cleaned by ambitious (or neurotic) drudges or weyrbrats being disciplined, the lack of Eggs over the last several Turns has led to the Galleries falling into a state of disrepair. Sand can be found…well, everywhere. On the benches, under the benches, on the railings and walkways. There is also the random tidbit leftover from people who've wandered into the gathering place since the last cleaning. A random bit of cloth here, a bit of something that might have been a carving-in-progress once there. Mid-morning is as good a time as any to visit the Galleries. It's bound to be a little less crowded, but the heat won't be as oppressive inside. Outside? Is another matter entirely. As the midday hour approaches, the summer temperatures soar to almost unbearable highs. Most will be seeking refuge in the cooler inner caverns of the Weyr or elsewhere throughout the Bazaar. Not here, where heat remains constant. Kopriva has staked out a little area for herself on the lowest tier; a little out of the way to offer some 'privacy'. It's also a way to gain some distance from the sands, but not leave entirely. Pariisamith has taken to brooding over her clutch remarkably well, though the young gold does prefer her rider's presence for decent spans of the day. Right now, the gold is sleeping, curled in half-moon repose around one of the larger clusters of eggs … there seems little rhyme or reason to their spacing. Some are buried more than others and that tends to change on the day. Nhiuzukkath might be away hunting for more gifts … his latest one's tidied up and so mercifully there are no butt-less sheep. Faranth only knows what actually may be lurking out there? What could top a whole-ass tree or a (actually kind of pretty) boulder? For now, it's calm. Quiet. Kopriva is as comfortable as she can be, dressed in light Igen desert style with her hair braided and coiled up. There are refreshments, mostly fruit or light finger food — remnants of a late breakfast. More importantly … water. Her attention though, is on the book open on her lap. She has fully absorbed herself into the contents of that book; in fact, it looks like she's nearing the end! It must be great … storytelling … for her to be unaware of the surroundings — or time passing by. One little Southern greenrider slips from the heat of the bowl to the grounds' entrance, taking the tunnel to the wide staircase up to the galleries, while a young green may grouse about settling on the caldera's rim rather than taking a soak in the lake's cool waters. A basket's handle hanging from the crook of her arm, Kovie mounts the stairs with a squint-eyed look at all the sand — not on the Sands — not just underfoot, but on the galleries' benches… everywhere. Such an appraising look flees, however, when she spots Kopriva in the little haven she's made for herself on the lower tier. Treading the aisleways to the goldrider, she calls with a cheerful, lilting voice, "I didn't know if I'd find ya here," for she would not have Naianth inquire of Pariisamith, not whilst the queen was tending her clutch, "but here you are!" in perhaps something not totally decorous of a visiting rider when addressing a weyrwoman. However, once she is near Kopriva's station in the galleries, she does turn that pleased look towards Pariisamith, and her eggs, and inclines her head in a respectful greeting to the queen: a wordless acknowledgement, before her eyes shift back to her friend, dropping to her area, briefly noting the book. "Is now an alright time for a little visit?" Kopriva startles at first, her preoccupied mind scrambling back to reality. It takes a moment of blinking for the voice to register and recognition to follow swiftly on the heels of that — and once it does? The book is shut, not even properly bookmarked in her haste, because that is not the important matter at hand! Heat be damned, the young goldrider is quick on her feet and rushing to close the distance between herself and the visiting greenrider — no, a (very missed) friend! "Kovie!" Kopriva exclaims, all delighted with surprise and giddiness. Clearly, there is no need for decorum here; she skips over formalities in her greeting. She forgets, for a moment, that there's plenty changed between them — or maybe little has, save for distance, homes, rank and title. Maybe, maybe … none of that matters here and now, just between them? Kopriva will seek to hug Kovie, however brief because of the heat. "Of course now is alright for a visit!" That much was caught, at least! Her hands will, hug or no, perhaps come to rest lightly on Kovie's arms or hands, as though she is still assuring herself that she is here. "Is this a surprise or … oh, I hope you didn't send word and it got lost or mixed up too!" No, seriously. What has been happening lately? Then, remembering some politeness, Kopriva gestures with a wide smile, "Come and sit!" During the height of Kopriva's reaction, Pariisamith woke up, but only long enough to blink her eyes open and tilt her head inquisitively in their direction. She hums, low and long, but there is approval in it; this is fine. More than fine! She resettles her head on a foreleg, but her mind? Her mind wanders, lazy sunbeam and reflective dust motes searching, searching … perhaps finding Naianth; the touch is warm as it is gently welcoming. The Southern green is no threat, an ally by proxy through Kopriva's trust and familiarity in Kovie. The hug received and returned with enthusiasm, however brief, Kovie steps back to get a good look at Kopriva like she's a long-lost friend. Which, technically, she is — other than being lost. "I actually didn't send word ahead of time, I probably should have," she laughs, "though I did get someone else's mixed up mail, and I did bring that with me to Igen. But you," and she gives Kopriva's hand a little clasp, a little squeeze, "are my primary reason for coming. I'm sorry… I'm sorry I haven't come sooner to visit." She says all of this as she follows Kopriva to the seats she indicates, settling down on the benches and sitting the basket there between them. "Little treats and snacks from Southern's kitchens," she says of the basket. "Like rolls," though no longer warm or buttered, alas! Between! Stealing freshness! "I kind of miss packing snacks for Vassa, when she was on the Sands." So this? Visiting Kopriva when Pariisamith is Sands-bound? A little bit of happy nostalgia for Kovie, even with the heat. She leaves the basket for Kopriva to set aside or open — whichever she's inclined to do — and finally devotes proper attention to the what's visible of the clutch upon the Sands, tilting her head this way and that to try and guess the breadth and scope of the eggs. Any common colors? Can she guestimate a number? Is one larger than another? Naianth receives the welcome with a burble of spring water, a merry brook that bubbles refreshingly sweet, and serene, flowing mentally to the young queen as proper respects paid from the visiting green. Yet there is a sunlit warmth to her returned salutations, as if she has heard personally of the one attached to Pariisamith and has already decided she likes them both very much. "You don't have to apologize for not visiting," Kopriva is quick to interject on that note, clasping and squeezing Kovie's hand in turn, before she reclaims her previous seat. The book is hastily placed elsewhere and absentminded enough; a glimpse will only yield the word 'Weaver' in the title. Her smile is gentler, a little wistful, towards her friend. "I … I could have come and visited too." And never did, but their lives took turns at opposite times; it wasn't so much forgetfulness as simply just not feasible. There is no judgment and maybe only a small shred of regret. Kopriva's gaze lowers to the basket, a broader smile now at play for the reveal. Even if the rolls are no longer warm or buttered — the thoughtfulness is what really, truly matters. And despite the heat, she will (politely!) pluck a favorite from the basket, while Kovie takes a moment to observe the clutch of eggs on the Sands. "Thank you," Kopriva begins, all warmth and open honesty. The nostalgia Kovie gains is not lost on her. In the next breath, she is leaning a little towards the greenrider, amused beneath her conspiratorial hushed voice. "I've missed some of Southern's treats…" No offense meant to Igen's kitchens, of course! "Even though there is plenty of unique foods here and in the Bazaar," Kopriva amends with a lopsided smile. Nostalgia then, for the two of them! There is so much to touch upon and inquire about and for a moment the young goldrider seems at a loss. Where to even begin? Her attention is solely on Kovie, but the words stick in her throat. As for the clutch, it's a good size for a first! Counting may be a little tricky, as some are more buried than others — one remains buried entirely. Otherwise the colors vary across a broad gamut and the placement of the clutch holds no true rhyme or reasoning to it. Eventually, Kopriva finds her voice — or one thread of conversation to pursue. "How have you been?" Then neither will hold the other guilty for life's twists and turns, for here is what matters now, and now is what matters here, and Kovie will happily pick up with Kopriva as if no time has intervened — save for the major life changes, one who sits in front of them on the Sands; another who perches above, having moved from the caldera rim to come to the dragon viewing ledges to take a look for herself at the clutch below. Kovie may even point out to Naianth an egg that reminds her just a smidge of the very one her green hatched from, though she is leaning back towards Kopriva with the thought of, "I should try something from the Bazaar, then, while I am here," for unique and different sounds like a fun option before she must go home. The silence that follows is comfortable, for Kovie, and contented, until the question draws her gaze from the lovely clutch to her friend. "I'm alright, I think." Her voice may express some doubt. "Getting used to… the life of it. We like our wing, and the riders in it…" She trails off, to present Kopriva a semi-fragile smile. "It's hard to… sum it up." Make it sound neat and tidy. "I could give you some recommendations," Kopriva muses, "Depending on whether you want food, drink or both — and if you want a certain level of atmosphere or entertainment. I'd take you personally but…" She gestures with a tip of her head to the obvious in front of them. Pariisamith tolerates her leaving — in moderation. Perhaps with time, it'll ease. Or is it a little of her too, not wanting to stray too far? There is a brief frown, replaced by a small smile. "I could see if one of Oasis' riders are available? It's — the Bazaar is unique." But? She exhales, "And not without its own risks." Blessing and caution given, Kopriva keeps her gaze on Kovie until that expression of doubt; space is offered by her looking away, still listening but without pressure. That semi-fragile smile is glimpsed, echoed in the gentle half-smile on Kopriva's lips and plenty of unspoken understanding. "It really is," she agrees, wistful. "Usually all I can tell those who ask, is that I'm… adjusting. It's not a lie, really… But how else to put it?" Is there a little apology threaded in there too? For putting the question to her friend. While they talk, Pariisamith will crane her head, likely to try and spy Naianth up on the ledges; part curiosity and playful. If she does, the gold will hum a warm note. There you are~ "I'll take 'em," Kopriva's recommendations, said with a grin to the goldrider, "anything you think I should try," for Kovie is keen for new experiences, new places, new samplings. "And I wouldn't expect ya to be able to leave for something so trivial as that," she waves off the half-trailed statement, as well as the next. "And, no, don't worry over that, please — I wouldn't want any Igen riders to think a Southern rider would need such a fuss." Part pride, part mortification, she's a young enough rider to care a little too much how others from a different Weyr could possibly perceive her; and also young enough to know how insignificant she is even think it possible she have a guide. "I'll be fine." It's not false confidence, necessarily, even if it may be falsely placed: for a girl who survived the Southern jungles and the Orokee cannot fathom being any more in danger in the Bazaar, even if it would be wise for her to be a little more cautious, a little more wary, and heed Kopriva's warning. But that semi-fragile smile morphs to one of brightness, just a little, as if the potential for (mis)adventure is just what she needs to distract her from the complexities of new-rider-life she momentarily left behind. "Adjusting, though, that's a good way to put it," she seizes on Kopriva's statement, tempering her grin into agreement. "But you —" and her eyes glance to the knot, "and this — " enfolding the clutch and all it entails with a vague gesture, "this all truly does look like an adjustment." Sincerity, concern, it's one and the same, with a strong thread of curiosity woven in the look she gives to Kopriva here. "But one you look like you're handling nicely." Admiration presents itself here, a glance which softens to Pariisamith as the Sands-bound queen acknowledges the small green. Naianth trills in response, an equally playful sound, tilting her head back and forth in consideration of the queen and her clutch. "Have you found… people? People you can…" Kovie licks her lips, trying to get question out without sounding too intrusive, too forward. It has been a long time since they've seen each other! "Are you lonely, here, is what I am trying to ask." Kopriva's laugh is as light as it is brief, though no less genuine; it could be that it couldn't quite be contained for Kovie's grin and eagerness. It staves off the worse of the lingering concern in her gaze to her friend, a warring indecision playing out in her head. Eventually, she nods and relents to the suggestion of an escort guide. The only sign that there's any lingering doubt and worry (and there is plenty), is the short-lived worrying of her hands, before they resettle in her lap. "I'll share some of my favorites then, before you go." she promises, with her usual warmth. It will be a little brightness for later, when the inevitable sees them parting again. Her smile brightens further, when Kovie seizes upon her statement, only for it to slip to something far more uneasy for the breath it takes Kopriva to recollect. "It's been…" she begins, flounders for the right words to describe a nebulous riot of emtions and fails. Her exhale becomes sheepish, as does the look she casts to Kovie. Maybe the greenrider understands? "There's been ups and downs." As expected. "Some struggles." Understatement. "I have had plenty of support, though. And the other goldriders… they've all been kind. Patient." Kopriva's tone takes on a faint note of wonderment; as though the notion still surprises her, to this day. She turns her full attention to Kovie then, lips parted to say more, only to have them press tightly shut as Kovie asks that question. It has been a long time since they've seen each other! And how was she to know how it would sting? "Yes," Kopriva admits in a tightly hushed voice, as though admitting something blasphemous to Kovie. "… and no." She exhales that last, with a quiet clearing of her throat. "I'm never truly alone," There's no glance to Pariisamith, but the meaning hangs unspoken. "But I've… I never really got a chance to — to find those connections." Now her smile twists, almost a little sad. "And now it's complicated." Or she complicates it, more than necessary. "There are those I know I can go to if I need to, but —" Kopriva pauses again, distracted as she fumbles. "It's more surface level issues? There's no … I'm still trying to make friends, without this," Her hand flicks to her knot. "Potentially muddling things." There are some things so vast and deep and layered that it's difficult to give an accurate summation, or to narrow down its complexities into something easily relayed: that is what Kovie understands, and her slight lift of lips in a little, compassionate smile hopefully conveys that she does understand the challenge of wrapping neat little words in something not-so-neat. "I'm glad," she murmurs sincerely, about Kopriva finding support and kindness among the other weyrwoman, for the knot itself could potentially be isolating enough. That seems to be what Kopriva alludes to, with her admission. Here, now, a more sorrowful smile, mirroring her friend's, for while she knows — she can feel it, too — the constancy of a dragon's love and companionship, it also isn't the same. Not less: but different. But she listens to Kopriva's answer quietly, watching her friend. "I've struggled, too, after Impression," lest Kopriva think it is her issue alone: it may have been why Kovie asked it in the first place, a clue of her own lack. Her loneliness. "How is it more complicated?" she asks after a moment, curious, hopefully not prying, but spinning off on one thing Kopriva said. Her eyes drift over to Pariisamith's clutch, wondering if that is what she means, or if she has misunderstood. Kopriva's gaze lingers on her friend, expression gentle and her smile small but no less warm. The turn in their conversation is heavy, but even with the stretch of time between, the young goldrider's trust in Kovie has not lessened. Maybe it helps, to have that shared understanding or the ability to relate, even parallel. Perhaps, Kopriva simply feels safe and so she speaks a little more freely than she would around others who may press. "The knot, the rank… complicates things. At least…" Kopriva pauses, only to huff in light amusement. "It's most likely just me overthinking and worrying over 'what ifs' and other broad assumptions. I just — It'd hurt worse to find out others got close, not for me, but for the position I hold." Her lips purse for a moment, followed by a vague grimace. "Not sure I'm explaining it well." she mutters, with a little humor. It's then that she turns the conversation back to Kovie, also trying not to pry, while offering what support she can. "I'm sorry that you struggled too," soft and yet so sincere, "Was it a mix of everything?" she asks, with no weight or expectation to her tone; Kovie has the choice to elaborate as much or as little as she wishes on her own struggles. “Oh,” and Kovie’s reaction suggests an understanding dawning, a thought which had not occurred to her, even with her turns as Vassa’s assistant. She never waded into her older sister’s personal relationships, though, and what drove them. “That’d be so shitty of them, to try to use you like that.” A blunt declaration when the greenrider does not temper her words tactfully; her expression, too, sees a fading of that curiosity into something loyally displeased, not at Kopriva but on her behalf, as if she would be ready to face-off with these unnamed people. A more sedate view or approach is not yet in Kovie’s methodology. It sets the stage, though, for Kopriva’s returned question to deflate her quick-fuse ire, ebbing once more to a sad softness. “All of it. Khy and I… we aren’t anything anymore, and have you ever imagined things going one way? But then, when you get there, it’s nothing like you thought?” With sadness is the pain of disappointment, still fresh enough for her fragile smile to resurface. “I didn’t get close to anyone in our clutch, either, not really. Not when it counted. That was as much my fault as Naianth’s. She’s… I don’t know the right way to say it, but protective of us or something.” Possessive, in actuality but Kovie guards her words when her keeper watches from the rafters, so to speak. That blunt declaration draws a rather prolonged stare from Kopriva, until there's a break in the form of a slanted smile and — yes, a little bit of swallowed laughter. "It would be," she agrees, no doubt pulled from the spiral of thoughts and what-ifs by Kovie's loyalty. Her mood sobers, following in the greenrider's wake and she is quiet throughout the time she speaks. Kopriva's expression twists with understanding, and while she has not yet spoken, she may shift closer; heat be damned, she will offer her hand to Kovie, whether to lightly rest against her arm or to fold over hers. Gentle, but supportive. "I have," she softly admits, to her own nebulous experiences to that vein of disappointment and pain, of the expected and unexpected. "And I think I understand what you mean, about you and Naianth." Protective. Possessive. Not the same, but close enough in ways that she can piece a little of it together. Quieter, almost hushed, as though to cushion as much of the potential sting despite the honesty. "I'm sorry about you and Khy." Kovie's hand clasps over Kopriva's — it may not last long with the heat — but she appreciates the gesture, and the slight pressure in response hopefully communicates as much. It's enough her longtime friend met her with understanding: she doesn't press for the experiences from which Kopriva can draw that empathy she feels from her. "We'll find our way," she says, both concerning her complicated bond with Naianth and the loss of her relationship — her love — with Khy'ai. "Thank you." She would say more, probably, but a sudden swell of emotion seems to choke out those words, and she swallows against emotion's betrayal. This was, afterall, supposed to be a happy, supportive visit! Not one in which she cries over that which was long-lost. Clearing her throat, with a slight sniff to reorient her body's reaction to the bittersweet sting of Kopriva's kindness, she turns another of those smiles, saving face, to the goldrider. "I've got to look for a farmer while I'm here, for a herder I know," she asides, a swift topic change to keep the spring of tears at bay. "He owes this herder Sriella I know some marks. And then I want to have a good rummage around the Bazaar to take my mind off things," because this conversation has helped Kovie to see she might need al little distraction. Kopriva won't press beyond the 'thank you' voiced. Either plenty was said, even unspoken or she is perceptive enough in that moment not to chase that thread of conversation. "I won't keep you then," she offers one of her own smiles in turn, leaning away not to put distance between them but to give enough comfortable space in which to stand. Her hands fidget, fingers worrying one another in subtle movements as she weighs against the urge to fuss over her friend. Surely there is no need to caution too much on Igen's heat, when Southern's summers aren't terribly kind in their own way. "And I can walk with you — to the entranceway, at least." Pariisamith is preoccupied at the moment, having roused herself to begin a routine check-over of the clutch; a few eggs are given paused and tenderly adjusted by the gold. There is no rhyme or reason to it and she does not seem bothered if Naianth remains to observe. "I wish I could take you to the Bazaar myself," she wistfully remarks, as she waits to fall into step alongside Kovie. "Another time? I — will come and visit Southern, soon, too. Maybe right after the clutch hatches." It may seem sudden, her blurting out that thought. Or was it a low simmering plan? "I'll try to send word ahead, when I do. It was good to see you again, Kovie." The last is said quietly, but weighed with considerable warmth and unspoken emotion. Kopriva begins to say more, then fumbles and a 'I've missed you' turns more to a lighter: "Let me tell you where you can find some of the Bazaar's best — in my opinion," And if their walk to the entranceway seems to slow considerably, while she describes in length where to find those venues? Well, there could be cleverer ways to stall, but for Kopriva it is all based in an honest gesture to see Kovie off with plenty of options. There may even be a parting hug, if the greenrider is willing! Igen Visit has 1 comments. |
11 Mar 2024 05:00 |
Kopriva & Pariisamith, Kovie & Naianth |
A Southern greenrider comes to visit her longtime friend while she is Sandsbound |
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Chair, Competition, Coincidence Chair, Competition, Coincidence
Ista Hold Cove The peppered sand of Ista's beaches drifts just a few feet below the water's surface, gradually shallowing upwards til it leaves the water, and becomes the main beach just below the Hold. Farther out is the main cove, filled with the activity of a full-sized seaport. To one side of the Hold is the shipping cavern, where fleets dock and undock, unloading thier goods for trade. Along the other end of the beach is the spar, thrusting far out. You can see another cavern spanning there, the home of Dolphin Hall, and the offices of Seacraft, as well as Ista's drydock. Tropical sun? Check. Rest day? Check, check. No cares? Hell yeah, baby. Ember strolls across the black sands of Ista Hold's Cove, her feet sinking into the soft, supple depths of dark grains and she luxuriates in that feeling. A color as dark as her own hair tumbling in messy strands down her back. Oh, she's long shucked her leathers for a bikini in fuscia, lavender, and dark blue and hopes to soak up some of Rukbat's light into her pasty-white skin without turning into a really terrible rendition of a red sea insect. In the crook of one arm, she carries a basket likely laden with all sorts of delectable delights and some damn alcohol. The perfect spot looms in her vision, free and clear of any other Istan beach goers as the person vacating it makes his old-wrinkly ass off of it. Already, beach vultures see this spot directly beneath a palm tree, with the best views. Ember narrows her eyes, the towel slung over her shoulder flapping as she quickens her stops. Not today, strangers, no one is going to get her spot. Chayallanth is too busy biting fishes in half and letting their bodies wash upon the shores far, far, far down the beach to care about some dumb spot beneath a dumb, curving beautiful palm tree. "Fuck that, you are not getting my spot," she mutters under her breath, all but running now. The spot even has it's own cabana chair. It's perfect. Dear, dear greenrider. Get thee away from this cabana chair, for Haverick, coming from the opposite direction as Ember, has already set his pretty blue eyes upon it as his for the afternoon. He may not rush like she does — nor any of the others — but longer legs? A solid walk? Less to carry? Check, check, check. He has just himself, in sandals and shorts and an unbuttoned button-down flapping open, no basket or bag or towel, and this may not even be the first time he's visited this beach… today. He may arrive just a heartbeat before the bikini-clad woman, unabashed in the smile he lights her way for the image she holds rushing so, and he turns to these other vultures vying for the very same spot before noting to them, magnanimously, "I heard the Holder's giving free samples of the specialty wine he just shipped in from Paradise. It's named after him." Do they believe him? Some might, and turn to go have a taste; and for the others? He has the graciousness to grin in much the same way he did to Ember, before shucking off his open shirt and laying it at the top of the chair. Is that motherfucker rushing to her chair? Not today! This interloper, this cabana chair thief is not going to get away with it. Ember arrives mere seconds after him, in time to hear how he dismisses the others and throws his shirt on her chair. Does her giant picnic basket land on a big toe? Whupsie! "This is my chair, I saw it first," Ember proclaims, throwing her arms out wide after giving the THIEF a big, fat, glare with large eyes as blue as the endless horizons she throws her towel at Haverick to throw him off the scent, and then falls onto the cabana chair, fluffing her hair. His grin? Is NOTHING to the ten thousand watt smile she levels at his still-standing face, even fluttering long, dark lashes and fluffing hair as dark as the black sands he stands on. "I was headed this way first," she ran, you see, "And I don't care who you are. You could be the Queen of Sheba, and I'm not giving up this chair. It's perfect. Look how Rukbat aligns just so — if you would kindly step to like three inches to your left, though. You're blocking the light, and I really don't want 'muscled man' as a sunburn on my belly. It's not a great look." If possible, her beaming smile WIDENS. Has she forgotten she threw herself on a chair held by his shirt? Maybe, or maybe she's being a sassy wench and just LAYING THERE, ON IT. Haverick, sadly, gets away with quite a lot: so when Ember does not back down, or flutter away airily by his smile he's used too many times for his advantage, he's almost — no, not almost — he is taken aback. "Yours," he repeats skeptically, disdainfully, sarcastically, yanking his foot out from under her basket and nudging it, surreptitiously, further away from the chair. Another retort was rearing its ugly head — lips parting not to smile but to rebuke — when her towel hits his chest and he snatches at it, holding it hostage the way she holds hostage his chair. He collects ammunition from all that she says, but she catches him off-guard (again) with one comment. "The queen of — there's no Weyr called Sheba," Haverick scoffs, narrowing a scornful look to that smile which could compete with Rukbat for its shine. "Listen, lady," his eyes refuse to drift from her smile, no matter how much he can still see how ready she looks to soak in the sun's rays, "I'm not moving an inch, unless it's to take back my chair. I was here this morning, I went to have a nap in my wagon, and some old guy has had it and it's finally free." He has her towel — which he is not relinquishing anytime soon — so he does not make a play for his shirt, yet, captured by her body, and as if plotting his next move, his eyes drift down to the basket. "Do you want to see my boobs? I can flash them for the chair if you want," Ember is absolutely not at all giving a single inch, pretty-boy smiles or not. She has her own amunition and right now? A well-endowed chest should be good for any man to wander off into the ocean for. "I don't care if you were sleeping at the old dudes wrinkled old feet like a giant muscled lap dog, you're not getting this chair." She has the audacity to stretch her legs down to her little ittiest bittiest tiny toe and throw her arms over her head to stretch all the bones and muscles and ligaments of her arms over her head, the inner points of her elbows sticking out so delicately in such a maneuver. A dragonrider's life hones her body to perfection, and nature has given her quite a few assets and being a greenrider has taught her how to use them. "If you take every word so literally, it's no wonder you find yourself too slow to have gotten to the chair first. A shirt? Means nothing. I'm laying on it right now, and claiming squatter's rights. So unless you think you're going to manhandle me off this chair, you'd better come up with something better than twinkling eyes and handsome smiles to get me moving, because that right there," a lazy, lazy sweep of her hand, "is a view to die for." She shoots a narrow-eyed look at Haverick, "Besides, who naps in a wagon in the middle of the day? What are you? Fifty? You nap in the chaaaaaaaair." The chair she CURRENTLY OCCUPIES, NEENER NEENER, PUMPKIN EATER. "Now, since you can't sit on me," but can he? "… then… shift three inches to your left." With a perfectly manicured big toe, she stretches one leg juuuuuuust far enough to jab him in the calf if he's close enough to the chair to be POKED. "I'm not fifteen," Haverick laughs outright, "and I trade for a living, so I can smell a scam when it's thrown right at me. But thank you," he'll totally misconstrue that he is the view to die for, seeing as he is still currently blocking hers of the water, and while he has no intention of letting her flash him for the rights to the chair, he also has no intention, now that she has put herself on display, of denying himself his view, her squirming most becomingly on the beach chair. He may have had something in mind for his next tactic, but that rather rude poke of her toe to his bare leg sees him looming — then leaning — over her, his hands pressed to the chair on either side of her hips, while he comes closer, long blonde hair falling in his face. Ember now can have a close-up view of those twinkling eyes and handsome smile, for he turns it all upon her as he challenges, sweetly, "What if," jutting his scruffed chin out with his enunciation, "I did?" Manhandle — not sit on — her. His voice doesn't carry past their private little battleground, no, it's low and drawled with his kind-hearted, thoughtful threat observation. "You're looking a little toasty, sweetie. You're acting like you can't really handle the heat." His teeth appear as his smile widens. "Maybe you need a little soak in the water to cool yourself down." "Coulda fooled me," Ember retorts, "Your loss, you'll never see them now," once again giving him her oh-so-bright smile. And that smile WIDENS when he takes in all the skin and shape she has on display. She absolutely knows what she's doing and gives zero fucks for messing with the beach bum's man-brain. Yet, she did not expect him to turn the tables on her, and those endlessly bright blue eyes narrow when he has the audacity of bracketing her hips with his arms and leaning in so close. "You really do not want to mess with me," Ember notes, her eyes narrowing even further. "I bite back, and if you so much as touch an inch of me," she vaguely gestures at herself, purposefully accidentally smacking him in the side of his blonde-whiskered jaw, "You'll be sorry." Is her threat real? Her expression falls into mutinous as she raises herself up on her elbows, her own chin jutting forward. "First, I'm not your sweetie, you don't even know me. Second, you wouldn't dare on a beach full of people, and I'm handling Rukbat just fine if you'd get your man-meat out of my way. You are the chair thief!" Yet for all her ire, she flips it on a dime with a thousand-watt smile which somehow bodes ill. "Don't say I didn't warn you," she sing-songs, squirming her hips as if she were setting roots in this chair, purposefully hitting the edge of his thumbs with her wiggling. Then she falls back in exaggerated drama back onto the cabana chair, making sure it's all stretched back and sighing HUGELY, as if aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh. THE CHAIR HAS BEEN CLAIMED. “Will I?” That seems what hooks Haverick’s attention, the assurance and not speculation he will be sorry for any of this, even if her threat was delivered with the smack to his cheek, his eyes blinking in surprise at it. That little, careful question comes on a low rolling tone, however, like a soft purr just as ominous as her thousand-watt smile. But her next words draw that smile back in place, a tilt of his head and a lift of his eyebrows for when he retorts, “You don’t know what I’d do on a beach full of people.” Sweetie. Can she hear it’s loud, patronizing usage in the way his smile shifts, something taunting about it. And maybe he would have taken heed — maybe he would have been wise to obey her warnings — but when she sets to her damnable squirming again, brushing her skin against his hands, the trader flinches, visibly, and grits his teeth in some cousin of irritation. Is this even about the damn chair anymore? Probably, most likely, assuredly not. But whatever it is about doesn’t cause Haverick to second-guess himself, for it’s an easy shift in stance to turn those hands over and scoop her from her lower back — he has the decency at least to avoid her rear — to himself, and to turn and swiftly carry her straight to the water’s edge, stepping around other folks sunbathing on his way there. "Oh yes. Oh very much yes." Ember, so certain of her words, leans back and watches his reaction. Never mind the way her teeth grit at his fucking patronizing tone. Oh you better beLIEVE she can hear that fucking sweetie. She does not know him from a foot corn, much less as a person! (However attractive that foot corn is, ahem.) "What? Are you in pa-" the moment his hands DARE to scoop her up, her voice rises on a squeak, "-AIN. THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!" Decency to avoid her rear doesn't mean all her bikini-clad flesh isn't now pressed up to a strange (yet built) hot man chest that — a really loud wailing sound comes from down the beach. Maiden? Or Monster? Ember gives a good few kicks, but the moment she hears THAT SOUND, she unaccountably laughs, smacking at his shoulders as if she's busting a gut in a comedy show. Oh, she could put up a good fight and will still get a good few kicks, but her voice — slightly throaty and breathy from being SNATCHED — caresses his ear in a drawwwwwwllll, "Remember how I said you'd be sorry?" oh how Ember gloats. "Lookie there, here's the consequences of your actions, comin' a'callin'!" The wailing sound comes louder, as if something very large comes their way. Does the ocean roll? Are the waves higher? Haverick ignores such threats and wiggles and laughing taunts for the moment, no matter how —good— annoying they are, the man intent upon his purpose of getting her little ass out of the chair and into the water. He does not, despite what it may seem, unceremoniously drop said ass right on the water’s edge, but he wades into the water with Ember still held to him, and it’s only when he is thigh-deep with her in the warm shallows that he finally, with a sharp frown, turns his head towards that horrible wailing sound. “What the fuck is that?” Distracted and confused, he doesn’t yet release her, but it will be easy enough for Ember to get away for in the water he does not hold her tightly to him. As annoying as it IS to be SNATCHED up like a hotdog by a man a good foot and an inch taller than she is, well… Ember's eyes dance with wicked delight and she has the AUDACITY to boop his fucking nose. "That, man-meat, is insurance." Oh, the oceans swell but only for the BEAUTIFUL and TERRIFYING visage of a very dark, cat-like green surging out of the waters from down the shore. It is from her the screams of a dying woman spill over the beach — not unlike a mountain lion's screams — as the green swoops in low across all those suddenly startled beach goers. Oh no, Ember is not going to push out of his hold for this one. Nope, she's right there to watch all of his reactions. Does he need to be poked (hard) in the soft meat where biceps muscle connects to shoulder and ribs? That soft spot where a manicured, long-nailed finger might find a VULNERABLE SPOT? "Look behind you." Chayallanth, beautiful cat-monster she is, has arisen from the waters, yes, but does not go after Haverick to rescue Ember. Nooooo, even if he might think that, no, she heads straight for that cabana chair and lifts it up and FLIES OFF WITH IT (and his shirt). Hope it wasn't a favorite. Smirking — yes smirking — Ember's sing-song tone says, "Hope you weren't attached to that chair," and her thousand-watt smile looks instead like the cat that just ate the canary while stealing the cream behind another cat's back. Do Haverick's arms momentarily tighten around Ember in realization that this beautifully terrifying creature is coming for him? — and he isn't meaning the dragon, not yet. His eyes widen, at any rate, and he only wrinkles his nose in irritation at that ill-timed, condescending nose boop. "You're a dragonrider?" It's said almost like an expletive, a curse, a disappointment. His shoulder twitches at her poke, and he does turn — half-holding her still in his dawning horror — as the green dragon spares him and instead punishes by confiscating the chair so no one shall have it. Or Ember will, eventually, depending on where her green retreats with it. There are startled, horrified sounds of surprise from the beach-goers, many rolling or crawling out of the way of the spray of sand and wind gusts from the swooping dragon, and for a split second the trader is thankful he is out in the water to avoid some of that wailing chaos on the beach. "That's crazy," lectures the man who scooped up a stranger just over a damn chair. Which does remind him she is a stranger, and he finally puts her down in the thigh-high waters. "Well." Chayallanth forced a stalemate — or would it be checkmate? — and now there's nothing more to argue over, is there? "Have a good afternoon, lady." Nice manhandling you. He turns to head back towards the beach, where his shirt most certainly isn't but Ember's towel he dropped en route to the water surely is. "What's wrong with being a dragonrider?" Ember snaps, a hint of actual anger clipping her tones — anger, but a note hurt. Damn all these men in her life making her feel like a second-class citizen. Or strange. Or weird. The chaos on shore earns nothing more than a gloat from Ember, though when Haverick lets go of her, his thigh-high water is like chest-high for her and she makes another sound. "It's no more crazy than tossing a woman in the water," but he didn't, so she amends, "or wanting to, over a chair." She splashes after him, not quite sedate, not quite not, but also wanting to get out of the water. Of course she's slower than he is, and has to fight more water than he does, but eventually she explodes from the water with a final, "My name isn't lady, it's Ember and that beautiful green you just disparaged is Chayallanth of Igen Weyr." No one curses Chaya but Ember herself, and she will… again… sometime, when she has to fish out another Dot from another unwelcoming lake, but the next time? It's not going to be with onlookers! "You could have shared the space, you know. Instead of being all smarmy and trying to claim with put-on charm." If he's going for her towel, she's not racing him. No, she gives herself a delicious little shake, the ends of dark hair wet enough to trail down her back, but as she'd intended to go swimming at some point? What's a little water? She can sunbathe on a different chair or on the sand or whatever. Here, Haverick would protest — or argue — or even mock the attribution of smarmy to him. He would sputter over the implication his charm was not true, or real; and throw back at her how she willingly used her assests to his disadvantage and made no mention of the possibility of sharing anything with him — other than her breasts. "What did you say?" No, not the part about tossing her in the water — should he have? — and not the part about her belonging to the very Weyr he currently bases himself out of. Her words have followed him up the beach, all of them, but one word in particular stops him, hooks him like she had a cane 'round his neck and has effectively, verbally, tugged. Haverick wheels around to face her, not quite up to the vacant space where an overturned basket and her rumpled towel now lies, sand-strewn, beneath that coveted curving palm. "Ember." The name, articulated, without ire: just almost laughed disbelief. "You're Ember?" How popular is that name around Pern, particularly Igen's area? How common? — for Haverick has never heard it before. A blue-eyed look drags over the siren, as if he's seeing her in a new (tropical) light. "Figures." Turning back around, he leans over to snatch up her towel, drying his waist, hips, even if the warm Istan air would've seen to that in under a few minutes. Mercurial in nature, Ember does not hold onto any one emotion so even ire fades as she wrings the tips of her hair out. Large blue eyes might widen at when he proverbially trips over her words, and not the ones she expects either. "Yeah?" Her tone suggests, initially, a 'what of it' attitude, eyes rolling as the stranger finds another reason to — to what, exactly? "That's my name, you're wearing it out," she sighs in mock exaggeration, lips pressing together slightly when he uses her towel to dry off, not amused at all the little black sand grains covering it's pretty pink and white coloring. Her favorite towel. Figures. He probably got toe-jam all in it. "Figures what, exactly? You're a very strange individual," she proclaims her judgment, feeling quite safe to do so from her perch of lofty viewpoint. Eventually, she gets tired of him using her towel and reaches to tug it out of his grip. "Now you're a towel thief," she grunts, fingers closing around the material. Does she accidentally hook his shorts? His skin? Grab an arm? Her hands are indiscriminate in their grappling. "How do you know my name?" Haverick is used to such judgments — strange, eccentric, unexpected — and it rolls right off of him like the very grains of sand he sloughed off with her towel. "Tell me something I haven't heard," he needles back, with a grin, an imperative to try again, if that is the range of insults the bikini-clad woman has to offer up. He holds his end of the towel just because he can, letting it pull taut, may even give it a little yank towards him, so that her hand could very well end up hooking to his forearm, draped by the towel and, by physics, bringing this Ember all the closer. Leveling a look to her, his eyes a bright blue, he delivers the news he has of some-Ember, any-Ember, this-Ember: "Some old sap returned your shit, but to me." He tilts his chin up the beach, towards the grounds. "I have it in my wagon," shipped all the way from Big Bay to the Island, for his temporary vacay stay here. "If you feel like you need it back." Will she hear the generosity dripping from his voice? His free hand lifts to shove his hair out of his face, his gaze still upon her. "Otherwise, it's made a nice footstool for me the past couple months." A number of adjectives spring to mind when he challenges her to try again, but rather than yield to his challenge, Ember holds her tongue, especially after finding herself suddenly closer to this stranger. Blue-to-blue, a reflection of endless color, though different in different shades, Ember stares his ass down when he explains how he knows her name. "Oh, great." The skin of her eyelids twitches a few times, but she turns her face away from him lest he get a good look at a very real measure of pain — not in relation to Haverick — and she abruptly drops the towel, the game no longer holding her interest. "Well, that's where that went," she sniffs — it's allergies; she is not shedding any tears over a no-good man — with a lift of her chin and sharp shake of her head, sending dark hair over her shoulder. "You actually have a wagon," forgive her for sounding surprised. "How do you get a wagon from Ista Island to the mainland? By boat?" A stalling tactic until he comments on how he is using her stuff as a footstool. "A footstool." She closes her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose, and takes a deep, calming breath before leaning down and picking up her basket, the lid flaps and inside is a bottle of wine, cheese, grapes and other very delicious snacks. "Lead the way," to the wagon. Since there's no cabana chair here any longer. Not that she's apologizing for that — a bit short-sighted, but he definitely got screwed as much as she did! Chair, Competition, Coincidence has 0 comments. |
13 Mar 2024 05:00 |
A ridiculous, silly competition over a beach chair leads to another of Pern's mysterious coincidences adult themes, beach chairs, childish behavior, ridiculous competitiveness |
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The Haircut The Haircut
The Breach (Khu's weyr) A slightly curving passageway connects ledge to weyr. The rift in the rock opens abruptly, bubbling and swelling into a high-ceilinged space that echoes loudly and easily. Shelves and nooks are carved into the rock, with hooks embedded in other places that are suitable for leathers and straps to be hung. The immediate space is for the dragon-half of the equation, with a rush-filled wallow, rather than a couch. Dragoncare items occupy the left wall entirely, from straps to paddles to oil and more. The rider's leathers, too, are arranged in that space, helmet and goggles and all with their own special places. A full three-quarters of the weyr is for the dragon for reasons that are obvious to those that know the beast in question. The rest - to the right of the entrance - is cordoned off with a privacy screen of wood. On that side, there is a table and a pair of chairs; the table is oft-covered in hidework of various types, while the chairs are adorned with well-worn cushions. An old, abused wardrobe is pressed against the far wall. The bed is modestly-sized, but burdened with entirely too many pillows. A couple of braziers are available for heating and limited cooking purposes; little more than charcoal-fueled bowls of fire, elevated and with a convenient lid to snuff them out. Light is provided through a combination of glow-baskets and oil lamps, and the entire weyr smells pleasant overall, with a combination of draconic, spicy hide and something sweet, like vanilla and lavender. This is a weyr that is kept clean and neat, with places for everything - and everything in its place. The wind's not yet risen to a sand-choked shriek just yet - but it's still a little too close for comfort. Minutes will pass after their arrival on Ixzhulqvoth's ledge, after they've set foot inside, before the first spatters of wind-slung sand strike stone. Khu leads the way further inside - taking the potted plants from the ledge with her - and she wasn't lying about the weyr being well-sheltered; that curved entrance does much to provide shelter from the wind, though it plays hell with the acoustics of the place. Even footsteps sound haunting here, especially once the wind really picks up outside. Ixzhulqvoth will stake his claim out in the weyr proper, while his lifemate leads further, to the right, where the wooden divider can be tugged a little wider for ease of entry. The sitting space is comfortable, but it's clear she doesn't often keep guests; just a pair of chairs and, of them, only one seems to see regular use, for the other has a little bit of dust on it. The plants are settled on some shelves, where they'll reside until the storm has passed. Everything is nice and tidy and clean otherwise; save for a bit of dust here and there, that is. But that can't be helped: Igen is a kingdom built on sand and dust. "Sit where you would like," she provides, while she sets about lighting up a brazier and preparing some hot water. "And tell me how you like your tea, sha." She might as well make some; they're going to be sequestered for a little while. He feels nearly naked without his jacket, especially in the onslaught of a storm: this is no commentary on Khu's accommodations, for it is as she promised, well-sheltered, yet Ral rues that he didn't think to bring his jacket along with him, even if it were a race against the sands (of time). Not that he needs it — he'd be shedding it anyway, now inside — and perhaps that's what reminds him he didn't bring it, he has nothing to sling over a chair in a casual air, like the most normal thing in the world is to get a haircut during a sandstorm. And maybe he hasn't been a rider in Igen long enough to realize: it totally is. One cannot also choose openings for this sort of thing. At any rate, he passes no judgments over decor or dust, nor the sparse amount of sitting, and does choose a chair, the one which looks most unused as if for the time here, he'll change that status. R'sare's eyes, meanwhile follow Khu rather than his immediate surroundings. "Hot," first answer, rolling off a dumb smile; and more seriously: "Strong, of whatever you like for yourself." On an afternoon like this, with a storm outside and not-often-kept-company. His hands have fallen comfortably once more to lay on his thighs, without the rub of restlessness witnessed earlier at the 'Stones. No, here, he's still and quiet, watchful of Khu as mistress of her domain. And she is the mistress of it, to the bones; everything she needs is readily at hand, without the sense that she must search or dig through drawers or anything of the sort. "So shall it be," Khu intones, words edged in enigmatic tones. But the resulting tea is a variety of chai that leans into ginger and nutmeg, with the essence of clove at the back. Trellis delivers the milk - fresh from wherever it's stored - and the concoction is pulled together in what feels like no time at all and a lifetime. She functions in silence, allowing him the space to acclimate to her weyr, to breathe, to get a sense of the woman that she is behind that wooden divider, past the weyr that houses her equally enigmatic lifemate. Two cups of chai are served, his first, then hers, in matching cups of delicate china that have been painted with roses. No sugar cubes - but there's no need of them, either. The drink is flavorful enough without. She lets hers cool while she collects a two-part kit - a battered wooden box with a sturdy latch and a smaller box that rattles, filled with ceramic containers - and sets those on the table. "We shall see if you can handle what I drink after," she muses, a Cheshire curl to her lips that's there and gone if he's not quick enough to spot it. "But this is a familiar drink. Comforting on the nerves and soothing on the stomach." Truth be told, R'sare doesn't learn much right away that he doesn't already know: that Khu works with a quiet purpose, and diligence, without the distraction or dithering he's seen others fix a cup of tea with; that everything here seems as-in-order as Khu herself, collected and contained in seemingly simplicity save for those rare, enigmatic instances here and there. That cracks are no longer visible, not here in something as peaceful as her sanctuary, despite what rages outside. Inside? He cannot tell from this distance. The bronzerider sits up straighter when he's served the tea, painted roses noted but it's the scent which draws his hummed sound, pleased, though he'll wait to sip when Khu does, too. "After," he repeats amusedly, stressing the most interesting word to him, while flicking a look at the boxes, unfortunate enough to miss that curious curve of her smile so brief, for all that he's watched her so studiously since arriving. "I'll like it," he's sure, maybe referring to the chai in hand or her allusion to after — whatever may be served up and tested on his tastes. But as for comforting his nerves and soothing his stomach, he half-jests, almost sly, "What kind of haircut is this if I need something to ease my nerves you're having so much compassion upon, Khu?" No Wingleader or Dragonhealer title he typically hooks to her in their interactions: for this, off-hours, is a social call. And that was a sociable tease. Home is more than where the heart is; it's where the cracks and fissures of stress and woe can be left to mend. Once the kit is laid out, she finally sits in the other chair, hooking it close enough to R'sare that her knee comes within a hair's breadth of touching, but without making contact. Her cup is taken up in both hands, cradled and warm in the curve of palms. "Are you going to vanish the moment I am done shearing you?" Eyebrows lift just a little, her tone shaded in teasing notes. "There will be time after, yes, unless you have more pressing things to see to." A sip manages to mask her next smile, but only barely. If he doesn't sip, there will be an encouraging nudge - and maybe she'll gently nudge him anyway, because he's here and she is far more intrusive of personal space when he's in her space. The half-jest of his prompts a click of tongue and a roll of eyes that is most definitely in good humor, but she pulls off exasperation dangerously well until the smile betrays her at the end. "I do not need you twitching or trembling when you see the straight razor. You must be relaxed and you must trust me, or it will be more than just a haircut for you, yes?" One hand frees itself of the cup, but only to reach for his hair, to thread fingers through it as before. A touch of nails to scalp; a gentle slide of strands past knuckles. "And I do not wish to have to explain why I have a beheaded bronzerider in my weyr, R'sare." With the slant of her accent and lack of a title, his name is more purred than spoken; a breathy intonation smoothed over by the richness of chai. "No," lightly remarked, of R'sare's chance of vanishing and likelihood he'd have pressing things to see that he could up and leave, letting that single-syllabled answer stand in answer to both. But these arrangements are all observed, from kit to chair to nudging tease and R'sare, his cup in hand, takes the prompt wisely, willingly, lifting it to his lips for a sampled sip of the chai. He can barely swallow fast enough to try to stem the tide of her growing exasperation, an explanation almost ready, yet the reveal of the smile resolves that with a huffed exhale of humored agreement, instead. "I would like to leave here without too many nicks," he'll allow, gathering steam for further rebuttal: which is effectively silenced by Khu's reach, and subsequent touch. As if she requested it — (she didn't) — he tilts his head towards her, chasing the sensation of nails to his scalp, of his hair in her hands. His name, from her mouth, that way. And here, in the seclusion of her space, he does not shutter from his eyes a more visible reaction to such broach of personal space: how his narrowed glance may encourage a continuation of it, leaving unspoken the dare — the question — of, what if he does, in fact, want it to be more than just a haircut? What was she saying about soothing nerves? — But he swallows after a moment too long, when chai was temporarily forgotten, and on a blink he can summon a flickering smile as he says to her, lowly, "I trust you, Khu." Another blink, slow. "With a straight razor. And my nerves." Satisfaction in his responses - all of them - is a soft exhalation and a settling of her smile into something more nuanced. Complicated. There's an inscrutability to it that still carries an echo of an ache, half-remembered and then dismissed on an exhalation. Her fingers linger in his hair, as if forgotten, fingertips reaching for his scalp again as if compelled by some unknowable impulse. Or is it so unknowable? With the walls of the Weyr to shelter her, what need has she for more walls within? Lips thin for a moment, the bottom one drawn in and worried over by teeth for the span of a breath, maybe two, before the attention continues - without the pretense of preparing him for a haircut, this time. It's a slow and steady exploration, a tender raking of nails over equally tender skin, with the agonizingly slow drag of fingers through his hair to draw out the sensation all the more. She's closer now, closer than perhaps she needs to be, but the cant of her head and dip of eyelids suggests a different kind of scrutiny is at work. Does she pick up that unspoken aspect? She must. Surely she must, or her fingers wouldn't be tempting fate the way they do. And yet- "Finish your drink," soft, breathy, and unmistakably imperative; words that curl so perilously warm against his ear, "and we will begin." Loath as she is to pull her hand free from his locks, there are other preparations that will need to be seen to: warming some water, preparing a heated towel, and other things that smell nice and rich and perfectly aligned with the scents that already lace his skin. He holds perfectly still throughout, an even, leveled look upon her: approving, distantly, that she did not pull away if she had doubts or second-thoughts that she should. That she answered his bid with more freedom, more exploration. Exploration which causes, despite his relative stillness, a catch of breath, a soft exhale; a series of blinks which tell of his inner resistance against fully closing his eyes. Willing, instead, his gaze to stay weighted upon her, unwilling to miss even the slightest change of her expression, the concentration, the study. Even if he knows not, fully, the nuance, the ache, the cost. R'sare subjects himself to this, willingly, silently, wishing no words to mar whatever tension builds from Khu's hands in his hair, the chai unsipped for all his focus, concentration, sharpens to the feeling not just that, but also the air between them, how close she is. It's a brutal, delicious slow agony, all of it, and one he takes in full; his gaze, this time, not denying this proximity breach the way he might've at the Stones. His exhale comes not at her directive — no, he shivers at that, her breath to his ear, instead — but when she does, finally, pull away. Then, then he hurries his look away, with a shift to his posture, sitting up once more where he had leaned so close in response to her. Now, sipping the chai as told, he studies her quarters. Not rushed in hasty obedience, nor lazy in languid unhurriedness, the chai slowly disappears; he may very well need steadied nerves, though not perhaps for what originally dictated it. After a time, he finally gathers enough of himself to look back at her. It is good that he doesn't hasten to finish his drink, or else it might impede the rest of her preparations. It is better still that he's keen, aware, and responsive. Even as he keeps an eye on her every move, expression, and shift, so, too, is she fiercely aware of him and his presence here. Of the struggle to keep his eyes open, of the labored breath of pleasure, at the shiver- all of it is drawn in, noticed, absorbed, and returned in some sense through the methodical movements of her preparation. A towel is dampened and set aside. Another is shaken out and readied. The kit is opened, exposing steel tools that are sharp and bright and well-kept. A pot and shaving brush; a bottle of something clear. Her return to him is marked not with a touch, but the draping of fabric over his chest as the towel is put into place and clipped at the back of his neck. His hair is pulled free and soon wetted with her fingers; the warm water isn't a proper washing, no, but she only needs his hair damp enough to relax and she'll get her fingers to his scalp to make sure it's done thoroughly. Both hands, this time, with her shadow stretching over him, her head bent to observe her own work. She's quiet, here, but there's precious little room for words to breathe when a moment has its own gravity; powerful, heavy, and drawing them toward a singularity that cannot be so easily seen. Hair wetted, she goes for the comb, taking her time and measuring out the length of his hair-to-be with a touch, a gentle tug, and a quiet consideration. Perhaps it will be as he prefers it, in the end; all signs seem to trend in that direction. Is it the chai? Or the lulling ministrations Khu makes out of this haircut? For R'sare is relaxed — or does, gradually — beneath her touch, beneath the quiet, beneath all that could be said but isn't. His eyes do not go so far as to close, but there is a distanced, faraway look to them however much he continues to be aware of everything she does, even if he cannot always see, does not always look. Some spot on the cavern wall is where he hangs his gaze: unfocused. Convening with Strath, who is weathering this storm in their quiet weyr? Or removing all thoughts and perceptions save for what he can feel of Khu watering down his thick hair? He has gotten haircuts before; he can trim up his hair, himself, even, though mystery why he hasn't since Khu first made that comment at the yard— after the goldflight — all those sevens ago. But as he told her, truthfully: he trusts her with the shears and her having good sense of judgment. Of considering him, nerves or otherwise. It's not until he can feel the slight tug of his hair that in a blink his eyes shift sideways, and up, to see what he can of her in his periphery. Which might not be much. Something spurs a break of the silence, a question that finds itself willing to be asked: "Do you cut hair for riders often?" This is not vetting of her expertise or experience; an uncurling curiosity, over a dragonhealing wingleader who happens to have a hair cut kit in easy reach within her weyr. It's some manner of spellcraft, perhaps - if ever Pern housed witches, Khu would be one without a doubt. Whether the warmth of the drink, of the room, or the fingers that work through is hair is the catalyst matters not: the end result is the same - and the very effect she's sought thus far. Not compliance or complacency, but relaxation and calm. Ease. Relief. The walls of this space are full of shelves - some plants, yes but plenty of jars and bottles and jugs, glass and porcelain and clay. Dried flowers hang in profusion in one section; herbs claim another. Her work is more plainly on display here, the quiet work she does when she's not stitching wings or leading her wing or, indeed, working her strange brand of witchcraft on those troubled souls that need a calm hand and a soothing voice. The stirring of Ixzhulqvoth in the weyr betrays his presence only briefly; he rests, lapsing into a slumber and lulled there by the sounds of the sandstorm outside. In here, in this space, it's a susurration of sand and wind; a sigh, dampened to spare the senses. With his hair combed, she finally takes up the scissors and starts to work. She's unhurried in this; there is no need to rush, when this is more than just a routine cutting of hair - yet, why has it become a pampering process, prolonged and purposeful? If she has answers, they are not forthcoming. She clips away with a steady hand and a periodic hum of thought; he'll surely feel the shifting weight of hair being removed, hear it whispering to the ground. He speaks and she pauses, scissors at the ready while she considers it. The work begins again and, with it, her words come in a low, melodic cadence by virtue of her peculiar dialect: "I cut my own, mostly. I used to cut for another and he would cut for me. But those days have passed, as days do." More snipping; more silence. Then: "I will sometimes do it for riders in the infirmary, who have been there a long time." A pause. "You are the first I have taken here." R'sare might not be allowing himself to think too deeply upon it, lest he make a bid for those answers Khu hasn't quite offered up. Why hurry, though, when trapped by the sandstorm for however long it takes to spin itself out? To the soft sound of the shears and the quiet contemplation of Khu about her work, he submits himself to the process, an occasional twitch of his nose or flicker of his eyelashes when bits of hair fall from the scissors and tickles his face. But he keeps still, spine straight, hands upon his lap now that the rose-painted cup was safely placed on the table once it was emptied. What he makes of her answer? The first part receives no further prodding; it was what it was, and — as she said — has passed, no matter if a curiosity exists around it. And he could've guessed the next, that she does; but the last? Perhaps it is the hair that falls with her next snip that has caused a more fluttered blink, a more narrowed glance sharp to the side, to catch sight of her figure as she moves around him to cut his hair. But no words, no follow-up, to question that: only a soft 'mhm' to at least acknowledge, without elaboration of thoughts that might stir up from such an answer. Silence, then, stretches. Then another thought. He noted it before, and will note it again: it's a little like a sanctuary here. "My weyr is bare, compared to this." No signs of hobbies, nor decor; it's a spartan existence, his bachelor's weyr, with no flourish of life that seems to bloom with Khu's interests and side-hustles. "Strath is on me, to buy art for him." Gratitude is a secret thing, but spoken in a subtle smile that lingers at the corners of her mouth. Khu pauses briefly to brush some stray hairs to the ground, to work fingers through his hair to loosen up more, and then to run a comb through her work to see how far she's come, how much further she has to do. Does she feel even more relaxed? More at ease? With it comes an openness; questions asked will always be answered, for that's how she is and always has been - but perhaps the loosening of her mood will mark a loosening of her lips in due time. His fluttered blink - does she suspect hair or surprise? - comes just as she steps more into view, her scissors gliding along the sides of his head to shorten and neaten there. Both sides are evened out, the sides shorter than the hair on top, but there's yet more combing, more care, until she seems satisfied enough with the cut that she can set her tools aside and work her fingers through instead. "I have had a long time to fill it," she replies, fingers skimming down to his neck before she glances askance to consider the razor. Not yet, though. Not yet. Instead, she points to the mirror, a small disk of a thing, while making sure her gesture is seen in some sense - even if it's the corner of his eye; the fingers of her other hand busy themselves with styling his hair loosely. "Why haven't you given him any art?" Curious, that, though without judgment; what reasons exist, she cannot - will not - speculate. He blinks once more against the scattering of clipped hairs, giving a little shake of his head beneath Khu's hands to help aid in their freedom; but he's back to a lightness, figuratively with the topic change — weyr decor, of all things — and, now, too, with the dead ends cut away, returning him to a more well-groomed R'sare. Less disheveled than he typically presents to the wingleader, always by accident. With her hovering near, but not always directly in front of, his eyes follow her where and when they can, always watching even as her fingers stroke through his hair at the end of the cut. Unconcealing, once more, the way his lips twitch in betrayal how good it feels, her fingers on his neck, in his hair. Picking up the small mirror, he dips his chin, tilts his head, this way and that, attempting to get a thorough look at the change wrought by Khu's hands and craft. Answering, even as his fingers lift to brush away some stray hair stuck to his forehead, "Most of the stuff I've seen is — stuffy Hold stuff that I grew up with. When I've looked around at Gathers." Not that he's been to much. "Or the Bazaar's usual of — portraits and landscapes of deserts and canyons. Nice, but. I don't know…" So it is less a reticence to accommodate his bronze and more an innate pickiness, of not having found what is just right for the both of them. There is something meditative about it - running fingers through hair, slow and steady, over and over again. It's soothing - for both her and, it would seem, R'sare as well. A final sweep of fingers over the back of his neck finds her fingers slinking through his hair again, without any trace of shame - nor any pretense of doing so for any other reason, either. The gentle press and knead of fingertips adds a massage-like quality to the contact, her other hand joining the one already in his hair and giving a final, thorough, working through. "I need to clean up the back of your neck," Khu provides after a moment, chin lifting to the mirror. "Is the rest to your taste?" She'll leave him to answer matters of hair while she, in turn, ponders the artistic conundrum with a thoughtful hum. There's that meditativeness again, as stroking turns to kneading turns to a slow, deep rubbing at the back of his neck and his shoulders in a physical expression of how deeply she thinks. Eventually, "Does he like colorful things? Black and white? Single colors?" Best to start at the barest bones of preference before building up from there. If he takes time to question it, the touch without pretense, that she does it because she can — and wants to — R'sare will not risk acknowledgement of it in case, by calling attention to it, he mucks it all up. That he certainly enjoys it , and finds the sensation, the care, satisfying, will not be beyond detection, no stoicism on his part existing here. He may even try to find Khu's gaze in the mirror's reflection, however distorted or small; and while its curve of the disc cuts off the image of his lips, she may see the smile — the approval — in his eyes. "It's perfect, Khu. Exactly what I wanted: Presentable, at last." Wry, but appreciative of her work. Before he can drop the mirror, she could easily catch sight of the shift in his expression, when her contemplative kneading takes a stronger turn, but he's already fleeing from view when the mirror's replaced on the table and, unthinkingly, bending his chin to his chest in reaction to the deepening touch — and thought. Are a dragonrider's shoulders ever not tight? Is a dragonrider's neck ever not tense? For the muscles there bear the knots of strenuous labor; a body physically and frequently exerted; worked out often, and, from the way his skin even twitches beneath the tunic and towel, touched little. His eyes have closed, not holding out here: he allows himself to feel every bit of Khu's physical thought process spelled out on his muscles. "I… don't…" What are they talking about, again? "Uh," one eye squints, either in concentration or concentration, "Sunrises and sunsets. He likes the end and beginning of the days." Dusk and dawn, twinned beauties. Wasn't she supposed to do more? A shave? The tools are there and the towel, damp and warm, is ready to be applied, but her hands persist in their work of finding those knots and coaxing them loose. Her fingers are cunning and clever, experienced in the art; surgeon's hands, hers, strong and steady and canny. "Good," and she is satisfied that the hair meets his desire, her own smile perhaps caught in the curve of the mirror before he sets it down. "More than presentable," she does amend, tilting her head a little to glance at him from a different angle. "I have some waxes to try in your hair if you would like." But she's making no move to get them, not now, when she finds herself anchored to him through the dance of sinew and bone, muscle and skin. Fingers slip further, seeking entry past the barriers of cloth, to make the skin-to-skin contact that will make this easier. Burrowing deeper into her thoughts; deeper into his tensions. Deeper into the shared knowledge of the work that they do and how so very necessary these moments of relaxation and rest are. It may be that she's doing work - but it's every bit as relaxing for her as it is for him and it shows in the muted sigh that slips past scar-split lips. "Mm," is that melodic mote of thoughtfulness, tumbling a bit into a drawn out hum. "I will speak to my brother. He knows more artists than I." An offer made, the seeds of an idea planted, she moves on with a murmured, "Does the emptiness of your weyr trouble you?" "I'd like that. I like things like that." He could be accused of being, at times, a little vain or particular when it comes to his hair and they wouldn't be completely wrong, but R'sare is a guy who would appreciate more hair products, such as the wax offered. He'd say more, maybe, but silence seems a little wiser, at least until his skin acclimates to the feel of her fingers, now unimpeded by his tunic. His own exhale is not so muted, a soft, relieved sound when she works through a particularly tense spot by his shoulder blade, common for the effort it takes to sling or haul firestone sacks filled-to-brim. Lips parted, it takes him a minute to find his words to answer her question. But his eyes are open, once more, considering his answer. "It takes time to build a life, as you said. And we're new." Young, he means, and inexperienced. Untested. "Seems foolish to rush to fill something that may have to be cleaned out by someone else not much later." And while anytime, any rider could be escorted to between by Thread's help, R'sare seems to feel more keenly the likelihood could happen in the early turns of sheer inexperience. "But it's his place too," honesty unfurls, a quieter thought, Strath in his mind and heart, "and he would like some art," and so art he shall — eventually — have. "I just needed to be more resourceful," acknowledging now, Khu's connection, and her comment about it. "How old is Ixzhulqvoth?" How long has Khu had to build what he now sees? Hummed is her assent, her agreement, her reassurance that she will provide what she has suggested. Rukbat knows she has plenty of containers here; how many are dedicated to the vanity of others? She seems to use precious few - shampoos, yes; lotions and some oils… but little else. It's a little more difficult to get at the more troublesome points of the neck and shoulders, where she knows the gnarling of muscle and nerves runs tightest or, at least, are the most difficult to unravel - which finally forces her hands to retreat with a soft sound of lesser frustration. She wets her lips and draws her hands away, a final smoothing motion over his shoulders and neck - with the cloth serving as a barrier - only to move for the towel. It's aromatic, pleasantly scented, and she adjusts the folding of it while assessing R'sare's face. "You are new, yes. Fresh. But life is for the living - and living is filling your world with things that help you grow. Things that bring you joy. It is not foolish to wake up and look at a painting that gives you life - if only for another day." There's her smile again, soft and tinged bittersweet. "If not for you, then for him." Her thoughts align with his in that sense, reaffirming his words with a further bolstering of her own. "Head back, just a little. I am going to drape this over your face and neck to soften the skin and hair." Warning given, she'll do just that, holding fast to her answer until she's satisfied with her work thus far. It won't be there long - but it might feel like a long time, needing to breathe through warm, damp cloth. "It has been twelve turns and nearly a month since he gave me my name and purpose." Affection limns her words, an ache and tenderness thrumming deep - and, perhaps, some measure comes from the brown himself with a subsonic rumble resonating through stone. To the next stage of the impromptu appointment, R’sare slouches enough to tilt his head to the back of the chair, neck supported, eyes closed to receive the pleasantly warm towel with its lulling scents. It gives him time, this quiet darkness, this momentary separation, to ponder the truth in Khu’s answer, of ‘living today, for tomorrow we (could) die’. Something he has struggled with from the beginning: the emotional investment into that which may be so easily lost — no, taken. When he resurfaces with the removal of the towel, having heard the words and the ache that wrought them, he quietly recalls, “You were Khulan, before,” remembering the name written on the one he received, one of the few things he thought he could understand. "I was. As you were Ralisared once." His old name holds a different sort of melody on her tongue, more sighed than purred; still soft, soft, soft. "I like R'sare better. It breathes." The towel is set aside and the process begins with an efficiency that speaks of skill borne over turns; how often has she done this? How long has it been since last she set warmed cream to skin and a razor to it after? The blade is sharp; her hands are sure. Where there was a species of distant intimacy before - even with the partial massage, her physical distance was distinct - there is something more here, as proximity tightens and the sphere of her own scents mingles with his. Should his lips part to speak, the blade will be removed - she might have plans for how to deal with a beheaded bronzerider, but today is not the day to enact them - but, otherwise, it will do its steady work, removing stubble with care from throat and jaw and cheek. The edge is cleaned, more cream applied as necessary. Finished sections are wiped clean with a deft hand, chased with a light caress to be sure all the stubble is gone. And, all the while, she speaks in a low murmur, words for his ears alone - for Ixzhulqvoth already knows her story to the bones and sinew of his own self. "I was born to traders, the Khan. We grew and sold healing herbs and lotions, all of the things you see here. I might have become a trader here. I might have joined the Healers. I might have been lost to the Bazaar. These are all possibilities that existed once, but He chose a new one for me. I do not forget where I am from - I cannot - and those lives still guide my hand. If I die tomorrow, I can die satisfied that I have lived and lived more lifetimes than most." R'sare, does, too — like the new name, the new him, the new life far far better, despite the struggles, the adjustment. The differences. And perhaps there is more he would or could say, but silence here is as comfortable as it is necessary, and he can hold his tongue. Registering, instead, the close proximity of Khu, not just the physical nearness but the different quality it takes; and with it, the tactile sensation of the careful scrape of blade against skin, buffered by the cream. He is a captive — and captivated — audience, though, to the unfolding of Khu's biography, little known of it before now, other than the glimpsed images shared by Ixzhulqvoth, or the vague references she herself has made in the past. Still, he does not speak — he won't, until she's finished, not wishing to interrupt any of this — but watches the cavern's ceiling, or whenever Khu comes into range, her; and only a swallow might impede her progress, when his eyes flick to find hers, if only to request — beseech — a silent more when she pauses. More. More attention to his jaw, where the curve of it may make stubble stubborn to scrape away? More testing that the scruff upon his cheek has been erased away? Or more of her — her story — of how she came to the Weyr, what led a stubborn-hearted Khulan to be discarded by her trader lot and seek a new life in Igen? She has a surgeon's steady hand and those periodic swallows of his are taken in stride; barely a skip to her stride, in a figurative sense, with the blade working oh-so-effortlessly in her grip. The snag of stubborn stubble is easily felt, his wordless pleas somehow heard and answered with a barely there tip of her head in mute acknowledgement of what skin says to skin. Her thumb will tuck into that place, working over that juncture of jaw and throat; that expanse of cheek. Featherlight, but just enough; enough for the whisper of sensation to set a tingle in motion. More cream, then; another pass of the blade, for she has time to make this right and she is not a woman who works in half-measures. As more is scraped free, her fingers set to work again, seeking out the secrets that they might find; the curves and planes that a person knows are there, but which another has yet to experiences; the angles and aspects that are so easy to see, but much harder to appreciate. But is there more to tell? She's quiet for a time, eyes gone dark. What more is there to tell that doesn't reside in the oblique territory of a world so alien that it might as well be the Red Star? Lips twist a little, words stirring but not yet spilling; twisting, as if she were trying to chew her way to a beginning, only to find another ending instead. Eventually: "My parents are dead. I regret that I did not tell them that I could pay my own marriage price." Sardonic, her lips finally curl. "A single nanny caprine of breeding age. I could have trampled them with a herd of them. But, those roots are dead. My brother came to me in his grief and found his heart twice over - and I have gained a brother after a gift of forgiveness." Should he feel guilt, holding her hostage? Nevermind Khu is the one with the blade to his neck: for she met his requests without hesitation, in all ways; and R'sare benefits from it. Chai might have done its job well, or else it could be wholly attributed to Khu: for the pulse she could find beneath blade or fingers is steady, rhythmic, strong. The shaving blade has not caused him to quake, and neither does the darkness perhaps to be found in the prolonged silence, then words she chooses to finish out the rest of her more. It is not until the razor is stayed and her fingers, instead, trail across his throat, or jaw, that he risks movement, rather than words. His hand lifts, slowly enough to prevent accidental nicks — despite what he joked earlier — and slowly enough to capture her fingers, his own curling around hers. A gentle squeeze, before he seeks to thread his fingers with hers, interlocked touch without the placement of context. But as already, as if developing a particular habit, much is said without the shape and sound of words: herein, this touch, an intimacy of compassion; of solidarity in loss, or of living with a few regrets. All with the release of the fresh scent of the shave cream, what hung onto her skin now imparted to his. He skips the 'I'm sorry' he said at the Standing Stones, but his grasp grows from the same root: recognition of a painful past, of survival, of finding a way through. The work is done - or near enough to it, by now; the back of his neck needs tending, but that can wait - and, so the blade is on the way to being set aside when he finally does move. Something flickers across her face, something that casts shadows into her eyes before it passes. Her hand is caught, her fingers easily threaded through - for they seek soil of a sort to take root in and he provides that solid ground. Fingers thusly linked, she finishes the task of putting the blade away and, in taht moment, pivots just enough to make the table in front of him a perch for her to half-sit on. To face him. To study him. Subtle are the movements of fingers and eyes, of nostrils and lips as all of her senses are engaged in the absorption of those details of him. Of his actions. His reactions. The words said - and those unsaid, which might still be felt thrumming in the space between. Her free hand is not as still as the rest of her and it moves, restless, to skim up the line of his throat, to skirt his jawline, and to finally alight where her thumb can feel along his cheekbone with only the barest pretense of making sure no stubble remains. Scent and touch and presence all mingle, lines blurred between both body and mind to allow that intimacy to take root and grow, bit by bit. "What is your story?" For she's shared enough of hers - for now, for now, she's spilled enough of herself and the idea of bleeding more is too much. R’sare is not the species of man who blathers on with aimless chatter, who is prone to filling gaps in the quiet, so when he comes under Khu’s scrutiny, he does not crumble, nor flinch. Perhaps she is admiring her handiwork: for without the scruff, his sharp features look sharper; without the length, the loosely-tousled hair gifts the suggestion in another life, he could have been highborn heir of a stingy little cothold. Features which normally keep a staid composure, here, trend introspective, her question eventually bringing about an answer that isn’t necessarily reluctant to be shared, just unused to it. Straightening in the chair, he leans a little, adjusting his grip on her fingers to loosen and come, instead, to rest upon her knee, where a thumb strums a repeated, if errant, stroke as if to aid the unfolding of words. “I’m firstborn of a cothold, small but successful, that looks to Bitra’s main.” Holdborn, then, which could explain his innate reticence Khu may have noticed; the inward struggle towards flights, or lust, or intimacy. “Raised to eventually take it over, and a younger brother who got it all instead.” Rueful, his waste, how he threw his inheritance away. “It was a bet, a stupid wager, I made in anger and pride and didn’t think he intended to take it seriously, when he won. He went to our father, though, who let it stand.” A birthright traded for ego, and turns later it still smarts, his error, his folly, and what still feels like a family’s betrayal. “My mother still won’t speak to me, and I thought — for turns — wouldn’t return my letters.” His thumb, here, pressures into the muscle right about her kneecap. “The letter you found was from my brother, who told me my father burns my letters before my mother ever sees them.” It's a trait she appreciates, given her own tendencies; the quiet is preferred to prattle, for words should have purpose and weight and meaning. Khu must surely have concluded her assessment of his cheek and, yet, her hand remains, though her thumb grows still along the carved line of bone beneath skin. His hand will find a solid knee, unyielding and unbending under the weight of his touch. Freeing her hand just finds it slipping back, resting on the table to grant her a little more security and balance. There is no effort made to dislodge his hand or calm that strum of thumb; no effort made to expedite his words. They will come in their time and, when they do, she is silent and focused and intense all the while, with a slight nod here or there when it seems the words are slower in being spun. Sympathy cuts a crease in her brow, stitching between her eyebrows and finally forcing a parting of lips that, just as quickly, seal shut before a sigh or gasp might escape. Is it for his words or the pressure to that muscle at her knee? She will not say. There is no 'I am sorry' from her - the words are meaningless without action to support them - but her thumb glides over his cheek and her weight shifts, just so, to better balance his hand on her knee - to keep it right where it belongs for now. "It is admirable of you to keep trying, even when your words do not echo back. You are the better man, for taking the punishment and proving yourself in a different arena. You could have lived so many lives of misery," and perhaps he has, yes, but he's here now, a bronzerider and full of potential, "and, yet, you are here." “Here, yes,” draws quiet in R’sare’s repeat, a stray smile for he purposely misconstrues Khu’s overarching meaning — Igen — to be, here, in the middle of a sandstorm, freshly shorn and groomed and now quietly, if also purposefully, stroking the band of muscle a over her knee. “It was good, I know now, to go,” he admits, finally glancing away from whatever he sees in Khu’s eyes; instead, to tilt his chin towards her hand, a turn of his face that will see just the softest brush of his lips against her palm, a precursor to a kiss, without fully committing to it. They are only, after all, sharing stories and a haircut. Against her palm he murmurs thoughtfully, “I’d repeat all those turns of misery,” for there were, as she supposed, turns of it in the aimless, lonely in-between of Bitra and Igen, “if every time I knew I would arrive at Strath. If that is what led me to be whom he would choose, I’d do it again.” If life were a series of rolls or deals wrought, he would gamble again and in the same way. Much like, perhaps, he is gambling here, with this errant noncommittal — yes — kiss. However she may interpret the gesture, or the way he won’t quite look at her, the bronzerider gives a soft smile to her palm, before straightening out of her grasp, abruptly releasing his hold on her knee, an absence of pressure when his hand comes, instead, to snake through his hair. Resuming, presumably, this appointment. "Yes, here," and perhaps she picks up on his smile and his interpretation - or perhaps it's just a fleeting amusement for her to put herself in his shoes, to replay the events of the day and all the days leading up to now, and see how strange and ephemeral it must be. Her hand twitches a little when his chin tilts toward it, her fingers curling a touch and palm tipped a little more to receive that almost-kiss, that barely there touch of lips that feels so warm against skin that's warmer still. "As it should be," breathes she, of living all those terrible times, through that broken mirror of the past, if it meant getting to Him in the end. Before he can pull away fully from her hand, her thumb sweeps down, snake-quick, to touch just at his lips in a return gesture that might not have the same weight, but it shares an intention all the same. As he straightens, she uncoils, gaining her feet fully while he rakes fingers through his hair. Her movements are languid, dreamlike, and deliberate all at once, as she steps past and behind him, fingertips glazing over his shoulder along the way. "Head forward," she directs, fingertips briefly steepling at the back of his head in a gentle gesture, before she goes for the razor again. "You are nearly done and ready for the world again." Amusement lurks under the words, chased by a mote of gentler curiosity: "How does Weyrlife agree with you?" How did it? How does it? His Holdbred nature is no surprise, in retrospect, as she pieces those aspects together with his reticence. In that, perhaps, they come from a shared sort of origin - with wildly divergent responses. An obedient tip of his head forward has R'sare complying once more, exposing the back of his neck with the towel slipped down a little bit. Threadfall is what will await him later today, post-sandstorm, and he smiles at the thought it somehow won't appreciate Khu's work quite the same way he will. For Threadfall, of course, doesn't care how handsome you look when it's eating you to the bone. "Weyrlife," he echoes to gather his thoughts. "When I worked around here," pre-Strath, "it was — fine. I had little interactions with the 'riders, and their life. Didn't know any." Nor did he even try to. Even though weyrfolk and dragonriders live in the caldera together, it was easy for Ralisared to live seemingly separate from them. "The adjustment wasn't quite so — stark." He cannot glance to Khu, behind him, to gauge if he's making sense. But then a thought unfurls, a sideways grin, there a second before relaxing. "Of course the goldflights were — different, that first Turn. But then you get used to it, you know. It's felt like it's a different thing when you have an up-close view of a dragon's perspective on flights." A young, virile, lustful bronze one's, to boot. But there is more to Weyrlife than just flights, of course, and R'sare contemplates that. "I like the structure of the days, the purpose in them," drills and PT and sweeps and Threadfall prep and escorting queens, "and the predictability of it — the expectations, I mean — and the belonging." The job, the lifestyle, the strict requirements, the high standards. "I guess," exhaling, summing it up, "the job agrees with me." The razor works its magic up his neck - neatening the line, transmuting short hair into a subtle fade that only she and those behind him will ever truly appreciate. Sometimes, it's worth doing things just to do them, regardless of how much another might appreciate it. A final sweep of fingers, a soft sound of satisfaction for a job well done, and Khu lingers, listening; expressions on both sides go unseen, her introspective one, his slanted smile. One hand busies itself with dusting scraps of hair from his shoulders, long after the last is gone, while the other keeps hold of the razor until silence on his part - after that summary of his thoughts is given - grants her a moment in which to move. To the table again, where the blade is set aside to be cleaned and sharpened, where she can make an easy perch at the edge of it, both hands resting on the table to either side while her spine curves, serpentine, into a posture of contemplation. "The goldflights without a dragon were-" her tongue works a little, tapping at its cage of teeth on the inside "-difficult. It is more tolerable with a deeper understanding." She can sympathize. Greatly. But there's a slight nod for the rest, catching up on his words now that she can look at him fully. "The routines allow sanity to set roots and grow. To find balance. It is good that you have adapted well to the strange soil of the Weyr and found growth. Not everyone does." Fully trimmed and groomed, R'sare slowly tugs the towel from around his neck, careful to catch any hair that wasn't sufficiently (it was, though) dusted away by Khu's fingers. Leaving it on the table, he tests out the lightness to his face, his hair, by a quick sweep of fingers over and through, stopping at his chin where the backs of his fingers momentarily slide against his jaw. "Yeah?" Forehead lines appear with an arch of his eyebrows, glance turned up to Khu now in slight height advantage over him perched on her table; his forearms drop to rest on his knees, body leaned forward slightly, shoulders rounded, a little back stretch that turns into a slight slouch. He's thinking back to his first turn at the weyr, obscure in the mundanity of it, save for the slights, perhaps. A groundhog-day existence, perhaps. "I had always known of them: but feeling your first one…" Silence fills in what they both know it's like. But he's nodding, next, to her affirmation. "If it was chaos all the time," of flights or Falls without the security of knowing their place, their purpose: his blinked grin suggests he knows the adjustment — agreement — with Weyrlife would be far more troublesome. "It's the constant opportunity to die that's… that's my hang-up." One he has alluded to earlier in the haircut. Why decorate? Why fuck? Why invest — why why why. "But you." His eyes drift over her, sitting there, as if imagining a Khulan before she became Ixy's, became Khu. "Weyrlife agrees with you?" That first goldflight- it sets off a momentary cascade of memories that are, out of necessity, filtered out of Ixzhulqvoth's reach. The brown, slumbering, yet maintains enough of a connection to the world outside that dreams may still slip the ink-on-white boundaries of his mind. Khu knows this and restrains it, but her expression skews distant for a moment, two, before she shakes her head to render her into the here and now. "Perhaps that is where we differ most," she says at long last, picking up not on the chaos, but on death itself - the notion of it, hanging overhead always. "I did not fear it in my youth, because there are worse things than death." Especially for a woman, trader-born to fiercely conservative people - death is not the worst bedfellow she can have: it's just the last. The tip of her head his way allows her to observe him through lashes; any other time, she might look coy or coquettish but, here, there's an echo of distant melancholy and recollection. She draws her lower lip in and chews it, gently, before she lifts her head to look at him and continues: "Weyrlife agrees with me, yes. I came here knowing nothing of goldflights. I knew nothing of dragons or Weyrs, only that the sheltering stone would provide shade for a time until I could set roots or drift onward." The ghostly tracery of scars on her arms are most visible when she's still, memories writ in flesh; the girl-that-was had more of them, deeper and more livid. Time has scrubbed all but the most egregious away. "I did not expect it to embrace me." R'sare's not privy to what Khulan's earliest experiences at the Weyr were like: though he can see its indelible mark in the slight change in her expression, even if he knows nothing of what memories were spurred from his statement or question. But as he's proven, he can sit through a thoughtful silence without growing nervous or uncomfortable, and as much as they've done in that quiet back-and-forth pattern they've established, he waits her out until she, now, sums it up for herself. His early life, for the most part, was privileged: trials of a different kind came to his cothold's door, for in no way would he have ever — then — thought of worser things than death. Sadness, though, touches his features, a blinked look away to spare Khu from it whenever more and more of her upbringing gets brought to the light. Instead, he focuses on the latter of her statements, able to glance back at her when he finally speaks. "Embrace, I like that thought," he snags on that word choice, not for innuendo's sake — he means no doubled-meaning here — but the idea that the Weyr can be a haven, a home, for lost hearts and souls. As it is surely promises to be, for him, in time. What scars formed her, then released her, Ral has for himself not yet pursued: and even now if he could find the evidences of phantom pain left on her arms, he does not embrace — or take, rather — the opportunity Khu hasn't quite freely given him. Another lapsing silence, comfortable, though distant, with thoughts of pasts starting to close in with a heaviness. Finally: "Thank you, Khu, for — the haircut." In time, perhaps, those stories will be told - traded for more of his history, for snapshots and snippets of a life she would never lead; a life that was never even an opportunity by virtue of the accident of her birth. Khu, for now, is satisfied in the bleeding of self and the mingling of memory that, now, leaves its indelible residue over this moment and all that came before. Her smile emerges, slow and aching with something that touches her eyes to make the shadows shift, just so. "The stone is warmer than some hearts. I am grateful for it." She gives him a good looking over in that silent span, though it's more than a superficial survey of her works. It's something deeper, more assessing, more thoughtful - something that rides a line of intensity, without pushing too far into discomfort. "Thank you," trails after his words, wading in the wake of gently-cracked quiet, "for trusting me - and being trustworthy." One hand lifts from the table, reaching to tuck fingers under his chin and her thumb on it, to tip his head ever-so-slightly upward so she can better look into his eyes. "And thank you," is added with a curl of a smile at one corner of her mouth and a glance to the razor gleaming in the lamplight, "for not moving abruptly." Because cleaning up that much blood is hard and she has far better uses of her time - and it would be such a tragic, tragic waste to of a life. A sound of amusement, exhaled out, though it's neither a huff nor a full-blown laugh: but it carries all the same, that her comment caught R'sare off-guard. "I'll thank Faranth later that you've the steadiest of hands, Khu, for I like my neck and I'd like to keep my head, too." No blood spilled today. "At least through the next Threadfall." If he loses his head today, it will have not been by the brownrider's hands. He moves easily by her direction, not resisting a longer — better — look when his green eyes lift meet her dark ones. Therein, perhaps, without a trace of shadow, is a shift to a seriousness, even against her curling smile: an intention of the … and more he will not, today, verbally raise; and so the look shall not be restrained, even if R'sare himself will be. Slowly, while his eyes drift over her face to take in the woman who held, generously, his life in her careful hands, he notes, "Storm's slacking. I should go get ready for Threadfall." The thumb at his chin is restless, not content to stay where it is for long. Perhaps it's motivated by that look or something that stirs in dark, dark eyes, it's impossible to say. The facts remain that, after his last words, the pad of Khu's thumb glides over his lower lip, a featherlight touch that whispers of something similar, of intentions echoed deeper than can be seen and left to resonate in nerve and skin alike. "Mm," rises, falls and takes with it amusement to leave her with a shadow of his seriousness; a darkling mirror of the same. More and more yet lurks beneath, but no words exist to give it shape. A half-step closer draws her tighter to his proximity, piercing any remaining bubble of personal space with the same disregard that her lifemate has for others. She bends, then - slow, slow, slow - with a press of warm lips aimed for his forehead, while her free hand curls at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, fingernails touching the line of his spine. Words are breathed along the way, husked yet soft and firm in the same breath: "Fly well. Survive. And, Rukbat willing, return here, because I owe you a drink." A drink promised earlier, when he said he wouldn't flee immediately after - but things have taken longer than intended, haven't they? Long enough for the storm to ease, long enough for Threadfall to draw inexorably closer, and long enough for orbits to swing perilously close. His teeth come to press his lower lip where Khu's thumb lifts, testing nerves stirred by feather-touch with a deeper, distracting pressure. Though R'sare's lips part in a shallow draw of breath, when she breaches that which he so staunchly, so carefully, has tried to maintain throughout the haircut, the sandstorm. Does he exhale, ever, in the diminishing space? In the heartbeat's count as time suspends for that seemingly chaste kiss to his forehead? As he feels every slow, deliberate drag of fingernails over his skin? "Khu." There, that's the exhale: her name, a short breath; one he can't quite catch, one that tells of a restraint so threadbare it's close to shredding away. It would be so easy, barely nothing, to tilt his face up, towards her — The poor beleaguered bronzerider swallows, sharply, to finish a thought intended the entire time, or so he'd like it to seem: "Thank you." For the benediction, the torment, the nerves. Can he possibly recover? Not here; not with her, this close. "We'll drink sometime," R'sare soldiers on pathetically, a man who faces down Thread and yet, no matter how put-together Khu has made him look this afternoon, will still seem to be leaving her weyr so… disheveled. He's too out of sorts to offer up he'll bring the drink he favored in Bitra, if the impulse to do so was once there. He has other impulses to contend with, instead, and without the indignity of sliding out of the chair, he stands — slowly — taking her arms around his neck with him as he tries to gain his height and some form of internal order. There may be a moment his hands, firmly, find her hips: surely just to steady her with his rise from the chair, the two now even closer; the one now looking down to her. "I've got to go find my jacket." As if that is the most pressing errand at hand, but it's what makes him finally release her, stepping sideways to safety. A stir of wings, as the wind has let itself down; it's Strath, rumbling a greeting to the ledge's owner, in a sound that is nothing short of amused. The Haircut has 0 comments. |
12 Mar 2024 05:00 |
Takes place right after Storms, where Ral endures a haircut |
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Moving out vig Moving out vig
Akzhan Tenement Apartments Tightly packed apartments jam together in an old adobe building that had once seen better bygone days of a different era. At the edge of the Bazaar, far away from the poshest places in the Bazaar, this three-story adobe-sandstone building has been repurposed from derelict disrepair to a place to house the poorest of Bazaar residents. Cheap accommodations lie within but boast of little creature comforts. Tenement housing operated by the Akzhan means missed payments get dealt with harshly, but repairs come months too late. Very few apartments have windows, though there are some, and more people than anyone can shake a stick at live crammed into tiny, layered apartments. Privacy is rare, as every apartment can hear what happens in the ones around, and doors are often a luxury where hanging linens are the norm in the lowest levels and cheapest accommodations. Only a fool would live here, or those hiding from secrets best not discovered. They'd been in Igen almost 7 months now, and Ryeklom didn't recognize himself anymore. The kid who used to race toy boats on the lake and enjoyed riding runners and sneaking pastries from the kitchens was no more, in its place a young man with callouses on his hands and a slight bend to his nose from one too many fights. He hadn't told his sisters he was moving out. He couldn't bear Keturah's concern and Naveah's delight to be rid of him. Or at least that's how he imagined it would be. He didn't fear a lot of things anymore, but he was afraid of that. So he snuck out, knowing it was the chickenshit way of doing things. He packed his meager belongings, made up his bed, and left. He didn't know which sister would take over his bed, but part of him was proud that he could do that for them at least. They could each have their own space with him gone. It would be much easier for two girls to share a room. Take care of your sisters. He'd known he'd be the first one to move out. He didn't want any bad choices following him home and hurting them. He was a growing boy, a young man, and sharing a room with two sisters was not something that could last very long. He'd been saving his winnings from the pool hall and the other bars, working his way quietly around the unofficial circuit. He'd hidden his marks in a plant pot in the rooftop garden that Herder had told him he could make use of. The plants had all died immediately, but it was a good hiding spot at least, and the old lady who lived there sometimes left food up there for him. Once he saw one of the other kids about to climb into one of the windows and he hauled him down and ran him off. The snacks had been a bit more regular after that. Still, that wasn't home. He needed a space to call his own, so when the old building out by the auction yards started to show activity and rumors swirled that it was going to be a new place to live, he'd started saving. He was one of the first folks to put down his marks and sign a contract for living there. He'd asked for a room on the top floor, not worried about stairs. He was more worried with neighbors, and if he was on the top floor at least he wouldn't have anyone above him to cause noise. They'd given him his key and directed him up the wobbly stairs. Up, up he climbed, to the third floor. Down tangled corridoors that were cluttered with trash and broken things - already - to his room. It was at the very end of the hallway - he walked straight up to his door. It was narrow, barely wider than the hallway itself. It looked like they had just put up a wall and a doorway at the end of the hall to make another room. He had a window at least, and one of the first things he'd need to get would be heavy curtains that would keep the sand out (sort of) when the storms kicked up. There was a tiny bed and that was it. He didn't even have a dresser, a table…nothing. He just had a bed, and the key that he hung around his neck for safe keeping. He sat on his bed, sneezing when the movement sent up a cloud of adobe dust and sand. He felt a surge of anger - old, long buried fury - at the path his life had taken. He'd been an heir, dammit. He'd had a big room, a beautiful carved bed, a soft mattress, down pillows, a clean floor… But the anger was brief, shoved down by his practicality and by the reality of his situation. He did not have any of that anymore. He was not that anymore. And he'd be dammed if he let life get the best of him. He wouldn't be here long, after all. This was just a place to start. His own space, his own room, so he could let his sisters have their own space, and so he could stretch out a bit. He was a growing boy, and living with his sisters was not sustainable. Kala appeared above him with a soft chirp and he beamed, reaching eagerly for the gold that was the joy of his life. Cradling her to his chest, he stroked her soft hide and dug into his satchel for the little tin of oil he'd bought that morning, eager to care for her. To take care of something. "This is our new home, Kala, okay? You can be here whenever you want, but if someone comes in, run away alright?" He'd tried to keep her hidden from the rest of the world, not wanting people to know he had a queen. Why, he wasn't quite sure, but it felt like a secret worth keeping. He didn't want anyone bothering him about eggs, or trying to take her from him. He didn't think anyone could steal her from him, but he wasn't positive and it was a definite worry. He sent her off and left his little room, heading into the Bazaar for the day's work. He had his own place. It was a shithole, but it was his, and he could have some pride in that. Moving out vig has 2 comments. |
17 Mar 2024 07:00 |
Time to move out. |
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It Already Happened It Already Happened
Infirmary Sterile and scoured, the surfaces of the infirmary, well-tended and beloved by the complement of Healers due a weyr of Southern's size. Soothing tissane simmers at the large hearth, while comfortable chairs circle that particular feature in a waiting-room of sorts. Tables of dull-gleaming oldtimer metal lie as examining slabs, neatly lined in rows with pull-curtains enabling full privacy as needed. A low wall separates the southern half of the room from the rest, and those practicing the apothecary's trade can be seen compounding medicines under the watchful eye of the posted Master. In time, the nature of the sound changes. There's a final rise to the roar of voices, way over there, beyond the stone, and over minutes it ebbs away, while the basso thrum of dragon song dies out gently. Soon there's not so much the sound as the subsonic texture of displaced air from the wingbeats of dragons returning to their weyr or their Weyr. The remaining hubbub of voices relocates, out of the galleries, into the living caverns, where the feast already awaits, fragrant. It's over, then. And Albertine, in her bed, slowly closes her eyes. They'd turned him aside the first time. From the quiet of a mid-Hatching infirmary. When he returned, it was with sweetness — and sweets; pilfered from the Feasting tables as he elbowed his way past an incoming tide of dignitaries, shell-shocked family members, his wingmates who had pre-gamed, drudges (but not her), and, soon, the sloped shoulders of heart-weary candidates being unleashed on the open bar. Also not her. The Healer on duty could not be said to have been mightily impressed with the unshaven scruff on his face but she melted to the cinnamon syrup cake in his hands, "made with apples all the way from mainland Nerat." And that's the cliche yet effective way bronzerider N'iall has been in the periphery of Albertine's subconscious as it wrestles with restfulness under the circumstances. Sat on a stool because the staff wouldn't let him drag in a waiting room chair. N'iall's propped it on two feet, balancing between that and his crossed legs propped up on the wooden board at the foot end of the cot. Though his jacket is slung on, he gives the air of having been there some time, with his head down, fully involved in the sketching pad he has braced into his stomach. Flicking through bouts of vague consciousness, she may even try to say that, at some point, there was idly soft — skilled — singing in the room — but he would roundly deny it, so clearly it cannot have been true. Wakefulness is not a binary, as it turns out. A minute or two ago, Albertine was lying closed-eyed and prone, but with a sort of constant twitching that would not occur in proper sleep. And now the twitching gentled, and she's looking up at the ceiling, but with an empty sort of expression that would not occur in proper wakefulness. There's an empty glass on her nightstand that still emits the sharp smell of fellis, and perhaps it's good to know that the healers gave her something. You know. For the pain. Her expression does not change when her eyes find N'iall, just there, close by. There was something… Her mouth works in silence, and then her entire face wrinkles. "Is it okay?" she asks, the words thick in her mouth. There's a soft scrape as N'iall's charcoal stick skips a line. Lifting his chin, his expectant gaze lands upon a minutely more conscious girl in the cot, while the side of his hand is blindly engaged in swiping off that additional mark he hadn't meant on the paper. In the infinite mystery that is charcoal, more will come off on his hand than off of the drawing. A faintly bemused smile begins and dies on his face as he turns over his shoulder, cannot immediately see the silhouettes of any healers, and so looks back at the patient. "Hey, Albacore," he greets - for her to forget or remember. The bronzerider doesn't move into any slowly spoken empathy when he speaks to her; those with bedsides manners will deliver that in spades. N'iall just sounds like… N'iall: too dry for his baby face, and too high for his cynicism. "What do you need?" If she can even tell, as he side-glances off that fellis. Albertine thinks about that for a moment. The set of thoughts she can afford to think right now is a tad limited: on each sides are chasms of anger of grief that can't be looked at, lest she falls in, and who knows how she'd ever clamber back out. (What does she need? For the world to not be so damn bleak. She needs to be lying curled up on a couch in the barracks with her baby blue breathing against her chest. She needs a do over, she needs her Pa, she needs her Ma while we're at it. She needs a break.) "Can you," Albertine asks, slower than normal, "bring my books? From the library. Y'kim knows which." Books are safe. Books are an escape. She squirms and once more her whole face squints with focus. "Is it okay? It's mostly grey and blue, like a sky with clouds, but there's a large spot like, like a spire rising into the sky, right, with a jagged white line touching the top, kinda like a lightning bolt I guess. Can't miss it. Is it okay?" He flips the sketchpad closed with a flick of the wrist. "Yes, of course." The feet of the stool thunk down with N'iall's standing shift of weight. All a little too quickly, so he has to awkwardly duck and catch the stool from clattering all the way in the other direction and most likely having him thrown out by his ear. After, the sketchpad is placed atop. "Y'kim." Licks of salt water at the back of his throat is Ciceroth but he refrains from answering the sound of the rushing sea in his ear, resisting what noticeable glaze would clear his eyes, instead of looking at her. He can be fed the identity of this 'Y'kim' when he has need later. Unless— the man's eyebrows lower, casting another glance over his shoulder while one hand rubs strongly at the forefinger of the other. Does she mean… - now? Being smartly dismissed would not surprise him. This — here — he's stepped over the line drawn by the normal purview of their… what relationship? Well-timed fishing? And the abrupt concept that he may have been his usual stupid self in launching into this instinct is the vibrato of his voice, "I… I'm so sorry. I do not know what you mean." A soft wince. He could've just lied so she'd rest again. He knows he wouldn't have each time. Considering that Albertine does not look like she remembers she just asked about books, it's probably okay if such are not delivered right away, no. Should N'iall inquire later on, though, he'll find that this Y'kim is a prolific producer of novels of questionable virtue and Albertine is, if not quite a fan, at least an avid consumer of the genre. Possibly she mentioned those once or twice while fishing with the bronzer. Wise of her, too, to be asking for things to take her mind off the present. The present would weigh heavy on her mind — however much of her mind, anyway, as is hers right now. N'iall's puzzlement at her sibylline query leaves her thoughtful for a moment. "I may have dreamed it," she says, slowly. Then her face contorts with something too close to pain, and she rolls onto her side — tries to, anyway, but thankfully her leg is immobilized and she does not accidentally harm herself further. "I'm pretty sure, though… Its shell has a nice texture. You know? All warm from the sand. I hope it's okay." She squirms a bit, strains in the general direction of the living caverns, the path toward the Hatching Grounds. Her breathing is growing labored. Little by little, there's more of her in her eyes. Those eyes find N'iall's. "Wait, though… It… already happened, right? The Hatching?" Lie, N'iall, you asshole. Lie, distract her, use— Anger at his own ineffectiveness realizes he's already been nodding, a straightforward acceptance of her assumption, no more and no less, no frills nor pity. His hands have slipped into his pockets, the safety of all fidgeters hiding their compulsions while the more Albertine drains back into her self, the less N'iall feels appropriate being here. She's mentioned her — well, not other; he's not; her rider friends, and he can recite their names for he was trained to recall details. But he'd never looked into who they were, it was always a tomorrow project. The seconds pass, where he's left breathing space for her processes— but not so much she might pitch over into them entirely. His chin has lowered some in a mere touch of this regret, which otherwise feasts on the insides of men, and he stays his ground, just rocking slightly back on his boot heels and down again. "I didn't really stay for it," he informs her in a continuance of that plain speech, only to affect a disgruntled lip tug at the last second, "It was sorely lacking in Albertine, and I thought: why a mark in many Hatching, when I could be being coolly berated by someone much my junior." Not about the books, however. He had found no fault in the girl's genre of choice, as he'd be painted a hypocrite — his romanticist song lyrics don't even have sex appeal as an excuse for existing. This is a roundabout way of saying yes, but it's still yes, then, isn't it. Albertine produces a throaty grunt and closes her eyes, her head resting heavily on her pillow. Her breathing comes oddly wheezy through her nostrils. Two fat tears roll down her cheeks. For a fair amount of time she speaks no more, only lying there, catching up with reality and the hollow ache it has in store for her. It's a sorrow too big for her to let it come out in force, though; it would submerge her. Before too very much longer she opens her eyes, dry again: no longer bereft, only dull, the jagged shards of what-should-have-been buried deep, deep within where she can look away from the pain of it. "Thank you for visiting me," she says. "It's kind of you. I, uh, I hope I'm not asking too much, but, if you're in the library one of these days, can you bring me some books?" Apparently forgetting she already asked earlier. "The infirmary gets boring, you have no idea." Before she can finish the sentence, though, her eyes close again, this time in weariness. At this rate, looks like maybe she'll be dozing off before hearing the answer. And you know, sometimes, the oblivion of sleep is a blessing; and tomorrow's another day. "Yes, of course." No hesitation to be said just like the first, whether she hears it or not insignificant to if it seeds even a little into the weariness of her thinking. His kindness is debatable, just this is not an appropriate platform for it. A statue is made of N'iall as he ticks away the time with his foot until it feels secure enough she is again in the grasp of medication or the grip of depression's sleep. Safe is not being accounted for, he states, "I didn't get to be in my place either." Though the cool rush of the tide at his feet is evident amongst the subtle creaking of settling wood, it bodes no warning; his bronze of second-rate has always known. Though he draws the closer hand from his pocket, he'd have to get nearer to physically touch the girl, and the longer he lingers there, wondering if it's even a meaningful gesture at this point, the worse he feels about it, so his fingers shake out and his head shakes out, and he twists on a heel to gather up his tucked away satchel, his sketchpad. A looser sheet begins to slide less in line with the others and he yanks it out speculatively. From it, he looks back at Albertine in her cot. As quietly as possible, the rider closes in just enough to set the drawing on the bed beside her. Then he picks it up. Exhaling loudly in exasperation, he sets it back down and immediately strides for the entrance—- catches it on the threshold and walks straight back to determinedly retrieve the sketch, stuff it into the pad. At this point, he's brought up short by the healer wondering what's the matter and whispered reassurances are in order; the pad going to be tucked under his arm so he can assuage her with both palms as he is just short of escorted out. With a new purpose of hunting down a Lynx bluerider in the middle of a celebratory Feast and nuisance him long enough to get some books. And the little piece of sketch nudged loose when the pad went upside-down, sifting out onto the floor towards the cot… just enough in the furniture's shadow so as to completely obscure its presence. It Already Happened has 0 comments. |
16 Mar 2024 05:00 |
After realizing Albertine's not at the Hatching, N'iall skips the Feast for the Infirmary. loss |
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You are not alone. (Vig) You are not alone. (Vig)
Rise Up by Andra Day Infirmary From the astringent smell of redwort, to the gleam of counter and cabinet, this place positively defines the concept of antiseptic cleanliness. Despite the yawning exit to the Dragonhealer Courtyard, the floors remain scrupulously swept of sand and particulate matter. Back behind the counter where the healers usually are, are shelves full of bottles and jars, as well as cupboards hiding away more delicate items that shouldn't be exposed to too much sand. Beyond the counter, there is the Desk, where patients are checked in and taken to one of the examination areas by a healer. The windows are usually kept open for the flow of air, but there are both shutters to shut out dust storms, and curtains for other occasions. Issa's consciousness wavers, caught in the nebulous space between waking and dreaming, pain and relief. As her mind drifts in that nothing, it isn't the infirmary with its sterile smells and soft murmurs of healers that she finds herself in, but into a landscape vastly different. She wanders through Shabeth's mindscape, his monochrome world with its vast, open plains stretching infinitely, dotted with the occasional tumbleweed and the distant dust of unseen herds. It is quiet there, with no pain, worries, or expectations to do anything but wander and sit by the fire at night with nothing to do but to watch the stars pass by. Pictures of pain flash through her head as she sees herself in the distance, staring blankly at the ceiling, her body a map of pain and determination. Every breath is a reminder of the fight she had survived, and every movement a testament to the battles yet to come. Her leg, once strong and sure, was now a source of constant pain, wrapped in bandages that seemed as much a part of her as her own skin. "Why can't I stay here?" she asks the wind as it picks up around her, softly caressing her face and wrapping around her like an invisible hug. You know the answer to that. The wind whispered back with its richly masculine voice. Another picture erupts through the night to replay as she watches herself scream as a faceless person removes her new skin and another faceless person holds her hand. The pain is overwhelming as it washes over her in waves, threatening to pull her under into the darkness that looms at the edge of her perception, at the edge of the mindscape she finds herself in. "I am broken there," she tells the wind as she tries to push the flashing images of what is happening with her body away. Yet even as she flinches away from the memory, Shabeth's presence envelops her, his mental voice a grounding force amidst the storm of her emotions. You are not broken. It is just a part of your journey. Issa looks around, her gaze settling on the campfire that burns steady and true, the wagon nearby offering a semblance of home in this vast nothingness. It's here, in this place of vulnerability and openness, that she feels closest to Shabeth, where their bond deepens beyond the physical realm. "I know," she responds to the unseen voice, her mental voice tinged with sorrow. "But it's so hard." The landscape subtly shifts, colors beginning to bleed into the starkness. The pain from the memories doesn't disappear this time, but in Shabeth's mindscape, it becomes just another part of the narrative, a challenge to be faced and overcome. You are not alone, Shabeth's voice reassures her, as vivid and comforting as the fire that warms her against the twilight chill. We will face this together. With that, Issa feels a gentle tug, a reminder that she cannot stay any longer, and her physical body awaits her return, along with all its limitations and pains. But she also carries back with her a renewed sense of strength and purpose, a conviction that, with Shabeth by her side, they can weather any storm. As she slowly opens her eyes back in the infirmary, the memory of the campfire and the open plains lingers, a beacon of hope on her long road to recovery. You're broken down and tired And I'll rise up For you When the silence isn't quiet And I'll rise up For you All we need, all we need is hope I'll rise up And we'll rise up You are not alone. (Vig) has 0 comments. |
16 Mar 2024 05:00 |
Issa takes refuge in Shabeth's mind. threadfall injury rp |
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Should Have Been You Should Have Been You
"Thought I'd take a couple days of vacation, I've earned it." Infirmary Sterile and scoured, the surfaces of the infirmary, well-tended and beloved by the complement of Healers due a weyr of Southern's size. Soothing tissane simmers at the large hearth, while comfortable chairs circle that particular feature in a waiting-room of sorts. Tables of dull-gleaming oldtimer metal lie as examining slabs, neatly lined in rows with pull-curtains enabling full privacy as needed. A low wall separates the southern half of the room from the rest, and those practicing the apothecary's trade can be seen compounding medicines under the watchful eye of the posted Master. Albertine's bed is not hard to spot from a distance: it's the one with the pile of dubiously commendable books on the nightstand. The infirmary has got this distinctive vibe to it, and one of the primary components thereof is boredom. And another one is the overwhelming availability of too much time to think. Books help in both cases, as much as anything will. Presently Albertine herself, propped up on a pair of crutches, her leg in a splint, is slowly, painstakingly clopping back to said bed. She's wearing a kind of loose robe, clear-colored, and of course it's an infirmary gown, but in the circumstances, you'd be excused for having a different thought at first glance. Albertine sits on her bed, closes her eyes, lies down, carefully bringing her leg up onto its resting pillow. She should be reaching for her next book, fill the threatening void of time, but she doesn't, not right away. Apparently the ceiling is in need of some staring for a bit. J'rel had stepped into the ward to check on Albertine, and by first glance, it was not the check he had anticipated. It takes a moment of averting his eyes until he registers exactly what he saw, as in not more of Albertine than he anticipated visiting today, and continue his path forward towards her bed. "Oh, hey," he greets, a tight smile offered knowing that the topic of their last conversation did not come to pass. There was no Albertine on the Sands, and even without that frame of reference, it's impossible to know who her egg went to, let alone which egg it was. He approaches cautiously, not wanting to jostle her injured leg with an unintended jump. "How are you feeling?" Albertine looks toward the visitor after a slight delay — there's an empty glass on her nightstand among the books, and it still carries the heady smell of fellis, if diluted — and as neurons fire and realization dawns, she looks away, her cheeks coloring. Ashamed. Furious. You better come cheer for me at the Hatching. Stupid, stupid girl. But it doesn't last very long. When she looks at J'rel again, she only looks tired. It's hard to look him in the eye, either way. Like what happened — what didn't — reflects on her in a way that's hard to deal with. "Hey," she finally says with a forced grin. "Thought I'd take a couple days of vacation, I've earned it." The joke falls waaaaay flat, and she wrings her hands, and there's nothing she can say, nothing she can do, just deal, if she can. It's not clear whether she can. "They should have let you on the Sands," J'rel flat out says, coming to lean against the rail of her bed, ensuring he doesn't quite get to the point of sitting on it - he's not that familiar with her (yet?). There's a sense of annoyance from him that perhaps he shouldn't have, not being that close to the former candidate, but it hits that nerve. "You know. They could put a chair out there, prop up your leg. If your dragon was on the Sands, they'd come to you regardless of your ability to move." Something painful gently drains out of Albertine, and it seems like she lies flatter on her infirmary bed, deflated, enveloped in something beyond relief, as J'rel, through wisdom or through luck, abstains from giving her his pity. Pity would have killed her. She closes her eyes, opens them, and this time it seems she can keep her gaze steady on him. There's an ill-advised shrug that jostles her leg a bit, and she winces, then sighs. "Thanks for the thought. That's not how it works, though," she says. "Standing's one thing, but then you gotta take care of— of him. That's a lot of work, they say. Not an option if you're crippled. And, well, sometimes dragonets on the Sands get confused or upset and you really want to be able to jump out of the way." There's something on her face that looks like a grin but isn't. "Ask me how I know." Those eyes close again, and once more she looks so tired, and so taut too. There was that one egg. Now it's one of the dragonets in the barracks, and he has a name and someone loves him, and not thinking about that takes a monstrous amount of sustained effort. "S'fine, I'll just Stand again," she concludes, and exhibits a more careful shrug, like she isn't tormented by the thought her time maybe came and passed. But it's finally with more common Albertine-style annoyance that she adds, "Come on, you can sit, don't just stand there like that." J'rel is about to give another retort when he pauses and just lets out a defeated sigh. He's normally such a quiet gent, taking things as they're thrown having lived a life of rolling through the punches, but this, this annoys him. Fingers rhythmically tap against his leg as he tries to flush the excessive, unnecessary, drawn-out what-if commentary before it hits his lips. Even with her request for him to sit, and following the recommendation, those fingers continue to drum. "Yeah, you should Stand again." The past is over and it cannot be changed - although perhaps it's better he not know about ::between:: timing lest he try. "Maybe another queen will be proddy again." It's weird, isn't it. Practically speaking, Albertine isn't worse off than she was a few days ago — a stable life in a safe place; and a low rank, for sure, but all hope for something better is not gone, not yet. And yet somehow the maybe that didn't come to pass is a bleeding wound. It would be so easy, given a do-over, to change any one small thing — don't bathe Ariith, bathe him away from that one rock, hold tighter onto I'rian's hand, any one of an infinite choice of small changes and everything could be different. But it's this Albertine, in this bed, who has to say, "Yeah, for sure, it's what queens do." Studiously avoiding the point that the dragons of the next clutch will be different dragons, and if her blue was in this one, he won't be in the next, or any other clutch again. She grunts. "I don't like to put this on you, but hitting the latrines earlier knocked me on my arse harder than I wanna admit, so, would you mind a lot fetching me some water? I'm out." There's an empty pitcher on her nightstand. "Else, uh, I'll just hail one of the healers, it's not a big deal." "Well, proddy again soon, that is," J'rel sheepishly corrects, placing his drumming hand on his lap. It's what queens do, and greens, and soon to be his green as far as approximate ages go. And with that comes all the potential embarassment and none of the eggs. The simple request pulls him to his feet again, and thankfully back to the matter of Albertine and the present. He takes a half turn, looking towards the nightstand, right where the indicated pitcher sits. "Yeah, no problem, I can get it for you. Rest up, alright? We've got you." The greenrider takes a small step over, picking up the dry pitcher and holds it between his hands. "Do you want ice?" If the kitchen doesn't have any directly available, it's always a ::between:: away. In the fullness of time, the trouble of a first Flight and the torment of a missed Hatching will be but a memory, a shared point in time around which some improbable but valuable bonding occurred. The road there might yet be a little twisty. But it's fine. It's life. And after everything, it's this offer of ice that nearly breaks Albertine, because it's so gratuitously kind. She blinks rapidly and says, "Uh, actually, just water is fine. But, uh, thanks." She squirms a little in her bed, and winces and lets her leg lie still. "For this, and… and for coming to visit me. I appreciate it." There's some color to her cheeks, a tad. It's been weird, but less and less so, and J'rel is cool and she likes him. "Water it is, then." Shifting the pitcher forward slightly, J'rel bows his head out of respect of his… friend? "And, you're welcome. On all counts." He nudges his head over towards the entry of the Infirmary and comments, "I'll be back in a few, alright? Don't… uh, go anywhere." Hopefully that mild tease doesn't fall flat. With a pat of the pitcher with the hand not on the handle, he turns towards the door. To the kitchens and their water supply, and… perhaps a treat of a fruit or two as a surprise upon his return. Should Have Been You has 0 comments. |
15 Mar 2024 05:00 |
The day after the Hatching, J'rel visits Albertine at the Infirmary. Backdated to the day after the recent Hatching. |
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Everything you need vig Everything you need vig
Whiskers & Words Cafe Not a large shop, unlike other establishments, no lighting does the trick to add space, when the truth lies in the long lines of two main rooms and one entranceway. Little nooks carved out of oblong shapes lit by large windows overlooking the Southern jungles seen off the garden terraces. This spot was chosen not for the size but for the windows. Hewn of stone and wood, it was derelict, left in disrepair from a previous owner, but work has gone into making it cozy, though a better word would be 'rustic.' Golden afternoon sunlight spills through windows, lighting up dusty books and green plants in their pots all across the little bookshelves. The cafe part of the little shop is tiny, but the klah and wine are delicious. Some rare vintage wines can be found within such a humble establishment, besides various klah options to give the Klah Bark a run for their money. Whiskers & Words Cafe is the ultimate one-stop place to buy (or read!) books, sip klah or wine, and have cozy encounters with the felines that roam the various rooms. Wandering about are two friendly, love-seeking felines: Stylus, an orange tabby, and Parchment, a black tabby. Before returning to High Reaches, Sriella and Kip made a quick stop to Whiskers & Words. "Ah, perfect," she said, picking up a new book in the Spot the Friendly Shipfish series that Evie so loved to read at her father's house. Tucking the book into the little basket in the crook of her arm, Sriella continued to wander thoughtfully through the cozy store, nibbling on one of Cahia's lemon cookies. She really was lucky, in so many ways. The gratitude settled warm around her as she ran her fingers along the spines of the books thoughtfully. "Ah," she murmured, pulling down one of the adventure books Grace and her new friend were enjoying. She wasn't sure if this was the same author or not, but the protagonist looked like a young lady about Mikaelya's age. Skimming through the book to make sure there was nothing in there she wouldn't want her baby sister reading (no sex scenes, right? No? Good.) she put the book into her basket. She was lucky she had the family she did. Lucky her parents were supportive, loving, stable. Even as Sriella's life fell apart and knit itself back together, over and over again, they had been a constant. Thoughtful, she pulled down a book of poetry. It was an older book, the language within rather flowery. But the poems spoke of love and tenderness, and Sriella smiled as she put it into her basket for her parents. She imagined her mother reading the poems to her father while he brushed her hair. Did they even like poetry? Well, if they didn't, they'd have fun making fun of it. Either way, it was a good gift. Looking down at Kip, she quickly grabbed a little book on training canines, tucking that at the bottom of the pile so it might not be so embarrassing to buy it. Wouldn't hurt to get some more pointers. Things were going okay, but she hadn't gotten as far as she had with her Craft without study. She continued through the stacks until she came to the map section, and her steps slowed. She gently ran her fingers over the parchment, the folded maps of different parts of Pern. One little book caught her eye and she marveled when she opened it. The maps were small, keeping the book pocket-sized, but they were useful. A largeish map of the northern continent folded out, basic and general, but the next pages were all smaller maps of quadrants from the first map. So you could look at the big map, see which square you wanted to see (A8, for example) and then flip to map A8 and see a detailed map of that section. It didn't cover everything of course, but it covered a lot. She saw a lot of the roads she had traveled, and others that she wanted to. When she finally hit the road. She was lingering in High Reaches, her plans to leave by autumn being pushed back first one sevenday, then two, then a month. She had lots of excuses for it of course, but honestly she wanted - for herself and Evie - more time with Daemon before he was free of his parole and left River Bend. She could be honest with herself about that. The map book was pricey, but she had the marks for it. And, really, what better gift for someone who was about to be set free? For someone who craved, no, needed the road? She knew him. She knew his soul. If there was one gift she could give him, what better gift than maps to help him get to wherever it was he wanted to be? And, hopefully, maps to bring him back too. Though he'd always found her before. He'd never not been able to find her. Did she think he was going to vanish? Just disappear? No. She didn't believe that for a moment. If they didn't have Evie, then maybe, but they did and he was a good father. She knew he'd come back around for Evie. She had to believe that. She didn't want to think about having to tell Evie she wouldn't see her father again. She'd almost had to tell the girl that once, and she never wanted to contemplate that possibility again. She was so very lucky - as was Evie - that Daemon was the father of her child. She shuddered to think about sharing a child with Heliux. With Adryn. She was lucky it was Daemon. A daughter, born in love, and loved deeply by both her parents. Evie was lucky to have a father who wanted to be a father. Sriella had always known he'd be a good father. She'd believed it to the bottom of her soul. She'd always thought the best of him. She still did. She took her items to the counter and also selected a leather bookmark that was dyed a beautiful orange hue. Nineveh didn't (yet) offer gift wrapping, but that was fine. Sriella needed to go see about getting it delivered anyway. By the time she returned to her room, the Spot book, the map book and the orange bookmark were wrapped in a piece of bright blue fabric tied with white ribbon and sent to Dakota in River Bend. Sriella didn't add a note, but did she need to? He'd know. The rest she'd deliver herself when she got home in a few days. Everything you need vig has 0 comments. |
16 Mar 2024 07:00 |
Sriella finds everything she's looking for at Whiskers & Words. |
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{V} || A Healer's Story {V} || A Healer's Story
Infirmary Sterile and scoured, the surfaces of the infirmary, well-tended and beloved by the complement of Healers due a weyr of Southern's size. Soothing tissane simmers at the large hearth, while comfortable chairs circle that particular feature in a waiting-room of sorts. Tables of dull-gleaming oldtimer metal lie as examining slabs, neatly lined in rows with pull-curtains enabling full privacy as needed. A low wall separates the southern half of the room from the rest, and those practicing the apothecary's trade can be seen compounding medicines under the watchful eye of the posted Master. "Last thing, elevate the affected limb," Senior Journeyman Bryson instructed to his small group of journeymen gathered around him, watching as he gently set the patient's leg up into a sling to keep it elevated. Haillie, the youngest of this group, watched intently to every instruction Bryson gave, scribbling in her notebook. "Any questions?" A young man in the back—a handful of turns older than she and a full journeyman with mentees of his own—raised his hand. "What if the object had not pierced through the other side?" Privately, Haillie thought he should have known the answer, but she pressed her lips together. Instead, she turned to Bryson to listen to his answer. "If the arrow," for the patient in question had accidentally shot his leg in a bow and arrow mishap, "had not pierced through the other side or if it were more of a blunt object without a tip, then you would have to work it out very carefully from the entrance wound. As you know, the risk of permanent damage increases with this method. This is best done when the patient is fully dosed with fellis so they will feel no pain, but most importantly, will not move during such delicate extraction." Senior Journeyman Bryson gave more details about the procedure while the young man in the back took notes. She had excelled in her studies, focusing whole-heartedly on her lessons and what the Craft had to offer. It had been two turns since Mikos' accident, but it still felt like yesterday. As Senior Journeyman Bryson released them, Haillie looked one last time at the patient — a young man of dark hair and blue or grey or some color eyes — who slept peacefully with his dose of fellis. Perhaps he was her age or a little older; it was hard to tell, but her interest lay in the thick bandage around his leg. She knew it was well done, for she'd bandaged his leg herself. This practical was her chance to shine, to showcase her gentle touch and ability to help heal wounds. Healing was her passion, but initially, she considered going into mindhealing as a specialty. After Mikos' death, she shifted her specialty to Emergency Medicine. She'd been home that sevenday on leave from her studies in Lemos. Swallowing hard, she pushed away the memories of her brother's body, of her brother's best friend and his wounds, and … "Haillie, we're going to the Cafe. Do you want to come?" one of the journeymen asked, pulling her from dark thoughts and even darker emotions. "No thanks. I need to do some errands," Haillie forced a smile with a slight shake of her head. "Next time." How many friends did she have now? A turn and a half in Southern, and she'd become close to Brandi, but she wasn't the same. She knew it. "Sure, next time," the journeyman grinned and headed with the group. Haillie watched and thoughtfully settled in at a desk in the infirmary. Her life had become her craft, and for a while, it worked. A dark fog had clouded her heart, the ache for her brother almost as sharp as the broken bone she'd gotten as a child. Her fun-loving, larger-than-life brother who had loved everything about his life. He'd sworn to scale the highest of Pern's mountains when he joined the Minecraft. She remembered when he came home brandishing his journeyman's knot. He had been so proud. And it all fell apart. Their world — hers, her parents, her brother's best friend — had come undone without his spark to keep everyone sewn together. Her mother had mourned her brother until she'd gotten sick. Everyone loved her brother, for he was the best of her little family. It should have been her, Haillie thought sadly. She was the quieter child, the naughty child. The child that had given her parents their grey hairs, they'd said. If her brother was Rukbat, she was Belior, Timor. A pale reflection of his golden good looks and bright personality. Fingers tangled in the silver chain around her neck, twisting it until the metal bit into the skin of her neck. It was Mikos' necklace, given to him by their parents when he proudly proclaimed he had joined the Minecraft to hunt mountains. To know their secrets and find the hidden gems within. A chain connected to a small collection of peaks — three of them, the center one taller than the others — in silver. They'd given it to him, saved for it as they weren't wealthy cotholders, and when his friend had brought Mikos' body home… she'd kept it. They had been close despite the five-turn age difference. He'd been so protective of her, but he also encouraged her to live. What did she do now? Haillie didn't know, except she'd played it safe since her brother's accident — not stepping one foot out of line, not doing anything dangerous. Mikos had taught her how to climb mountains, and she had hiked the Lemos's backcountry through and up into the mountains. Now? She sat in the infirmary, studied her books, and worked on her skills, the joy of the outdoors stolen from her. Yet, lately, she had found herself tracing the lines of the trio of mountain peaks more and more. "Haillie, good you're still here," Apprentice Yolanda rushed over to her. "A mother's bringing in a child with a high fever, and I cannot find Journeyman Julian." Haillie was about to leave, but she stood and smoothed her skirt instead. "Bring her to the first pediatric cot, and I'll get the supplies," she said. Haillie reminded herself sharply that the infirmary was her home. She had no business in the outdoors—not in Lemos and not here. Pushing thoughts of childhood and grief aside, she turned her attention to the problems of healing the hurt. {V} || A Healer's Story has 2 comments. |
16 Mar 2024 07:00 |
Haillie contemplates her life and how it's lead to Healing in Southern Weyr. mention of sibling death |
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Full Hands Full Hands
Garden Terrace Tucked-away and bejeweled, here is a hidden treasure of Southern, beckoning and beguiling those who may tread the entrance of weyrbridge: steps cut upwards, switching back and outer-railed, to terminate in a sheltered ledge of stone. Here, greenery blooms in fragrant profusion, scenting the air and quieting the minds of those who stroll amongst the cultivated rows of cultivars. Flowers, and tiny fruit-bearing trees limn the walkways. Tables and benches scatter organic throughout the rambling concourse, providing easy rest for those who challenged the stairs… or the craft shops beyond the scrolled wooden door at the innermost part of the terraced ledge. It is the twenty-fifth day of Spring and 87 degrees. It is sunny and bright. White fluffy clouds drift lazily across the china blue sky. The afternoon is warm, but not too warm to be out and about. Holding some sort of ice-chilled drink, Sriella walks along the terrace with a lanky puppy on a leash, letting the canine sniff her way from plant to plant. Sipping her drink, Sriella pauses to study a bush with bright purple flowers, a little smile pulling at her lips. The Herder is dressed in loose linen trousers in a rich green hue and a loose white tunic half tucked in, the laces left open at the throat with the sleeves cuffed above the elbows. Her long hair is half up, twisted braids at her temples to keep hair out of her face while still letting it cascade long and wild down her back. A cute puppy sighting normally illicits awws from passerbys that notice, but for Ilyana there's a reflexive looking over her shoulder and then a sigh of relief as she confirms none of her daughters are here to see the canine and beg for a puppy of their own. "You look like you have your hands full. Quite literally." Sriella looks over and then laughs. "Oh, hey. Looks like we both survived, then," she grins. "Yeah, she's still learning, but we're getting there." Kip wags her tail happily, tugging on the leash to get closer to the person who surely wants to give her attention, right? Ilyana holds out an arm as if for inspection. It is indeed her normal skin color, if perhaps a little tanner than a few sevendays before with the return of warmer weather and more outdoor duties. "No adverse affects. The Healers were right yet again." And while she doesn't go to pet the dog, she can't help but smile down at the puppy and that wagging tail. "Training for what? Just normal home-breaking?" Sriella sits down on a bench and pulls Kip back towards her, making the puppy sit between her feet. "Herding," she says with a quick smile. "Like, actual moving of animals. My other canine had to retire, and I was fortunate enough to get this lady from someone experimenting with different herding-type breeds up in Boll. This is Kip." Ilyana does a double take looking at the little puppy. "Hard to imagine something so little can get runners or bovines moving. But instinct and habit is a powerful thing, I guess." Sriella nods, ruffling the canine's ears with a smile. "For both ends of the equation, too. They won't want to be close to her, and she'll naturally - hopefully - want to move them along to me. But," she shrugs with a wry grin, "I've never trained a canine from scratch, before, so. It's a learning experience for both of us." "That does seem like it'd be a challenge," Ilyana nods as after a short bit of consideration. "Like even training firelizards doesn't always go smoothly." Like all that misdirected mail can attest to. "And for that, you can at least think at them and they mostly understand." Sriella visibly winces at mention of firelizards, coughing into the back of her hand. "Yes, well. I… sort of have a firelizard. He went pretty much wild a while back, soooo." Yeah she's not great with training firelizards? "I'm hoping I'm better with canines. I'm great with runners!" She's good at her job, she promises. Ilyana does blink once, twice, then schools her expression back to more neutral and nods again. "At least they are more than competent at fending for themselves pretty early on? The firelizards, I mean. Do you not ever find yourself working out in the fields alone where a firelizard would be a little reassurance?" Sriella knows, it looks BAD. "Oh, he's fine." She's not worried about her wayward brown. But then she gives the other woman a curious look. "Reassurance in…what way?" "That if something happened and help was needed?" Ilyana asks. "Things do happen. Tools break. Injuries. Weather. A firelizard can go for help immediately instead of waiting for someone to notice you're overdue to return?" Sriella ohs with a little shrug. "Yeah, well." She smiles a bit. "I'm pretty good at fending for myself, most of the time. I'm sure if I was really in need, he'd come when I called. I can sometimes bribe him to take messages." It can take an entire roast chicken, but. Details. She shrugs. "He…" How to explain it? "I wasn't in a good place for a while. That's when he left. Don't blame him, really. I wasn't paying him any attention and my brain was a mess. If I could have broken the connection I would have too," she laughs. "I do know a thing or two about being in not a good position," Ilyana and her own crappy ex situation after all. "But that is at least reassuring that he hasn't completely abandoned you. Just…. independent? Sounds like he might have learned a bit more from you than you thought." Sriella nods, giving the other woman a knowing look. Then she laughs. "No, he's still… around, sometimes. But it's like… it's like that friend that only calls when they want something, you know? They take and take and take and eventually you have to cut them off. He's very savvy. I don't blame him for cutting me off." Ilyana laughs at that as well. "In my case, that friend was my ex, but definitely. Though feeding a firelizard some scrap meats every so often doesn't sound as hard as what favors the human moochers tend to come up with. It's never just a little thing." An eyeroll there. Sriella laughs. "So you can imagine if I failed at taking care of a firelizard." Still, she amends a moment later because she's trying to be kinder to herself. "Ugh, save us all from greedy, demanding men. My ex - one of them - was the same way. Nothing was ever enough." "And that is precisely why they're exes," Ilyana points out, firmly. "We live and we learn. And hopefully we don't repeat the same mistakes." Sriella coughs. "Well." Ahem. "I've had two failed engagements with two very similar men. So. I can only hope that now I've learned? My other ex, thankfully, is my daughter's father and he's… he's not like that. He's a good man. I'm very lucky that out of the three men I've been with, he is the one I have a child with." "They do say third time's the charm but…. normally I think they expect more permanent charm effects. Though successful fellow parent even if you're not still together, sounds like it was some definite progress," Ilyana nods. Sriella nods firmly. "Yes. He is a good father and… man it's hard to co-parent. It's really, really hard, but we're figuring it out. I think. I hope! Evie seems normal enough." That's the measure, right? Happy child, good parenting? She gives the other woman a sympathetic look. "He wants to be a part of her life, so that's definitely a win." "Hey, that sounds a lot more figured out than some others have," Ilyana will definitely count that as a win for Sriella. "Jhoestros was never really that involved with the girls even when we were all under one roof. So wasn't really a shock when he's not putting in any effort now, even if a part hoped. But…" A shrug. What can one do? "I did have a shocking surprise the other day though of someone who did want to be more active in their lives. My mother. Showed up in my quarters. Unannounced. With bags." Sriella nods. "I'm… I'm very lucky." The more she sees other families, other single parents… the more she sees things outside of her own family, with her parents' picture-perfect marriage and farmhouse and seven children, the more she appreciates Daemon. "Oh?" she asks, ruffling Kip's ears and offering soft praise when the canine doesn't go after an interesting bit of trash blowing by. "Apparently I needed her," Ilyana breaks out the finger quotes for that. "And the fact I didn't respond to her letters proves I was overwhelmed. But I'm sure I never received any such letters! And that was a couple sevens ago when it seemed like everybody was getting the wrong mail. Maybe there's someone out there still waiting on their own mother to be making a visit based on letters they mistakenly received!" Sriella can't help but laugh at the absurdity of that. "Oh, that mail fiasco. I received…some interesting things, to be sure. Well, do you get along with her? Will she be a help? Or another person to take care of?" "Mooooooostly," Ilyana drawls out in an it's complicated sort of way. "She is fully capable of taking care of herself at least. Although that comes with very strong opinions on how I should also be handling things. And it would be easier if she weren't…. staying in my quarters. It was tight enough already with the four girls!" Sriella exhales a soft breath. "Shards, that sounds difficult." Again, another mark in the 'damn I'm lucky' column in her head. "I'm sorry. How long will she be staying?" "Judging by the bags she brought? I don't think she's leaving," Ilyana gives a sigh and a shake of her head. "But the girls do love her." Sriella winces. "If she's staying, she should get her own room." Ilyana nods, fullhearted agreement. "That would…. certainly make things easier. Distance can indeed make the heart grow fonder. And there is no distance in my rooms with six people in there." Sriella shakes her head, "Shards, no. Even if you have one of the larger apartments… maybe apply for a cottage. Maybe she can take your room and you and the girls move out…" What a pickle. "The cottages I thought were more for riders? At least all the ones I've seen have had wallows or barns attached…" Ilyana says, though it's certainly a topic she's been thinking of. "But getting her her own room should be doable. And will probably also come with getting some sort of official job for her as well to keep her busy and not in my hair as much." Sriella shrugs, "I don't know, maybe." She doesn't live here anymore, and her knowledge of weyr stuff was slim at best when she did. "Nanny?" she teases. "Maybe," Ilyana admits. "Run after more than just my littlest too though. She was a laundress back in Bitra. And sometimes helped the cooks, depending. So not like she isn't used to doing things." Sriella pushes to her feet, Kip bounding to all fours when she moves. "I wish you luck finding her a job and a place to stay," she says warmly. "I'd better go find my ride. Happy to run into you again, Ilyana. Maybe next time we'll bump into each other in Benden Weyr?" Since they seem to travel a lot! "Thanks, I'll probably need it," Ilyana laughs. "And probably won't be getting out to Benden anytime soon unless I need a lot of wine to deal with my mother. Safe travels!" Full Hands has 0 comments. |
15 Mar 2024 05:00 |
Sriella has her hands full with canine training. Ilyana has a full house with an unexpected guest. But both women have time to have a quick chat in passing this afternoon. |
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There and Back Again to the End There and Back Again to the End
Lake Shore Sprawled out beyond the Weyr proper's hustling activity and ambling roads, the cool, blue paradise of the Weyr lake promises escape from the oppressive hammer of Igen summer's cruel climes; the asymmetrical, sandy white shores hook delicately around the deceptively still waters running deep and sure, greedy peninsulas reaching white fingers stretching in crooked lines towards its center. A sturdy shack, weather-beaten and brown as cured leather, resides in isolated splendor upon one such finger, screened shelving offering a variety of brushes and fragrant oils housed in colorful tureens. Out beyond a small and dusty paddock ringed by a white fence, a long rocky pier stabs out into the lake, providing a panoramic view of the Weyr itself, while the southern shores provide varied shrubs and grassed for the massed herds in their pens. Does the end loom? It's as if Nhiuzukkath knows how close the eggs come to hatching, for he is all but impossible to root out of the Hatching Caverns. Vh'iyr has resigned himself to being stuck on the ground and has temporarily sought shelter in one of the ground weyrs after his bronze has deigned to take him up to his weyr to at least pack an overnight bag. It sucks, because the ground weyr is not amazing. Not that his own environs are all that amazing, but they are at least comfortable. The bed is used either for flight fuckin' or for guests who stay a night or two at most. Yet, Nhiuzy's been awfully good — suspiciously so without even attempting to nibble on Pariisamith's oh-so-tempting tailtip. So Vh'iyr's at the lake, killing time by skipping stones and wondering just how much of their Threadfighting skills are going to be lost by the time the eggs do hatch. The one time he tried to drag Nhiuzukkath off them sands, it was such a hissing-spitting fight with claws digging into the sands itself and a lot of yowling and drama and no one — not he, not Kopriva, not Pariisamith — was happy with the result. So… eff it. "Dumbass dragons. Does he not know that I am the rider," thus the boss, "and he has to do what I say?" Vhy's muttered commentary follows another stone skipping across the waters. The end must be nigh? Bets are in full swing, even if it may feel like eternity dragging for more than a few; riders, weyrfolk and candidates alike. Pariisamith likely answers any prompting on the state of her eggs with endless pragmatism or non-answers. For her, this is merely one long (long) path to see through and not be concerned with the eventual end game and the freedom change in their lives as a result. The clutch hardens and no Candidates have run afoul of the gold's temperament — which has proven to be rather patient for a first time dam. Maybe Nhiuzukkath's continued presence (tail-tip obsession and all) has helped? It might be why Kopriva doesn't protest the bronze's lingering — and because of that one time result. She feels considerable sympathy for Vh'iyr, whether or not she voices much of it. "Feeling bold enough to say that outloud here," Kopriva muses, not far from his side. "And not back there?" And she certainly hadn't meant to sneak up on him either or even purposely seek him out. There is only so far she can go too and the day is relatively "mild" for autumn; hot, but not trying to kill you, hot. Kopriva can only handle so much of the sands and with Pariisamith being agreeable — she 'escaped' as far as she was willing to risk. Tethered to the lifemates as they are, Vh'iyr shows no surprise at Kopriva's steps, though he half-turns and gifts half-lowered lids with his shit-eating grin to her words, "I'm no fool." No one, least of all him, wants to deal with Nhiuzukkath's moods. He has little intention of getting verbally snipped at by his lifemate, especially as he's realized he really needs more small clothes. Tossing another rock sends his body in loose-boned kinetic motion, the wind ruffling over-long hair from lack of general upkeep given the fact he's spent most of his time ensuring the bronze has kept himself in something shaped like obedience. The tails of his shirt swing with the movement unbuttoned as it is to showcase the white undershirt and the gold coin strung on a chain around his neck. "I know," he says slowly, "it's not the same, and I know it's coming from him, but I feel this building anxiety. Like something's coming and it is similar to when we Stood, but not. We get to leave the sands with our lifemates, no matter what." Lips press together with this admission of disquiet, brows furrowing, but he doesn't retract it. Instead, palming another stone and sending it outward to skim the ripples of the Lake's calm waters. Rukbat catches half of his face, alighting one iris in showcase of green and gold with brown hazy in the center. "What will you do when it's all over, Priv?" "Mhm." Is all Kopriva hums to Vh'iyr's statement of being no fool. From the way she smiles, half-slanted? It's a tease, the unspoken suggestion that she doesn't quite believe it to be true. She'll turn her gaze away to watch as he tosses another rock, though her attention is still on the bronzerider; even if just peripherally. "Not quite a restlessness either," she replies in turn and not without a hint of nostalgia simmering. Memories that now seem weirdly distant, yet pivotal. "It's not unlike that 'calm before the storm', I guess?" Kopriva notes that disquiet and the admission of it, lending her usual gentle understanding and open honesty. She does slip in a little humor, just a quick curved smile. "We do have that going for us, at least." Of not having to deal with that dreaded unknown of whether or not they'll Impress! No, instead Kopriva has 101 different worries — of which she voices none at the moment. She is dressed comfortably for the season, in a longer skirt fashionable for Igen climate and in light fabric. Her hair had been braided back, but some is slipping loose; by habit she tucks a few of the strands back. When he prompts her, Kopriva turns her head away from the waters to glance fully at him. "I'm going to visit Southern," she admits, but with a firmness that is unusual for her, but suggests plenty: she's been planning. "I've been wanting to for … ages, it feels like." Not entirely a lie, though much of it dragging out was her own doing. Kopriva doesn't linger on that, instead letting a hint of a smirk tug at the corner of her mouth. "Want me to put word in with Ze'ran?" It's more of another tease, light and playful than a full invitation for Vh'iyr to join her — in half-hearted official capacity. "Or… what were you thinking of doing, when we're both free at the end of this?" Her curiosity is genuine, as always. Canting his head to angle his face towards Kopriva, his smile blends humor and smirk and his tease reaches her ears with the next toss of the stone, "If our lives can be said to be calm, but yes." A beat, and then brows lift, "Southern, eh? I," he half-ass tosses the rocks in his hand so they bounce within the bowl of his palm, "have never been to Southern. As you request, my dear Priv, so shall I escort." A teasing mocking bow complete with a deflecting grin, but something true sparks within hazel-green gaze. "I can't promise I won't leave you, but then you might not want someone hovering the whole time, but." In a pinch? Vh'iyr, former guard that he is, would be there with less than a moment's notice. "I'll keep those crazy Southerners from snatching you away, but that's where you're from, eh?" For a glimmer of a memory from Candidacy sparks as he turns his gaze more fully on Kopriva, closing the distance to give her some of his perfectly round stones. "You ever skip them before?" an aside-question, not one pertinent to the conversation, but a segue nonetheless to a lesson if she's not. "I don't know," his honesty is raw in it's make, a material witness to the way he floats through life on a whim. "I should try to be respectable, I guess," but the exaggerated face he makes suggests his thoughts on that. "Return back to duties. Maybe go on a trip. Enjoy my own bed again. The ground weyrs are heinous, Priv." They're not, he's just a man-baby. "Maybe, finally, go back home." A note discordant with his demeanor, a sourness to it clashing against the ears. He half-turns and once more throws one of his stones, but his throw is too hard, too powerful, and it doesn't skip but hits the water and flies into the air before falling hard to drown in tame waters. Fitting. Laughter meets that mocking bow, with Kopriva dipping into a shallow curtsey as if to seal the deal, grin and all. Sobering just enough for an earnest reply, she tips her head. "I won't tell anyone if you happen to … hmm. Accidentally get turned around?" Truly, it happens to the best of folk, right? Getting lost, while somewhere new. She chuckles, "Yes, that's where I am from," she confirms, with a look that becomes a little thoughtful; a little fond, a little… sad. "There are a few I intend to visit, if I can. Really, it would just be nice to get away. Southern is, at least, decently familiar." Vh'iyr's approach shakes her from her thoughts, and Kopriva follows the segue after only an initial hiccup of hesitation. "I — I don't believe so?" she admits, while also cupping her hands together to claim a few of those perfect stones. "Is it tricky?" A lesson then, might be in the cards! It's not the stones that have her focus though — not for long. Kopriva is looking up again to Vh'iyr, for that raw honesty. Something she has always respected, even now. "Why not do it all? However it should fall, in whatever order." Did she just imply he not immediately go back to his own duties? "Though maybe try enjoying your own bed again first." From the way she exhales, she is about to jokingly chide on the state of the ground weyrs, but that is all swallowed back. Kopriva senses that discordant note, the sourness and is already aware that something has shifted long before Vh'iyr throws that rock and it's doomed failure to sink rather than skip. Her weight shifts, the only sign of fleeting indecision, before settling. The stones given to her are still held within her hands, though one has been plucked to worry slip between her fingers absentmindedly. "Would… going back not be pleasant?" Kopriva asks, as gently as she can manage, careful to keep any weight from her tone; he doesn't have to answer beyond a simple reply. Do it all; perhaps he ruminates on her words, chewing the cud so to speak until it slips like a lump through his thoughts. Initially, after such a terrible throw, Vh'iyr's look slants towards Kopriva in measured intensity before he inhales and shifts to answer a different question first. "It can be tricky," his tone has been rinsed free of discordant sourness, though some of his assholery always exists in the clipped way he shapes words meant to be encouraging. One cannot fight against one's nature, after all. Warm, calloused hands come to rest on Kopriva's, shaping her fingers gently so that she cups one of the stones easily between thumb and two forefingers. "Hold it gently, too tight and you'll end up doing what I just did. Too loose and it'll drop at your feet before it hits the water. Firm, but not too firm." He catches her eyes, studying her to see the moment she grasps what he's trying to say, "and then angle your body," hands leave hers to gently adjust shoulders and arms, even daring to settle on her hips to subtly shift them so. Stepping back, he takes one of his stones, and takes up his stance before flicking his arm in a sideways motion with a final twist of his wrist. The stone flies and begins skipping. "Home has never been pleasant, Priv. I haven't been back since I left to High Reaches and joined the guard." Finally, his answer comes at the end, when his eyes remain caught by the skipping stone until it finally, eventually sinks. An alegory exists in it's trajectory somewhere, but he turns to her, "Now you try." Kopriva does not react to the clipped way Vh'iyr delivers his encouragement, accepting it for the deflection it may be but also respecting it. She reacts to his guidance by dropping her gaze to her hands as his joins them to show her the proper grip. Kopriva listens closely, lifting her gaze to his and while there is understanding, there is shaky confidence at best. She reacts again, naturally, to the adjustment to her arms and shoulders; the daring touch to her hips may draw a flush of color to her cheeks but no comment. Instructions fresh in her mind and now in the proper stance, Kopriva … does not immediately throw. She observes Vh'iyr instead, but there may be more to her open look. The stone's skip across the water is vaguely registered and it's only when he turns to her, in the wake of it and of his eventual answer, that she blinks and looks away. "I'm sorry," Kopriva isn't apologizing, but rather … emphasizing. She lapses a moment, another beat of indecisive quiet while the stone is repositioned in her fingers. Like that or like this? Then she braves two things: gently prying further and making her throw. "Do you… have a choice in whether or not you go back?" Softly asked and first, before she does her best to emulate what Vh'iyr told her and demonstrated. Tricky, tricky … her stone makes it to the water but jury is out on whether or not that was ever a skip or just an artful tumble straight into the depths. Vh'iyr rolls back on his heels, watching Kopriva with a steady gaze forming his astute mien as she rolls the rock around in her fingers. Her non-apology shifts brows subtly upwards, though perhaps it's because it's difficult to discern entirely by tone alone whether a 'sorry' comes across as an apology or pity. Yet, it is a benefit of their time spent together that Vhy doesn't leap to conclusions, but rather holds his tongue until the last. Until her stone, falling into the water, becomes the punctuation to her question, with it's soft, wet slurp. Brows draw inward, a darkening of his expression but not for Kopriva, but her question or perhaps what her question insinuates, the temptation resonating within aiding gravid weight to a silence held intact by the laughter of beach goers and the like. "I could disavow them forever," words draw out like taffy, thinning in the autumn breezes the longer they linger in baritone's shifting accents. "But the past catches up to a man, eventually." A self-depreciating smirk before a quick, slight shake of his head. "The butcher's bill always comes due, Priv, even if you don't want it to." A half-assed, half-hearted smile stretches his lips but never reaches the eyes, "And I was long overdue before I came here, but… My family is… unpleasant." Lips press together as if to ward away memories of horror, but with a sudden widening of his eyes, inhalation, he nods to the water with a smile that does reach his eyes. "Almost there, try again." He even waggles his brows for emphasis, "Maybe you'll get two skips in this time." It wasn't pity from her, either. How fortunate then, that conclusions weren't leapt upon. Kopriva is clearly at a loss of what to say — or perhaps realizing there isn't much to be said that wouldn't come off as hollow or wrong-timed. She cannot keep her expression neutral, a myriad crossing her features beneath the light grimace. Hiding emotion has never been her strength and maybe she really, truly, isn't making an effort here. Her grimace draws out a little further for the mention of pasts and butcher's bills and while all is noted, she doesn't remark on that. The last remark made, along that thread of conversation is not another extension of 'sorry', but a low, faintly haunted: "Mine was unpleasant too." Offered vulnerability to say she understands without not … really knowing the depth of his past and too starkly aware that their experiences may vastly differ. Kopriva is quick, quick, quick to veer away from that vein of conversation — one she struck by her questions. Vh'iyr offers the chance, readily enough and she takes it. A huff follows his remark, her lips curving into a smile that ends in a smirk. "Why am I doubting that that is actually meant as encouragement? I think you have more faith in my fledgling skills than I do." He asked and so he'll receive, as Kopriva slips another stone between her fingers. Her stance is likely off, when she does turn to throw and she does not wait for correction. This time, the stone skips… once. Barely. Does that count? Blowing out a breath, Kopriva will turn to Vh'iyr with a look. SEE? Vulnerability is not an emotion Vh'iyr is especially comfortable with, especially as it relates to the weaker gender, the fairer gender — or at least, as his upbringing would lead him to believe. "I would never doubt you," his jest blends sarcasm and mirth, with a touch of boyish delight, for he truly, truly would doubt her. As if to underscore his terrible, playful lies, he leans back and tosses his rock with an ease of strength and flexibility. Following a path near perfect, his rock bounces once, twice, thrice, and more; for a moment, frozen in his last-pitch stance with Rukbat alighting his face and the wind ruffling his hair, he seems all the turns collected under his twenty one turns. Youthful, promising, strong, agile, until he turn to face her, his countenance somber and eyes darkened by enimga. "It is the so-called family that fucks a kid up faster than anything else," his words are bald truths, razor-edged in import, but his whole attitude shifts — drawing inward, down, into a quiet thoughtfulness so rarely seen on Vh'iyr's face. Pensive, almost, though he half-turns away as if not wanting to be caught in such introspective thought. "If I had stayed…" Another inhalation draws his chest outward, straightening his spine and broadening his shoulders as he holds his breath. Perhaps so his breath can steal his words, his truths, "… well, no matter now." Exhalation; more truths divulged in the shadow of all the candlemarks rolled into a carpet of days they've spent together. "But I'd like to see what I left behind, if only once more." This time, hazel-green eyes turn on Kopriva, and he asks, "Does visiting Southern involve heading out to the ol' homestead for you, too?" "Mmhmm." More humming from Kopriva, only this time it's heavier with her own blend of sarcasm, humor and half-hearted doubt. She does not hesitate on the temptation to let slip a muttered: "Ass." under her breath. Whether to his doubting her or his clear outstripping of skill. That rock may be long gone, but it still earns a fleeting glare that could've been better served (in play) to Vh'iyr. Yet it's only a sobered look that meets his gaze again, under Rukbat's light. Her expression tightens under a tight-lipped grimace, the only hint that Kopriva couldn't agree more with his comment on a family's influence — good and bad. Some of that tension bleeds away, replaced instead by a calmer (and uncertain) edge as Vh'iyr shares truths — or the beginnings of some. Kopriva has forgotten about the last few stones in her hand, for the time being. Her gaze is on Vh'iyr, her expression unreadable only for the mix of emotions beneath her own pensive thought. "That's understandable," Kopriva's reply is slow, as she weighs whether to expand on that or not — and decides against it. Her gaze happens to drop to the stones in her hands, as she delibrates between the two remaining ones. Maybe that is what makes her more agreeable to answer his question… and maybe it is her turn to offer a little more truth. "No," Kopriva answers far more easily than choosing a stone. It would be an obvious stall tactic, if she weren't speaking. "I parted ways with that … arrangement, not long after the tsunami that took out their cothold. Halia was never in her right mind, after her husband was never found and worsened after we relocated from the ruins of old Southern to the Weyr. Her daughter never liked me, though still grudgingly offered me a choice when rebuilding came about. I chose the Weyr." Simplified. It's too simplified. Kopriva glosses over much, gripping a stone at last and slipping into the motions to throw. Another near-immediate sinking, a quiet plop beneath the water.Kopriva glances sidelong to Vh'iyr, something too complex in her tone to be one emotion or another. "It's Nerat, I can't — I won't return to." A humored reflection in return to her commentary of 'ass' but the serious turn of their conversation prevents Vh'iyr from muddying the waters of indivisible truths with humor that could so easily be misconstrued. Instead, he listens to her recount her time in Southern, not prying with incessant questions — for that isn't in his nature, anyway, and he can execute the act of listening without commentary. With one stone remaining, he leans back and gives a loose boned toss as she tells her story, timing it to coincidence so the rock bounces on every high-point she makes. "The weyr seemed the better option," he cants a look at her, leaving in the silt of the river of conversation the understanding that without that choice she likely wouldn't be here, with him and their dragons on the eve of their first clutch hatching. Yet, it is her last that turns his attention, slowly back to the goldrider. Without rocks to throw, Vh'iyr shoves his hands into his pockets, his own expression unreadable as he seems to shuffle through a deck of words that may or may not be helpful. Stepping closer, only to halve the distance already closed once before, he pulls a hand free and settles it on her shoulder with a slight squeeze. "It's a good thing, Priv, you've got a big ass dragon that could toast Nerat to the ground if dragons could, you know, toast people, because whoever is in Nerat… can't do shit to you now." Kopriva will meet his canted look, a vague smile curving her lips the only suggestion of agreement. It was the better option and there is no regret lurking in her expression; even if it took her awhile to come to that realization. The truth of it all is there too: all paths in her life, even the bad and haunted, have led her here. Her hand wraps around the last stone left from the ones Vh'iyr shared, but she doesn't appear inclined to throw it — or perhaps her thoughts have deviated enough to be forgetful. Kopriva does not move away when he approaches or when his hand settles on her shoulder and leans a little further into proximity. His comment draws a huff of breath, half amused despite the somber tilt to their conversation. "Thank you," she murmurs, tipping her head down but not away. Honest in part, this time and perhaps not feeling so confident on the matter; but not wanting to invite that discussion. "Would you do the same to those in High Reaches?" Kopriva asks instead, in a bid for some humor regardless of the source. No one is here to overhear! What one confesses to isn't always what one would do. "Yeah, for some of them I would," his voice cascades low, humming with subtle tension. "Very little is left in High Reaches for me, but." His fingers give reflexive, gentle squeeze to her shoulder before he drops his hand. "But there's something I need to go back to get." A thing? A person? A memory? Vh'iyr doesn't elaborate, instead, choosing to stuff his hands in his pocket, the golden coin — a replica of a mark that surely is either long gone to dust or spent elsewhere — hanging around his neck glinting in Rukbat's light. "And then? I could salt the earth beneath their feet, for I will never return to the ground that birthed me." Ferocity underscores his tone, eyes captured far outward to the lake's water, rippling in autumn breezes. He inhales deeply, shoulders drawing up and causing balance to rock back on his heels. "Remember that package that was sent to me that I had to go get?" Tension of truth needs releasing, and so he shifts the topic away from touchy personal subjects. If she noticed the golden coin (and it's likely she has), Kopriva doesn't pry and neither does she seek any elaboration from Vh'iyr. She has plenty of questions, but she remains respectful and keeps to a quieter form of understanding. Especially for the ferocity in the statement of never returning. What more can be said? Nothing, it seems, but she will lift her gaze to his when he shifts the topic away. Kopriva flows with it, even if her pensive expression hasn't quite caught up. The lone stone, apparently for keeping and not throwing, is slipped absentmindedly between the fingers of her one hand. "The one you had no idea what it was?" she asks, curious but also a little wary. WAS IT WEIRD, VH'IYR? Like the wet leather she got? Too much personal contact in one day, too many heavy, weighted topics stirred up for him to want to linger, though a whole meat lies beneath all the things left unsaid. "Yeah, that one. Turns out some random chick sent me her underwear," Vh'iyr shrugs, "I don't remember her, but Nhiuzy… Back then it was a much bigger fight to keep him from ripping me apart with the flights. Anyway, it went to some chick's place and she threw them at my face," woe, WOE, feel for him Kopriva. "By sheer, dumb coincidence, it got sent to this bazaar girl I've tangled with before — and no, not that way. So…" He licks his lower lip and leans in a little closer to Kopriva as if sharing a secret. "… I signed her up for some pornographic publications." Hazel-green eyes dance a little as a shit-eating grin stirs the shadows from his smile. "A little virgin girl getting an education." Is he terrible? Does this make him terrible?! "Maybe she won't be so damn judgmental all the time." Does he think Kopriva might be more aligned with the girl than him? No, he's not thinking that far ahead, honestly. "Sometimes," quieter, thoughtful, "it sucks being judged all the time by what our dragons need to do." And his? Is damned difficult to contend with. It seems a recurring balance between them, to share a little of the heavier things before drifting from it. Kopriva was not quite prepared for the tangent and so her look turns rather comically blank as her thoughts absolutely scramble to catch up. "Who sends underwear…?" No really, is THAT what she's going to start with? It's discarded (like said underwear) in the next breath. Bewilderment only covers the surface and while she cannot keep herself from blushing, there's no pearl-clutching or scandalized gasps. She does, however, hiss one near-scoffed interruption of: ''You didn't!" between fighting back a smirk. No, no, noooo she should not be entertaining this! It IS terrible. That poor girl! Vh'iyr is terrible. Kopriva is trying to make herself feel terrible for not telling him how awful he is! "You're an ass," she repeats for the second time, cutting him a glare that holds absolutely zero heat for the effort. For emphasis, she aims to smack her free hand against him, if he doesn't evade the gesture. If not her hand, there may be a follow up of an elbow to the ribs — and a little click of her tongue that still holds no real scolding. Kopriva sobers, however, under the shift to topics of being judged and the judgemental. Her features soften, lips thinning. "It's difficult," she agrees, though her struggles are less related to her dragon and all her own. "I did," Vh'iyr mockingly holds up his hands, so her swat first lands on his biceps and then her elbow sends him careening (the biggest exaggerator here) in steps around her, as he MOANS pitiously. "Ow! Ow! Priv! Whyyyyyyyy," but when he stops with his antics, hazel-green eyes are bright and his grin cuts genuine — not at all sardonic as it usually is. "I am an ass, but that girl…" He clucks his tongue and looks askance from Kopriva, frowning. "… I don't know. Her opinion doesn't matter, but every time I run into her, it's like she lives to tell me what a shit I am." Kopriva should know Vhy well enough by now he's not the innocent baby he thinks he is and he knows it too. "Which shouldn't matter, who is she? Until I went to get this mystery package — which, by the way, was used underwear. I didn't ask for some random one post-flight-loss-stand to send me her underwear! — I didn't know this girl's name." So he retaliated by signing her up for the proverbial Pernese pornado. "For all that… I wouldn't give him up for anything. I'd take the shitty flights, the… struggles to fight him every single day, because sometimes, I feel like he's all I've got." Which is not at all what Vh'iyr meant to say, or intended to say, given by the suddent turn of attention to the far out lake, where wind ruffles his hair. Silence settles, all the while those at the lake laugh and talk, their muffled sounds of joy a backdrop to the trickier avenues of life. Kopriva twists and half-steps only to keep Vh'iyr within her line of sight for his exaggeration and there may be one last flick of her hand before the antics come to an end. It's true that she knows him well enough and she'll cut him another look. One that deepens to a form of long suffering incredulousness when he attempts to further explain and she is fighting not to burst out laughing — as it's likely more a knee-jerk reaction. Just like the way she wrinkles her nose briefly when he enlightens her on the state of those panties. "And she'll have all the reason to back up her claim if she figures out that you're behind her unwanted… subscriptions." she points out, likely needlessly and largely just to poke verbally. The last catches her off guard as well and for a moment there is only silence from her, while Vh'iyr looks out to the lake and the backdrop of laughter and distant talking filters around them. Eventually, Kopriva pulls herself from her thoughts and moves to lessen the distance between them. It's no grand gesture and there's a gentleness to it, as though she's giving Vh'iyr all the time necessary to evade. This time, it is her hand that reaches out but not to his shoulder but to rest against his lower arm — maybe even his hand, if it's not still shoved into a pocket. Kopriva says nothing, but only because she cannot find the right words — how to pack so much complexity into something that doesn't sound empty and hollow? So she goes for action, however small. Should Zasiyra realize it was he, Vh'iyr's acutely aware she'll only hold it against him, which may be what he was after. Or may be doing exactly what he thinks she expects him to do, which doesn't always align with what he wants to do. What — Vh'iyr's gaze slants to Kopriva when he feels her hand on his arm, and he does pull his hand out and take hers in a gesture of — connection. Humanity. Friendship. A turn ago, he would have scoffed at finding friendship with a woman, but… Life has a way of bending to show that not every occurance is as you expect them to be. "Priv," he starts, frowns, brows drawing together in a frown. "Thanks." Maybe Nhiuzukkath's influence comes to bear here, but he adds slowly, "For being — for putting up with us." He gives her hand a little squeeze, hazel-green eyes holding to brown, "And for being a friend." Vhy is no bleeding heart, however, but he does manage to find these words, "I didn't think we would be, but I'm glad I was wrong. I'm gonna to miss hanging out with you when the eggs are hatched." A turn ago, Kopriva might have equally scoffed over the idea of befriending a man who was an ass to her on first meeting. She has too much familiarity with how life can curve in sudden and abrupt ways — but welcomes the ones that are good, if unexpected. When he takes her hand, Kopriva holds firm and the little squeeze is later returned. She also does not immediately let go, though her hand will relax. Her gaze lifts and there is a fleeting brightness to them, chased to a small, but broadening warm smile. Vh'iyr doesn't need to be a bleeding heart, this is enough. The last brings a flicker of puzzlement, but that is brushed off with a light chuckle. "I'm hardly going to start telling you what to do with your time," she begins, trying to be equally humored as she is serious. It might be the lifeline she clings to, too to keep talking and not let her insecurities stop her. "But if you wanted to hang out, without the excuse of a clutch?" The invitation is there — a similar weightless one as her previous concerning a official-not-official escort to Southern. Kopriva is likely the bleeding heart here, but she keeps it tempered, moving on. "Thank you too, Vh'iyr." One day, she'll figure out a nickname. "For being a friend. And… honestly, you've made this memorable — both you and Nhiuzukkath." There's a pause and her smile slants. "…Even if I can go without seeing so many half-eaten sheep ever again." Maybe it's the ease of the moment which prompts a boyish half-smile from Vh'iyr, but that it does and it shaves the turns off his pensive regard to be more inline with his actual age. Young enough still to be a boy on the cusp of manhood, old enough to be a man in his own right. "I'll escort you, Priv, don't worry, and maybe even get you a little social life, ehhhhh, ehhhh?" Does he tease? Oh he actually remembers that long ago day dancing in the Cantina where her eyes feasted on a variety of offerings. "Thanks. Listen, I could go a lifetime without seeing half-eaten sheep, alas, I have no escape." He pulls his hand free, but only so he can sling a casual arm around her shoulders, in a loose-boned friendly way. "C'mon, we'd better get back. I can feel Nhiuzukkath getting frisky." And that is NOT a good sign. "It has been memorable, eh? For me too, Priv, for me too." And it's true: somehow, someway through the trials and tribulations of Nhiuzukkath as a clutchfather, a little bit of humanity might very well have sunk into Vh'iyr's demeanor. Softened him a touch so that not everything is viewed in jaded distrust. With a little pivot and steer, he slants a look at Kopriva, adding, "We can swing 'round the caverns and get snacks too. And I can tell you a story…" What story? Surely it is funny, surely it is hilarious, but always, it is Vh'iyr's life in three dimensions. And almost always involves his dragon and Nhiuzy's antics. Kopriva still has a lot of growth to do, herself and especially with the general public and those she is surrounded by on a daily basis. That will all eventually come to pass, likely not without some growing pains and setbacks. But here? She has shed some of that shell. Enough that his maybe-teasing even earns a roll of her eyes and a mock glare. That … might not be a no? "Pariisamith will wake soon too. We have time to stop at the caverns, though. Just the caverns…" With his arm casually around her shoulders, Kopriva gives all the lead to Vh'iyr to steer them back — with a detour for snacks. His offer of a story earns him a pointed sidelong look. It's too obvious she is curious about this story — and wary, in a playful way. Yet she's never protested them, no matter how they may fluster or bewilder her. Her mood is high. She is in good spirits, far better, on their return — even Nhiuzy's antics may not dampen it for the rest of that day. There and Back Again to the End has 2 comments. |
13 Mar 2024 04:00 |
Vh'iyr takes a moment to escape the sands. Kopriva also seizes a moment to escape and joins him. Their conversation runs the gamut of easy and difficult. swearing |
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Of Words and Actions Of Words and Actions
"Bubblies? It's not even a gather day." Living Cavern Brightly lit by a regimented march of strung glow-globes, Igen's busy living caverns are cut of the same exotic limestone design that frequents the bazaar without. Tapestries line the tops of the walls, one for each of Igen's wings, past and present; beneath them, skybroom tables litter the floors in scattered profusion. Some of the wicker chairs have seen better days, but most of the worst offenders have long-ago been replaced. The seemingly random placement of furniture, however, at closer inspection yields a sort of cross-shape of negative space. The northernmost walls and nooks of the caverns are owned by the kitchen's buffet, food-laden thrice daily in regimented shifts by busy bakers from the curtained southern entrance to the kitchens. To the east is a large arch leading outside; westerly lies the large doors leading down into the bowels of the weyr itself. Dinner is, as usual, a busy time for the cooks and kitchen staff - and the candidates that have been assigned cleaning duty, for that matter. Dinner's assortment of skewers and curries and rivergrains with flatbreads and a plethora of vegetables don't make it easier, either; there's a lot of mess as a result, from sauces to crumbs to skewers tossed about all willy-nilly. Edric is present as he often is, though he lurks skulks dwells in the background with his folio open and his head bent, spectacled gaze pinned on some note or another. His periodic checks of the cavern occasionally resolve in him motioning someone over - and, like magic, food is replenished or spills are cleaned. His intervention isn't often necessary, though; the place operates - largely - like a well-oiled machine. Cleaning? Why yes, that's where Larze is. Again. KNowing that the Headman is around, the tall candidate is particularlly careful to stay out from underfoot and very very busy so as not to be in trouble. Unfortunately, he's managed to run out of floor. Ending up in the far corner, the stone gleams in a shine that you could almost eat off. That lad from Highreaches might even try it on a good dare. He sighs, looking at the wall as he eyes the walls but, he'd already attended those a day ago so… Well, that seems he's done. At least with this task. Squaring his shoulders he drops the cloth in the bucket and gingerly stands up. He casts a longing look at the food table. Particularlly the sweets but…a look over at the Headman makes him hesitate. Surely he won't get in trouble for a little break. After cleaning up his hands a'course. Satisfied by what he sees thus far, Edric finally eases out of the nook he's claimed for his supervision and steps out into the fray - such as it is. As he goes, a few candidates are tapped and sent off with a few words meant for their ears only. Dinner is coming for the ones that seem to be done with their duties and, fortunately, Larze is on that list. He'll eventually make it over to where the tall lad is standing, though he's mindful not to muck up the floor that's been freshly tended to. "You're free to take your dinner and the rest of the night off." His folio is snapped neatly shut and tucked under his arm, the last bit of his business here seemingly concluded. Larze offers a nicely practiced, though equally nervous, salute to Edric. "Sir?" He sounds puzzled. It's not usually the Headman direct who gives his nod for a permission to have the night off. "The…whole…night?" There's a small smile but it fades with a grumble of his stomach escapes him. "Yes," Edric replies, though it might not help that he's a master of Fortian deadpan. Still, the response gives him pause and he studies the young man again, a tilt of his head setting ambient light to skitter across his lenses and, for a moment, reflect Larze's face back at him. The look lingers, as does the silence, until, finally, he queries: "You haven't been working up until curfew, have you?" Larze is a master of staying out from under the eye of such authority as Edric. Something that the stern look has color draining from Larze's face and his adam's apple jerks a litle too wildly. He tries to make himself smaller, shoulders angling forward. The body language of submission. There's fear there too as he looks away, "I do not stay out over curfew. Ever." Oh goodness, all the trouble he could get into now that the headman's confident, steady look is on him, picking out all his flaws and weak spots most likely. "That is not the question I asked." Edric's words come slowly and purposefully, while he continues that pointed consideration of the candidate in front of him. That Larze's gut was audibly growling earlier is, suddenly, of no immediate consequence. "Have you been working after dinner?" The question is reframed for clarity; something he's quite well-acquainted with doing, particularly with the young and squeamish. Fortunately, the folio keeps him from folding his arms, but there is a subtle lift of his chin that fulfills the same impression. Larze closes his eyes and blows out a breath. "Yes, sir." He answers, voice full of regret. Here it is then. The crackdust hitting the fan and he's still, shomehow managed to get his tail in the trap when he'd just been doing his best. "Please, don't send me home." While Edric's chin goes up, his goes down, pressing hard to his chest. His jaw words and he closes his eyes. "You should not be. The evenings should be for relaxing and finishing any lessons the Harpers give." And, yes, there might be some chores that run later, but they're balanced with a slightly later wake-up time for the candidates in question. There is no agitation there, just Edric's naturally dry affect. With Larze already looking like a kicked canine, there's something there that he'll pry at. "I don't send anyone home for working too hard, Larze," because he knows them by name by now; it's part of his job and a part that he takes very seriously - just like everything else. "Head up. Look at me." There's no snap of fingers, but no need; his tone is clipped and sharp enough. "Did someone tell you to work that late?" Larze swings his head from side to side and he slides a hand through his wild curls. The tie that he tries to keep in place at the Weyr having worked free during his scrubbing. "I do not neglect my harper classes. I'm….quite a bit behind the group. Tunnelsnake don't have the same sort of learning." Moistening his lips, he's only glancing up now and then but otherwise giving off big 'do not harm me' vibes. Oh man, and being asked (ordered?) to look up? He bites down on his lower lip and then lifts his head and draws himself up. Though he still looks defeated, there's more defiance in his eyes, as though he's metally getting ready for some corpal punishment. "YEs sir. Sorry, Sir." There's the million mile stare. "No one told me, sir. No." He sighs and closes his eyes. "I…have an agreement…that I will cover for some of the candidates because they are….ah…struggling with their chores. I'm well used to um, sir. I don't mind. I don't have any need to go wasting time after work. N "I see." The folio is opened, pages leafed through. Edric's gaze seems to bear heavy on him all the same, though the man must surely be looking at the sheaves of paper he's flipping through. Silence presides while he listens, waiting with the patience of the dead until Larze is done. There is no raised hand; no raised voice. A tip of his head finally brings grey eyes to bear without the sheen of glass. "So, rather than turn these-" indolent lackadaisical "-lazy candidates in to myself or the Weyrlingmaster, you chose to cover for them. Is that correct?" It's rhetorical, really; the man's already had plenty of avians at his ear about similar situations. It's a tale as old as candidacy - and he's seen his share. He doesn't even wait for the answer as he continues, "It hurts the class when laziness is allowed to breed. It hurts you, by not allowing you the rest you need - and it keeps you, and others, from being able to focus on your duties that you and you alone were assigned. Do you understand?" Larze takes the gaze with a steady, unfailing posture. The silence doesn't bother him, he's got himself well braced now. It seems strange to him that there's not at least the start of a lecture, and the hard hand of 'training' that would follow. He glances at the folio and is so well guarded now that no expression shows on his face. He is well and done for. "No, sir. I am not a tattle. And…forgive me for saying but them boys there…are Lord Britan's family." Or, so they claim. "I squeal about um and then they either fix on some other candidate smaller then me and I get some visit in the night or some trip down the stairs again." He continues on, calm and quiet. "I'm not hurt, sir. I got plenty of strength and I can do it." He does no though, "Yes sir. I do not think I let any of my chores and duties fail. I'm a real hard worker, sir. And, forgive me but, I aint going to let them boys hurt anyone else in the group. Or come back to my family at Tunnelsnake. My dad would beat me bloody." "Mmhm." Dry, drier, driest. Some notes are made with a stylus that seems to come out of nowhere; Fort's lot are, in many ways, more tricksy than Bitrans. Edric replies, "They're liars, Larze." Matter-of-fact. "If they were of Lord Bitra, they wouldn't be here unless they wanted to renounce their claim." Another note - then two more. Another page is flipped and, this time, there's the distinctive gesture of something being scratched out - three times. "The Weyrlingmaster and myself exist to protect you from people like that, Larze. Dragonriders must be exemplars of society," at least, that's the party line, isn't it? "and a lazy dragonrider that abuses other dragonriders is a poor example of a person, let alone a dragonrider. The same holds true for candidates." He pauses. "Especially for candidates, because you are what we're offering to the dragons." The folio snaps shut. "Candidacy isn't about exploiting strengths. It's about strengthening weaknesses, too. You'll have more Harper lessons to get you caught up. Your chores will be balanced to reflect that. Mornings only. After lunch, you will have your lessons. If you prefer it the other way, that can be arranged." All other protests seem to fall on deaf ears, except the lattermost and his tone cools further, sharpening - but not for the boy himself: "Your father has no power here, Larze. And those three don't, either. They'll be sent back in the morning. If, by some miracle, they attempt to make good on any threats, they will be punished accordingly." "Thems said their pa' is second son of the Lord and they are two and three of that one's git…(get?)." He blows out a breath. "Might be liars, but I seen what they can do. Pardon me for saying, but if I got whinge'n about every little trouble, what sort of dragon would want /me/? ANd…don't the dragon's decide? I….I did hear though, that the dragons could impress someone out of the stands. I wouldn't want to be the cause of some dragonette being shorted….." He has no expression change about the addition of lessons, or switch of them? He's got this. "Yes, sir. Don't honestly matter, sir. Whatever works best for the weyr." He's probably got that drilled into him from back home. "Sir, what you want me to do when they come visiting me in the latrine…or in the back stairs again? I'm…no snitch, sir." "They can say their mother was Faranth herself and they were hatched from a golden egg and it would be just as truthful," Edric deadpans. He leans in just a little, just enough to better level a gaze on the lad. "And, frankly, I don't give a shit about what they say. I care about what they do or don't do." He eases back, already motioning to a passing rider to wait a moment so he can share a word. "They are not doing their chores. They are causing harm to candidates. The dragons will not suffer for lack of choice. There are more of you than there are of them and if they go to the Stands, it's very rare indeed." He draws a breath, holds it, then releases it slowly. "Understand that I have been doing this for almost twenty turns now, Larze. I have seen countless hatchings. I have sent, perhaps, hundreds home for all manner of offenses. If anything, their absence increases your odds of Impression. Dragons are often drawn to people who are principled - and who are not afraid to raise their voice when something isn't right." Is it true? His voice bears the weight of conviction. "They will be headed home by the morning. If they somehow come back, I assure you, I will be the first to know - and they will be the first to understand just how creative punishments can get here at Igen." Larze braces as the Headman leans in. Here it comes. When there's not so much as a finger-waggle, or a smack on the back of the head, he lets out the breath he's holding. He's a quiet lad and listening is one of his things. He takes in what Edric says and there's no pleasure or relief, his expression still well under wraps. He nods, just once, turning the information over. Not just about the Trio going home, but what a hatchling might be drawn to and his brows fall slightly. "I see." He looks torn. Say more? Stay safe? He shift his weight and clears his throat. "What if they…go to the Tunnelsnake? Like they said. My sisters…well, already bad enough I'm not there…" "What they say and what they do are two different things. Talk is cheap and they don't seem to be the type to have much to spend in the first place." Edric finally draws the rider in, but only to share a few brief words that are too hushed to carry. The bluerider nods and heads out, leaving Edric to face the candidate again. "If they make it to Tunnelsnake, then that's their problem. And Bitra's problem, if that's where they're actually from." He could look and check, but he won't be bothered; he's spent too many resources as it is on handling this issue. "They might find themselves exiled for their trouble or staked out for Thread if they're lucky." For a relatively quick death by Thread might be preferable to some of the alternatives that exist. "I need to speak to a few other candidates to release them for dinner," he continues after letting his words settle in. "Those three will not be your problem any more. They will be mine." And if there's a momentary grin, a flash of teeth, a sharklike quality to his regard- so be it. It passes in the blink of an eye. "Say nothing to anyone and they'll be gone by dawn, none-the-wiser." Larze's idea of wealth and Edric are very different but he's a smart lad and does not question things that the Headman would know better. It's something he'll store away though, being that information is power. The fact that they might not even be from where they claim? He would clutch his pearls if he had them, and if he wasn't doing his best 'at attention' posture right now. "Yes, sir. I'm not a gossip. And…thank you for seeing that I get more education." He cracks a small, grateful smile. He might be thanking for more than that, but he's not going to outright speak such a thing. No one should be gleeful about narking on others. "Good lad. Go, get dinner. If you wait two minutes, they'll be bringing out some fresh spiced cake and bubblies." It's an easy calculation to make for the likes of him. Edric reaches, but only to try to clap a hand on Larze's shoulder with a firm, but amiable, contact. "Take care of yourself. Learn. Expand your understanding of the world. That is the best way to thank me. Clear skies, Larze." And, with that, the Headman makes his way to the kitchens - in part to cut more candidates loose and, in part, to make sure his two minute timer is accurate. Larze's hand moves to his stomach and there's a long gurgle like a lion trapped there. "Bubblies? It's not even a gather day." He gives a full faced grin at the prospect of sweets. He doesn't even startle at the clap to his shoulder, that's how distract he is by /food/. "I will sir. Can't swear I'll sing or play an intrument but…I'll do my best. Um… evening, sir." Saluting again, he takes no time at all in making a beeline towards the serving table. Slow-like and /casual/. Yeah. Of Words and Actions has 1 comments. |
14 Mar 2024 04:00 |
In which Larze is caught and Edric takes action. |
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Inlets and Inroads Inlets and Inroads
Archive Library Where once books reigned supreme, this open space is now dominated by a stalwart skybroom reaching to the sky through a broken ceiling. What was once evidence of collapse is now ornately carved with engraved ivy, matched by a clever contraption of stone that allows the gap to be closed in inclement weather. A small garden occupies the space around the tree-trunk, all manicured bushes and flowering shrubbery enclosed by a grated gutter. The walls are lined with bookcases, while a spiral staircase leans on the western wall to wind upwards to the second level. Tucked in the corners and scattered in the main areas are tables and chairs, cafe-style, and comfortably worn overstuffed armchairs. It is the perfect place for individuals to gather, to enjoy the offerings of the food-cart or a spirited conversation. Rukbat sits at the pinnacle of the day, shining bright light down upon a weyr festering with heated humidity forcing many weyrfolk inside the great walls of stone to provide a cooling effect. Sekhiiyah stands behind her counter with a large, ancient tome opened before her, her hair tied up in a severe braided coronet that keeps all but the most tenacious wisps of silky honey-touched dark hair from framing her face. Dark blue eyes focus on the tiniest of details as soft, white-glove hands work diligently on restoring what looks to be an old book of songs in a manner as old as the very mountain they dwell in. Tongue peeks out as this particular scrollwork she's restoring proves to be quite difficult, even beneath the magnifying glass she's got poised above the prose. The Archives are quiet, the hushed quality lingering in the only sounds being the delicate coughs and shuffles of patrons and the quiet thuds of books opening, shutting as shhhhhh'ing of paper moving fills the void where people talking would be but for the cold blue glare she gives to those who seek to BREAK the SANCTITY of the LIBRARY. Etzaeren breezes in like a northwesterly gust of wind, the strong scent of salt and sea forever-attached to a man more often outdoors than within. His formative turns might have been coddled against Fort's prim and proper bosom — so he's capable of manners — but much of that was gloriously undone thanks to Tillek's uncouth influence in his more recent history. He has, of course, been in libraries before — beautiful ones! — and Southern's offers much of the same: aisles and tomes and the unrelenting, unnerving quiet where little can stir unnoticed. Unimpressed — his general mien — the seacrafter does not look around in awe, even at the unusual sight of the tree, and straight-away makes for the central desk. Leaning an elbow against it, Etz waits, watching Sekhiiyah the way a sailor would prepare for a storm to bloom on the horizon; an eyebrow slightly-arched, glance speculative. The fractured curve of a fleur-de-lis glistens with new life as Sekhiiyah pauses, frowning a bit as if considering whether her workmanship is good enough (it is). Silver-blue gaze, caught in the shadow of dark lashes, catches sight of Etzaeren blow in like some flotsom on a choppy ocean, only to drift up against her desk. The skin of her eyelids narrows slightly for the way he leans on the desk, her own already straight back straightening even further as if in sympathy for such posture. "May I help you?" Sekhiiyah's voice is low, soft and clipped in cool, Fortian tones. She, too, has been cut of Fort's cloth, but she has not forgotten her manners, even if a hint of frustration tightens her features for having to draw away from real work to man the front desk. Quiet shuffles as the cloth of her skirt swishes against her stockings and small kid boots, dressed as she is in a proper dress colored in soft dove-grey with silver embroidery that brings out the silvery hue of dark blue gaze. A gaze settled direct upon the newcome seacrafter. Does she sniff a little, raise her nose, as if the scent of saltwater dares to harm the tomes she's in charge of? If she does, it's so very, very subtle in her rather severe demeanor. Instead of nineteen, she acts ninety. Can Etzaeren recognize — hear — their similarities? Or is accent alone where it abruptly, sharply ends? Words spin and slant in much the same as hers, when he replies, "Oh, wouldn't dream of interrupting you," even if he, unabashedly, already did. "I can wait." For her, for another: assuredly the Harpers breed archivists in droves, for Pern's long history needs careful keeping, twelve Passes into it. "I'm in no hurry." A grin, here, may try to either soothe or accommodate her nerves, not that he intends to rub against them more than he already has. For a keen study of her did not miss that hint of frustration, the edge of her (re)strained politeness. He is immune, of course, to how his dark linen tunic will never be free of saltwater scent; how it's an acquired taste to appreciate the freshness of it. But something in Sekhiiyah's look inspires him, where he still does lean, casually, against his side of the desk, to tug at the v-shaped collar of his shirt, as it to readjust where it covers suntanned and freckled skin just below his collar bones. Someone's slippered steps, passing by, draws his gaze away from the disapproving harper, and he flashes a deeper smile, borderline flirty, to the knotted weaver who catches his glance. Tucking a booted foot up and against the desk's stand, he seems to settle in with an amiable patience. "My desk is not a place for courtship," frosty notes hold disapproval, though her expression remains impassively neutral except for a few quick blinks. "However," she clears her throat and straightens herself even further, as if by doing so, it will prompt the young man from leaning so indolently against her desk, "the ink must dry, and if you are in need of assistance…?" A leading prompt if ever there was one as she comes to stand right in front of him, even putting a kind — if cool — smile on her lips. "Then I am happy," such a stretch, "to help. If you are unfamiliar with a library, may I suggest our selection of…" She blinks again, as if subtly assessing him from beneath fringe of dark lashes, trying to glean what he might want or need or be interested in, "… fiction." Yes, he looks like the type to be interested in fiction. "Or are you interested in our instructional manuals?" Her polite smile deepens, though her eyes slide to the tome she was working on as if itching to return. Still, a customer is a customer! "Or," yes, yes, perhaps it is this, "were you returning a book?" While Etzaeren may have a sudden impulse to inquire over weaver texts, the cool breeze from Sekhiiyah's tones reverts his focus back to her: and his original purpose in haunting her space so. Finding her remonstration amusing, he does practice some of that Fortian restraint by not clipping a retort back to the journeyman, or disagreeing with her, too. Idly rubbing the disheveled, red-tinged curls atop his head, he takes a prolonged moment to consider her generous helpfulness, while — by design — not catching her context clues. Forearms, now, placed upon the desk, he leans, curiously, over the counter to try and look at what beckons for the harper's longing look that wasn't angled to him. "Mmmh, no, not fiction." Blue eyes narrow into a squint. "Nor manuals." He cannot decipher upside-down words in verse form, however. "And no returns." Abandoning making a nuisance of himself — if it were all possible at this point anymore — he does, finally, straighten, testing out how much of Sekhiiyah's polite goodwill is left for him. "Maps of Southern's waterways, the ones that can hold vessels. I'm here to pick up the most recent renderings and take them back to the hall, to make sure ours are as up-to-date after the autumn rains." If they have helped carve away riverbanks, or create new ones. A well-timed smile follows after a heartbeat, plus one simple addition: "Please." The tome which holds so much of her attention is ancient, formed of delicate pages and a binding that looks to come from before the before comet times. The shape of the words on the page suggest either poetry or some epic-style poems capturing the hearts of the Pernese at the time in trials of glory. Sekhiiyah inhales a little too sharply when he leans even more on her desk, but she's polite enough not to say anything… yet. As he ticks off all the things he is not there to get, the archivist keeps her face neutral even while side-eyeing his attempt to read the ancient tome. Is it a sigh of relief when the young man straightens? Perhaps, but now she's caught looking up at him, and wonders if this is better. His request catches her off guard and her eyes widen as his request is nothing of the sort she'd been expecting. "Maps of Southern's waterways," her gaze falls heavily to his knot, as if sussing out it's craftsmanship for any hint of falseness while she considers the seacrafter in a new light. "Southern has many waterways, and some scholars disagree on the ones that can hold vessels as it entirely depends on the size, breadth, and depth of the vessel. Of course, some of the waterways in the wildling lands are near uncharted, so I suppose it would be helpful to your research to narrow down which waterways you specifically want. The whole continent? For it is a vast space of many different rivers and tributaries. Do you want to include the Southern Ocean that rims the island chains? The volcano? Or merely the veins of water around the weyr? I can, of course, show you to the whole section, but…" She might eye him doubtfully, "It is a task greater than a single boy can handle." Beckoning him to follow her, she turns and skirts her way out from behind the desk, her small kid boots making a soft click-click-click-click with purposefully even steps as she heads off, deeper into the archives. He'll follow if he wants that information! It's weather-beaten, to be sure, and stiff with dried water and dirt; not the cleanest knot, though the blue-and-white colors of Seacraft are visible, if muted. Dingy. A knot whose craft requirements have been well-practiced, sun-drenched, wind-dried. Etzaeren watches the light click on for the harper — not that he explained himself adequately in the first place — with a smile slow-to-form as she draws out her corrective rejoinder in information overload. As her rolling spiel does not allow him a word edgewise — to specify, clarify, or correct — he pushes away from the counter to closely shadow her steps to the archive's aisles, what he wanted from the very beginning. "Can I," he inquires, unseriously, his booted steps treading behind her, "just take you back with me instead?" A thumb juts behind, direction-wards, to the hall which sits separately from the rest of the Weyr's crafter quarters. But seriously though (maybe): "Let's begin with the waterways closest the Weyr, and the Azov Sea and its inlets." Will she catch the hint? They may be — or become — a multi-visit endeavor for him? Can she smell a journeyman project when it blows into the archives like a sea cyclone? "No you may not," Sekhiiyah chances a prim look over a perfectly straight and pointed shoulder, her spine so straight one must wonder about the rod she must sit on every day to get it so perfectly straight. Her posture is to die for. "And you may only check out a few pieces from the archives," her steps pause as disapproval once against saturates cool, clipped Fortian tones, "as we have had some instances where the materials have been lost," Faranth forbid, "or damaged." Her voice shudders slightly, but her cool demeanor does not break as she resumes the perfuctory clip-clip-clip-clip of professional gait, until she comes upon a small room guarded by an old, wooden door. Tugging off an old, iron keychain, she slips an even older key in the lock and with a creaaaaaaaaaaaaak that breaks the silence of the archives, she unlocks the door and pushes it open. "Azov Sea and the Black Rock River will be the obvious suspects, though an industrious soul could possibly find little fingers of tributaries all the way out to Drake's lake, though much of that's uncharted as well." Re-hanging the keyring on a braided leather belt positioned artfully low on slender hips, she steps into the small room and unshutters the glowbaskets. "Absolutely no food nor drink in this room, nor a candle of any kind. More light can be provided with additional glows." Which he'll need, for the room is dim enough that at first it's hard to tell she's whirled around on him, but for the glint of glowlight against the wets of her eyes. "This room holds much of the old maps and books," for shelves upon shelves of old documents do line the walls and lay scattered across the handful of long tables. "If I catch even a scent of food, I will write a stern note to your Craftmaster and you'll be banned from such treasures." Does he understand? Banned. "My name is Sekhiiyah, Junior Journeyman Harper with a specialty in restoration and archive work. If you need anything — do you? Need anything?" Prim, proper; eyebrows lift as once more she's tipping her head up to Etzaeren, eyes blinking quickly before settling in a very direct, very intense gaze upon him. "When you're ready to move to a different part of the Continent, of course, I will show you that room." Yet, knowledge is constrained, and as he is not a Harper, he is throttled to just this room for now. Etzaeren waits until Sekhiiyah's look transfers back to the front before his smile, amused, unleashes against her backside; that she took him seriously when his tone dripped of jest. That she missed the nested compliment within it — he's impressed with her knowledge of geography, landscapes, topography when he only expected it to encompass paper-weight or old love ballads — and instead welcomed another reason to rebuke him. Which, judging by his reaction, he doesn't mind, either way. No matter which unfortunate Southerner has drawn her continued disapproval, and he will happily take the mantle if it means she keeps showing him the way, he takes her verbal missives with a thoughtful-sounding acknowledgement, catching up to her only when they come to a door, seemingly hidden from sight until she pointed it out. "Woah," he breathes out, eyebrows raised, stepping within after her, a few blinks to register the sudden change in lighting. "Amazing." He can show proper appreciation for the work began centuries before he was ever a thought. But: "In time, dear Harper, in time," he murmurs absently, as if he were assuring a sweet little granny, the seacrafter not overwhelmed at the size and scope of the project she proposes: perhaps even eager for it, taking in the general size and what the small room offers. Finally, with her threat statement of rules, his gaze draws down to her, she backlit by the weak light of the glows. His smile, though, shines bright despite the relative dimness, extending to his eyes. Amusement, something he always seems to carry in his glances. "Understood, I brought nothing with me to threaten the integrity of the maps. Worry not, Sekhiiyah," testing out her name sans official title, a formal accent for an informal address, made more familiar still with that warm smile he's prone to. "You've given me a good start," to answer her query, "but I know where to find you," parked in front of that mysterious book that draws her affection, "should something dire arise." Like a bird, Sekhiiyah preens a little at finally, Etzaeren shows proper appreciation for what's truly worthy in this life: books, knowledge, scrolls. Her breadth of knowledge is vast, but with little in the way of hobbies or fun or anything else for that matter, as books and work and books take up the whole of her existance thus far in her short life. And the books, maps, scrolls, hides… they are worthy of his awe, and her chin lifts as her smile shifts into a blend of satisfaction and purpose. "I do not worry," she, quick to reassure, merely lifts her brows, lips pressing together as the point of her chin seems to make a statement all on it's own when she lifts it. "I act." Looking over the precious information contained in this room, she narrows her focus on Etzaeren and pulls from the depths of a skirt that didn't look as if it had pockets a tiny little book of tiny little notepapers. "Your name, Seacrafter, your rank, and whom your superior is required to stay in this room." A hint — so slight — in her expression suggests a challenge, but surely — surely not. Not from this prim, proper, perfunctory harper, who in her own right is likely very boring to most who encounter her. "It's a fraction of the material we have." A quick snap of her fingers and a small green firelizard appears and perches on one of the glows and watches him. "Should you need anything," or are tempted to try anything, "Academia will alert me." Pulling a stylus from behind her ear where she'd shoved it in the coronet of braids — who knows how long her hair actually is, for it's all wound up around her head — she poises her hands over the hides, pointedly waiting for his credentials. 'Academia': it's a soundless repeat, Etzaeren mouthing the pompous name of the green guard firelizard like he suddenly believes he's been Between'd back to Fort. "I don't have to be creature-sat," he notes with a tilt of his head, tone turned slightly offended, but laughed off with an exhale. He pivots away from the Harper, slowly rolling up his tunic's sleeves to mid-forearm, one then the other, like he means to settle into the business of serious work, more serious study. What will Sekhiiyah make of that? Answering her, only after he's craned his neck leaning over a table to see what map someone else left out, "Senior Apprentice," though the knot she studied so seriously should have already told her that, "Etzaeren," as pompous as its Fortian origins. "Zaer, or Etz, though, if you use nicknames." His grin — directed to the map of Southern Weyr's cove — suggests he already knows the answer. If he's tempted to label, jokingly, seacraft compatriot Kjartan as his superior — he might make journeyman before Etz himself does, who knows — he somehow decides this junior journeyman sharing dim light and oxygen in the small, small room won't find it as amusing as he would. "Master Vostos approved this study," he tells truthfully, instead, lifting a look back to her to watch her scribble out his so-called credentials. "Prove yourself trustworthy and you won't be," Sekhiiyah returns evenly, tone prim and not at all yielding to his natural offense at being babysat by a firelizard. "Senior Apprentice Etzaeren," of course she knew his knot, but making him give his credentials lends weight and formality. Her handwriting, though maybe he does not linger to see, is beautiful and scripted, as if she has studied under great calligraphy writers at the Harper Hall in Fort Hold. "Master Vostos," she adds, making another note. "Before you leave, please make sure his approval is on the Master Archivist's desk if it is not already." Tucking away her little notebook and stylus as if they are magic, she smooths out her skirts and looks around the room as if uncertain to leave him here, in this vaunted space. Yet, his serious determination to work puts a hint of a crease in the the smooth skin between her brows, as if she finds him a study of contradiction. "Well then," she tries not to make that sound entirely unwelcoming, smoothing skirts again though nary a wrinkle mars their perfect fall of fabric. "I'll leave you to it, Etzaeren," Sekhiiyah's cultured accent adds the familiar lilt of his (and her) home to his name, somehow making him oh-so-very important for all the syllables working together with the whole. "You know where to find me," she moves to the door, and pauses in the doorway, intense silver-blue gaze upon the Seacrafter. Does she need to say it? I'm watching you. "Good day." Pivoting on her heel, she walks — back ramrod straight — out of the door, though she closes the door on him, leaving the room in that barely-felt glowlight. At least she doesn't lock him in. He'll find more glows to open to give more light and of course, more glows can be had. Over the course of his time in the archives, should he open the door, for the room does get stuffy, he'll find she makes her rounds… keeping a wary, wary eye on him. Just in case! Sekhiiyah trusts very few with precious, precious books! "Thank you, Kiyah," informality to formality, Etzaeren makes a name game out of her refusal to shorten his; treating her as an equal, a familiar, a friend, all while restraining the smile that always threatens to break free. Though he says it only once her hand is upon the door, readying to close it: so she will have little choice to not react. And he does know where he'll find her, most certainly: "Making love-eyes to your book, no doubt." That statement will only come after she seals jails shuts him in the small, dark room, an amused mutter for the sake of himself alone, even if Academia might also overhear. However long he stays — door eventually propped open by a chair, to circulate air and overhear the tell-tale click-click-click of the Harper-overseer making her warden rounds — when he does finally leave, the room is as neat and tidy as ever, the maps she suggested missing from the room and the approval-note he didn't know he needed to have no where in sight. Inlets and Inroads has 0 comments. |
14 Mar 2024 05:00 |
In search of inlets, a seacrafter hopefully makes inroads with one of those strict Harper archivists! |
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A Property Deal A Property Deal
Stores A vast and sprawling cavern, the main storage area of the weyr is well-tended by the loving and stern hands of those who oversee the bounty stored within. Depending on the time of day, it is a place of illuminated neatness, stacks of dry goods and foodstuffs labeled clearly… or it is a place of werelight and stygian darkness that taunts those who would dare challenge the depths thereof. Midmorning finds Xiawen in the Stores, perusing a collection of inventory sheets and pondering the objects before her. It's a heap of bedding, pillows, and other linens, which is in a rare state of disarray. Lips pressed flat, she's making some notes on the inventory sheets and going about the process of double-checking things before starting to sort them and fold them and put them where they belong. Certainly, this should fall to Zella and her people - but, from the sounds of things, they're already busy elsewhere in the stores. The chaos here is merely a reflection of the chaos elsewhere, which means all hands are on deck to deal with it. T'quil and R'khan are negotiating the store-tunnels together - that might be capital-T Together, as T'quil's keeping very close to R'khan. The greenrider is apparently not needed by Serval this morning, because here he is wearing warm-weather gear that certainly wouldn't do for drills. He seems a little hesitant as he makes his way through the store-caverns, but he clearly has a goal in mind as he murmurs to R'khan, "I hope she doesn't mind being interrupted down here. I mean, this is a big thing to ask…" He peers along a bank of shelving, but the sound he's heard is that of one of the storekeepers shelving some glass jars. R'khan enjoys rummaging through the stores at the best of times, and with their current project, he's eyeing the shelves with a bit of a calculating gaze to see if there is anything that they can use. "I'm sure that she won't mind." he says quietly, reassuringly. "Worst, we'll have to come back and speak with her another time." he suggests. "And it is a big thing, but worth it, right?" A few more notes are taken and, at last, the stack of paperwork is set aside - with a brown firelizard plopping heavily on it to keep it from moving - and Xiawen sets fully to the task. She'd roll up her sleeves, but she's in a short-sleeved blouse as it is, so any sleeve-rolling is proverbial. Today's colors are lavender and plum, with a splash of cream in the headscarf that keeps her bun contained and free of any dust. She's in the midst of sheet-folding when she hears voices - sound, if not substance - and that seems to be enough to warrant, "If you've a spare set of hands or two, I could use them down here with the linens." Quarry located! Hearing Xiawen's voice, T'quil shoots a conspiratorial grin at R'khan, murmurs, "Here goes!" under his breath for only the bluerider to hear, then heads in that direction. He tips a salute to the Weyrwoman, then smiles and says lightly, "My hands are at your disposal! For a bit, anyway; I'm due in the Infirmary at lunchtime. What would you like done?" R'khan is, as usual, dressed down, with his hair looking as if its not seen a brush for about three sevendays. He is close on T'quil's heels, saluting Xiawen only a split second after the greenrider, and offering her a bright smile. "And another set of hands here if they're helpful." he adds. There's only one of his firelizards with him today, the brown lurking behind R'khan's neck, and offering a vague stare at the useful paperweight lizard. "And while we're assisting, would you have time for some scheming?" "Of course, dear. I'm due at the Infirmary myself once this is seen to," Xiawen replies, once the voices have acquired faces and familiarity. She smiles warmly to both riders, gesturing them closer. "If you don't mind, all of these blankets," and some are quite large, "need to be folded up and put over there. It'll take two people to sort them out, otherwise I'd have done it already." Premonition, on his perch of paper, blinks owlishly at R'khan's brown but is otherwise unmoved - and unhelpful, as his hands are far too small to help with blanket-folding. "Thank you both," she adds, her smile deepening for a moment. "Of course, fair's fair - if you're helping me, then the least I can do is lend an ear to this scheming of yours." T'quil picks up a blanket - it's a large heavy one in a murky shade of grey, but looks rather cosy - and turns it and shakes it until he's identified all four corners, taking two in each hand and lifting them as he lets the bulk of blanket fall loose. "Well, there was something we wanted to ask you. The thing is - I'm sorry, this is going to be a bit of a story. We've been looking for somewhere to live. Together. As weyrmates." He pauses to offer two corners of the blanket to R'khan. R'khan eyes the murky blanket with a little bit of dubiousness, but its mostly for the unappetizing colour. He takes the two corners as T'quil offers them, stepping back to bring the blanket up to tension as he adjusts his grip to make sure that it is neat. "I assumed that calling it a scheme would be better than saying that we had a proposition," he notes, a touch cheekily. "As weyrmates," and R'khan still gets an internal thrill at saying those words, which is why he repeats them, with a sappy look at T'quil. "After talking through things, we were looking over at the cottages, and had a list of three to look at." Soft laughter follows as Xiawen makes quick work of another sheet. "I've had a lifetime of listening to schemes, propositions, proposals, and plans- so many different words just to say 'I want something'. I'd much rather hear a bit of a story first, if there's a story to tell." She watches their progress with the blanket askance, but she's all ears beyond a warm, "Weyrmates! That's lovely to hear. Congratulations to both of you!" And just as a question hits her tongue, R'khan's already answered it and that prompts a thoughtful sound. "Which three? I know some of them are in dire need of some repairs and renovations, but the Smiths are working on that." Slowly, yes, but they have a LOT on their plates. T'quil gives the blanket a bit of a shake, then brings his hands together to fold it in two lengthways, and then the same again. "There was one with a stripy roof, and it had a dragon barn, which our dragons would prefer to just having wallows - except that it was only large enough for one dragon. There was an absolutely huge one - it used to be where G'dari and his family lived." Before G'dari was killed and his weyrmate took the numerous children back to her native Fort Weyr, that would be. "That had room for us and more; it was far more than we need, and a waste of the space for us to take it. Then there was one right up at the top near the trees. It didn't have a dragon shelter and it was a bit small for two, but it's not bad and we like the location. But…" He glances at R'khan again, offering the folded corners, or perhaps requesting their partners. R'khan makes sure that he matches T'quil's movements with the blanket where he's needed, so that it doesn't end up in a worse tangle than when they started. There's another smile direction at Xiawen, and a nod of his head in acknowledgement of her congratulations. Instead of taking the corners, R'khan passes his two off to T'quil when prompted, knowing that the greenrider will make a much better job of it than he would. (considering the bluerider has 'in a ball' as a suitable folding style). "But," he echoes. "We got turned around on our way to the third one, and managed to stumble across something that got both of our attention, and the attention of our dragons." She nods a bit to T'quil's words and, from the faint furrow of her brow, she's more than familiar with G'dari's weyrmate's situation - like as not, she was acquainted with the weyrmate in question due to a shared origin. "Of course, of course," Xiawen says after a moment by way of acknowledgement. "Both of those are quite desirable, but it's a matter of finding the right people for them, of course." There's been interest, but none worthy apparently. It's the mention of the third and its location that has her finally turning her attention in full to the two. "Is that so? Do tell. I believe I know the one you're talking about," she has a pretty good sense of the inventory, after all! "But I am curious to know what 'but' is so large that it's got all of your attention in that way." Cheeky? Yes. Straight-faced? Absolutely. "The third one's the only one that might work for us," T'quil confirms. He continues to explain while quickly folding the blanket, putting it on a shelf, and starting on another. "But close to there, and partly built into the the top of the hill, just a little way into the trees - not far at all - there are the remains of a building. We had a poke around: it seems to have been an old guard post. It's got a decent sized room downstairs, with a hearth and chimney, and a bathing room and necessary off the back. Upstairs is a huge room that could be divided. The trouble is, the walls look sound, but the roof's in a state - I mean, most of it isn't there - and the upstairs floor and all the timbers really aren't that safe, and things like window frames and shutters and doors have had it. We're not experts, but the basic structure is stone and as far as we can tell, that's solid. And the view is totally amazing. So we were wondering…" He pauses to shake out blanket number two, which is bright red and thinner than the first. While T'quil deals with blanket number two, R'khan reaches for blanket number three, a pale blue one that is of a smaller size, either for a single cot, or perhaps a childs cot. It's one that he can fold himself, and while it may not be as neat as others, he still manages to get it lining up. "Certainly not experts, but we didn't manage to injure ourselves while exploring," he chimes in with a wry grin (since Xiawen has probably heard of Caracal's adventures at some point). "We were wondering," and he picks up the thread from T'quil as he sets his lightly haphazard blanket down. "What the stance of the weyr is on repairing existing buildings that have been forgotten." She's making good work with the sheets and the stack of folded ones is rapidly outsizing the unfolded heap. Xiawen nods again while she listens, a faintly acknowledging sound following here and there, but the goldrider is otherwise quiet in her thoughtfulness. All the details are absorbed, filtered, checked against her knowledge - and, of course, she's in no hurry to issue a reply. There's a lot to weigh, after all! But, in the end, she nods with the weight of finality, as a decision is ultimately made. "The stance of the Weyr," she intones, "is aligned with mine - make use of what can be made use of. If you can find a Smith willing to lend a hand - or two, preferably - then that cottage is all yours with my blessing. In fact," she adds, this time with a faint curl of a smile, "I might have a Smith in mind that could be of great assistance to you both. Consider the name a gift, of sorts, to celebrate your weyrmating." T'quil smiles broadly at that, and gives his blanket a celebratory shake before folding it end to end. Another one on the pile! "Thank you, that's wonderful." There's a note of caution in his voice. "We're happy to do some of the fitting out ourselves, and the dragons are good with making wallows at first - they fancy some in the woods, so we might want to move some trees." Southern is not short of trees! "But we were wondering if it would be possible to put up a barn for them eventually. And… well, obviously there's a cost to all this…" And neither of them is rolling in marks. He's wondering how much the Weyr's prepared to fork out for what will be an unplanned addition to its housing stock. R'khan is appreciative of the time that Xiawen takes to mull over things, but also can't help but give a celebratory thumbs up to T'quil at the blessing that is received. But that was only part one of the hurdles to overcome, and now they're getting to what might be the sticking point. Since she seems to appreciate plain speaking, R'khan does. "We have some marks, but not enough for a project like this, and we do not have the contacts that the weyr does." "That will be between you and the Smiths," Xiawen replies, going for some pillows. Those are just getting stuck in a bin, after a bit of vigorous fluffing. "But, Senior Journeyman Estefanio," thus the name is dropped, "is known to work in barter more often than direct mark exchanges. If you're lucky, perhaps he'll throw in a bench for good measure." Faranth knows the man makes enough of them as a hobby. "I'm sure the two of you will be resourceful enough to scrape together the right sorts of trades, though. If your dragons can bring down some trees, that might be a step in the right direction - and if you're willing to put a bit of your own blood,sweat, and tears into the making, all the better." T'quil gives a dry chuckle. "Our dragons will be delighted to bring down some trees. We're having difficulty stopping them, in fact. They're dead keen to make some woodland wallows. And we're prepared to put time and effort into it, but we don't have the skills to build a roof, say. Or a septic tank, for that matter, though I do know a bit about drains and I'm pretty sure those arrangements are safe." They've done a bit of poking about since they first discovered the place. He picks up another blanket and continues folding and talking. "So we'll definitely need help from the smiths on the major work. We'll need materials, too: there's a good chance that every last bit of wood needs replacing. Though if our luck's really in, the floor joists might be OK." He sounds doubtful. R'khan takes a moment in between folding to pull out the little notebook that he's been using for all things cottage related, and writes down the name provided by Xiawen, making a notation that the man in question might be happier for barter exchanges than marks. There's a scrawl of a question mark beside it, what sort of trades would a smith want from two dragon riders? For now though, R'khan remains quiet as his hands work. T'quil has this well in hand at the moment, and the bluerider doesn't want to interrupt his weyrmate making such good points. All that remains now is a few more blankets - and, gauging from the sounds elsewhere, the rest of the stores is also nearly put to rights, too. Xiawen takes up a lap blanket that's seen better days, but is a lovely - if dusty - hue of green. This one is shaken out gently, studied, and then set aside to take to the laundry. "You'll be in good hands, I promise you," she reassures with a firm nod to the pair. "He's been working on the cottages since we decided to build them and he'll be able to guide where he can. Otherwise, knowing him, he might find a way to build you a cottage out of all the benches he seems to be making." She shakes her head a bit, amused. "If you get into dire straits, though, I might be able to help. But only if things are truly dire - and only because I've a bit of a soft spot for a good love story." T'quil can't help a warm expression at the last few words. But he's sufficiently hard-nosed that he wants things certain. "Thank you, Weyrwoman. We're very excited about this place, especially the dragons, but let me make sure we're all on the same page of the record. You're allowing R'khan and me to do up the ruined guard post as a cottage, at our own expense and with our own labour, and then to live in it. We can also clear space in the woods for dragon wallows, and in time, we can build dragon quarters there if we want." He pauses to look at Xiawen, checking mutual understanding. "We can negotiate with Sr. Journeyman Estefanio with a view to getting parts of the work done that are beyond us, again at our expense. And of course, the Weyr will be getting both our current weyrs back at some point, but it's going to be a while before the place is fit to live in, so we'll need to live somewhere until then. Is that how you understand it?" He's smiling and perfectly polite, but there's a slight hesitation as if he has some reservations about the proposal. When it's all parceled out in dribs and drabs, everything seems ready, but when T'quil lays it all out there's enough there to have R'khan casting a look back at the green rider. Put like that, they're getting a rather bum deal, and he does pick up on the hesitation. Of course, no matter the love for plain speaking, there are just some things that you do not say to the Senior Weyrwoman. "On that last point, we were hoping to temporarily use that third cottage to house ourselves and our dragons." R'khan drops this in as well. Play all the cards and see where the marks fall. "It sounds to me like the four of you," riders and dragons, "are going to be filling up at least three places while working on a fourth, if I have the right of it." Xiawen ticks off the locations on her fingers, "Two weyrs that won't be cleared out until you've settled into the third cottage, while you're setting the guard tower to rights. Nor would I expect both of you to move everything out of your weyrs until you were ready for the final move; after all, there's nothing half so dreadful as moving, then moving again." She shudders at the prospect - and, perhaps, at the memory of her own necessary moves. "But, yes, the rest of that seems right - the two of you with your dragons will spend your time and sweat equity on restoring things, with help from the Senior Journeyman and anyone else that he might assign to help. The Weyr can supply some items, especially anything in the stores," which does include tools and hardware to some degree, "and if you need help in moving things about, then I can help arrange that. The Weyr does have ample idle hands that can be put to work." It might not be skilled labor, but packing and hauling? Holding things up to be hammered? Plenty of laborers exist for that. "I'm sure Estefanio will be quite reasonable in his requests to help you but, if he isn't, then do let me know and I can see what strings can be pulled. So. Two weyrs for storage, a cottage for temporary living, the Weyr's own supplies to supplement the trees you can fell for wood, some additional hands to help when available, and the guidance of a skilled Woodsmith and any Apprentices he might put to the task." That's her reckoning of it all, anyway! "I think we probably do want to move completely out of the weyrs as soon as we can, actually." T'quil looks at R'khan for confirmation. "Neither's got space for two dragons. And we don't have a huge amount of stuff, especially me." T'quil at least is fairly minimalist. "We'll be using pretty much everything we take, and the cottage we'd be starting out in has a spare room that would do for any storage." So much for the planned study - but it would have been a tight fit! "So we won't need the weyrs as well as the cottage. And if we fell timber we'll need to wait for it to season, but if we had access to supplies of seasoned timber, we could certainly provide some suitable trees to replace what we use." After a moment, he adds, "But perhaps we should talk to the Smiths about that, because I don't know how many turns it takes to be ready." He turns to R'khan. "Do you?" "We've spent enough time apart," R'khan says with an affectionate look towards T'quil, even if he sounds a little self deprecating. "I'm being ruthless with what stuff I have, and both my sister and my father have said that they'll keep stuff for us for a time." Handy to have obliging family. "So our current weyrs can be freed up quickly." There's a brief moment of thought. "I have no idea about trees," he admits. But with two dragons on the case, he's fairly sure that they could gather up a good stockpile. "As you like," Xiawen replies with a slight nod. Her work is soon done and she moves to collect the hidework that her brown is now napping on. He is not pleased, but he finds a new perch on her shoulder to resume his dozing. "All of that is in the Smiths's realm of expertise, I'm afraid; I can identify wood and its qualities, but the seasoning of it is a bit beyond me." It's a vague note of apology; a lapse in knowledge that, perhaps, might be rectified with her own visit to the Smiths at some point. "I do recognize that it sounds daunting, but I have full faith that you two will make it work, even if it sounds dire. Reach out to the Smiths, see what deals might be done. Marks might be the most efficient mode of trade, but barter can be much more beneficial." And cost-effective, for that matter. "I need to check in with the Headwoman- but do let me know if I can be of any further assistance." T'quil picks up and folds one final blanket, this one beige and rather threadbare. "Thank you, Weyrwoman. We'll talk to the Senior Journeyman as soon as we can. Clear skies." He places the blanket on the pile, and he'll say no more as Xiawen leaves. He'll probably have quite a bit to say once he and R'khan are on their own, though! "Thank you for your time, Weyrwoman," R'khan echoes, and stays silent, drifting over to lurk near one of the other shelves, running his hand absently over the stack of toweling there. "Shall we find somewhere private to talk?" he suggests. And that's just what the two men head off to do. A Property Deal has 0 comments. |
11 Mar 2024 00:00 |
R'khan and T'quil have something to ask Xiawen. |
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When Paths Cross, Constellations Are Made When Paths Cross, Constellations Are Made
"Tell them I'm bringing more chickens." The Klah Bark Welcome to the Klah Bark, hippest joint in the Hold. The place where everyone gathers to get that needed Klah fix. A curved bar dominates the space to the left of the doorway, laden with tiered trays of delectable pastries and square wooden canisters of herbs to add that extra spice to your brew. Behind the klah bar is a large hearth where all the magic happens. Baking a variety of snacks to tempt the pallet and brewing the signature Klah the place is known for. The recipe of which is a closely guarded secret. Smith crafted workshop stools line the curved bar for those who wish to gather and socialize briefly. While a smattering of hewn wooden tables fill in the rest of the room for those who would rather linger and enjoy. How long has it been since Cairhwyn walked the halls of the frozen north? It feels like forever, like turns, and yet… sevens? A month, two at most? Honey-copper hair piled atop her head, Starcrafter sips a classy latte. The kind with the heart-shaped into the foam, declining what was once a favorite and no longer holds the same appeal. Journeying has changed her: vital elements missing or different, an aura of — peace settling across her bones, and into the soul. In front of her is a book, not of literature, but appears to be a journal of sorts. Casually dressed in an oversized, cozy sweater and warm trousers, she has an ease, a comfort missing from before her journeys. Sleeves are pushed up to her elbows, exposing delicate wrists and a bangle-bracelet of removable charms, often used in trade. Indeed, Cairhwyn looks for all the world as if her journeys have changed her in very, very definitive ways. Sipping her classy latte with it's little foam heart, she makes a notation in the journal. A few faint scars can be seen on her skin, but her skin is so fair, and so well healed, they could merely be natural marks of the skin's growth especially with a smattering of freckles adding to delicacy of bones. A beautiful, fluffy black and white dog with startling ice-blue eyes sits beside her, tongue out, as adorable as can BE. "Whatcha think, Tokki?" she seems to have a question for the canine this fine, fine, fine spring mid-morning. Sriella is here for some Herder reason or another, because when you tell your boss that you're willing to travel, well. They'll send you anywhere. But that means she can get some delicious klah and so she is here to do that! Dressed in work pants and a loose tunic, a warm coat over the top, she steps inside and looks around, but for a moment the klah is forgotten as she spies Cairhwyn. "Hey!" she says in surprise and happiness, striding over towards the woman and pausing to eye the canine. Friendly? Protective? She don't wanna get nipped for being too forward. "I've been looking all over for you, here," she says, digging into her satchel to hold out the astrolabe that she borrowed. "Still don't quite know how to use it but thanks for letting me try." What is she here for? It probably doesn't matter - Doireann is just here and she's dressed up in warmth. It's all cozy sweaters and fleecy leggings for her - where are her leathers? Somewhere. Probably. She does have her knot, but it's looped haphazardly at her hip, pinned in place to keep it from swinging and snagging on things. She has a messenger bag and a thick book clutched to her chest and she's wide-eyed as she surveys the drinks on offer. She doesn't even immediately acknowledge other people here; she's one that's easily wrapped up in the wonder of a place, even if she's been here before. "Oh, gosh. Everything's changed." It hasn't, not really, but it's changed enough. It's only then that awareness expands and she, abruptly, asks, "Oh! Hi! What are you drinking?" It's tossed to both Cairhwyn and Sriella with complete disregard for social norms. Cairhwyn looks up the same moment Tokki, tongue lolling, leans out for a scritch. Me first! The canine even makes a sound suspiciously like a whine for attention. Blinking vibrant green eyes at Sriella, as if for a moment, she doesn't recognize the woman. A few seconds of mental slowness, then Cairhwyn smiles, "Sriella," her tongue shows surprise. Either at seeing her, at being thought lost, or for the item in her hand: unlike the one she carries on her person, this one Sriella hands over is forged of iron. "Thank you. Was it helpful?" she asks curiously. "Sit, if you'd like. I just returned from my journeys to find myself behind on many tasks, but still indulge in a little special klah treat." Hence the latte. "This caramel latte is good, you should try one. I think it is my new favorite." She slow-blinks her eyes, glancing at her journal — full of numbers — then back to Sriella. Yet, it's Doireann's arrival turning her attention, and she finds herself offering a shy smile. "A caramel latte, and I do believe it is the best drink they have on offering." Once, she would have offered something else, but now? Cairhwyn's tastes have changed indelibly. "Ask for extra sprinkling of cinnamon atop, and for a cute design. The barista loves to try her hand at latte art." Sriella crouches down to give the pupper all the attention. "You are so fluffy." omg fluff. "It was helpful, but I'm sure I've messed up all your settings, so I'm sorry about that." She straightens and brushes her hands off on her pants (FLUFF) and studies the menu. "I like the mocha, personally, but cinnamon is a good idea." She gives Cairhwyn another warm smile and slips into line behind Doireann. "Have things changed?" she asks curiously, looking around. "I can't remember the last time I was here…" "Oh! Yes! I love those, too," the greenrider chirps to Cairhwyn with a full-wattage smile. "With extra whipped cream and drizzle." Because she has a sweet tooth on her. A dangerous one. So she'll order it accordingly, with a muffin on the side - caramel apple crunch - and moves out of the way so the other woman can make her order. "I just notice when things on the menu change a lot. I guess it's not the substance of the changes, but- um. The lattes were over on that side and they had a different section over there for seasonal drinks," Doireann prattles a bit at Sriella when she slips into line, but it all resolves in a shrug. "I remember you," she adds, abruptly, eyes wide. "You're the pretty lady I drew a while back." A looong while. But she remembers. "He is very fluffy, though my room seems like a fur explosion happened," Cairhwyn notes, for Tokki is shedding due to the changing seasons, not that it's felt much here in the Hold. "It's fine, you have to adjust it every time you want to use it," she holds Sriella's eyes with a steady green gaze, "Like life, each road you travel requires a different set of coordinates." With an easy mien, Cairhwyn's outlook on life has shifted, though a new wariness does now exist. As if the world holds both wonders and tragedies, she picks her steps carefully through even mundane conversation. "I'll have to try the mocha," she murmurs, closing her journal to make sure no klah spills on the endless, meaningless numbers. "I don't think so, yet life is change is it not?" A barrier to inner self that wasn't there before. "Oh!" Doireann's full wattage smile is enchanting to behold, pulling from Cairhwyn her own sweetly-soft smile, unfettered by so much baggage. As if a great blanket of grief has finally, finally been lifted from her shoulders. "You draw?" for her attention has batted back and forth between the two of them at Doireann's commentary. Sriella is nodding along to Doireann and then she just… freezes. For a long moment she just stands there, and then she turns to give the greenrider a look of such emotion it's impossible to pin down and then it's swiftly gone. Or at least controlled. "Oh," she says quietly, a hand automatically crossing over her belly. "That was you. I'm sorry I didn't…" Recognize her. "I…" She's totally thrown by this, by the memory of that moment that meant so much to her, and she fumbles. "I still have it," she blurts out. "It's hanging in my parents' home. And my daughter, she's just turned two. And my canine, he got hurt so he's retired but he's happy." Pause. "I'm happy." For what that's worth. She reaches out to grasp the rider's elbow. "Thank you," she says softly. "You don't… that meant so much to me." She looks back to Cairhwyn, lost again for a moment before she finds some tendril of connection. "She painted me when I was pregnant. Just, on a whim. It's…" she considers the Starcrafter and nods. "You never know who is going to cross your path, or where that path might lead you, in the end." She looks back at the greenrider, and then to Cairhwyn. "It's such a gift, to see yourself how someone else sees you. And she," eyes shift to Doireann, "you thought I was beautiful when I was at one of my lowest points. I treasure that portrait." Though she's a hugger by nature, Doireann's long ago learned that not everyone else is and she hugs herself instead when she turns that beaming smile from the Starcrafter to the Herder. Her elbow is easily caught; she's not shy about contact. "It was! But I don't- um. I don't expect a lot of people to remember me, just the things I leave them with. The world's full of crazy redheads." Her laughter is bright and shameless and her smile picks up a few degrees of warmth. "I'm glad it did. It just- it just seemed right and I'm glad it has a place to call home. I'm glad you're happy because you deserve it." Everyone does! "I'd love to paint you and your little girl and your canine one day, too." For more memories; in a world without cameras, such things are both rare - and all the more vital for it. "I bet your little girl is just the spit of you." Her attention swings back to Cairhwyn with unmitigated delight. "I do draw. And I paint. I- um. Well, I work with all kinds of mediums, really. Charcoal, watercolor, oil…" the possibilities are endless and she revels in it. "In faaact, I'm here to try to catch the lights a little later and see what my brushes see." Hence the bag, the book, the klah. "But, maybe, I've found something else to do." Her smile softens some as it turns back to Sriella. "You are still beautiful. And she's beautiful and her canine is beautiful- it's just- I think people are blinded by what they think they are or should be, that they don't see what is." Cairhwyn watches the pair of them in mild confusion with brows lifted, but otherwise stays silent through the exchange. A subtle soft, 'ahhhhh', escapes, but she turns her face away as for a single flicker crosses her features. When Sriella was pregnant, her sister still lived, but that moment of grief is gone so quickly and is so muted compared to what it was. Only linger enough for the time it takes to inhale; by the time, her breath releases, the grief is gone. Dissipating like smoke. "When someone leaves your path, it's because someone else is about to arrive," Cairi comments quietly, thoughtfully. Perhaps the idea of unknowing who might come into and out of her life holds a deeper meaning, one of quiet introspection. She lifts her mug to sip the foam and sweet caramel, tasting the sting of cinnamon in just the right amounts, flush coming to pale cheeks. Green eyes are still luminious in their view of the world, but neither windows to her soul nor are they awash with grief. No, whatever journeys occured beneath a broken sky on a road so far, it's left her with a newfound self-possession. "It is a gift," this to Doireann as the Starcrafter has stayed out of the emotional moment between the two women, giving them the space to express their emotions in the moment, "to be able to give that to someone." The gift of a memory, crystallized in perpetuity. "To see what is is a difficult one, for often we are blinded by experiences outside our control," fingers trace a thoughtful line around the wrist wherein her bangle-bracelet lays. "And yet, sometimes, you get the chance to give everything away in exchange for something new, something different. A realization, of sorts, perhaps. A moment of true reflection of one's self." Sriella takes her klah and pays and then turns back to the conversation, leading the way to sit at Cairhwyn's table and giving Tokki's ears another ruffle. FLUFFY. "That would be wonderful, but, actually." Her eyes brighten. "You know what would be a wonderful gift? Could I commission you to do a portrait of her and her father? He only has one picture of her and it's from when she was a baby, and I…" Are there any paintings of Daemon? Is that intentional? "I think he'd love a current portrait of his daughter, and I know when she gets older she'd love to have one of her father." Issri no doubt does family portraits occasionally, so Sriella probably has a two turn old portrait of her and Evie. She looks to Cairhwyn and nods slightly. "Or your paths diverge for a time so you can both… take care of what you need to take care of. And maybe come back together eventually." That's the hope, anyway, right? She sips her klah. "It's nearly impossible to see things outside of yourself. That's the challenge of reflection, right? And why others," a smile for the greenrider, "is essential." She studies the Starcrafter for a long moment and looks about to say something but from the doorway there's a call. "Sriella? Sriella! One of the mules fell, will you come?" Sri gulps her hot klah and stands, "Excuse me," she says, grabbing her satchel and hastening after the Miner. "Of course!" The promise to make more art is easy to make for a woman who creates the time to make it in. Perhaps that's the real reason she's never settled; Doireann's too busy and in love with the art of making art to have her time be fettered in any other way. "I'd be more than happy to. I'm just at Southern Weyr, so just- um, well, you can just come and find me, or send word or- you know, whatever's convenient!" She soon has her klah and muffin and the talk of paths has her going a little misty-eyed for reasons that are surely her own, but she's quick to blink it away and offer them both a smile. And maybe some of it goes over her head - she's warm and emotional and friendly, but a philosopher, she ain't - but she nods along with all the points the other women make until Sriella's called away and she 'ohs' and waves with her muffin-wielding hand. "Okay!" To Cairhwyn: "Is there room for me at your table? I don't want to upset your friend." The canine, that is. She can also stand, because she's a creature of the wilds and necessity and adaptation is the key. "It's important, in my kind of art, to draw what you see and not what you think is there. It's so hard for people to grasp, because they expect one thing, but- it's not that. It's a hard skill! Like charting the stars, I think? Because you can't just say 'I think they're there' and hope for the best." "Sometimes that is possible," Cairhwyn's tone is quiet, thoughtful. For not all people will be found again, whether lost forever or merely lost to time and place. She does not interject much between greenrider and herder, staying out of the business of commissioning paintings and portaits. Perhaps her quiet lends to internal reflection of how she wished she had paintings of her sister, or of a time lost. So she sips her caramel latte and listens, idly, to the pair of them. Yet, when Sriella dashes off leaving Doireann alone, Cairi — lost in her own thoughts — blinks but gestures to the seat with a small, sincere smile. "Of course." Before, she might have had a delicious muffin, but for now? She's content with her simple pleasures in these new days of her existance. "Please sit." The stars — oh the stars bring a love of old, of her old self, of their twinkling delight. For none can take the stars from her, not even the most wily of adversaries. "Yes. One cannot assume the stars exist as they hope but rather need to see them as they do." Tipping her head to the side, she considers Doireann. "Life is about missed opportunity and failed expectations, but I believe, perhaps, if one is savvy enough, one can turn a situation into a true opportunity to gain something new. Something different." Something powerful. Habit finds Doireann splitting the muffin in half; it's entirely too much to fit in her mouth as it is, though Rukbat knows she probably tried plenty when she was younger. She takes the seat with a grateful, "Thank you so much," and neatly arranges herself and her things to fit in just enough space that she's not spilling over. "That's how it is," she says after a moment - and a blissful, eyes-shut-and-fluttering sip of her drink. "If you don't adapt, you die. That's how the world works," and she knows it, to the very center of her own, very bright, being. "You have to always be careful to watch and be aware- because you never know where the hidden paths are going to be or the secret treasures or- or, gosh, even just the best food." It's an oblique connection, sure, but it seems ot make sense to her mind; it's all the same, in the end, turning sour grapes into fine wine… but needing to have an eye out for the barrels to do so. "There aren't many situations that can't be turned into something good," she figures after another sip. "Or at least… something that you can take and change. Just like in art: there are no mistakes." She abruptly offers a hand, paint-and-ink-stained as it is. "I'm Doireann, green Xalapath's of Southern Weyr. You're right- the caramel latte is the best." The best muffins are those big ones, soft and sweet and warm and so big you can't even get your jaw around the deliciousness you're so eager to consume. Ahem. "Do or die," she murmurs, watching the greenrider arrange herself. "It is true, though. Life can grind you down to nothing, or you can hang on and when the end comes, hope you're able to get back up." Something sad crosses her features, the soulful eyes once more holding a shimmering mist of circumstance, of memory, of longing. The maya, the illusion, of life creating a veil between the soul and living. She drops her gaze to the klah in her hands, turning the cup. "I wish there were no mistakes in life," she counters, though not in argument, "but that is never the case is it, though perhaps mistakes could lead one down a different road, one of opportunity untold." Raising her gaze to Doireann's, Cairi once more smiles, and it's a thing of soft, soft warmth. Of compassion, and something deeply, deeply empathetic to some of Doireann's words. "I'm Cairhwyn, by the way. Journeyman Starcrafter." A slender hand — fingers cool, skin soft — stretches in welcome. "Well met." A heartbeat's pulse, a flicker of a world shivering as if destiny struggles to reassert a pattern once meant to be and her smile deepens. "It truly is, isn't it? I just discovered it, but confess, it is my favorite. I hardly remember the other drinks I've gotten here." She's a canny one, she is, and as the fickle flicker of mood makes itself manifest, Doireann fixates on it. "Are you okay?" It's a question with layers, as eyes search and seek and hunt in the way that only they can; she's curious now and, much like animals can detect a subtle-yet-seismic shift ing mood, she seems to have the same gift. "It's true," she breathes after a moment, sympathy riding on her words, "And- well. The mistakes are lessons, that's all. Some can't be undone, but- there's an art in learning to live without regret." It's hard, yes, but she lives it every day. She has to. To live in the past, in the belly of regret, is to grow soured and bitter. "Cairhwyn," she repeats, the name tumbled like a precious stone on her tongue. Her hand is warm, callused, but comfortable. Gentle. Steady. "Well met." Her smile is a thing of warmth and friendliness, undimmed even by the cues of longing and ache. She darts a look to the klah counter, then back to the Starcrafter. "I'm pretty partial to some of the teas they offer sometimes, but they're not as good as the ones I get at home," she admits. "Do you want some of my muffin? It's always too much." Even though she absolutely WILL eat all of it, every single time. Taking the greenrider's hand in hers, her touch is equally soft but firm. Strong, but gentle. A dichotomy of ideas does Cairhwyn exist within. "I am," Cairhwyn is not surprised to find the note of certainty in her voice. "I wasn't for a long time, but sometimes taking a road less traveled and getting rid of…" Sucking her in her top lip, she nibbles the skin in thought. "Sometimes, it takes seeing the stars to know it's time to let go. Not that long ago, my sister passed away, and I suppose I let the cloud of grief smother me. It is difficult to come up from drowning." Lost and unwanted things. Fingers touch her bracelet, caressing one of the bangles as if it holds meaning. It looks like nothing more than a little globe with a pearl captured within. "So you could say that… maybe I am waking up from a dreamless state of misery." Lips twitch as Cairi raises her eyes back to Doireann's, holding them in a steady gaze. "Thank you, I'll try it." Pinching off a bit of the muffin — Tokki would absolutely LOVE SOME MUFFIN PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE his woeful soulful eyes pant right up at Doireann — and eating it. "I am working on that," she admits truthfully, "to learn to live without regret. Regret is a funny, fickle emotion. Sometimes saddled on us by others, until the weight of it is a limp sack strapped to the back in a heavy, heavy burden." Pausing, fingers raised with another pinch of muffin, she quietly muses, "I think learning to let go is possibly the greatest of lessons, for life is tragically, wonderfully, terribly, incredibly beautiful. For life is risk. To understand the miracle of life fully is to allow the unexpected to happen." There's a wariness to her while she listens, as if ready to swoop in at the first sign that the other woman is putting her on - but, when that doesn't seem to be the case, the greenrider relaxes. Doireann's smile picks up a reflectively bittersweet quality, a thing echoed in her eyes while she listens and nods and puts those details of personal tragedy together to make a more complete image of Cairhwyn. "I like to think," she says after a while, "that when we lose someone, a new star shows up in the sky. I know it's not true," because it's a daft idea and she knows it, but the hopeless romantic and dreamer in her still insists, "but- maybe. Maybe. It's nice to think that all the people we've lost are still there, somewhere, watching us and hoping for our happiness and our success." Her eyes take up a watery quality, but she just lets it exist, the emotions allowed to take their space as needed. "I'm sorry for your loss, but I'm also glad that you're finding your feet and breath again, too. I think- I hope she'd want you to find happiness again." She doesn't know the nuances of family and she treads carefully - just as she will with Tokki, as she glances to the canine, then to his owner with a sheepish, "Can he-" or she? she just makes a rampant assumption here "-have a little muffin? And a pat on the head?" She's worked with felines. She trusts no animal without being given permission. The rest elicits a slow nod and a thoughtful hum and a long, long drink of klah that has her sinking deeper and deeper into contentment with every mouthful. "It is. Or it can be, I think. To accept death," and, here, there's a faint smile, rueful though it may be, "is to accept that life is for the living and we need to enjoy every bit of it. Because no one can live for us. So, shedding those burdens- letting go… that frees us to live. To breathe." She pauses. Then: "I think you're doing a good job of it - and I'm proud of you, Cairhwyn of the stars." She might be a stranger, but she's genuine. "Countless stories exist to give the stars life and breath," Cairhwyn comments, "that to say it is impossible would be fallacy, for we know so little. Improbably, likely, but within the improbable lives the possible - or the chance there of such." It's her way of saying Doireann's belief is a nice one, and pulls at the soul rather than the mind. "She would. We were close, she and I, and she was the perfect big sister." Tragedy lives within her statement, but it is now much farther removed than before she left this Hold on the heels deeper understandings of life. "Of course. He is quite spoiled, but he's trained well and understands the difference between a treat from a kind stranger versus a treat I give him for training." As in, Tokki does not get muffins when she trains him. And Tokki would really LOVE muffins. Yes, yes, yes, yes. When such a treat is offered, be ready for Tokki will try to slurp Doireann's whole hand up! Slobbery delight! "I wasn't before," she admits carefully, looking away but in a way most pensive rather than pained. "But perhaps," she turns back to Doireann, the pain there in the lingering vibrancy of her eyes, but as a passing memory and nothing so present to now, "I am now. Perhaps I will learn to love what chance I've been given, and who knows what stars I might meet along the way. I'm finding… " Brows furrow, lips drawing together in a study of deeper thought, and words come slowly, "… the world holds a magic I never knew — never thought possible. That it is bigger and wilder and wider than I ever thought, ever was taught to believe. Ever let experience. That discovery of self is as important as discovery of new things… and perhaps, I will collect people along the way to be a galaxy of stars for myself." Philosophical, thoughtful, but equally genuined. "I'm glad to have met you, Doireann of the bright philosophies." "I think it's just because they're up there and we're down here and all we know is what we can see," Doireann muses, briefly flicking a look up to the ceiling as if the stars might be writ there with all the answers - but they are not. She, hopelessly terrestrial unless she's with her lifemate, reaches for the muffin to take a little bit of it and lay it out in offering on the palm of her hand for the canine to take as he sees fit. If her hand is soaked in spit after, then so be it; he'll still get a good ear-ruffling for his good behavior and a murmured, "Who's a good boy?" that's wholly rhetorical. Her attention curves back to Cairhwyn with a nod and a gladness that she did, at least, read the situation rightfully in some way. "You will build your own constellations," she murmurs at the end, voice gone breathless and light and filled with all the wonder and hope that a hopeless idealist can muster - and that's a lot. "I'm glad to have met you, too," even if, now, all she can do is bask in the words that swirl like inspiration around her. It's enough to finally get her to find a napkin to wipe her hands off and then go for her notebook, to flip it open and find a page that's yet to be touched with ink or paint. She has to get nearly to the back of the book for that; she's due for a new one. Tokki is a GOOD boi!! Cairhwyn smiles gently at the interaction between greenrider and canine, sipping her klah. Even though most of the heat is gone now, it's still good, a taste most pleasant across her tongue. Neither too sweet nor too salty, but a perfect blend of sweet, salt, and bitter klah notes alongside a core cinnamon component. "I will," Cairhwyn breathes, dropping her eyes from the greenrider and canine to the table and her fingers. Holding out her hand, she splays her fingers as if marveling at what she sees, the enveloping construction of blue-green veins and the small little freckles that exist there. As if noting the form of her body, of her existance in this moment. Though, by now, the pair of them lapse into silence, though a comfortable one as Cairhwyn nibbles on the other half of Doireann's muffing and finishes her latte. Sriella returns to the Klah Bark smelling distinctly of the mines and mules, but it's not too bad as she looks around and then quietly returns to her seat, reaching for what's left of the klah she half gulped earlier. She will not let it go to waste! She leans a bit to peek (rudely) at Doireann's sketchbook. "How quickly do you go through them?" she asks, though her tone is pitched quiet, sensing the stillness between the two women. It's a very comfortable silence indeed, for Doireann's well-acquainted with it - and with doing things in tandem with others, if not necessarily with them. She is not afraid to do things she enjoys while others do what they enjoy and if Cairhwyn's fascinated by her own blood and skin, then she is equally fascinated in kind. This book is full of rampant sketchs of Smiths and Smithwork, of metal and fire and places of stone and hard labor. There are Miners, too - knots and structures and all sorts of other things that show the places where two Crafts join at the hip; without one, the other cannot be. Some pieces are color, but most are black-and-white, of ink or charcoal or monochrome pastels. "Oh, um- gosh." Doireann flips back through the book, looking for the tiny notations of dates in the corners of some pages. "A month or two. Sometimes three, if I'm working on canvases," which means her time is spent elsewhere and not in the pages. "The paper is bamboo and I know how to press it, so- it's pretty easy to make more." The binding might be more difficult, but she's had some time to practice and perfect. Back to a blank section she goes, graphite in hand. "But, when I was younger, I could go through so much more. I had so much time then - and, well, not much else to do. Is the mule okay?" Sriella's return earns a quick smile, but as her latte is finished, Cairhwyn remains content to hold her silence for the moment, listening to the artist in front of her talk of her books, her papers, and the binding of it. When greenrider queries after the mule, she angles a look at Sriella, brows lifted. "Hopefully so," for Cairhwyn has a soft spot for animals. Though her gaze remains thoughtfully upon the glimpses of artwork in the greenrider's sketchbook. "You are very good," she murmurs, finishing the last bit of muffin. Tokki makes a sound like HEY SOMEONE PET ME, and she gives an absentminded scritch to his fluffy, fluffy ears. "With rest and a little time, he'll be fine, and they're good enough here to give him that," Sriella says with a smile. So she won't have to do any foot-stomping about animal rights. "I think most of us had more time before we got jobs," she chuckles. "I used to carve." There's a shrug as she cradles her cooled klah and leans comfortably back in her chair. "She's very good. I left before I could let you answer. Would you be interested in that commission? If he doesn't want himself painted, then at least a portrait of Evie?" She also bends to ruffle Tokki's ears. "When did you get him?" she asks the Starcrafter, smiling fondly at the canine. She'd join in the pupper-petting, but her hands are busy all of a sudden. Doireann's tongue peeks out for a few moments while she starts on the bones of something, but it'll take some time for her to flesh out. Her responses are delayed, as if the very act of creation took a toll on her presence in the here and now. "That's good," comes a little while after Sriella's answer, though the words are earnest. She looks up briefly, a slow blink offered before she smiles. "Oh! Yes. I can and I would and, um. I'm at Southern Weyr, so it's not too hard to find me. Leave word with them or with the Lithattu - someone knows where to find me!" A wide social web does wonders for that kind of thing. Then it's her turn to lapse into silence, graphite sculpting an image on paper while she listens to the conversation of the other two around her. "Not that long ago… thought, I suppose a few months now," Cairhwyn notes, standing slowly. "I'm working with Herders in the north to train him. I needed a companion at the time." She pauses, and tips her head to the side regarding Sriella, "Based on your advice. I got him based on your advice." As herder and greenrider start talking commissions, Cairhwyn interjects only quietly enough to say, "It was a pleasure, Doireann. Thank you for keeping me company. I'd better get back to work for I've lingered long enough. Good to see you again, Sriella, and thank you for returning the item back to me." With a little bobbing grin, she ducks her head and slips way from the table and out of the Klah Bark with Tokki on her heels, returning to work and to see if those apprentices were behaving. Sriella reaches into her satchel for a scrap of hide - ignore the scribbled out notes on one side that look like directions to…somewhere. The other side is where Sriella writes now. But before she finishes, she pauses to look up at Cairhwyn, and smiles. "I'm glad my advice was good. It was real good to see you again, too." She watches Starcrafter and canine leave, and then turns back to the greenrider to hand over the note. "You'll have to go to him," because he's on PROBATION, "but here's his name and where he is." Dakota - River Bend. She passes the hide over. "You can tell him it's a gift from me." And then she tilts her head a bit. "The Lithattu? Like… Thera and Rungan?" "Safe roads and swift travels, Cairhwyn!" And the pup, too, who isn't forgotten. Doireann beams a smile at the pair with a finger-wiggle wave - and, later, perhaps, word will be left that there's something waiting for the Starcrafter at the establishment: just a quick doodle of her and her dog, torn from a corner of her book. But that's for later, for now she must make it so and her attention turns to Sriella with a bob of her head. The note is taken, turned over, and studied, before she transcribes it into her book for safe-keeping. "Okay! Is your girl where I saw you last?" She remembers - but does Sriella? In the end, it probably doesn't matter. Directions will surely be forthcoming regardless. "I will, I will," she promises, and she will, when time loosens enough for her to make that trek to River Bend. As to the other, there's a nod, vigorous and enthusiastic. "Mmhm! They have so many babies now! I'm so happy to see their family getting so large. I visit home often, too. My family's still there. I'm actually due to visit in the next seven or so," how time flies! "I can let them know I saw you, if you want?" Sriella shakes her head, "No, she'll probably be with her father." Probably. Maybe not. Who knows. They'll figure it out. "Sriella!" Another call and the Herder stands. "Yes, please tell them I said hello and I'll come visit soon." She pauses, a slightly wicked grin crossing her features. "Tell them I'm bringing more chickens." It'll be funny. Then with a wave, she makes her exit, off to her next job. When Paths Cross, Constellations Are Made has 0 comments. |
14 Mar 2024 04:00 |
Three ladies go to a klah spot - and conversations range from emotional to philosophical. |
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From North to South From North to South
"My father. He's the reason why I'm here." Caravan Grounds This special little place in the flatlands is a wide, open meadow, perfect for a caravan grounds, and that's exactly what it's been turned into. Where caravan wagons aren't sitting in rings, wild lavender and salvia grows with sweeping grasses and pink and purple wildflowers. Surrounded on one side by jungle and the other by the flatlands, it offers a view of two very different worlds. A stream runs through, bubbling and babbling and so clear one would think it made of glass, it ends in a large pool of water at the edge of the meadow, it's waters so clear and blue and dark in the center, no one knows how deep it is. Off to the west end of the meadow, a set of caves springs out of three rolling hills covered in lichen and moss. Often there is someone standing outside and welcoming people in and it seems to be an inn or tavern of sorts. Nisim draws the back of his hand underneath his chin as he makes his way into the caravan grounds. It's midmorning with Rukbat's rays shining bright in the sky and already it feels incredibly hot. It doesn't help that he's dressed in a set of hunting leathers either but, alas, he's not complaining about the safety they provide him whenever he's out and about the terrain. There is a sheen of sweat upon his skin, along with a few smudges of dirt on his skin where his fingers have previously touched and, thank Faranth, he doesn't smell that bad. That same hand runs through his hair a moment before he slips the recurve bow from his shoulder and into his grasp as he continues along the path to his wagon. This place might be a long way from the Lithattu encampment, but Ruqaiiah's always been possessed of a cavalier disregard for where she's supposed to be. So, she wanders. This time, it's alone, though she has her bow, her arrows, her travel pack. No leather for her; she's a native that knows the right linens and layers to wear to keep from sweating her spit away. She's near barefoot, her shoes thin and mean for stealthy travel - and she is quiet, even out here, where the quiet means nothing since she's still plainly visible. Her camp is further east, but movement draws her eye and she pauses, chin lifted just a little and nostrils flared as if she might actually be able to scent the man from afar. (she can't.) "Hunting isn't great out that way," she calls, betraying her presence - but it can't be helped. Her grin's an impish thing. "Unless you need more wood or wagon wheels." Movement catches Nisim's attention and he can see a figure across the way a heartbeat before he's addressed. His leathers are the lighter sort but still manage to make him sweat in the heat- he's not entirely used to the southern climate, nor is he willing to give up what works for him among the foliage. Stubborn at best. Over the last Turn or so, he's learned a lot about the territory and is, of course, always learning more. "Greetings." he calls out to the woman, noting her bow almost immediately. An easy smile makes itself known after she speaks and a nod follows. "Luckily, I wasn't out to kill anything this morning. Was looking for some new places to set a few traps near the river." He veers in her direction with a curious glance. "Are you passing through?" She clicks her tongue softly and, after a final glance to the east, Ruqaiiah shifts course to pad toward the unfamiliar man with a feline fluidity of movement. There is caution there - because of course there is - but her hands aren't going for a knife or other implement of destruction. "Mm. Well, good luck with that. Mind the boar tracks, then. They're rowdy this season." When he starts moving, she slows, her chin tipped up a little as she considers him. "Just headed to camp," she replies, the tuck of her smile gone enigmatic. "I have a few things to do before I go out again." Her eyes narrow with speculation. "You aren't from around here, are you?" When she slows her movement, Nisim draws to halt and can sense an air of caution between them. "Just headed home." he says, nodding toward the wagons across the grounds as if that might ease her thoughts. "I'll keep that in mind about the boar tracks." His smile returns, although it's only by half when she pegs him as being new to the territory. With a slight nod, a glint of mirth makes itself known in his blue-grey eyes as he meets her gaze. "It's that obvious?" Mock shock, that. "I'm from Keroon." Which part exactly, he doesn't say in the moment. "You're obviously from around here, though." "It's the leather," she replies with a jerk of her chin. "That's dragonfolk stuff. We don't mess with it unless it's winter or we need good shoes." There are probably other circumstances, too, but Ruqaiiah's not in the business of clarity. She flicks a look to the wagons, then back to him; the amusement lingers, though it might just be her very nature at this point. There's a lingering sense of her studying him, despite the grin. "Keroooon," is drawn out, the sounds passingly familiar, but still novel. "I am. Born in the jungle, probably going to die in the jungle. At least my felines will have a snack when I do." "I look like a dragonrider?" Nisim's dark brows shoot upward to his hairline and his free hand touches his chest in an accompanying gesture to his teasing. "Why, that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me." His grin broadens just a tad and his hand lowers to his side, a thumb hooking between his belt and waistline. "I'll wear something breathable someday." In terms of fabric, he means. "Until then, I'll remain a glutton for punishment." The way she says 'Keroooon' has him looking at her with amusement in the aftermath. "Keroon." he confirms. When she speaks of the jungle, though, he looks thoughtful- especially when she mentions her felines. "That… is something I've not thought about." Felines snacking on his dead body. "Want a drink of water? Wagon's just over there." The offer is given and he even pivots in its direction. She sticks her tongue out with good humor, her nose scrunching a little. "I just said you look like dragonfolk - I didn't say the dragonmen have a sense of style." Not that Ruqaiiah does, really; but her clothing is best described as 'rustic' and 'survival-oriented' with precious little room for fashion. "But, you're cute. So I'll give that to you," this one time. His repeating of Keroon just prompts her to repeat it again, this time with a little canine 'awooowoo' in the middle bit: "Keroowooon. It sounds silly. But all those places sound silly, so." She'll shrug it off, already leaning a little away from the young man. "Felines are abundant here. Watch your step, mind your kill, and don't be brave. And don't kill them unless you have to." His offer meets with a wary narrowing of her eyes, but water is water. "Sure, if you're offering. But it had better just be water." Nisim chuckles when she sticks her tongue out at him and then starts to make his way toward the wagon as an invitation for her to follow. "I heard about the felines down here. They're not something I'm looking to provoke given the stories I've been told." None of which painted the creatures to be fluffy and cute. When he gets to his wagon, he props his bow against the front steps and reaches for a waterskin that hangs upon a hook on the wall. There is a makeshift awning to help keep Rukbat's rays at bay and, for the most part, the wagon itself looks well maintained and in decent condition for what he requires- shelter, a bed, and a place to keep the bugs out at night. "Just water. I promise." And to prove it's not poisoned, he takes the first swig. And to also prove it's just water, he collects a clean cup and offers it along with the waterskin in case she'd like to pour herself some to see it first. "Which, uh-" He thinks about how to ask. "Which part of the jungle are you from?" His gaze falls upon the woman again, studying her while she considers the water being offered. She'll follow along, shifting the weight of her gear to ensure maximum spooky-quiet. It's just a thing. Ruqaiiah lives and breathes by being a ghost most times, except when she seeks to haunt others for a while. "I have stories," she says of the felines, flicking him a look along the way. "But maybe those are for another time. Just steer clear of them and you'll be okay. You'll know if you're in their territory, trust me." To the wagon, then, where she'll keep her gear on her person. She'll also stay outside, tucked under that awning, while fingers make a quick check to see how her skin's faring. There is a glance into the wagon, of course, but her interest is in pulling out a container of something to apply a thin layer of some kind of protective cream. Fortunately, Ruqaiiah doesn't stand on formality; the cup is unnecessary, as she'll take the waterskin when it's offered and drink directly from the source. A good mouthful, no more, then she offers it back. "Pick a spot," she says after a moment, shoulders rising and falling. "I'm not quite sure where my mother had me, but it's probably not far from where the Lithattu are now." Her tongue works over her teeth a bit in thought. "Why are you here?" The cup is returned to its original place and Nisim descends the few steps that lead into the wagon itself. As she takes a swig of water, he collects a cloth from his back pocket and dabs his face to help with the sheen that's gathered on his skin and then lifts his leather top up and over his head soon afterward. A much lighter, off white tunic is revealed in its place before the leather top is tossed inside the wagon. "The Lithattu." he says, trying to place if he's heard of that name before. "That your family?" He starts to tuck his shirt into his waistband when his name is called out from a few wagons away, drawing his attention from her to the source. "Ah, um-" He winces a little, still looking in the voice's direction. "My father. He's the reason why I'm here." A beat. "I've got to go see him for a bit, help yourself to the water alright?" Backward footsteps take him away from her, although his gaze remains upon hers all the while. "I'll be back-" At some point, but he doesn't say so. Instead, he turns and jogs further into the grounds to see what his father needs him for now. "Kind of." Ruqaiiah will sneak another swig of water, but only just enough to moisten her tongue; hazel eyes fix on him while he strips down to a different layer and, bafflingly, tucks his shirt in. That's enough to raise an eyebrow, though only briefly so. The waterskin is handed back to be put away, while she peels herself away from the shadow provided by the awning. "Good luck with your old man," she replies once he's explained the situation, her attention momentarily diverting to the voice, then back again. "Safe roads, traveller. I'll be back, too." Thirst and curiosity sated, she'll move on after a short while - but she will be back, picking a time when no eyes are on the wagon to leave a small jar of some aromatic ointment - lemongrass, cedar, rosemary, clove, and thyme blended with an emulsion of oil and wax - on a step. A folded note beneath reads: "This will help with the bugs. Welcome to the Southern lands." A kitty face is drawn underneath - and it looks like it's winking. From North to South has 1 comments. |
14 Mar 2024 04:00 |
Nisim's newly come to Southern; Ruqaiiah is not. |
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Acquired Tastes Acquired Tastes
"Do you have any convict costumes?" Bazaar Sidestreet No matter the time of day, the darkness here is almost absolute, adding a certain je ne sais quois that borders on the treacherous. Here and there, cobblestones have gone missing and leave holes that are perfect for snagging the feet of the unaware. The stench is also criminal, a mixture of urine, rotting meat, and other things best left unexamined in the heaps that pile up next to the back doors of certain of the bazaar establishments. Standing outside Rosie's, Sriella leans against the wall of the establishment, deep in talks with an…ahem. A nice looking man. "I know a few guys that could do that, yeah," he's saying, while Sriella nods along thoughtfully. "And what sorts of costumes do you have?" He grins. "Well, the standard one is the guard… you know, 'oh no, is our party too loud?'" Sriella winces, giving her head a firm shake. "No guards. Our father and brother were in the guard, soooo. Guards are not sexy." Ugh, no. Khy'ai was also a guard! Guards are NOT SEXY. And then a spark of an idea. "Do you have any convict costumes?" Would that be funny? Would Grace see the humor in it? "No…." "Damn." Alas, she'll never know. Rooftop adventures always end the same way: with Lokeiv needing to touch grass the ground at some point to either get food or get marks. His foray to Fort has renewed his passion for shirtlessness and he's shirtless now, though the open robes - a necessity for style, at the very least - do a fair job of masking it when he's not rushing hither and thither. He touches down just a short distance down from Rosie's, hands quick to pat himself down in search of something. He retrieves a clove cigarette from one of his many pockets, but a secondary pat-down has him grimacing. A glance further finds a man and woman in some kind of negotiations and he, with the smoke in his mouth - unlit as it is - lifts a hand in a finger-wiggle wave that's eminently amiable as he heads for the establishment itself. "Either of you got a match?" Might as well try his luck here, before he has to go inside and risk Rosie's wrath. Sriella turns to study the man approaching, giving him a quick head-to-toe assessment as she's shaking her head. "No, sorry." Her companion, though, pulls one from his pocket and strikes it against the building, holding it out to light the other man's cigarette. "I'll get back to you," he says to Sriella, giving a quick bow and then moving quickly down the street, leaving the woman to drum her fingers against the building idly. "Do you know him?" she asks thoughtfully. There's a brief moment of sadness when he strikes out on the first, but the gent's offer of a light perks Lokeiv right back up. "Owe you one, thanks." Another wiggle of fingers follows as the other guy wanders off, leaving the blond to lean against the wall in a sinuous pose of slouched relaxation that only he can manage. "Eh? That guy? Yeah, probably. I know I've seen him around," he takes a drag, holds it, and lets the smoke drift free in lazy rings. A sidelong look follows, curiosity tempered to a very mild: "Why?" Sriella eyes this new person with a tilted grin. "Think he's any good at dancing?" Dancing. Ice-blue eyes sparkle with amusement as she shifts to sit on the steps until someone chases her off of them - others will just have to go around her. "Because he said he was but I'm not sold, especially since he wouldn't give me a sample." There is no end to her amusement. It brightens her features and infuses her tone. Snrrrrrrk. That's the sound that Lokeiv makes, sending smoke through his nose before he gets caught up in a coughing fit. "Ahhh, fuck. No, no." Wheeze. "I hear he's a decent lay, but not, uh- creative. I can't imagine him figuring out how to swing his hips in a way that isn't-" cue a brief pantomime of very stiff, very mechanical hip-thrusting. Is he making squeaking sounds? MAYBE. He settles back after and eyes his cig like it's betrayed him for the last time. "What kind of dancer are you looking for?" Sriella heaves a sigh. "That's what I was worried about." WOE. "Not interested in fucking." Not what she's in the market for. "My sister," she says with a sly grin. "Is to be married. And it is my duty as her sister and her maid of honor to make sure her bachelorette party is a good one. And since it will just be the two of us, well. We need some other entertainment because I'm not all that entertaining." "Congratulations!" He hopes. There's some caution to his excitement, tempered with history. He'll sneak a dubious drag and, satisfied that he's not going to die (yet), Lokeiv relaxes again. "I don't know about that," he replies after a moment, eyeing her sidelong. "You can't be that un-entertaining," is that a thing? it's not a thing, but he'll persist, "if you're actually here and looking for a male dancer." His grin emerges and tilts a bit, lopsided and goofy. "Buuut. I have some ideas, if you want them," he'll just throw that out there, shoulders rolling some. "And if you really need a dancer, I can probably recommend a few." Sriella grins, "Thanks, I'm happy for them but I also want to needle my sister a little bit. All in good fun." She eyes him, a brow arching at his sidelong look. "There are a lot of people who do not enjoy my company," she finally says with a grin, a bit toothy. "And yes, I am actually looking for a dancer. A stripper," does she have to get that specific? "Or two, to come to a bar outside of High Reaches Hold. Travel included." Of course. Khy'ai wouldn't mind bringing a few strippers to High Reaches, right? Right?! The scoundrel is all grins about the idea, dropping Sriella a wink. "I gotcha, I gotcha. It's a pretty normal thing, you know? Getting a last bit of fun in before married life. I see it a lot." He slants a look of disbelief her way and, after another pull on his smoke, the cig is put out on the wall and stashed in his pocket again. "Just means you're an acquired taste is all. Not everyone can be sweetrolls and candy," he figures, looking away for a moment, then back at Sriella thoughtfully. "All male?" He chews some on the inside of his cheek, while the wheels in his head just turn, turn, turn. Sriella eyes him. "I'd rather people choke than get used to my taste," she finally says with a low laugh. "Mmm, all male, yes," she confirms with a nod, looking him up and down again thoughtfully. "Just something fun. My sister is a good girl and very much in love, but I… want to be mischievous." And, honestly, to see what Grace will do with strippers. He grins. "That's usually what happens anyway, in my experience." Lokeiv cants a look to Rosie's again, nose scrunched up some. "Seven Sisters has more male employees, but dancers-" he see-saws a hand with uncertainty "-they get pretty handsy, since that's how they make their marks." He's not unfamiliar with getting eyed up and down and instinct - or experience - has him pushing away from the wall to shake out his robes with a little bit of a sinuous stretch and shift of weight. "I'm not a great dancer," he concedes, "but I'm a fun one." Sriella shakes her head, "No, won't let anyone get handsy." Not with her sister. Or with her. She watches him move with a grin. "Oh yeah? Fun is what I'm after. You okay dancing for a group? It's just her and I in the party but that would be awkward as fuck so I'm thinking of paying the bartender some extra marks to let some guys come in and do their thing. Rest of the customers get the show for free, or whatever you can get from them in tips." "I've performed in front of groups before," Lokeiv replies, his lopsided grin sitting easy enough. And he can dance; he just has a bit of a boneless quality to his movements that makes him weirdly fluid. He steps into a slow spin with a little shimmy-shimmy-shake-shake of shoulders and hips before that spin turns him 'round to face Sriella. It's silly - but it's what he's got. "And I'm hands-free. It's not my kind of thing unless people want to pay for that," and plenty probably do, but they probably aren't paying for his fancy footwork. "High Reaches, though- when's the party?" Sriella shrugs, "I don't know yet," she says, watching him. "How much do you take off?" she asks, curious - and honestly not giving much clue as to where she would draw the line. "Can you pretend to be a Master Weaver, come to berate her for some report being late or something?" And then - SURPRISE, IT'S A STRIPPER. "And do you have a friend?" That's a question and Lokeiv laughs, a serpentine undulation of his body finding his robes slipping free of his shoulders and dropping to his elbows. An easy roll of hips, another shoulder-shimmy and he answers with a jovial, "As much as you want, though- ah. Underwear tends to be pretty optional." Shirts and underwear - worn only when necessary. He twists around again, languid, with a lift of his chin, toss of his hair, and a glance over his shoulder. "Sure, yeah- I can get some really fancy stuff to wear, too," he knows people. The question of a friend, though- well. "I can find one, sure." Sriella laughs. "Underwear, please. Or…something similar. Don't need to be showing your dick to an entire bar." It's all about the tease, right? "Well, assuming the timing works out, be happy to hire you for the gig. I'm Sriella." She extends a hand. "Duck-printed boxer shorts it is," is either a threat, a promise, or a tease of the highest order. With Lokeiv, it can be any combination. He pivots on a heel, stepping into a comically overblown bow for a split second before straightening and jerking his robes back up and over his shoulders. "I can't promise a ball won't slip out to say 'hello', though - but I do shave." So it'll be an aesthetically pleasing ball. Relatively speaking. Her hand is taken easily, his grip firm enough, if callused. "If it works out, yeah. If not- no skin off my ass; not like I have much to spare. I can get you some names, too, just in case." Including his own: "Lokeiv. Nice to meet you, Sriella." "Oh, well, thank Faranth for that," she says dryly, and really she could have gone her whole life without knowing the status of Lokeiv's pubes. "Names would be good, too, just in case." Schedules being what they are. "Lokeiv. Been around Igen long?" She shifts out of the way as a man departs Rosie's, stumbling down the stairs. Someone had a good afternoon. Oversharing is his superpower. It's not a great one and it benefits nobody. "My entire life," and maybe it shows a little, if only in the colors and style of his clothing, but he's also not exactly an exemplar of what one might think when they hear 'man born in Igen'. Lokeiv watches the man go for a moment, squinting after him, before turning his attention back to Sriella, "Bavrome and Huldren come to mind. They're more into each other than into the ladies," so, no handsy-ness there. "But you might need to keep them out of the whiskey until the dancing is done." He worries the inside of his cheek again. "How about you? How long have you been here?" Sriella nods, pulling a notebook out of her satchel to write those names down. "Oh, I'm not here now, but I lived here for…" how long? "A few turns, a while back. I'm a Herder. Worked for Wild Hearts for a bit, then did my own thing for a while. Didn't mind living here," she says honestly, looking around, "and when it's not the summertime I might even miss it." She grins. "Huh. Weird. My best friend's mom runs Wild Hearts." Lokeiv squints at her, as if that might spark some recognition. It doesn't, but it doesn't stop him from trying. "I guess I wouldn't have seen you there, though. I didn't really- ah. Well, I'm not exactly the runner-wrangling type." A runner would probably snap him in half if it looked at him wrong. He knows. "I tried to live away from here for a little while, but-" he shakes his head, nose scrunched up. "You can take me out of Igen, but you can't take the Igen out of me, I guess. You ever think about moving back?" Sriella looks a little surprised. "Cahia? She's in Southern now, I just saw her a few days ago." SMALL WORLD. "That is weird." She doesn't recognize him either. "Eh," she says with a shrug, looking around. "Last time I tried it didn't stick. I like the traveling too much now, I think. But. Who knows, life likes to change things up on me fairly frequently." There's a tilted grin for that. "Yeah. She's working at some shop down there. I need to go visit her at some point, once she's settled." Never mind the ghost of anxiety that always comes with dealing with dragons and riders. It'll pass and, when it does, it leaves a lopsided grin in its wake. "Life likes to do that, yeah. Everything can change, just like that," fingers snap, bright and crisp, before Lokeiv flicks a glance askance to Sriella. "At least you have somewhere to land here, right? Sometimes, just knowing that- I dunno, it helps." Sriella smiles warmly, looking around. "I have… several places I can land," she admits. And she does, too. "It helps a lot," she agrees. "It's easier to take risks when you know you have a place to go if it all goes to shit." "Exactly. And if you aren't taking risks, sometimes- is life even worth living?" Some risks are bad and he knows it- but some? Some are necessary. Some lead to growth and change and evolution. Lokeiv darts a look to Rosie's again, then finally sets into motion. "Speaking of risks, there's a new food stall in the Bazaar," because gambling with his guts is just another thing he does, "I was gonna go there, but you're welcome to come if you like to guess whether it's tunnelsnake, pork, or swamp lizard." Sriella chuckles a bit, but she has nothing to say for the moment on taking risks. She feels rather risk-adverse at the moment, but. Time will tell on that one. Then she laughs, pushing to her feet. "Yeah, sure. Always up for trying new food, speaking of risks." Habit finds him reaching a hand out to take hers - something he's done so often with Cahia that he barely thinks about it now - without a thought to the idea that she might not like that. Whether she takes it or not matters little in the end, for Lokeiv is game to lead the way regardless with a cheerful, "If it's been a while since you've been here, then there are probably a lot of new places you've never been to." The Bazaar changes food vendors as frequently as some people change underwear. "And if you like cold drinks, there's a place that does some stuff with these, uh, chewy balls…" Sriella stares at his hand and she does not take it, no. She can walk on her own, thanks, but she will still follow after him. "Do you just want to make me think about balls all the time?" she asks, expression twisting into one of mild distaste. I mean, she likes the male form as much as the next lady who likes men, but. "Nope, but I don't know what else they're called. I'm not exactly a cook." Or baker. Or anything really food-adjacent, aside from being someone who loves food. "They also have an iced klah with really sweet milk, too," and it takes him effort to not say something about how thick it is, so you're welcome Sriella. Lokeiv pulls his hand back without a second thought, realization likely hitting a few moments too late, but it's also too late for an awkward apology unless he wants to make things even weirder. Sriella puts her hands into her pockets as she follows him through the Bazaar, wondering if it's weird that she might watch the Baker whose lemon cookies she loves's best friend strip in a bar in High Reaches. Is that strange? Could she look Cahia in the eye? 'Hey, Cahia, can I order a cream puff? You know what else is creamy? Your best friend's ass.' That's weird, right? "What happened with that runner stampede? They ever figure out what the hell happened?" And he's practically an orange cat about the whole thing; no thoughts, head empty. Lokeiv steers through the streets with an occasional glance at the rooftops as if that might normally be faster but, no, not with someone else coming with him. "Nope. No clue," he replies of the stampede, his mouth pulling a bit to a side. "Lot of people got hurt, too. It's weird, but-" he shrugs "-I'm guessing no one wants to talk about it. Oh, here. Just down this way. The other way is blocked," on account of new construction, post-stampede, "and we'll be there. What did you hear about it?" Sriella shrugs, "Just that a bunch of runners ran through the Bazaar and it was horrible. Buildings down, people hurt and dying. Never heard about the runners but it seemed… callous to ask, when people were talking about dead people." Still, she wants to know. "That's about all I know, too. No one's been saying anything about it, though I'd have thought- I dunno. Someone has to know. Someone had to let them in. They weren't, like, marked or anything," so nothing of Wild Hearts, which was a relief. Lokeiv shakes his head. "Dead. Injured. I helped get someone to safety, but I wish I could have done for more." Sriella nods, "I'm sure you did everything you could." The reassurance comes quick, easy to her lips. For someone who works with animals who enjoy getting themselves into the worst possible situations, it's a common enough thing to say to people. She means it, too. "Maybe- but," he shrugs, reaching up to tug at his hair a bit. "You know how it can be, right? The doubt?" Even if he did everything, it wouldn't be enough. But, he's saved by the stall, which sells skewers of meat and is, well, deliberately vague on the nature of it. That seems to be the charm - there's no menu, just meat and some other side-dishes that are easy enough to identify. Rice, hush puppies, and a smattering of other fairly easy foods. "Anyway, people are springing back quickly." They don't have a choice. Sriella nods firmly. "Oh yes. I still. There's still cases I can't quite let go, because I think there was more I could have done." Especially when there was more she could have done. When she made an error. "I didn't doubt that they would," she murmurs, eying the meat thoughtfully. "That's some kind of lizard." She's confident. "What was the most memorable for you? If, uh. If you don't mind my asking." Lokeiv steps up to the booth - after a few more people are sent off with their skewers of mystery meat and equally mysterious sauces. "… and are you sure? It looks more like some kind of… meaty fish." Or does it? He's still ordering a few, along with a random assortment of whatever. Does he have the marks? It is a mystery. Sriella nods, "Confident enough." That she doesn't order anything, just eyes the proprietor for a long moment. "Oh," she finally says with a sigh, shaking her head. "It, from the outside, seems minor enough, but. There was a kid with a kitten one time. Had an illness I should have recognized, but I didn't. Treated it wrong. If I'd just known what it was earlier, I could have saved it. But I didn't… I just missed the symptoms. Misread them. The kid was so damn sad. That one…that one lingers." Because she fucked up. It's all on her. It's okay, he's clearly ordering enough for two - or maybe he's really hungry and really into gambling. Lokeiv does find some marks - and lint and string and a few other odds and ends - and those are handed over in exchange for his goodies (?) "Those are the ones that linger longest, though, aren't they?" he figures after she tells her tale, his mouth pulled a little to a side in sympathy. "I'm sorry. That sounds terrible for you and for him and for the kitten." Just awful all the way around, in equal measure - in his mind, at least. "Someone once told me that it's the little traumas that hurt more and hurt longer than the big ones. I don't know if it's totally true, but sometimes it feels like it." Sriella considers that. "I… I would disagree with that," she finally says, but her tone is more thoughtful than argumentative. "I can forget about that one. It's not in my thoughts most of the time. And it's a fairly simple lesson to learn. You can bet I've never misdiagnosed that disease again. Bigger traumas… it's harder to pick out the lessons, the good that comes from them." He hums, a shoulder rising and falling in a noncommittal half-shrug. His tray of treats and meats is offered over to her to see if she wants any first; Lokeiv will wait before he digs into the most-likely-lizard meat. "It's still memorable, it stands out. It's something you didn't forget," for the lessons learned, at least. "I dunno. Sometimes-" but he shakes his head as if to clear it, the topic skewing a little too serious for an empty stomach. "You're probably more right on it," or, at least, for this round; he's not one meant to argue much of anything. He's no fighter, this guy. Sriella shakes her head at his offer - no, that's some sketchy ass meat and she might be reckless but she has to draw the line somewhere. "Sometimes?" she prompts, shifting away from the crowds to sit again on the steps of some business. He'll tempt with a hush puppy - but, honestly, everything's sketchy there. When was the last time they changed the oil? Probably not since it opened. Lokeiv, a consumer of questionable comestibles, will eat it without batting an eye - but at least he'll scoot along with her and kind of crouch and lean against the wall of the building to give her free rein (or reign?) of the steps. "I dunno. The work I do- a lot of bad stuff happens." To him, usually. "And you never forget the people that do the bad stuff, but you also never forget the people that could help - but don't even try. The blind eyes. That hurts more than the bad stuff." Sriella mmmms, watching him thoughtfully. Her eyes flick down the road to where they came, and then back to him. "Yeah," she agrees quietly. "That's… that's got to be hard. All those little pieces add up, I'm sure. Especially if you're not in a position where you can stand up for yourself." She glances towards the weyr, briefly. "Death by a thousand cuts, someone told me, and it's not wrong. It sucks, but it's life." There's a shrug and Lokeiv continues to eat, his appetite seemingly unaffected. He's had time to make his peace with, well, all of it. "But I can see it your way, too. With the bigger things taking more time to get through." He sucks his teeth. "Buuut. I'm also going to remember today, because it's not every day that someone comes looking for an underwear-wearing dancer." His grin goes crooked, his gaze flicking to the Weyr when hers does. "Don't let me keep you if you need to go somewhere." "Turns," is Sriella's quiet response, more to herself than to him. "I'm sure we can agree it all sucks," she finally says, pushing to her feet. Then she laughs. "Well, good. Happy I can return the favor of entertainment." Maybe she's more fun than she thought. She sweeps a rather well constructed bow with a flourish of a hand thrown out. "Alas, I must catch my ride. I'll send word," somewhere, "when I have a date picked out." "Send it to Wild Hearts; I check in there sometimes." Even if it's just to look in Cahia's old room or, occasionally, sneak in to sleep there when the nights are rough. Lokeiv pushes to his feet to return the bow, his grin gone every shade of goofy. His bow is far more comedic, but the dramatic flourish is just part of the charm. "See you around, Sriella. Safe travels, yeah? And- you're more entertaining than you think." From one acquired taste to another. Acquired Tastes has 1 comments. |
13 Mar 2024 04:00 |
Sriella's looking for some men with a very particular set of skills. She finds Lokeiv instead. smoking, hot ball talk, discussion of sex work, questionable meat choices |
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Bazaar Cleanup Bazaar Cleanup
“A’right, more work n’ less lookin’.” Central Bazaar All roads in the weyr ultimately lead here, to this center of commerce. Canvas awnings jut out over time worn, sandy cobblestone, sheltering customers and wares alike from the majority of Igen's elements, and funnel scents both mouthwatering and vomit inducing through the thin streets. Almost all store fronts are open air, delineated by sandstone arches with intricately carved facades. The insides of these stone-shingled buildings act as an amplifier for the salesmens' bawled enticements, and are held up by the chipped swirls of marble pillars. It is the forty-ninth day of Summer and 101 degrees. Overnight, the temperatures plummet to a reasonable heat. Sand coats everything. It’s been a bit of time since the Wild Hearts stampede went through the Bazaar in a flurry of chaos. Injuries were numerous, and the Bazaar itself suffered quite a bit for the damage brought on by the many, many hooves of the runners. To have further delayed clean-up was a recent sandstorm, pelting already damaged storefronts and buildings that had not yet been fully repaired. It was still two steps forward despite the one step back. Today, under the watchful eye of Weyr guards, and frankly several Bazaar guards and some Family muscle also in attendance, a number of candidates have been brought out this morning to work on clean-up, repairs, and otherwise helping the Bazaar residents where they could, while it was still relatively cool for a desert summer. Tomas Haask, the youngest brother of the Haask Family has made his presence known, wearing utilitarian work clothes for once, dirty with the dust of the desert environment. Protectively, he covers his exposed skin, shemagh only worn atop his head and not daring to cover his face so everyone can say they saw that particular Family present. He picks up some of the debris that remains in the main street, leftover from a merchant’s long-destroyed stall. There might have once been a crate there, or an awning made of the canvas now in strips, but now it goes into a dumpster on wheels. Tomas wipes his hands of the dust following the recent throw, and lets out a swift exhale. Did Tomas order more dust? A few panels of cracked wood, wrapped in a shredded threshold rug, are flung from slightly too far away to land, crashing, on top of what the Face of the Haask deposited, sending new billows of sand blooming up and outward. One might mistake that all the sand has been shaken off something in Igen — and one would always be wrong. The wood-tosser is garbed in the closed overrobe of the Bazaar-led guardsmen, their presence easily distinguishable by dusty yellow uniforms alone: all of them with shemaghs pulled up over their noses, anchored within their outfits’ mandarin collars. It may look treacherous as summer heat rises through days, but anyone who’s ever had a handful of grit slip between collar, neck, and live there all day knows the preference. The guard spares no time lingering on the throw, disguising its purposefulness or not. He turns back to the mass of a collapsed roof that had unluckily managed to lose every one of its supports during the run, exposing not just its interior but the shoddy construction that had been allowed to fester until now. Seventh sons of the wealthy, second sons of the middle class, and even some retired pit fighters — ringing in the ear or torn things reforming incorrectly may make brawling deadly, but they can still heave a pile of rocks, these sentinels. They even do so alongside assigned riders. Pride for the Bazaar’s reconstruction trumps wariness over Parhelion deciding to suddenly throw its weight around. The more sore sight out — not for his garb, but his build — a short older man is amongst all involved parties. His curly brown hair streaked with gray long before it was streaked with debris. Gottfried may not be dressed for his office, but he clearly holds some kind of charge; he’s ducking between stalls and shop doors, consulting his notes on the expected value of each property alongside the quality and quantity of product likely to be found. Who knew that a surprise tax audit would be beneficial to more than the administration? Shuseran sighs. Who knew being a candidate would mean he, a journeyman starcrafter/meteorologist, would be doing menial labor? Surely his talents would be better used at his craft? He casts a doubtful eye on the destruction that is the streets of the bazaar. Broken stalls, shattered goods, general refuse and rubbish are everywhere now. And sand. Sharding frickin’ sand. Everywhere. For the first time he wonders if being at a Weyr is really worth it, if that Weyr is Igen! His idea of storms never included sandstorms. “A’right, more work n’ less lookin’,” calls one of the AWLMs overseeing the candidates drafted to help with the cleanup. Shuseran shrugs, stepping over to some broken wooden stall supports, picking them up. There, two intact still. There’s no guarantee that they’re even close to the stalls they once graced. The broken and intact are carried over to piles and sorted accordingly. Two sacks are slung on each hip, one for broken merchandise, another for whole. The starcrafter picks up a metal cup, probably once someone’s prized piece– metal isn’t cheap to come by– now flattened by runner hooves. Still, it can be unbent, but will never again be like new. Remade, perhaps. He shrugs, placing it into the sack for broken items. It seems that the candidate pool is full of Journeymen this time around because yet another Journeyman is on clean-up duty. Clad in work clothes that are quickly becoming stained with sweat and dust, Weslyn bends to pick up fragments of what might have once been some food stand. Ignoring the AWLM, the Journeyman Smith is quiet as he looks over the bits of metal and wood as his brain attempts to put together just where everything in this puzzle of wreckage just might go. Finally, he looks over to the first person that he sees, who happens to just be his fellow crafter-turned-candidate Shuseran. "I think there is enough not broken here that we can put this one back together." “I know that metal.” The quiet but aloud murmurings of Gottfried’s inventory, both in hand and head, has reached the two candidates — the quality of which the Assistant cannot vouch for, which may mean a few keen but subtle glances for anything making it into a third distribution. Right now, however, standing over — well. Standing near the two former journeymen, Gottfried squints knowingly at the expression he assesses upon Weslyn’s face. “I haven’t the slightest idea which piece means which, m’boy, but I can describe to you how it looked upright.” The dust and sand kicking up leaves Tomas coughing just a bit, respectfully hidden behind the back of his hand and as forceful as a cleared throat. It would be so much easier to have his face covered, but that would require unwrapping his shemagh and re-wrapping it, and frankly he's still new at this. Sand. With care, he wraps up the shredded canvas and it joins the pile, atop the cracked wood the guard had just thrown. "Good arm, sir," he commends. He may have directly caused him to cough, but he knows who not to offend here. With a glance, he peers over towards the two candidates looking over the metal. Scavenging? Shuseran lifts an eyebrow at the smithcrafter, then shakes his head. “I can tell you whether you’re likely to have fair weather for long enough to put it together, but I know nothing whatever about building things. I’ll leave that to you smithcrafters. Now if you just need someone to hold a board in place, I think I can manage that well enough, but you might want to clear it through our overseers first.” He nods toward the closest AWLM. “I was simply told to clean up, today. They may want us to clear out all this debris and sand before they start rebuilding.” Ignoring the others for a moment, Weslyn crouches down to closely examine the pieces scattered about the wreckage, his eyes narrowing as he mentally reconstructs the original structure. "I think it's only missing a few joints, but I'm sure we can make do with what's around," he murmurs to himself, a hint of determination in his voice. It isn't as if he is dismissing Shuseran's suggestion; it is more that he hasn't had to ask permission to work his craft in a long time, and well he is in the zone. Methodically sorting through the rubble, he begins setting aside bits of metal and wood that might serve as makeshift replacements. Finally, he calls over to Shuseran, "Hey, can you hold this piece steady for a moment?" signaling a heavy wooden beam that could serve as the main support." Then briefly acknowledging Gottfried's presence with a nod, Weslyn appreciates the older man's attempt to recall the stand's original design. "Any detail helps," he responds, his tone grateful. “Indeed.” Gottfried allows graciously of the candidate’s runaway wisdom; he shan’t so much for the attempt. Should Shuseran drift forward to obey the erstwhile Smith, Shuseran will find the older man’s palm extending to gently – but with authority – put a blocking weight on his closer shoulder. “However, your friend here is right.” The naysayer is indicated. “While I would be delighted by the Weyr’s outreach, if you were to outfit this mess into recognizable piles based on design– we should not hurry to put up a new foundation with broken things when we can take this opportunity to renew it, lest we let these unfortunate circumstances lower us.” Calm, yet gushingly sweet just beneath a thin surface of poise, Gottfried’s tone often either compels listeners to subconsciously desire to please him to break through to that, or else to find him a little distant through – perceived – lack of strong stance. Then, in almost contrast to his final explanation, Gottfried does lower; though, billowing robes easily picking up any nearby spatter, as he produces a stick. Such that he can sketch out in the abundant sand what would be a rather strikingly accurate image of the decimated stall, if it were not for the comparatively dicey nature of its medium. Tomas’ focus on the supports littering the ground left him not paying attention so much to the metals under discussion. “Too bad, that, sirs,” he states with a frown on his face. He steps over, dusting his hands off with a few brief claps. “Speaking of, do we know how this all came to be, sir?” The question is pointed at Gottfried, for the white knots are unlikely to definitively know despite the chance of juicy gossip to contribute. Perhaps that’s why the comment is kept to open air rather than behind closed doors. “Last I knew, Wild Hearts had just entered into a contract with the Akzhan for protection, and I strongly doubt the contract had already ended.” A small tsk drops from his lips. Such a shame, really. Being quite new to the Igen area, Shuseran knows nothing of contracts, Akzhan or Wild Hearts. He does know he was quite firmly, if gently, kept from helping his fellow candidate in the smithcrafter’s endeavour to recreate the stall. He glances at the hand on his shoulder, following it up to the face attached to its owner. He studies the other man for a moment, then suggests to his fellow white knot, “Apparently these weren’t all that well crafted, to have taken this much damage whatever the cause. Perhaps instead of rebuilding now, you could put your smithcraft knowledge to suggesting design improvements?” He looks at Gottfried to see what reaction that will garner. Gottfried's words have the Journeyman turned candidate pausing in his work as Weslyn drops the pole back to the ground. "Hmm… yes," he says with a huff. It was not a disrespectful huff, but it was more like he was trying to convince his hands and mind to stop. "Very well, sorting it is," he acknowledges, glancing between Shuseran and Gottfried. After a moment, he steps back from the wreckage to stand next to Shuseran. "Thanks, man," is directed softly to the other crafter, "It helps sometimes if I am redirected." Sometimes… and sometimes, there is no stopping his brain. Weslyn's attention shifts momentarily to Tomas's remarks about the Wild Hearts and Akzhan, but he keeps quiet on the matter. “Do you?” A gamely, close-mouthed smile on Gottfried as he plays Tomas’ words back to him, splicing the two men from each other as sources. “For that would be best brought up with the administration. Or any closest man in yellow robe.” A hand drifts down his own front, in indication of the dress, although he is not in the noted color. Not satisfied but clearly ready enough to be done, the older man rises. He stares squintingly at the little sand drawing, subtly annoyed at its shoddy representation for his own standards, but, well. Here, and with Weyr denizens, is nowhere to be wasting materials. As such, the Assistant’s rather late to bother glancing at Shuseran, and his expression is completely mild for the second before he’s settled on Weslyn. “Your peer’s humors aside, just the sorting, good fellow. Most kind.” Spoken aloud, it sounds as though for the candidate’s benefit – even if he has a companion who jokes too soon, and on the very steps of the tragedy. A distant rise in noise recalls Gottfried’s attention; he turns over his shoulder, though not quite looking, to peripherally acknowledge some new arrivals – heavily masked men, in blends of white and red. Among them, a tall youth, his curly dark hair pulled into a small bun near the top of his head, although many strands do not make it. He’s clasping the hand of a woman present in front of the devastation that were months of labor and materials, meant to be sold. Now dust. Gottfried glances aside at the candidates and Tomas. “One might humbly suggest the craft of discretion. If one were inclined to the halls at all– Aha! Not me, of course.” A broad grin is all, grateful and a touch energetic over polite, and then Gottfried carefully steps over his sandy recreation and sweeps off into the more occupied, less candidate, areas. Tomas swiftly replies with a respectful and serious, “But of course, of course.” Ultimately, he seeks the talking, however, passing rumors and information like a currency around, for no one, not in his line of hearing, has settled in on the blame for the event. As Gottfried removes himself to tend to the colors of Steen, the Haask’s brows furrow in –frustration– seriousness - this is a serious matter. Idly to the other men present, despite them not having been directly involved in the discussion, he comments, “The Akzhan are going to bring down the Bazaar at this rate.” Concern lines every word the young man says. “First they create abysmal, substandard housing that the Weyr is likely embarrassed to contain within their caldera, and then they fail to protect a business they have sworn to protect.” He picks up another one of the pieces of metal affected by the stampede, and offers it over towards Weslyn, who seems to know what to do with the potentially recoverable pieces. “And all these other businesses and peoples’ lives are ruined by their cheapness.” Shuseran looks from one man to another, then glances at Weslyn. What has he gotten himself into? Time to keep his mouth shut and his hands and feet busy. There’s obviously more to the people here than he has any inkling of. He gives the slightest shrug to his fellow candidate and a subtle nod of his head to indicate that the smith might follow him a bit away from the men, should he want to chat more openly. He busies himself picking up more debris, but steadily works his way away from the verbal-blade wielding men. If words could wound, those two would be well bloodied. Weslyn takes the offered metal and gives it a long look over before setting it down in the right pile before acknowledging Shuseran’s subtle cue to move. Giving the fellow candidate a slight, understanding nod, he follows the Starcrafter’s lead and moves to a quieter spot. The shift away from Tomas’s talking allows him to refocus on the task at hand, the immediate need to clear and salvage what they can from the destruction, but the Haask’s words aren’t completely forgotten but stored for later review. Not that Wes knows anything about Bazaar politics, but if he was going to be living here for a bit, it might be important to know who hates who. As now even the candidates move on to another area, devoid of gossipy commentary, Tomas is left there with a fairly sour expression he’s not afraid to leave publicly visible. Do they not care? People died. A blue firelizard sweeps down to rest upon his shoulder, affectionately headbutting the Haask brother’s jaw out of concern for the peace of mind for his person. Yes, the candidates are rarely in the Bazaar anyway outside of when they are assigned to be, and frankly hanging around them at his age may invite a simple white knot thrown in his direction, something he cannot entertain amidst this. Glancing back at the red and white of the Steen’s colors, Tomas sets his jaw and takes Gottfried’s advice: find a yellow robe. With the clean-up active, there’s bound to be one close, and sharing his —rumors— concerns is time sensitive. He steps away for a moment, another gentleman a few strides away in purple and dark teal following behind as a shadow. He’ll be back, there’s more cleanup to do. Optics are important. Shuseran drifts further away from anyone before finally turning to Weslyn. “What goes on here? What was behind those words? I’m getting the feeling I need to figure out who stands what ground around here before I step foot on quicksand. I’m too new to have a feel for politics here.” He looks to Weslyn hopefully. If his fellow candidate doesn’t know, he may ask his senior journeyman. He’s quite sure Alsha would know. Weslyn lowers his head close to Shuseran keeping his own voice low, “I am not sure. I have only been here a month or so, but if it is anything like Hall politics, I am sure it is going to get messy pretty fast.” He doesn’t know about the Starcraft but the Smithcraft could get pretty competitive at times. “I think, at the moment, watching and keeping an ear out might be the best course of action.” After all, if he doesn’t impress there is no purpose to pissing off the wrong person here. What a wonderful citizen, tending to his civic duty by reporting his concerns to the officials. Tomas knows there’s certain ways to describe certain unofficial arrangements as above-board-”official”, meaning remaining intact. The powers that be know how the Bazaar works, and the outlining of the Akzhan’s arrangement that ousted the Haask’s arrangement as economically wasteful and clearly in bad faith, particularly in light of the tragic events… Well, that was only the latest in what appeared to be a lot of Akzhan mis-steps to the young Haask. Clearly this line of events needs to be seen as increasingly worrying, because for all they know, another fire could happen. That property was Akzhan, too, wasn’t it? Perhaps it was about the insurance marks considering how fast they rebuilt. The gent who is taking down Tomas’ statement appears to be taking it all seriously, but that might be to just get it over with and appease the Haask. Respectful as he has been, he still invoked a manager. Shuseran nods and says quietly, “I was hoping you’d been here a while and knew the ins and outs. I think you’re right and probably the more working and the less talking we do, the better, lest someone think we’re talking about the wrong thing.” For all he knows, they *are*. He focuses on his duties for a while, though he does try to keep a discreet eye on Tomas to see where he’s going and what he’s doing. "Sorry," Weslyn mutters with a slight shrug, "Not sure you can talk about the wrong thing. Not talking about typical things doesn't lead to anything productive." Despite his words, there's an understanding in his tone, an acknowledgment of the fine line they walk as newcomers entangled in the complexities of Bazaar life. He gives a discreet glance over his shoulder towards Tomas. But then, heeding his own advice about discretion, Weslyn deliberately turns his back on the scene, giving the “impression” of disinterest. With a deep breath, he refocuses on the debris before them, sorting through the remains with his normal meticulousness. This goes in that pile; that one goes in that one, and so on and so forth. Even with all that, Tomas’s words linger in his mind. That talk with the administrators was productive, or so it felt like. Tomas returns to the area of work, his house shadow behind him in those dark Haask colors that really should not be worn in the desert three seasons out of the Turn. Spotting the two young men with their stark white knots, he diverts his movement again, because what better is there to do than to harass dragon candidates? “Please, dear sirs, pardon my intrusion earlier with my rant. This is a rather sensitive situation and I hate to have put you both in the middle of it. Did either of you have family affected by the stampede?” he asks, bending down to gather some clay shards into a larger broken vase. Shuseran pauses mid reach and straightens up to face Tomas, the ripped cloth– blanket? Awning?— left lying for the moment. He shakes his head. “I’m very new to Igen and have no family hereabouts. I confess to knowing very little at all about my new home or this… Formerly fine? Bazaar. I wish I’d had more time to explore it before this tragedy, instead of getting to know it intimately by this misfortune.” There then. Let’s see what that net brings in. "No family involved on my end," Wes responds after a brief pause, his voice maintaining a neutral tone as he meets Tomas's gaze. "Just trying to help where we can, same as everyone else here." Of course, he was also assigned to this task, so it's not like he "couldn't" be helping out. "Though it seems like some carelessness on someone's part happened to have a whole herd of runners suddenly come through the middle of the marketplace." He muses to himself. “I am glad you all were spared the heartbreak, as I know many weren’t,” Tomas replies with a somber nod. He sets the vase off to the side, should someone wish to do something a little decorative with the broken shards. “And yes, the carelessness was precisely my concern. I worry that this won’t be the last…” A small blue firelizard cuts Tomas off, complete with rolled up hide in hand. Unfurling it, he looks over the details of the missive. “Hmm, I hate to leave, but I have some urgent matters to attend to. I’ll return tomorrow to continue the rebuild.” The Haask are a generous, selfless lot, of course. With that, exit stage left. Shuseran watches Tomas go thoughtfully, looking at Wes to see if he’s thinking the same thing: Apparently there’s much to learn about their new home! Bazaar Cleanup has 1 comments. |
03 Mar 2024 06:00 |
Shortly after the massive stampede, candidates and bazaarfolk assist with cleanup. Backdated. |
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Treat Delivery! Treat Delivery!
"I made some flaky pastries, these are plain, those are stuffed with fruit, those have nuts, some breakfast sandwiches, but the egg ones aren't made yet - they get soggy too fast, so she'll just assemble them there. There's the fruit, and some yogurt and granola, and then there are the muffins and the breads and rolls are on the bottom…" Nighthearth A comfortable nook, this natural extension of the living room is cozily attired with overstuffed chairs and a couple of well-worn loveseats. All have been covered in various shades of green, giving the very incongruous appeal of a miniature forest hidden away inside… a grove of man-made proportion. Fish stews and spicy white-wherry chili are often kept hot on the minor hearths east and west of the main, for those whose hours defy when meals are kept. Ornate, the largest hearth towers high, rich with carving and utilitarian in fashion: it holds court by providing the weyr with rich klah, the air thick with the scent of cinnamon wafting. Before dawn isn't necessarily the dead hour of the Weyr, for Clayd passed various groups of riders gathering for sunrise drills on his way into the caverns, and he knows enough to know the kitchens likewise are in a state of industry with preparations for the day. That's why he parks himself at the nighthearth, to not make a nuisance of himself hovering near or in the kitchens while he awaits the treats for the bookshop. And the nighthearth? Quiet and cozy. So much so, that the man has slouched himself into a dozing slumber in one of the larger, overstuffed chairs, his neck crooked to one side, elbow propped on the armchair, and a hand supporting his head, which effectively covers his eyes. With his arm raised so, his tunic's sleeve has slipped down, revealing dark and decorative designs painted along his forearm, wrist, almost up to the back of his hand: Southern florals, in abstract. Cahia has been busy since arriving. She spent the first seven running back and forth to the bookstore and the kitchens, but now, her real schedule has begun, and that means trusting this Clayd guy to show up on time for the dawn delivery. And the lunch one. The afternoon one she will take herself. So when Cahia carefully pushes the two-tiered cart into the Nighthearth, it's with a hopeful look around to find her messenger. And…there's a guy asleep? She frowns, watching him for a moment. Well, he's the only one here, so… She approaches slowly, cautiously, and nudges his boot. "Hello?" He wasn't just on time, he was early: and to make good use of those extra minutes, why not doze? How punctual are bakers, anyway, with their ovens without timers? Clayd wouldn't know. Thankfully for Cahia, he wasn't in a deep sleep, just a little catnap a la Stylus and Parchment, and maybe that's why he's squeezing in a little extra shut-eye. At any rate: that timid nudge works, for no sooner than he hears — feels — Cahia, the hand covering his eyes comes down to rub the length of his face, to his full beard, a sudden and sharp inhale by being stirred awake following. His now-opened eyes find Cahia's concerned frown, to which he responds by lifting both eyebrows. "Baker, right?" He can smell the fresh pastries. "Cahia?" Sitting up straighter in the chair, he rubs his face again. Cahia looks relieved that she's found the right person to hand off her precious goods to. "Yes! Clayd?" She extends a hand to give his a shake, and please don't mind if her hand is a little flour-dusted. And…maybe a little sticky. It smells good at least, I promise! "Here's the breakfast cart!" She gestures with a hand to encompass it all. "I made some flaky pastries, these are plain, those are stuffed with fruit, those have nuts," don't panic, they're all labeled on the end of their little serving trays, designed to slide right into the display case. "Some breakfast sandwiches, but the egg ones aren't made yet - they get soggy too fast, so she'll just assemble them there. There's the fruit," delicious looking fruit cups, "and some yogurt and granola, and then there are the muffins," point, "and the breads and rolls are on the bottom. I didn't slice the bread, I forgot to ask if she wanted me to. What do you think?" "Clayd," the Bayad errand-man confirms, taking her hand for a brief shake of greeting once he stands from the chair. If the gesture transferred some flour or sugar mix or even jelly to his palm, a curl of his fingers only half-rubs it away as he steps towards the cart. Wow. He doesn't say that, though he doesn't quite quell the look of surprise in time to keep Cahia from seeing it. "Was expecting a little basket, not a whole cart," he sidenotes absently, surveying all the work that went into filling this for the bookshop's cafe portion. He's glad the baker had the foresight and thoughtfulness to go ahead and label — it may take him a few days to get used to Cahia's menu for the shop. When she calls for his opinion about bread, his eyebrows lift again, that he's supposed to have a thought about it beyond delivering it safely to Whiskers. "I'll ask her, when I take it, and let you know at lunch." Cahia looks at him with concern. "Is it too much? Oh, no, do you think it's too much?" she frets, hands clenching and unclenching on her apron. "Tell her if it doesn't sell we can wrap it up and sell it at discount tomorrow, that's what I used to do. Or we can give it away, as a promotion… buy a book, get a treat? Oh dear." Now she's worried. Poor Clayd. The menu will change every day. But perhaps he'll learn how to identify things in time? "Okay, yes, that would be great, thank you." She still frets though, looking over the cart. "Is it too much?" Poor Cahia! Clayd didn't mean his errant observation to be taken as judgment against anything. The new baker's just gone above and beyond — what he was expecting, at least. "Oh…" starts off weakly, when she questions the amount, noting the distress he's caused with a glance to her worried apron before looking back at the cart. "Ah, no, I'm sure it's alright, you worked it out with Nineveh, yeah?" Clayd doesn't say anything about strategies of excess or promotional marketing: wholly outside his wildling realm. He also doesn't confide he'd happily eat the excess, too — lookin' at you, you little fruit pastry! — but gathers what he hopes is an encouraging grin to tilt it to the nervous baker. "It's spring, too. More people getting out now that it's not raining every damn day." A little consolation to help ease new-job anxieties, maybe she'll get his implication folks will be keener to buy pastries with spring fever. "I'll just have to take this through the crafter's area," since a wheeled cart and those terraced garden steps won't mix! Cahia sighs wistfully, "So the rain is going to stop soon? Oh that's too bad…" She is loving the rain. Then she nods eagerly. "Yes, you can make it with the cart, I checked, there's ramps the whole way and it fits through all the doors. There are a few spots that are pretty bumpy but I'm sure you'll manage." She wanted everything to be perfect for her first day officially supplying the bookshop with a full array of treats. "Less and less rain," though Clayd, like Cahia, isn't from this part of Southern, either. "And good to know," that Cahia planned ahead — he did not — because he'll feel less awkward tromping through the Crafter's Complex, the dignified Harper's solarium, and out along the shops — especially near the lunch hour — with a cart whose wheels were perpetually getting stuck or clipped on bumps. At least its wheels do not seem to squeak or wail. "Anything else I need to know?" He's keen to get on, though, with a longer route navigating the cart through the caverns, at least before more of the Weyr wakes up and crowds the areas. Cahia shakes her head, scanning the tray. "No, that's it. And you're welcome to take something for your troubles!" Then a quick wave and she's darting back to the kitchens again to start on the lunch items. Clayd would've called a 'thanks' but the baker's gone before he's even realized she's spirited away, a blinked look after her before he begins the wheeled journey back to the book shop, hopefully leaving plenty of time before the shop opens to give Cahia — as she so fervently wanted — a perfect first-day of officially supplying the cafe. Treat Delivery! has 1 comments. |
13 Mar 2024 07:00 |
Clayd takes Cahia's first full delivery to Whiskers & Words Cafe. #5rounds |
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Those Who Teach Those Who Teach
"It's part of the foundation we're building with them." Weyrling Training Grounds Here, a wide and spacious field, devoid of all but more of the glare of ubiquitous, fine white sand of Igen: not even a blade of grass dares lift its head against centuries of clumsy draconic antics. To one side, ever-present firestone bins are set, kept supplied by many a hand, while agenothree tanks line the curving angle just outside the barracks, primed and ready for use. Very often, a glimpse of classes in session or dragonets at play may be caught under the open sky under the watchful eye of diligent Weyrlingmasters and older dragons. While the eggs continue to harden upon Igen's sands, the candidates are still subject to their daily chores, tasks, and PT- lucky, lucky them. R'xim is clad in his Weyrlingmaster uniform this afternoon while he stands in the center of the training grounds and watches a group of candidates run a few warm-up laps. A sandstorm has come and gone, leaving behind a coating of sand over everything and dust is still wafting in the air, which explains why everyone is wearing face wraps. Including Rix. "Come on thirty-six, hurry it up." he calls out to one of the smaller candidates. "It's not supposed to be easy." Multitasking is an artform, as is time management, and so a few back-to-back meetings are lined up during this candlemark to help with his hectic schedule. The first is about to start should a certain bluerider show up on time. And he will show up on time, because there are some things that Q'dir does not gamble on - and one of those things is the patience of the Weyrlingmaster. Haqisardith's attendance is probably optional, but the blue is present and observing, intrigue glittering in the depths of slow-wheeling blue-green eyes. No doubt he's making his own bets on which candidates will Impress, much as his rider surely will be, but at least he keeps the rhythmic clatter of rolling dice to the space of his own mind. As for Q'dir, he's in his leathers, though it's the nicer set - not exactly formal, but they're definitely not the ones he wears into Threadfall. Blue and silver accents align him with his lifemate's coloration and he, too, has a light scarf of sorts to cover his face if the dust gets rowdy. He waits until the herd of candidates passes before he cuts across to where R'xim is, a sharp salute snapped off. "Weyrlingmaster- you asked to see me?" R'xim returns the salute in greeting when Q'dir approaches and then glances in the candidates' direction as they run the length of the training grounds, giving a bit of privacy for the next handful of minutes atleast until they circle back. His attention returns to the bluerider soon after. "I requested additional aid for the next class of weyrlings and your name was on a list that crossed my desk." Not one to make small talk or dance around any subject, he's direct in his approach. "And based on that alone, I asked you here to see if you'd discuss the prospect of joining my team as an assistant weyrlingmaster." It's a good thing Q'dir's perfected his poker face. Haqisardith might be heard chuckling - or as near to the sound as dragons can make - in the background. For the bluerider, he'll take a long moment under the guise of serious contemplation, with a pensive pinch between his eyebrows. "Well, I'm not quite sure what they," whatever nebulous 'they' it is that dispenses names, that is, "said, but- ah. I'd be willing to discuss that." He looks at R'xim more fully now, a half-smile carving the scar in his cheek even deeper. "I'm not afraid to try new things, if you're the kind of Weyrlingmaster that likes to experiment with new mental exercises and obstacle courses and all of that." Used to seeing shock, dismay, and the occasional poker face with his direct approach, R'xim folds his arms across his chest while listening to what Q'dir has to say. Since he doesn't decline the conversation, it continues with a nod from the older rider. "That's fine. I expect members of my team to navigate new lessons alongside the weyrlings. More often than not, we show them by doing, so if there's a new mental exercise or obstacle course, it means we're working with them." Rix pivots to regard the jogging candidates once again. "Have you worked with a weyrling class before? Or mentored newly graduated riders?" "That makes sense," because of course it does and Q'dir internally kicks himself for uttering such an obvious statement. Fortunately, he recovers quickly and, after glancing to watch the candidates continue in their circuit, he slants a look to R'xim again. "I haven't, no- not officially, anyway. I've done a little bit here and there with those that have questions and I've helped some with newer members of Arroyo. It's always a little different, working the new blood in with the old. There's only so much weyrling training can do to prepare them for actually flying with a wing that isn't just… all of them." R'xim flicks his attention from the candidates back to Q'dir again, assessing him with a slight furrowing of dark brows. Another nod follows as he considers the bluerider. "That's true. We do our very best to give them a solid foundation before they graduate and it's up to them to lean on their training. Instinct also has an influence on whether or not newly fledged riders fly or die." Haqisardith is on the receiving end of a glance and Rix nods in the dragon's direction. "Do you think he'd work well with dragonets? What sort of mentor do you think he would be." "The training, when I went through it, was very good. But I'm also biased," seeing as it's the only weyrling training he'll ever know. Still, it warrants a tilted grin from Q'dir, his amusement shining despite the seriousness of the conversation. "Fresh blood means fresh perspectives, too. And I'm someone that knows a little bit about going from fighting instinct to working with it. The worst issues I've seen, I think, are when they try to fight their instincts too hard. I'm sure you've seen a lot of that, too." He tracks after Rix's gaze and looks to Haqisardith - who, in turn, is hunkered down and watching the candidates through the veil of one set of eyelids, as if he doesn't want to appear too interested. "He loves them," comes quickly enough. "He loves their potential, what they can be. He's more of a gambler at heart than I am." For good or ill. "Give him enough time and he'll know exactly what buttons to push to get them to do what they're supposed to do." The candidates round the corner of the training grounds and R'xim at least has the courtesy to wait until Q'dir is finished speaking to yell. Not at him, but at the candidates who look like they need a change of pace from their current cadence. "Walk one lap and then stretch." he instructs. "Good job, thirty-six. Get some water." The young lad perks up and Rix tries his best to suppress a grin by clearing his throat- it's all the dust in the air, surely. "A fresh perspective would be good for the team." he agrees. "It'll be your job to know which buttons to push and when. There are times when Shalnth gets a little too enthusiastic with the dragonets that I have to remind them that they're not a hundred Turns old like he is." The light tone of his voice suggests Rix is exaggerating with the bronze's age. "There will be a learning curve for the both of you if you decide this is what you want to do. I run a tight wing and I leave little room for bad judgment, and I expect you to discipline as needed. Doing so may save a life. It's part of the foundation we're building with them- they need to understand what being part of a wing means. What the life of a dragonrider means." His gaze meets Q'dir's as that glint of assessment still remains. "If he's a hundred, then you're looking mighty good for a hundred and fifteen." Q'dir can't quite help himself with the quip, that half-smile popping up in spite of himself. He moves on quickly enough with a nodded, "We're good at that, definitely. It's a matter of incentives, knowing what people want and how to use that. And it's knowing what they're capable of, too-" but that's another matter entirely, something that will just have to be seen when the weyrlings are real and not merely hypotheticals waiting to exist. Seriousness finally sinks in and he straightens, shoulders squaring up some while he watches the candidates start off on their final lap - of walking, this time - and thirty-six going off to get himself some water. "I will, Sir. I'm fully expecting it'll be a hard thing to do - not just because of the hours," which will suck and he knows it, "but because it is life or death at the end of the day. I won't hesitate to set them straight if they need it, but I'm also glad for the chance to teach them how to tilt the odds in their favor up there." "Well, you know what they say. The older the violin, the sweeter the music." R'xim seems to know a thing or two about being one of the more vintage riders at Igen. He might even reveal a hint of a smirk at the banter, which only seems to confirm his decision in the moment. "Alright. I think I've heard enough. You can pick up your knot in my office tomorrow morning if you decide to commit the position. We have a team meeting scheduled thirty minutes after the morning meal, which will be a good opportunity to get introductions and all that out of the way. We can go over more details then." For now, he's got to put these candidates through their paces. "Appreciate you coming over to talk." he adds with an easy salute and a dismissal at that. There's a firm nod for that, the seriousness melting away to allow another smile - if he's not poker-faced, he's grinning, because life is good despite all the other trials and tribulations. Q'dir snaps another salute to R'xim, chased with a resolute, "Yes, Sir. I'll see you tomorrow morning." No 'ifs', 'ands', or 'buts' about it - he's as serious as Threadfall. Haqisardith approves, marking the moment with a brief bugling of his own before he pushes to his feet. "Thank you for giving me the opportunity, Sir. Clear skies." And he's soon off to spend the last free evening he has doing Faranth knows what before he has to pass for some kind of respectable adult figure - and, for once, the idea isn't terrifying. Those Who Teach has 1 comments. |
12 Mar 2024 04:00 |
The weyrlingstaff grows by one. |
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An Engagement An Engagement
"That night I told him I'd flay him if he waited too long because I'd kill him if my firstborn was born a bastard." Grace's Room A nicely sized apartment, with shuttered windows that look out over the sea. The room seems bare without furniture, though. Sriella's arrival was a surprise, but the two sisters enjoy a little catch up of news from home, and while inevitably talk swings towards their younger sister, eventually after discussions of Sriella's recent travels, gifts to Daemon and Evie as well as a sweet sister-gift to Grace — a bracelet of glass beads interspersed with loops of iron — talk inevitably turns to Grace and her life. Something is different about Grace, an easiness to her demeanor that wasn't there before. A subtle shift that comes from Sriella's 'what's new with you?' "Welllllll," she drawls out, a little smile playing at the corners of her lips, "I do have some news." Does she make her sister wait? Or not? She fishes out a dark stone shaped like a mountain hunt on a cord of leather braided through with a green ribbon. "This," she slips it over her head and hands it out for her sister to see, "is the stone that I told you about, the one Llias' mother… it's his — the Bayad way — pledge. They don't do rings, but it's the same. Betrothal, engagement." Are her cheeks pinker? A little nervous? Sriella lounges on her sister's bed, boots off and hair undone as they chat away about News and Things and Whatever. Until they get to the good stuff and she shifts, propping herself up on an elbow and reaching for the stone to cradle it gently against her fingers. "This… you're engaged?" she breathes softly, staring at the stone - they don't do rings, and honestly she can't blame them because rings are cursed - and then looking up at her sister with a slowly growing smile, a brightness in her ice-blue eyes. "I… yes." Grace, who had a ring once given to her by Jhesse, watches Sriella cradle her engagement necklace while biting her lip. "I am. I am engaged." She had not said it out loud until now, until this moment between sisters. "And," just in case there is worry here, "it's not going to be some forever engagement… betrothal… but I don't want anything big. I think big weddings are cursed." Twice now, Sriella has had failed weddings. Her own failed, and that wasn't going to be small either. "I want something — I want to take Llias home and have him meet Mama and Daddy and then I want a Harper to wed us in the orchard. The trees are beautiful and we need to supplant some of those darker memories," like the fire and their father's injuries, "with good ones. I haven't told Llias this part yet, but… I envision getting married by the Harpers on our land, and then getting married in Sivholm in his ways. I'm… not sure what that entails, but… I want to honor his traditions too." Her smile is watery, tremulous but excited. "It feels right. Evie needs more cousins to play with." She has longed for a family for so long, and right now? It's within her grasp. Sriella is cursed, that's the problem here. She gently lays the stone back in her sister's palm and curls her fingers around it, Sriella's hands cupping Grace's and squeezing gently. "I think that sounds absolutely beautiful," she whispers, and she means it. "I am so happy for you, Grace. If this is what you want, I am here for you 100% and I am so happy for you. I think it's sweet to get married at home and then also in his…customs." Whatever they are, Sri doesn't know either. "I know you want a family. Evie would love to be a big cousin." Because Faranth only knows if she'll ever get to be a big sister. "How did he ask?" Not just Sriella; all those Wishes their parents made must have thrown some curse water into their children's lives, honestly. "Thank you," Grace holds tightly to Llias' family stone, the heirloom that marks his family that goes back however far she does not know. Feeling the cool weight of it against her fingers she slowly threads the leather around her head and sets the stone so it rests between her breasts, for it's made to go around a bigger neck, bigger body. "I think, when we are married, I will thread my medallion onto it and have both of them together." With her grin widening and another hug for her sister, holding on tightly. "I don't know what his customs are, but for ours, I want you to be my maid of honor, the very best sister." As for the how, well… "It started as a conversation," a naked one, if Sriella can read between the lines, "Because I finally got the courage to ask him if he — that he wasn't going to stay here. Cynric told me he would… want to go back home, and I know it. His heart isn't here, and he was honest. He doesn't have skills here to feel… worthwhile. He felt as I did in Sivholm… An accessory, I guess. I had been giving him hints…" she shoots a look at her sister, exasperated with men, "… that I wanted more? But he didn't pick up on them, so that night I told him I'd flay him if he waited too long because I'd kill him if my firstborn was born a bastard." Shrugging, she smiles shyly, "And he was nervous, but he asked me if I was ready, and I told him I was." Ice-blue eyes meet her sister's with ferocity, "And then I told him I'd shoot an arrow through the heart of anyone who tried again to take it from me." Does Grace have it in her to do such a thing? She certainly has it in her to make such a threat! Sriella is rather shocked when Grace asks her to be her maid of honor. But. "Of course I will be," she whispers, "of course." She gets to plan a BACHELORETTE PARTY. WOOHOO. ahem. She flops back on the bed to hear her sister's story of The Engagement, and she only flinches once, inwardly, invisible behind her smile. Poor Evie, bastard child that she is. And then she laughs. "Damn, Grace, that's… quite the story. It's unique. Just like the two of you." She looks around and then back. "So you're moving to Sivholm?" she asks carefully. Evie is a beautiful and amazing child and when Grace inevitably realizes what she says, she will feel horrible, but. Right now? She's lost in her own story. Yes, BACHELORETTE PARTY!! "We are unique. I told him once that the proposal just had to be special, it didn't have to be elaborate, but… whatever he did, I wanted it from the heart." Looking around her room, Grace nibbles on her lower lip, uncertain now. "Eventually," she says just as carefully, sneaking a look at Sriella. "But… not yet. I will go back with him, to," and here she takes a nervous breath, "see his family, meet them, as I should have done first, but. I'm not moving back until I'm married. Not this time, because I am not going through being alone and vulnerable to his…" she bites her lip hard, "… mother. I wanted — I imagined my husband's mother would love me. Jhesse's did, and like… I know Mama will love him at least as much as she loves," another sneaky look to Sriella, "Daemon, but. I don't know. I'm … concerned." Worried, fearful, uncertain; take a pick, they all work. "I commissioned him a new machete as an engagement gift. He won a bunch of marks fighting for sport in Black Rock, to help pay for the book." Which means… Grace has a few spare marks now. Sriella tucks her hands behind her head and gazes up at her sister's ceiling as they chat. "Yes, meeting the families is important." She does eye her sister though at that sneaky look and snorts, looking back up at the ceiling. "She will love him far more than she loved Daemon. Daddy will too." Llias isn't a criminal. Though, honestly, Issri does have love for Daemon, in her way. "His mother better treat you right," she says quietly. "If she doesn't, he'd better be ready to step up and defend you." She shifts a look at her sister, studying her. "If you both want this, you'll find ways to make it work with the families," she says softly. Then a blink of surprise. "He went to Black Rock?" Did she know that? A soft snort and she looks at the ceiling again. "Glad he's helping pay for the book." Genuine, that. And maybe a liiiiittle smug? She was right. "Daemon was horrified you turned a man's weapon into a broom," she says, her expression a little wry. His response was amusing. "He had to make sure his blade was still on him, as if I'd stolen it and turned it into a shovel or something." "Mama loves Daemon because you love him," Grace says quietly, "And really, it's Mama I need to be okay with it… because it's Mama who will make sure Daddy doesn't kill him." Accidentally maybe not. Since their mother keeps no secrets from their father, and Grace did tell Issri about… well everything. "Plus, Mama will make sure Daddy behaves…" But, they have to get Mama on their side. Just like when they were kids. "He will stand up for me," she knows that's the truth, has seen that oath in Llias' eyes. She doesn't want him to salt the earth for her, though, but that's a problem for another day. "We both do, and he did." Does she know how much affect Sriella's words had on Llias? Unlikely since she really doesn't know they crossed paths a second time. "Men and their weapons. You should, you know. If Daemon pisses you off, make his shit into a shovel so he can shovel the shit out of the hole he dug himself in." Grace grins, but silently remembers that line for the next time Llias is in trouble, because it's a good one. "Llias looked a little sick when he saw the broom, like I had done a grievous, grievous thing. I swear. It's just a blade. It's not like I took his runner out and made dinner out of her. As if!" "I told him I missed him." It slips out before Sriella can catch it, pull it back, because this isn't about HER, but Daemon is an ever present…presence, in her life. "Mama will be okay with Llias," she says. "I'll tell her he and I had a chat." There's a little grin. "Did he tell you we talked?" HUH? DID HE? "Our parents will be fine." Then she laughs. "No, Grace. There are lines with Daemon and fucking around with his weapons is one I will not cross." There's a pause. "I'd find other ways to drive the point home." Whatever point she needed to make. "Would you like Evie to be the flower girl?" EVEN THO SHE'S A BASTARD?! "Good, you need to tell him. Sometimes men are stupid and dumb and blind. What'd he say?" Grace asks, but then Sriella diverts the conversation back to her and Llias, and she shakes her head. "Or… if he did, I was a little distracted when he told me he was going to Black Rock. I thought… I feared… he'd leave me. He'd come back and tell me…" Black Rock is cursed. "Of course, I do. Evie would be adorable tossing flowers." SORRY SRIELLA, HER TONGUE SLIPPED HER NEICE IS PRECIOUS EVEN IF SHE'S BORN OUT OF WEDLOCK IT WAS A POINT SHE WAS MAKING TO LLIAS TO NOT WAIT 10 YEARS WHILE ALSO WANTING TO NOT BE ABSTINATE. "He said he missed me too," Sriella says softly to the ceiling. "He kissed my forehead and then we… talked. For candlemarks." They talked. "It was nice." Pause. "Different." No sex. She doesn't know what to do with (without) that, their relationship was built on the physical. But she turns her head to face her sister. "Black Rock does not have pleasant memories for you," she says quietly. "He and I had a good conversation. I am glad he's helping pay for the book." That was something she felt very strongly about. Then she smiles. "Excellent. Do I need to find her a dress? Me? Do you… want to plan anything?" Wedding planning is such a bitter topic for them both, but Sriella will do it if her sister wants to! "Who do you want to be there?" "Talking is important," Grace points out, "And we're all growing up… You and Daemon… a lot of the issues were because you didn't talk." She's not letting this topic go just yet. "So… I think it's good, Sri, if your heart is set on him and he on you, that you start with talk and build into…" Sex. Physical intimacy. "You need to know him as he is now and he needs to know you, sister, because you have changed. Grown up into this amazing mother and woman. You're not the same crushed girl who fled home pregnant, and I don't know that he knows that anymore than you knew who he was after the mines." She inhales deeply, and Sriella will be able to tell that she's thought long and hard about this, about what to say, and about how to say it. "Daemon wasn't good for you. He changed you, and not always in a good way, but that was the old Daemon. The Daemon before life changed, before Evie, before the mines, before all that's come before. I have always believed people can change, and I have hopes that the Daemon that is today… is one who can make you happy." And not live in a hovel of roaches. Reaching over to take her sister's hand, Grace's own eyes glassy with unshed tears, "And I hope, Sri, that he is a better man and that he does want a future with you." And then she laughs when the tears fall unexpectedly, "Look at me getting randomly mushy for no reason whatsoever. I swear, and I would love to make her the cutest dress, but absolutely no planning. We can pick wildflowers in the fields. I want the wedding in Spring, if possible, but whenever is honestly fine. I told him he didn't have to, but… I'm glad you two talked. I really am, because I think it makes him feel good to help… and he's offered to let me come with him to watch him fight." Which she is because she wants to see this and she needs to face those Black Rock demons. "Just our family, Sri. Nothing… I don't want to jinx it. I don't want to plan a bunch of stuff like before and have it all fall away. I'm done with that. Let Mikaelya do that." As if. "Okay, maybe Eirys?" Sriella watches the ceiling, a bit surprised Grace wants to talk about this. A bit guilty, too. It's not about you. and yet here she is AGAIN. "We have changed," she says quietly. "I know I've changed. I'm not as…" She sighs. "So much of me was wrapped up in him, it was like I couldn't even breathe when he was away." It wasn't healthy. "But now… I can breathe on my own. And I… I miss him. I do. But I'm not drowning anymore." She blushes a bit. "Thanks," to her sister's confidence about how she has grown. How she's an amazing mother. "Evie changed us. He is a good father." Her fingers twine with Grace's and she returns the squeeze, turning her head to look at her. "I can't imagine being with anyone else," she says quietly. "I don't know if he sees a future between us. Beyond what we share through Evie." She looks back up at the ceiling. "I am enjoying our visits, our talks. The gather was a delightful day. But it's strange… to go from being as close as we were, to broken for so long, how we hurt each other so badly… and then the cheating, all the physical stuff, but that ended when I left. And so now… where are we? I've never had a normal relationship, Grace," she laughs. "Are we starting over? Have we not fucked because he doesn't want me like that anymore? But then I have to make myself stop thinking because I don't want to get so wrapped up in my head again. I can't guess his reasons, his motives, nor should I." She pauses. "His parole will be up in just a few months, and I'm sure he'll leave River Bend when he's free. Do I just love the Daemon that's in River Bend? Because, yes, he's changed, but he's not a totally different person. He's rotting away in that cothold. But I'm not going to lie and say it hasn't been nice having him around. But I know that's all smoke and mirrors. That's not the reality of a life with him. But I have changed too. I can't stay put anymore. I understand that part of him better, now. Is that a blessing? Or a curse? What would that future look like?" She shrugs. "If he wants to try again, then…we'd figure it out. Even through everything, we got through things together, until the end." She gives her sister's hand a firm squeeze. "I hope he wants a future with me too, but I can't put all my hope into that, either. Because I just don't know, and I couldn't… I don't want to hurt like that again." She is healing, yes, and she understands, but the breaking of their relationship is still an ache that sometimes gives painful twinges. Then she laughs softly at her sister's tears, reaching with her free hand to brush them away. "Maybe you're pregnant," she teases. "Spring is beautiful in the orchard. Mama and I will make the cake, and it will be just our family, and a Harper, and it will be perfect." Then she laughs. "Edvard," she says confidently, because their sisters are insane. Edvard is the only stable one amongst them. "Maybe he's waiting until he has something to give you," Grace says quietly, her eyes dropping as a familiar ache reminds her that for however bright her future is right now, it wasn't that long ago that someone else came to say good-bye, for his own reasons. "It's okay to want, and it's okay to put distance," she gives her sister's hand a squeeze, "And it's okay to hurt. But I'm so very glad you aren't drowning." Because they could all see it and were helpless to help. "Pregnant?! No way… I take my stuff!" Now she's worried… THANKS SISTER. Is she? Could she be? Drawn back to the conversation by her sister's proclamation that it will be Edvard and she laughs. "Definitely Edvard." May all of Faranth's children make it so he picks a not crazy wife and also stays true. Eyeing you Ricci! "It will be beautiful, won't it? No matter where I am, you still better visit. You can take a dragon almost to Sivholm, so, you know. No excuses. Do you think… Mama and Daddy would travel to Sivholm for that part…? I don't know what it is, but I want you there then too." Sriella blinks at Grace. "Give me? Like…what? He put a beautiful stained glass suncatcher in the wagon when it was in the shop to fix…" Then she laughs, leaning over to boop a finger against her sister's nose playfully. "Having a baby out of wedlock isn't that bad," she teases. Edvard will be normal because he has to take the cothold! "It will be so beautiful. The trees will be blooming, the weather will be perfect, we can have a nice dinner at the house…" She seeks her sister's hand again, giving it a squeeze. "What is one thing you want for your wedding that would make it even better?" Because she can do that. "And who do you want at your bachelorette party? If you want Mikaelya there it'll have to be somewhere we can bring Violence." NOTHING IS EASY. "Of course I'll visit. And I'm sure they would if you asked them, Grace. They love us, no matter what." And thank Faranth for that, else she'd be disowned by now. "I will be there." "Not things, Sri, but himself. The hardest thing and yet the most valuable things to give aren't the ones we can see, but the ones we can't." Grace's soft voice breaks when Sriella boops her nose and she laughs, "I know that! I don't care about if I have a baby before I'm married or not, but I had to put a timeline on Llias in case he thought it would be — well I assumed he'd want to wait, and I'm not having none of that. That man's going to be mine before I get my first grey hair!" She is done waiting for other people to be betrothed and married and tied up before she's getting that man. "I don't think… well, dammit, Sri, now I'm going to be looking for pregnancy signs." Reaching up to squeeze her boobs, as if to check for sensitivity. "How about just you and me at the party," it's not like Grace has other friends and if Sriella is thinking strippers, well, Mikaelya is too young! "I will ask them," she nods, dropping her hands in her lap, and stops to think, really hard. "I don't know… I'll have to think about what… I want." She doesn't really think about that too often. "Have you… heard from Thattik?" Carefully broaching a subject, tone soft. Quiet. Tentative. Sriella was thinking strippers but then she was thinking of Violence eating strippers and only then was she thinking 'oh yeah Mikaelya is waaay too young for strippers'. Especially mauled ones. ANYWAY. "Oh," she says, blushing a bit as the understanding of what Grace meant settles in. Of course. "Yeah maybe." They've both been through a lot. Daemon more than her, honestly. She can understand his hesitation. Then she laughs at her sister squeezing her boobs. "Getting emotional is the first sign!" she teases. "Just you and me? Hmm. I'll bet I can get a dragonrider to fly us around." And make sure they get home safe, because Sri is imagining drinking and dancing. "Let me know." And Sri will ask again, so Grace doesn't forget to tell her what she wants. Then she exhales softly, hands tucking behind her head again. "No," she says softly, honestly, shifting to look at her sister to watch her reaction. How easy it is to go from thinking of strippers to Violence mauling strippers to oh yeah Mikaelya is too young for strippers! "Have I been more emotional recently?" Grace asks herself, unsure of the answer now. She is going to find her little book she keeps track of all her really terrible monthlies, if she remembered to track them… "Yeah, I want a really good sister time," with strippers, "good, fun that we don't have to worry about people getting eaten." Their sister is kind of hard to do things with, dammit. "I will," but Grace turns her face away from Sriella at her soft 'no' and she nods, jaw working. Throat working, but she forces that can of worms back into its place and turns her gaze back to Sriella. "I think Mikaelya should come stay with me in Southern for a while. I'm not going to Sivholm anytime soon, even Llias wants to fight more in Black Rock, and I think Mikaelya needs … a change of scenery. I can keep track of her special diet needs," and unlike Adryn, she'll do it. Does Grace really want strippers?! Because Sriella can get strippers. "I'm sure you're not pregnant, I'm just teasing," Sriella laughs, pushing off the bed to poke around her sister's room looking for snacks. "We will have fun," she promises, her grin a touch wicked. But then it softens. "If I hear about him, I'll let you know." Even though she doubts she would either. They weren't close, her and Thattik, for all she enjoyed working with him. "Oh? Yeah, it might be nice to get her out of Reaches for a bit. Let her stretch out, get away from Mother and Daddy." She's at that age where big siblings and aunts and uncles and grandparents become important refuges away from parents. "Give Mama a rest, too. I know she's stretched thin taking care of all of them, and feeling like she's not taking care of anyone well." Grace doesn't know if she wants strippers! But what if she does?! "Yeah…" Grace pushes thoughts of pregnancy out of her thoughts, for that would be too unreal. "Yes, we will." She's sure she won't hear of Thattik either, but she nods and eyes Sriella poking around for snacks. "Somewhere in that stuff Llias' gold Yrsa likes to nest and she's bitey. Come on, let me put on pants," because Grace isn't going out in sleep shorts, "and we can go grab food and talk about how best to get Violence from High Reaches to Southern for a visit." The logistics of their sister's cat is just… entirely… too much. Once pants are thrown on — now Grace is wondering if they're tight because she's bloated or her sister's stupid pregnancy comment… or is she gaining weight?! — she hooks her arm through her sister's and says, "Besides, you have to meet Cynric." Because Sriella HASN'T. "But first… food and snacks, and hey since I'm meeting Cynric at the bookstore, why don't we go hunting up some new books." That Sri can pay for, because, HELLO OLDER SISTER! Sriella will get strippers. It'll be great. There will be a THEME. "Probably by boat with lots of little doses of fellis. I'll talk to the Djazik caravan in Igen…" She pauses at mention of a bitey gold and cautiously moves towards the door, grabbing her staff and satchel. "What is it with men not being able to control their firelizards," she mutters. LOOKING AT YOU, DAEMON. Llias. ERIC. "Oh, yes! I want to meet Cynric! And I need to go to the bookstore too. I'm out of books." WOE. "And Evie needs some new ones." Listen there are always marks to be spent on books. She gives her sister's arm a squeeze and out they go, to an evening of snacks and Cynric and the bookstore and MORE SNACKS because wow, Cahia is here now, and Sriella is surprised but happy to see the Baker from Igen, and even happier to have her lemon cookies. But most of all, she is happy for her sister. And, she guesses, she's happy for Llias too. As long as he doesn't step out of line. SCENE An Engagement has 0 comments. |
12 Mar 2024 07:00 |
Sriella comes for a visit, and Grace has news! talk of relationships, and talk of strippers |
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V || The Long Dark Road V || The Long Dark Road
“Now that she had nothing to lose, she was free.” Forest An almost eerie silence settles over this, the deeper reaches of evergreen forest. Not many venture here, but those that do find it welcome solace from the hustle and bustle of the hold's crowds. The pines grow tallest here, reaching spindly tree trunks up in an attempt to brush the clouds. The carpet of pine needles is thicker, effectively silencing every step, adding to the stillness. Here and there a small blue or white flower will peek up through the brush, bright spots in a dark wood. “Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a second's encounter with God and with eternity.” Cairhwyn stepped out of the ancient, eerie forest onto a dark road only to find a woman with a rickety old wagon of many faded colors. Lanterns swung from their poles casting golden balls of light swaying across the grit of a road so old it hadn't seen traffic in eons. Tall, hungering trees towered over them, shadowing them from the starry night surely spinning overhead. The woman's hair was an indistinct color, caught in shadows of night, bled into a muted grey. She wore patchwork clothing looking even more ancient than the road. "Look at you! You look lost, dearie," the old woman cackled, her voice surprisingly youthful. "I am," Cairhwyn said, hitching the backpack she'd bargained for across both shoulders. "Where are we?" "On a dark road," the woman stated, watching Cairhwyn with a gleam of glinting yellow light cast off in specular pinpricks on glassy sclera of eyes all-too-knowing. "I see that. Where are you going?" Cairhwyn asked, for her feet ached. She'd traveled a very, very long and rough road to here. "Down a dark road," the woman answered, half-turning to present a hooked-nose profile as her gaze settled first one way and then the other way down the road. The road itself was bounded by endless, endless curving trees on either end, seemingly winding off into nowhere. Cairhwyn bit her lip, and turned back to the woman, "I'm Cairhwyn." She didn't bother with rank and file, instead hesitantly stepping forward. "Tatterdemalion, but you can call me Tatty," the woman cackled with a soft wheeze to some joke only she knew. "I collect lost and unused things. Do you want a ride? We can go in either direction you want." “The two hardest tests on the spiritual road are the patience to wait for the right moment and the courage not to be disappointed with what we encounter.” Cairhwyn considered the woman, wondering if taking a ride was wise, but she was so tired her bones ached. She had changed on this journey to chart the stars, her astrography taking her into endless, eerie places. Bargains had been made in what felt like strange places in memory, in dreams, and they had taken a few core, essential things from her she was glad to give up. Cairhwyn wasn't the same as she was, and that was okay. Some Dreams… did not belong, and some she would get again, she knew. Only, though, if the criteria was met. "Ghost got your tongue?" the woman's voice sounded so close in Cairhwyn's ear she jumped, but found the old crone still sitting on her perch on the wagon. Cairi blinked and rubbed her bare arms which danced in gooseflesh. She looked first one way and then the other, and shrugged. She had no idea how to get out of this interstitial space between her past and future, for the present was a dark and lonely place. "Sure." Once settled, Cairhwyn watched the trees passing, barely a line against the dark night where not even the moons of Pern penetrated such endless darkness. "Are you lost?" Tatty asked, turning to Cairhwyn. She didn't smell like a crone, no, she smelled of wildflowers and love, of sweet life and golden breezes. So, Cairi closed her eyes and let the rocking of the wagon lull her into complacency. "No, I don't think so." "But you're not sure," Tatty commented. "No," Cairi admitted. "Then it's best to see what comes next, don't you think? Sometimes, getting lost is the best medicine for pain." Tatty made a clucking noise and the wagon rumbled on faster, golden globe-like light pitching wildly around them in response. Vaguely, Cairhwyn couldn't remember if it was a runner hitched to the front, but it must be? Maybe a donkey? A burdenbeast? Lulled as she was by the sweet scent of wildflowers, Cairhwyn found she didn't care. No, she was so, so, so tired. She had to get back to Tokki, who was being kept by a friend for this particular part of her journey. Was she lost? Perhaps she was. Was that the worst thing to happen to her? Cairhwyn wasn't sure. The wagon rumbled on, and the crone — Tatty — said nothing more at all. Down a long, dark road, they disappeared into shadows. “Now that she had nothing to lose, she was free.” V || The Long Dark Road has 1 comments. |
12 Mar 2024 07:00 |
Along a journey in interstitial moments, Cairhwyn encounters a crone who collects lost and unloved things. |
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Ambition {vig} Ambition {vig}
The Hall of Obsidian Mirrors Not all is as it seems; all is what it is. « We need to have a little chat. » V'iss was grateful for the warning. Usually, the bronze just drowned his thoughts in smoke to pull his attention inward, to the hall of black glass mirrors that reflected him into eternity. This time, he could set the pace of his descent. » What is it. « He didn't bother carving the words into a question; Vuzjavalasith already knew the real question that lurked on V'iss's tongue. « You have been keeping secrets. » But there was no immediate reply. V'iss had learned much - perhaps too much - and he let his silence guide the shape of the conversation instead. It didn't startle the bronze. It didn't surprise him. It just pleased him further. « I know what you did the last time I chased gold. » » Your wing twitched. « V'iss remembered that much, remembered the way the bronze faltered. because he pulled the chain His reflections in that hall of obsidian began to twist and shift, transmuting him into a monster that hulked and stomped and roared. « You're a terrible liar. » » I know - but I'm not lying. Your wing twitched. « A technicality. V'iss's reflections altered again, while Vuzjavalasith's mind stirred, swirling like smoke to find a new vantage point somewhere else in the impossible depths of his mind. « You tugged on something. Something I did not know was there. » The smoke insinuated itself into his nostrils, suffused his skin, his bones. « Perhaps I have taught you too well. » Satisfaction carved a grim smile across the mirrors; Vuzjavalasith's image echoed across his rider's form, bullish and brazen and strange as it always was in the mindscape. V'iss's thoughts knotted a bit and he snorted. » I learned. You didn't have to teach me anything. « « Is that so? » His thoughts pulled back, exposed the bones beneath; Vuzjavalasith's thoughts writhed with amusement. « All of this is a give and take, my heart of fire. Teaching and learning, back and forth, until we no longer have these… damnable seams between us. » V'iss wrinkled his nose slightly; his reflections grew more distorted. He could feel them, though. The spaces where man and dragon still hadn't fused. The places where he'd pick at stitches in utter refusal to let those wounds heal. The places where he didn't want to lose himself. The places where he didn't want to lose control. But that wasn't right, was it? « That isn't right, is it? » The smokey purr pulled him out of his innermost thoughts and he sucked in a sharp breath, eyes narrowing at the spectral images that danced and wavered before him. « No, no. You keep picking at the places where we are most alike, my heart of fire. You dread to think you are at all like me. But I know you. I know the beat of your heart. I know every breath you take. I know the things that thrill your blood and make your heart sing for more. » Smoke swirled around him, a warm embrace that smelled of burning wood and spice and everything that bridged the gap between his life in the wild and his life now. V'iss repressed a shiver, but the bronze had already won. « I know you would have killed Ruslan," was a conspiratorial whisper between minds, a sinful utterance that skirted into blasphemy. « I know you would have taken control yourself, if you could. Were it not for me, you would have ruled the Orokee - but not with an iron fist. » Visions shifted across obsidian walls, of a people who would thrive; familiar faces and unfamiliar, all drawn from the same well of thought and memory. They would have thrived. They would have done well. Would they have done as well as the Lithattu? His thoughts strayed to what he would have done. What he had, in his deepest of dreems and most quiet of thoughts, planned. « I know what you would have done. What you could have done. I have turned your plans over in my mind and found them… satisfactory. » Adequate. Sufficient. It was high enough praise from the bronze and V'iss took it, bittersweet though it was. But if he had- what would his life have been? He wouldn't have had Jezebel. He wouldn't have had Vuzjavalasith. He would have been married to a woman he probably wouldn't have loved. Had children. Been forced to keep moving. Would he have been driven to a similar kind of madness? Would his hatred of dragons swelled to the feverishness that Ruslan suffered? He didn't think so. And yet- « You are not a man meant to dwell in the shadows, mine. We are not meant to dwell under the thumb of others. We are greater than what you could have been. » » You're the one that got yourself banned from chasing the Senior. « V'iss already knew the angle and slant of Vuzjavalasith's thoughts; here, there was no need to ask what the bronze was after. He knew. He'd had a taste of siring offspring; seeking more was the next, natural step. « The Senior here, yes. » Chastisement sounded a lot like the click of teeth; it burned acrid in his nose. Of course he knew better. Of course. « I will chase the next Senior that rises and you, my heart of fire, will not stop me. Not this time. You will grant me the dignity of unfettered flight. Do you understand? » » Yes. « « Because we aren't so different at all, V'iss. Ambition burns in your bones and blisters your heart. The only thing getting in the way of what you can become is yourself. All I can do is keep stripping the scales from your eyes to blind you with truth. You can be more. We can be more. You are not some headstrong teenager with delusions of grandeur. Nor are you a stripling in your twenties, still feeling out your strength and purpose. You are a man who craves control over your own destiny. A man who hungers for a legacy. » V'iss started to open his mouth in protest, but there was no protest to be had. He was right. He had always been right. V'iss's skin tingled. Something shifted. « Progeny is a natural desire, » Vuzjavalasith mused, smoke and embers prickling against the man's skin. « If not now, then one day, yes. » Another time, perhaps. Perhaps. He pushed the thought out of his mind. It wasn't the time. But the seed had been planted - or, more accurately, unearthed. Dug up from the depths he'd fought so hard to bury those aspects of himself in. How long had he resisted his own nature? How long had he fought against himself under the guise of fighting against his lifemate? How long… « Everyone sees what you appear to be, V'iss. Few experience what you really are. » Smoke swirled tighter and thicker; incense smoke and silk swept sensually around him until the contact finally broke. « And no one will know you better than I will. Let your mistakes be of ambition and not sloth. » His audience ended as abruptly as it began and V'iss sat at the edge of his bed, scrubbing at his face with both hands. His ribs no longer ached as much as they had in days past and the pair were cleared to return to Southern Weyr - but he knew it would be a fight to get Vuzjavalasith to get back without giving him what he wanted. What they wanted. A sky red from the blood And murder is a potion of love A kingdom that belies the internal I feel the war paint on my face And all I see is war path ahead of me So know this is that armageddon coming That creature of the deep that leaves a pit inside your stomach And I feel like I've got a gun And I feel like I've got a gun A self once masked by these stains Look into a face that has changed And I am not a part of a game I am what the weak can't obtain And I feel like I've got a gun And I feel like I've got a gun And I feel like I've got a gun And I feel like I've got a gun Behold a pale horse in my gaze Ain't no one command I behave On the precipice of slaughter is the Lord Hatred without focus make the eager man fall But future is beholden to the present moment cast Bloodshed to that order like a flower to a thorn And I feel like I've got a gun And I feel like I've got a gun Ambition {vig} has 3 comments. |
12 Mar 2024 04:00 |
In which the seams are undone. |
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A Cliffside Sunset Chat A Cliffside Sunset Chat
"I am eager to learn from them." River Cliffs Towering cliffs topped with the verdant growth of brilliant greenery hover over the churning, steel-grey river far down below. The winding Black Rock River crashes against the base of the cliffs, churning as speed is slowly picked up over the rapids as it spills quickly towards the Caspian Lake, seen as a glimmering jewel in the distance. When the chilly grip of ghostly fog rolls in, it clings to the jungle that grows right to the very edge, giving the whole length of the river's cliffs an eerie sense of danger. In the distance, a feline's yowl may sometimes be heard. Dotting the towering cliffs are ledges; this is one of the best spots for those who seek a view in Southern, though those weyrs are precious and few. A whole section of the cliffs has collapsed due to seismic intervention, leaving a jagged and inhospitable stretch of stone. What's a newly arrived Baker to do with her free time? Explore. What does a newly arrived Baker do in a new place? Get lost. Still, she can't complain with where she's ended up. Though she's pretty well soaked, standing well back from the edge of the cliffs, there is nothing quite like watching a Southern sunset while the storm still tingles the air, having blown past but still lending winds and occasional breaths of rain and distant rumbles of thunder. The sun sets the clouds aflame and Cahia stares at them in awe, amazed at this place, amazed that she is here, amazed to be soaking wet in water and not ground to a pulp by sand. Suanjiath, freed from the shackles of the sands, revels in the ability to fly again and the gold eventually touches down on the cliffs some distance away; her rider, equally unfettered, dismounts in a swirl of pink ombre and cream. A strawberry-hued shawl - crocheted to resemble strawberries, even! - is fitted over her shoulders and the goldrider ventures forth with a surefootedness that might be more at home with caprines. She's all eyes for the sunset, of course, but she's not alone here and a wayward glance tilts Cahia's way along with the subtle curving of a smile that's a shade warmer than mere politeness. "Spectacular, isn't it?" Cahia is soggy in Igen clothes that work okay right now but will not be good in winter. Or summer. Or… you know what she needs a new wardrobe. She turns to watch the gold arrive, and as her rider approaches Cahia dips into a bow of respect and greeting. "It's breathtaking," she whispers, turning back to it, but darting looks at the goldrider, ready to spring into action should the woman request something. While the gold ambles closer, Xiawen finds a find spot to stand that won't impede Cahia's enjoyment of the blazing clouds and Rukbat's golden kiss on rain-soaked surfaces. Her smile softens a little at the bow and she returns the gesture with a nod - a nod echoed by Suanjiath, no less - before it's all eyes on the horizon. "It's a nice way to spend an evening after being shut indoors for the rain," she muses in low tones, her words flavored Fortian. But, the knot at her shoulder speaks to her placement here; she's not some rogue goldrider come to Southern to stare at clouds. "You're new here, aren't you?" Cahia bows to the queen and then her attentions are captivated by the sunset. So beautiful and yet so temporary. "I didn't even know it was raining until I got outside," she admits. "It was a surprise." She is not used to water from the sky. "I am, ma'am," she says with another flash of a smile. "Cahia, Journeyman Baker. I'm working at Whiskers & Words, expanding the cafe selection." A soft chuckle escapes her and she nods, one corner of her mouth hitched up in a half-smile. Xiawen loosely wraps her arms around her middle, hugging herself while she studies the hues that shift, transitory and glorious, across the sky. "It can be, yes. Especially when you're down deep in the Weyr." She knows that experience, too. "Well met, Journeyman Cahia. I've yet to visit, but I have every intention of doing so soon. I'm Xiawen and that would be Suanjiath," who appears to be enjoying the sunset as well, the glint of sunlight reflecting off of her multi-faceted eyes. "What is your specialty?" Cahia dips another respectful bow to Senior and queen. "It's a wonderful bookshop and cafe," she says, eager and bright in her instant devotion to her new place of employment. "My specialty is baking," she says with a giggle, because it's kind of a funny thing to say from the Bakers, but it's true. "Pastries, cookies, cake, breads, all of those delicious things." There's a slight inclination of her head, amusement lurking in her eyes and the corner of her mouth. "Of course, but even a baker can specialize in something specific. I knew one at Fort," Xiawen recalls, "that specialized in laminated doughs. His croissants and biscuits were blissful - but the man couldn't make a cake to save his life." A sidelong look slants Cahia-wards for a moment. "Some enjoy focusing on savory things, but you- well, it sounds like you enjoy the sweeter things in life." Cahia nods a bit more uncertainly. "Yes, but my specialty is baking. Instead of… meats or cheeses or beverages or full meals or vegetables…" Then her smile returns. "I don't mind savory things. I make some excellent sandwiches. But I suppose my love is for dessert." "Baking is its own specialty, yes, but there are specialties within specialties-" it's turtles all the way down! "A baker that specializes in baking can specialize in certain kinds of baking. Like sourdough, for instance." That's a whole thing and Xiawen's aware of it and it's a little scary. "But, desserts- ah, now that's something that requires a considerable amount of care. Especially here, with all the humidity we get. Puddings and the like are one thing, but cakes and cookies and breads?" A low whistle escapes her. Cahia isn't quite sure what to do with a goldrider explaining her craft to her, so she just smiles politely and nods along. "The humidity is tricky," she agrees. "Especially coming from Igen. I'm having to tweak recipes, but at this point I don't use them much anymore…" It's all by touch and sight. She beams. "And fruit tarts - I can't wait to try the fruit you have here!" After getting what she was after, Xiawen offers a tilt of her head and another sidelong look, thoughtful throughout. "That is something I've heard a time or two from other transplants," and Southern does get a fair few, from time to time. "And the seasons will also complicate things as well, especially with getting certain ingredients- like, oh, the fruit for your fruit tarts. You'll never lack for something interesting to try, no matter the season. If you make the right allies, you'll find all sorts of treasures out in the wild to experiment with." Cahia nods quickly. "I'm used to working with seasonal ingredients, and I'm sure here it's no different. I'm just excited to try new things and experiment and see what works and what doesn't." Her passion is undeniable! "What is your favorite thing, ma'am?" "I'd suggest you get in touch with the free folk if you get a chance. They know their way around far more than even our cooks do," but it's a seed of an idea, with Xiawen left to chew over the young woman's other words. "Wine and bourbon, mostly," is her immediate response, a cheeky grin following before she composes herself. "But with desserts? Oh, that's a rather more difficult question. If I want a taste of home, there's a black tea cake I have a fondness for. But if it's a taste of here- oh, there's this… sort of upside-down cake with pineapple that I do adore. Or a cheesecake with tropical fruit." Cahia nods as she listens, her smile ready and warm. "Those all sound wonderful." She looks towards the gathering darkness with a soft sigh, pleased to have been here to see the sunset but sad it's ending. "The free folk?" she asks, looking back to the woman. Such is how sunsets are: magnificent, but fleeting. "They are - but the bakers here are clever and they're always coming up with new, incredible things." Xiawen shakes her head as if to clear it and turns her attention, briefly, to Suanjiath; the gold is already stirring and shaking her wings out a little, giving a bit of a stretch. "The free folk. Wildlings to most. The Lithattu are more local and settled of late," she points in the general direction of their domain, "but there are others that can be friendly if you have things to trade. They live outside of the Weyr and claim no hold; most clans are nomadic, but not all." Cahia smiles. "I am eager to learn from them." She will likely be working in the weyr kitchens some evenings to learn and to pay for her room. "Oh," she says, looking where the Senior gestures. "I didn't know…" People could do that. "How interesting. Yes, I will definitely have to talk to them…" "I look forward to see what you can do while you're here." Genuine, that; it's paired with a firm nod of certainty. "Southern is a large continent, Journeyman. And we're the only Weyr that covers it." There's a lot of room for people to move in; to live and breathe and claim for their own. Xiawen smiles again, though it's soft and every bit as fleeting as the sunset that's threatening to give way to darkness. "The free folk are- well. I'd suggest getting to know a few. You will, anyway, I'm sure- quite a few are riders." Cahia nods, adjusting her sodden clothes a bit as she steps further back from the edge as darkness begins to descend in earnest. "I shall, Weyrwoman, and thank you for the suggestion. I should get back to the kitchens though, and start preparing tomorrow's treats." "I look forward to it, dear," Xiawen replies with a cant of her head. "The path down is that way," and she points, indicating the easier way down, which should help get her back without getting lost… but, considering Xiawen has a cheat code in the form of a dragon, it might not be that helpful. "Clear skies, Journeyman! It was a pleasure to meet you." Press and hold Y to equip Dragon (gold). Cahia smiles brightly and dips another bow. "Clear skies to you as well, ma'am. I'm sure I will see you around!" And she's darting off to find the path before it's cloaked in darkness and she gets truly lost. A Cliffside Sunset Chat has 0 comments. |
12 Mar 2024 04:00 |
Southern's sunsets bring all the ladies to the cliff. |
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Vignette: The Music of It Vignette: The Music of It
Infirmary Sterile and scoured, the surfaces of the infirmary, well-tended and beloved by the complement of Healers due a weyr of Southern''s size. Soothing tissane simmers at the large hearth, while comfortable chairs circle that particular feature in a waiting-room of sorts. Tables of dull-gleaming oldtimer metal lie as examining slabs, neatly lined in rows with pull-curtains enabling full privacy as needed. A low wall separates the southern half of the room from the rest, and those practicing the apothecary''s trade can be seen compounding medicines under the watchful eye of the posted Master. Albertine, her leg in a splint, lies in her infirmary bed and stares at the ceiling, her eyes dry and her heart empty. The sound is loud enough to reach her through the rock of the Weyr: a dull roar that periodically rises like a full tide's wave crashing on the shore. There's a music to it, with the dragons' basso thrumming through the very stone, with this chorus of distant voices united in cheer. It's the sound of the Hatching, the sound of new life, and it's the sound of someone else Impressing her lifemate. Vignette: The Music of It has 2 comments. |
12 Mar 2024 00:00 |
The Southern Hatching ends up being a new experience for Albertine. Pathos, music embed. Backdated to the day of the Hatching. |
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V Save Me from the Dark V Save Me from the Dark
Today, she will live, but forever be changed. Infirmary From the astringent smell of redwort, to the gleam of counter and cabinet, this place positively defines the concept of antiseptic cleanliness. Despite the yawning exit to the Dragonhealer Courtyard, the floors remain scrupulously swept of sand and particulate matter. Back behind the counter where the healers usually are, are shelves full of bottles and jars, as well as cupboards hiding away more delicate items that shouldn't be exposed to too much sand. Beyond the counter, there is the Desk, where patients are checked in and taken to one of the examination areas by a healer. The windows are usually kept open for the flow of air, but there are both shutters to shut out dust storms, and curtains for other occasions. After a Fall like the one at the Cothold there is no wonder that the yard is full of dragons and riders in various stages of hurt from annoying pain to life and death injuries, and the infirmary isn’t much better. Just inside, Issa lies semi-conscious on a hastily arranged cot, surrounded by the urgent movements and tense expressions of the Healers. The severity of her injuries is evident in the stark, grim lines etched on the faces around her, particularly focused on her badly mangled leg that's barely recognizable under the blood-soaked bandages. A Master Healer, with steady, experienced hands, works meticulously, assessing the extent of the damage while Issa's shallow, labored breathing and occasional screams echo off the walls. The grim possibility of Issa losing her leg hangs heavy in the air, but no one voices it, focusing instead on the urgent need to stabilize her condition, because if they aren’t careful, the loss of a leg won’t matter if they lose the rider. Just outside the chaotic infirmary, Shabeth stands, his large frame marred by the vicious scoring along his upper side, a grim mirror to Issa's own injuries. One of the Dragonhealers applies a liberal amounts of numbweed to his wounds; his swift, practice motions doing little to ease the brown’s agitation. The brown’s eyes whirl in distress but despite his own considerable pain, Shabeth's focus remains inward to his bond with Issa. « You will stay with me. » He repeats over and over. Each word punctuated in red among the monotone landscape of his mind. He will not lose his Issa today, no matter how much his lifemate wants the pain to go away. In the overwhelming silence of her own pain, Issa’s consciousness begins to wane, teetering on the edge of reality and the dark abyss of nothingness. Her body begins to tremble uncontrollably while her face becomes ashen and slick with a cold sweat. But in the abyss, Shabeth’s words echo, a beacon of light and lifeline for her to hold on to as her breathing becomes more erratic; a telltale sign of her spiraling into shock. Still it is the insistent repeating of those red words that grounds her, even as darkness pulls at the edge of her vision. “I will stay,” she screams out as she finally passes into the oblivion of unconsciousness; her mind and will hold tight to Shabeth’s urgent commands and his life for her. Today, she will live, but forever be changed. V Save Me from the Dark has 2 comments. |
12 Mar 2024 05:00 |
traumatic threadfall injury |
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Storms
Standing Stones It is perhaps a pity that the Standing Stones lie in quiet isolation, half-forgotten in the Weyr's easternmost corner. Or perhaps it is inevitable: the grandiose beauty of these red rocks is ill-suited to Igen's coarse grit, and maybe only their loneliness allows them to survive unmarred. Whatever the reason, it cannot be denied that the Standing Stones, a lonely jumble of ancient boulders, have a glory about them. The tumbled field of pillars and arches has been shaped by eons of wind and water into strange shapes, twisted and rutted. The going is treacherous: only the Weyr's half-feral herd of caprines navigates the terrain with any ease. To the northwest, the lakeshore glimmers; to the east, rough-carved steps lead towards another ancient pile of rocks - though the Star Stones are less haphazardly placed than their Standing cousins. There is no sandstorm yet - it lurks on the horizon, a wordless threat that will surely sweep in to take its due soon enough - and Khu is here, with drills done and some hours yet before Threadfall rears its ugly head. Ixzhulqvoth lurks near some caprines, the brown gone still enough that the animals are starting to use him as if he were another feature of the landscape. So, too, is Khu still - quiet, standing, and looking off into the distant horizon as if the mere act of staring at that storm will keep it at bay for as long as she wants it to stay away. The wind is starting to pick up, plucking at curls and the loose, flowing material of her trousers and short-sleeved blouse. A scarf around her neck - meant to mask her nose and mouth should the grit grow too intense - trails dusty yellows and oranges and browns as it flutters. How long has it been, since the mix-up and swift exchange of notes? Sometimes, time gets away in the recurring cycle of Threadfall, sweeps, drills, and duties. R'sare hadn't intended to stay away, is what is meant; hadn't intended to let the curious swap-out of misdirected letters go so long without commenting over it to her. But it wasn't ever the right time, really, if he'd pass Khu in the bowl, or the caverns, or randomly in the dragonhealer yard. Yet the calm before the storm — sand and Thread — has afforded the Oasis rider a sliver of time, after having seen her and Ixzhulqvoth leading drills that morning. Strath is at the lakeside, the direction Ral comes, and with a glance at Ixzhulqvoth-boulder easily spotted amongst the caprines, he skirts around another boulder or two before picking Khu out from the landscape. He's dressed the same as he was for Oasis drills and might not even change before Threadfall: a simple red tunic worn beneath the rider jacket he'll don before fighting Thread, and his typical dark and heavy trousers, ode to a working dragonrider, oil smears still on the pant leg. He always seems to come to Khu disheveled. "Wingleader," bids for her attention, when he winds around a boulder, the man not quite apologetic for breaking her serene reverie. Time has a habit of slipping through fingers like so much sand - and Igen has plenty of sand to sift through, in that sense. Plenty of ways to lose track, to get sucked under, to get crushed. Ixzhulqvoth does not stir when he's made aware of the man's passage, but there's no doubt he's relayed his presence already; the brown is canny like that, a savvy operator despite his bulk and hulking mannerisms. As for Khu, she bides her time and weighs it wisely; some time is good, some is bad, and sometimes there's no helping when a thing will happen - in the end, everything happens when it's meant to, for good or ill. And when a bronzerider comes to break a moment's peace, she is unbothered by it. "Rukbat's graces to you, sha-R'sare," emerges as ever, lilting and light, curved to ride the breeze just so; hers is a voice meant for the wind to carry. "Come, come." A crook of fingers in invitation - the perch she's chosen to stand on is large enough for two, if just barely. "Sit." For she will, but only if he'll join her. Perhaps this is what she was meant to wait for and not the roiling storm on the horizon. Perhaps. He bid for her, and her bid in return — to come, to sit — is met with compliance, R'sare stirring up dust along with the breeze as boots scrape the rough ground. Pivoting, he settles on the section not taken up by Khu's perch, though his eyes try not to trail — for too long, that is — up the length of her legs to where she momentarily stands over him, overshadowing him, the flowing trousers moving in the wind. His glance shifts away, to take in the view she had found, albeit his shortened where he sits instead of stands. And for a time, for many heartbeats, he's quiet, the silence weighted only by the breeze as if it waits to carry once more Khu's light and lilting voice. It stirs Ral's hair, in the meantime, for something to do: tousled and long, still, for the bronzerider never cashed in his haircut ticket with the wingleader, nor took scissors to his locks himself. Finally, dragging his palms along his thighs to spur the conversation's beginning, he slants to her — whether she's seated by now or still standing over him — "Thanks for giving me back that tattered piece of hide." He'll go first, his side; his mix-up; his loss. She sits after he does, easing down with a fluidity that verges on preternatural. Khu tucks a leg under, the other hanging over the edge. The view that awaits is vast in its right, an expanse of sand and stone and twisted shapes where Rukbat's light gleams golden - and blinding, at some angles. Mica scatters stars on the earth; distant, distant, a storm threatens to smother the Weyr in more. Her quiet persists for it's her nature, the man caught sidelong in her regard but even that askance consideration is no less intense. And she listens - for that, too, is her nature, and his seeming restlessness draws a flick of the eye to his hands at his thighs, then to the hair that's tugged and tossed by the erratic fingers of wind. "Mm," rises and falls, a familiar melody of thoughtfulness. "It was not right for me to keep it - nor to feed it to the middens." Perhaps that's the fate it should have had - but it had a name. A meaning. Weight. "Thank you, sha, for returning what was meant for my eyes. It took a few days longer than expected, but young roots are testing the soil of the Weyr." Will it suit them? Will they be blown away to the desert that birthed them? It is too early to tell. An elbow untucks from her side, edged outward to nudge at his instead. "How old was it?" The missive of his; the one found, tattered, weathered, and worn. He would say he's been meaning for turns to toss it, to break its hold over him. That it should be destined for the midden piles along with the leash that keeps it tethered to his possession. He would say: but doesn't. Yet Khu is adept in reading what isn't overtly spelled out for her, and that she knew to keep it — and not throw it away like any other scrap of lost hides — might reflect what R'sare thinks of that in a narrowed, brief glance to her, for her explanation. There and gone, and back to the view of a thousand miniscule stars of thrown light on grains of sand. It really is beautiful. Every intention to ask after the outcome of her note — did it spoil something? ruin plans? — her slight nudge to his side, with his palms still resting on his trousered thighs, redirects his thoughts for a moment. A soft murmur, and he dips his head to look back at her: "Five turns, the note. Sent by my brother." She didn't ask, yet he feels compelled to tell her, to impart some small reasoning for holding onto something which carried no hope, no encouragement, no prospect. "The roots? Your — family?" He did not understand the strange note he received by mistake: names, or locations, a map? Drawings, that much he knew. "Where did they come from?" "Did you answer it?" The words might be little more than a sigh, something that nearly doesn't make it past barely parted lips. And maybe it's rhetorical; she read the note, after all. She might well be able to stitch some of the missing aspects together into a greater whole - but it's not her place to make assumptions, either. Not her place to construct an ending to a story she had no hand in writing. The touch of elbow transmutes soon enough into the slow snake of a hand to curl, loose, over the back of his nearest hand. Not quite a pat-pat of attention, but a necessary contact of skin-to-skin - smooth-but-callused fingertips ghosting over knuckles is a specter of reassurance that will haunt the nerves. His question coils elsewhere in her thoughts, though it's answered in due time while her eyes pin themselves on land glazed gold and bronze. "My niece and nephew. Winter-born." A soft exhalation follows, lips pressing flat as she considers her next words. "Just like my brother, Kh'an. We blew in from the desert, away from our pasts and salted soil. Our sister is still out there, but her roots are-" a stitch of breath, a hesitation, an uncertainty that she can't quite skip over with the ease she'd prefer "-weakening." "I did not, not his." R'sare yields the truth without protest. Perhaps it loosens free after the ghosting of her touch, the slow-crawl of her fingertips over his hand, which in a secondary response to that, flips over to let her track with touch, instead, his calloused palm, open, fingers splayed, resting on his thigh. Acknowledgement of this goes without a word, a glance, yet the appeal is there in the man's stillness, in allowing the haunting to continue if Khu wills it. "She won't join her children?" Mistake it not for judgment, his quiet question; just a bronzerider piecing together a note and a past — Khu's — just as clouded as the sandstorm-horizon to him, for all its unknowns. For despite his curiosity — nosiness, he fessed to in the note back to Khu sevens ago — there is a gentleness there, that hesitation in her breath caught, for he's close enough to hear it before the wind claims Khu's words for its own devices. "How are they adjusting to the Weyr?" That's the natural jump, next, from one thought to the next, though since Khu's touch, Ral himself is no longer jumpy— restless. A nod follows, wordless, while her fingers shift from spiriting over his knuckles to drift along the lines of his offered palm instead. Calluses are traced with the faintest rake of fingernails as if to test their construction. This, too, goes without comment, without even a look to observe what one hand visits upon the other. Does she will it? Or is it just another thing that is meant to be? Another spinning of ink on brightgloom in her lifemate's mind? Another gust of wind that they have no control over? "The soil of their birth is now soaked in her blood," she explains in her way, the tip of her tongue snaking out for a moment to wet lips gone too dry, too quickly. A slight shake of her head yields clarification, but no gleam of tears in her eyes: "She will die soon. Her other children will thrive where she falls." Matter-of-fact, but sighed all the same. Her fingers go still before retreating to the center of his palm with a tremor that is only evident when they stop moving. "It is too early to tell if they will thrive here; all I can do is provide water and shelter when Rukbat burns too hot." R'sare's fingers curl subtly to that testing rake, his instinctive response without impeding Khu's data-gathering of the make-up of a man's hand only two or so turns into dragonriding, firestone-tossing, leather-sewing, dragon-scrubbing. No look after it — or her — for the conclusions she may subconsciously draw; though there's a flicker in his gaze, a slow blink, shielded from detection perhaps the way his focus still seems intent upon the landscape, the sky looming and the boulders stalwart in defiance to be bowed low by a mere sandstorm's approach. The fate of the unnamed sister, though, motivates a change in his look, his stance, his direction, a turning towards her by a twist of shoulders, waist, boots dragging while his weight shifts to lean, slowly, to her; and fingers opened, now curling, while hand slides, to cup her trembling one, his other joining to encase her hand between his. "Khu," and here his gaze levels to her, brow drawn down in the seriousness of what she has confided, "I'm so sorry." He hopes not to blunder here, by being so direct — he does not have Khu's way of speaking, cloaked meanings in metaphors, but neither will he be silent at her impending loss. "You have found your place, here," for to R'sare, Khu is as much a part of Igen as these Standing Stones, "and your brother, too," he aware of the Arroyo rider though never having interacted with him directly, "and I'll hope the same for your niece and nephew." May Igen's sands soak up their grief the way it does water and blood. It's only when her hand is caught and cradled, when his seated stance opens to her that Khu finally shuts her eyes. A slow breath is drawn in through the nose and soundlessly expelled past her lips, but it's not yet enough to stabilize the fractures that are finally starting to be formed. Worse, fractures that are visible, for she can hide the worst of them for a time; the ones that lie underneath, that crack her heart and soul. It's the frustrating tremble of her lip that she can't get under control and that frustration spirals outward in Ixzhulqvoth's mind, a broken wheel of black on white that tilts toward Strath as if to reassure the bronze that his rider will be fine, that all will be well. And Khu? Khu tilts toward R'sare, spine sagging a little as her other hand claims some paltry form of domination by stacking atop his. "There is nothing to apologize for," sounds more watery than she'd like and she swallows, hard, to try to find solid ground again. "Her lot was cast before she was born. I was too stubborn to be of value." Too hard-headed. Too difficult. It's served her well in the turns since. The rest is heard and appreciated and absorbed, all drawn in to water the parts of herself that yet remain parched. She's quiet, quiet, quiet, as she tries to rein in her breathing, the threat of tears in her eyes, and the difficult clench of her throat. He'll no doubt find some dampness on his shoulder where her cheek rests, hear the sniff and rasp of her fighting for control, and know the tightening of her hands in and against his, as fingers hunt for something to latch onto. "Thank you, R'sare." Not titles here, not when her tongue fights to gain every word. "It will be okay," is as much reassurance as promise and a distraction of sorts, a way to shift focus away from her lesser tragedy and elsewhere, anywhere, but here. His hands overlapped with hers, R'sare can't — or won't — break that hold to trace the visible cracks in Khu's stoicism there on her cheek, in the form of trembling lip or silent tears: despite the impulse to. That is what he reins in, resolving it instead by the recurrent sweep of his thumb to the skin of her hand, steady as a heartbeat. A steadiness mirrored in Strath's lapping waters back to Ixzhulqvoth: a reassurance, wordless, that even if she were not to be fine for the next little while, all will be well in that, as well. No alarm sounds, no panic rises, from either young bronze or his rider. Just a quiet stillness, an acceptance, of whatever may lie beneath the fractures Khu seems so loathe to expose to others; whatever the brownrider — wingleader — dragonhealer — woman seems so intent to reseal. What R'sare does, though, in lieu of a caress to her cheek, is tilt his to hers, a soft pressure of scruff and skin that's an anchoring touch stronger than the breeze that whips around them. There, to steady if not comfort; and to murmur, "And what they," — not even certain whom he refers to, just having enough to guess — "deemed un-valuable has placed you in a position to help her children, now," through her own survival, her own path carved here at the Weyr. "And that must be a comfort to her." He can hope. He has lost, and lost much; but in a way different from the gulf of separation brought about by a death, and for him, too, there's an indistinct clench in his chest, in time with his name. The muscles in his cheek move, slightly, a wry smile upon his lips. "That's what we tell ourselves at least, isn't it?" Of what will or will not be okay: when sometimes okay simply means what pain and loss a person learns to live with, in time. "I know He'll help." Ixzhulqvoth, he's referring to, that strong presence of a ghost in Khu's very make-up. Her lifemate's certainty is borne of her own; their bond is one that courses deep and strange, charting paths through territory that might make the hearts of others quail. Ixzhulqvoth reaffirms, grateful in his way that the young bronze understands - for him, an ice-rimed rose, birthed of thorns and mist. A promise of future wellness, even if the now is full of pain. Images rise and fall on the brightgloom of his mind, charcoal visions scripting out snapshot visions of a past that he knows, but has no connection to. Desert. Plants. Scars. The shearing of hair. Blood. A rapidfire flickering of ideas, of notions, of things that make sense to him, but will need time and patience to pull into something more. Khu is surely aware; there's a brief stiffening of her body until, eventually, she relaxes again, an initial wave of defensiveness allowed to pass through like wind through a hollow stone. She scoots incrementally closer until she's tucked up tight to R'sare's side, her silence filling in whatever gaps yet remain. Her breathing steadies. The tears are blinked away. A final sniff finds her back to rights again, the cracks sealed - or, if not sealed, then sufficiently buried for her to find and tend to later. "Thank you," is solid now, as if her feet are once again on rock rather than shifting sand. "I will hope that it is a comfort to her." But can it be? Could it ever be? She cannot speculate; she has only her sister's notes to piece together. "They will have what we did not when we first came and I can only hope it will be enough." And, if not, then the children may find another way - perhaps a craft, a holder's life, something else… Her mouth hitches to a side and she lifts hert head just enough to nudge her head against his, a gentle headbutt that comes with the awareness of his scruff, his hair, his scent. "He always does," says she of the brown and he does, in his way, even if his way can sometime be painful. "But you are helping, too." Shades of embarrassment yet reside beneath the words, though even that fades by the time she adds, "Even if you are still in need of a shave and haircut, sha." Surely those are relayed, in parcels, to R'sare, from brown to bronze to man in gusts of dragon-formed images without the attached emotions, so he cannot fully, fully place each puzzle piece into a picture-perfect understanding. Someday, perhaps, they will be translated by Khu: but with her momentary stiffening against him, he knows enough to not nudge around those past places right now. But he will not toss them like chaff, to be taken by the wind of forgetfulness, yet like so much else in this brief exchange he also doesn't assure her of that, not verbally. When she tucks closer to him, though, he frees his hands from hers, bringing one arm to curve around her body as if to shield from a sandstorm that has already passed over and through: too late, now, even if the gesture was borne of resistance which gradually eroded more than a hasty, ill-timed afterthought. His hand rests against her back, a twitch of his fingers betraying another impulse, to soothe with strokes. He knows nothing of parenting by proxy, or in any form; a nod must suffice instead of words, for what opportunities these children will find or not here. That they will have Khu and her brother, and that will be more than enough to set a better foundation that had they to start off alone, like he is realizing Khu once did. He grins at her gentle nudge, the smile deepening at it and the little rebuke of his upkeep — or lack of. "You're in demand, Dragonhealer," he chides gently in return, keeping his jaw turned towards her, with that pesky scruff, and smile, and the persistent scent of a no-frills, sea-scent oil that Strath has grown into preferring. "I'm still waiting for my appointment." Maybe, maybe, maybe there will a time for it. Maybe the moment will pass and those memories will be allowed to fritter off into the ether. For Khu, they still cleave to the bone and their awakening leaves its mark in her. But that is past, even now, and as R'sare hooks an arm around her, there's a deeper sort of stillness that slides in along her bones and settles deep into the tissues of her form. The shelter isn't needed, not now; nor did she ever need it, in truth, for she's weathered worse and come through on the other side whole, but not unscathed. A faint, feline arch of her back puts pressure on his indecisive fingers, goading them to a response - one way, or another. It comes with the further lift of her head, enough to ghost lips just past his stubbled jaw and allow her breath - anise-sweet - to curl warm against skin. "I am, sha. But I can make time. That is a gift I have that others do not share." A soft click of her tongue, a hooking of fingers in his, a muted laugh that gusts along his jaw. Her past can stay where it belongs for now - even down to the children that are near to her present - as she replies, "The sandstorm is coming and my weyr is sheltered. I keep my kit there." A squeeze of fingers follows. "Unless you prefer your weyr for the work to be done." That lovely movement beneath his fingers — and, too, that near-tease to his jaw — motivates a response, as intended, a hand which takes a bolder approach to come find her hipbone, feel out its curve beneath the waist of the flowy trousers. R'sare's other hand snagged once more by her, his fingers interweave to use the hold against her, to raise her to her feet with both hands, until she is on solid — and not just proverbially so — ground. Another acceptance of what she offers. "I'll come to you," as he did, here, initially. His hand at her hip releases, lifts, and before he steps away from her, his fingers do stir her curls, less playfully, and more in impulse evoked by the sound of her soft laugh still ringing in his ears. To cover the forwardness, he next tousles his own hair, already unkempt, measuring out with his first two fingers how much she'll have to cut to make him as presentable as he usually tries to be. Realizing her work is cut out for her, with a wry look narrowing in on her, he clips amusedly, "Thanks for working me in," for it's a loaded day for both of them, or will be, even if the sandstorm is gifting them a buffer from the demands of the day. She is light and lithe, but solid; in another life, she'd have made a fine dancer if the Healers didn't snap her up first. There's a responsive twitch of skin under his touch, some mote of rare, deep pleasure at such basic contact that skitters down her spine. On her feet again, Khu is once again composed and secure, her chin lifted that necessary bit to meet his eyes. Neutrality might typically stake its claim on her visage, but his words and his touch, the tangling of fingers in curls, seem to crack that mask in a smile that's all for him. Her hair is silky smooth, well-kept, and smells like jasmine and lavender, though autumn's spice will eventually replace the vestiges of summer. His fowardness is forgiven with some of her own; when he demonstrates the length of his hair and where it ought to be cut, she reaches up to thread fingers through it, nails seeking his scalp. "We shall see, sha," but it's not a question of whether he'll come or not, for that seems signed and sealed and delivered; it's a gauge of just what she might do with his hair, instead. How long? How short? Her hand slips free, fingertips set to skim along his jaw before she eases back a half-step and turns to start down the rock. "It will be a pleasure," says she of working him in to a schedule that's already stretched to the seams. "Come, come. The winds are picking up." And, yes, the day will be a heavy one, as strange as any can be against the backdrop of howling wind and screaming sands that offer a reprieve from other expectations. R'sare, too, shall see what's in store for him with this haircut, the scrape of her nails foretelling the attention to detail he kind of hopes Khu will take with him. That, and her smile, makes him blind to the way the shadows, too, have crept upon them, thrown by clouds looming and now, subsuming, the intimacies of deeper pain and loss shared unexpectedly here. The wind might even be driving them away, to seek shelter, no longer an interloper but instigator, moving the dragonriders to the rest of their day for they — the sand's sting will soon tell — have tarried too long here. Storms has 0 comments. |
12 Mar 2024 05:00 |
R'sare seeks Khu out to talk over the mismatched notes |
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A Little... Proposition A Little… Proposition
"Illustrated works, you say?" Whiskers & Words Cafe Not a large shop, unlike other establishments, no lighting does the trick to add space, when the truth lies in the long lines of two main rooms and one entranceway. Little nooks carved out of oblong shapes lit by large windows overlooking the Southern jungles seen off the garden terraces. This spot was chosen not for the size but for the windows. Hewn of stone and wood, it was derelict, left in disrepair from a previous owner, but work has gone into making it cozy, though a better word would be 'rustic.' Golden afternoon sunlight spills through windows, lighting up dusty books and green plants in their pots all across the little bookshelves. The cafe part of the little shop is tiny, but the klah and wine are delicious. Some rare vintage wines can be found within such a humble establishment, besides various klah options to give the Klah Bark a run for their money. Whiskers & Words Cafe is the ultimate one-stop place to buy (or read!) books, sip klah or wine, and have cozy encounters with the felines that roam the various rooms. Wandering about are two friendly, love-seeking felines: Stylus, an orange tabby, and Parchment, a black tabby. Spring has sprung! While a passing storm thunders overhead, the shop itself has the magical fey-light quality of diffuse ultraviolet light of cloud cover. Nineveh, cozy behind her counter, keeps an eye on her store but with only a few customers, she busies herself making sure Cahia's new selection is displayed to perfection. Instead of running down to the little bakery like normal, today is the first day she sent Clayd for the breakfast treats and something about having her own cafe food puts high-color of pride in her cheeks. With her hair hastily done up in a messy bun, Nineveh otherwise strikes a very put-together image with a smart, navy blue top and dove-grey slacks. She's bargained for a glass display case that she's put in the Cafe side of her shop and it boasts of all sorts of delightful breakfast goods: sweet and savory, with spiced klah filling the senses. Her displays are set up for sweet, romance intrigue along with a selection of various, local cookbooks by local creators. All in all, a very cozy environ this stormy day. It's just the kind of day for a visit to a place like this. Sure, Y'kim could make a trek to Igen, but he's not in the mood to risk a sandy bottom for his troubles - the place is prone to leaving little treasures in his leathers and hair, making it hard to truly rid oneself of the place even after they're gone. So, of course, it's here he'll go instead, a place reputed to have not only the finest of books but the finest of felines - and he'll take specialty klah as a bonus, if it's available. He's heard ample rumors of the place, of course, and yet, somehow, this is the first time the bluerider's setting foot inside. Which he does, of course. A Harper blue tunic over a crisp white undershirt marks his former allegiance well; darker trousers and well-polished shoes lend an air of refinement that is sorely misplaced. A deep inhale is held, his eyes flutter shut, and for a moment - just a moment - he's transported to whatever passes for a Pernese heaven. Books fill the store and with it their very distinctive papyrus-y scents, as well as the leather of bound hides and book covers. Intermingled with — "Meow!" Plumpster Lord Stylus begs for attention to this, the first guest of the candlemark — the scents of klah and baked goods, well, it's a pose Nineveh can appreciate. She, too, has come into her store and breathed heavily the scent of learnings and words, of stories and adventures. Looking up from her work, she takes in the harper-marked bluerider with a welcoming smile, expression open. "Welcome, welcome to Whiskers and Words Cafe. That handsome fellow is Stylus and Parchment is around here somewhere. I do think I'm going to get a third, a female, with a patchwork coat and name her Papyrus." It's as if the first person entering the bookstore was always going to get that information. It's the 'meow' that pulls him out of his reverie, but not unpleasantly so. Y'kim stoops to take a knee before His Highness, Lord of All He Surveys - Stylus, First of His Name - and then offers his hands to properly deliver his duly requested attention. He tips his head up to flash a smile to Nineveh, the bluerider's bliss reigning supreme in the sparkle of his eyes. "Ah, thank you, thank you. This is a very remarkable shop you have here." And he's not even taken a look at the wares properly yet! "All you need is a slinky black one named 'Ink' and you'll have a whole scribe's worth of felines in this bookstore of yours." Can he get some ear rubbin's in? How about a little cheek squish-n-pat? He's going to try. "It's my greatest regret that I couldn't come here sooner to see what you have." Stylus immediately loves this two-legged, naked-fur cat-thing that sees so clearly to worship his fatness. A hard headbump and a hard butt-bump and then a beg for scritches to the side of plumpster cheeks has Stylus stealing the scene, and perhaps it would be the end if it were up to the feline. Alas, Nineveh redirects with a pleased smile at Y'kim's obvious appreciation for such a fine establishment. She is biased, of course! "Mayhap, I need to get one." In truth, Y'kim has a point, and she narrows her eyes in thought. Four felines… too many? Is there such a thing?! Never! "Of course, one must pay his Lordship his due first," she notes in demure humor, her Igenite training always simmering beneath the surface preventing extravagant outward displays of emotion. So long as Y'kim is paying Stylus his due, he will rub all over him, leaving behind a swath of orange fur… it's shedding season! "You're here now," briskly, Nineveh escapes her counter to see to it this customer has all the right materials to make a purchase! "I have a little bit of everything from non-fiction to autobiographies to study materials and a healthy section of fiction from murder mysteries, to thrillers, and romance, and the like. Lately, I've come to enjoy cozy mysteries with intrigue and romance, and those seem to be a hit, along with some others." A soft, demure smile, "What seems to be your fancy? I'm Nineveh, by the way, once of Igen and now of Southern," an introduction by way of helpfulness! "Will his Lordship tolerate being carried around?" Y'kim is clearly not fussed at being be-furred; nay, 'tis akin to a knighting, a blessing of the highest order from ye olde Chonkster-Lord. Because if he will be carried, the bluerider will carry him and, thus bestow even more of those pettings upon him. Who knew he was a cat person? He definitely didn't. And yet! "And, yes! I am. And I rather like a little bit of everything, if I'm quite honest," he continues, surveying the store's situation before his attention alights on Nineveh again. "Though that comes from my days as a Harper," his grin tilts, boyish, before he continues, "I'm Y'kim, blue Zsenzuuth's - a man of the world until Southern pulled me in. Formerly, I was a restorer of old books - rebinding, transcribing, all of it. These days, it's still a hobby I indulge in, but not in an official capacity. But- tell me, what books have hooked you and pulled you in the tightest these days, Nineveh?" She might have a 'type', but now he's fishing for titles. "And what would bring an Igenite out of the Bazaar to ply her trade here?" That seems a compelling story in its own right and he is intrigued. "He will tolerate anything in the hopes of getting food, and as you can see, food is not something he needs," Nineveh looks fondly on her rather large, fat, plump orange tabby. Parchment is NOT to be denied — lean, lithe, and adorable black and white tabby — comes running up to sneak in the pets, too! "A Harper," her returning smile is warm and delightful, "Hopefully, what I have is to taste. I have some very old tomes I've bargained for on the road in my life," and now try to sell. "Well met, Y'kim of blue Zsenzuuth." Her brows lift at his description of what he did prior to Impression, and she's impressed, for she has knowledge of a great many things, but binding books is not one of them. "My story is likely a tale as old as time," she deflects, "Arranged marriage between affluent families, second wife to a dead husband with no children to call her own. I had little desire to be married off once more, so I struck a deal and now here I am." She spreads her arms a little, self-depreciatingly. "What I've been enjoying… hmmm, honestly, I've enjoyed these," a hand to the display which now boasts of a four-book trilogy taking place in the High Reaches mountains. "I like a little action and adventure, a good deal of rescues, and the story of two people coming together." She picks up the first title, Ice Cold Killer. "I also enjoy a good bit of dead bodies strewn around for others to solve," slight smile for that. He'll never deny any feline the attention they're due and Parchment is delivered all the pets that the man can offer with a free hand. "Then I won't tell him I don't have treats if you don't," comes sly and askance in a conspiratorial murmur. He's still going to make good on his promise to pick up Stylus and cart him around as long as he's able, though. The man can't stay kneeling forever. "Well met, Nineveh of Igen - and that is quite the tale. Old as time, yes, but still a fine story of resilience, perserverance, and the sort of strength that men can only aspire to have." The praise is earnest and warm as he pushes to his feet with an orange cat tucked up against his chest. Hopefully. If he gets to wandering, that'll be a problem. His regard shifts promptly to the books she indicates, even if he's still picking up an earlier conversational thread to knot together. "If you don't mind, I can take a look at the older tomes as well. I have a soft spot for older books of all sorts." See also: the book restorer in him. It cannot be denied. "Ahhh, yes. I see, I see. You do seem the type to keep a corpse in the cellar for all the right reasons," he muses, his grin curving all the wider. "I think I might have a few recommendations in that vein, but I'd have to see if they have a few copies up at Fort." He considers the title she presents and finally nods, "I'll take that, and we'll see if it's to my tastes as much as it is to yours." Nineveh makes a soft sound, akin to laughter. "If you can resist," she chin-nods to the little bowl she leaves out for guests to give them treats. "For he knows it's right there for you to pluck and plunder," lips press together in mirth, for Nineveh knows how well her felines play the customers. They are such good little manipulators. "But do not believe his lies at how underfed he is," she adds in faux outrage, "for they lie." Clearly if Stylus' paunch is any indication. "Sure, sure, they are scattered about in all genres. I have made good deals to collect them," and then put a pretty price tag on them. "That's me," she tips her head down and aside, as if hiding her secrets — and perhaps she does have secrets, but alas, if there's a basement it's news to her. "Tucking away the dead bodies and mulching them into the klah," her own turn to add a sly note to her voice, but dark-green gaze is direct without guile. "I had a mistakenly sent book to me, but it sold so quickly to an … unlikely customer. When another type of book I believe is by the same author for the writing was similar, I sent it along, but it produced such a stir, I might invest in more. The first book was the Smith's Steel and the second was the Miner's Jewels. Very, ah, different subject matter." And if Nineveh's cheeks hold a touch of color, ignore that. She didn't spend all day wondering about anyone's 'steel'. It's not even a matter of manipulation for Y'kim; he's a hedonist of the highest order and denying anyone anything is tantamount to death in his book. Maybe not that dramatic, but still. He'll take note of the treats bowl, but he'll heft around Lord Stylus for a while, plying him with pets. "All felines are starving," he replies with a knowing wink. "It's not a lie if they believe it, after all." And they clearly do. It is the humans who are wrong! Y'kim's intrigue and interest only continue to build, as the notion of mulched bodies in klah sets one of those deliciously terrible and thrilling shivers down his spine. It might be a little exaggerated, but chalk it up to his Harper-ness. "You'd do better to grow your own klah trees with the bodies, you know. That'd be quite the specialty." But then- oh, how the conversation swirls like milk in klah and his eyebrows lift in genuine surprise, even if it resolves in a slight shake of his head and a return of his smile. "Is that so? You know, I've heard there are several strange books like that in the Archives. I don't think they're part of the official collection, though, and I've only encountered, oh, maybe a handful in my time there. I have heard of plenty of people enjoying them, though - especially the most unlikely of people." This last is whispered oh-so-conspiratorially, the slant of his words taking on a brief, but husky quality with shades of Igen at the edges and a peculiar sparkle in his eye. "If I find more, perhaps I'll bring them here." "If I ever get a patch of land," Nineveh pretends to muse, tapping the edge of her jaw with a manicured finger, the polish light, pale pink. "I'll do just that." Perhaps the idea has such merit she truly considers it, imagining for a moment all of her enemies fueling her very own klah trees. Yet, of course, it is fantasy — and her eyes, when turned back to Y'kim, are bright with the mirth of such imagination. "In the Archives?" she blinks, surprised. "What a strange place for them to be, but…" The world is strange and she turns to look around her store, hands coming to rest behind her back. "It wasn't my book, but it was delivered here without a sender, and so I shamelessly made a hefty sum of marks off of it, though I did gift the second book — I'm working on a recommendations system, and I've taken notes of a few customers and their interests, especially if they are intriguing interests to try and tailor a sort of … flyer to entice them to return and buy more." Nineveh will eventually have her firelizards delivering her sales fliers, just wait! She leans forward at the rest of his words, his explanation igniting an avarice in her eyes. "Do so, for I made a killing off the one book. The subject matter was titillating enough to spark, I'm sure, more interest." Perhaps curiosity in Nineveh too! "Southern is full of land that can be yours if it's not tended or visited by the free folk," Y'kim points out, sly as ever with a quick wink for good measure. Is he just making this more of a problem? Probably. Does he care? That would require the man to have shame - and he patently does not. "Ah, well, where's the best place for books to be if not the Archives? Or here," he adds, gesturing with his free hand at the space in its entirety. "If a book could choose, I'm sure they'd choose this space." He certainly would. The klah and pastries are already doing their part to incite a rumbling riot in his guts. His smile returns in that boyish way, lopsided and almost goofy without quite hitting that quality. "There's nothing wrong with being an opportunist, Ninne," shortened, yes, but not quite to Ninny. Nin-eh. "Ah, a recommendations system! That's new - and clever! - though I wonder… for people like me, who will greedily devour anything, how would that work?" Then again, he probably doesn't need ads thrown his way, either; he's just going to live here and not pay rent. That's okay, right? Of bringing more books her way, though? Yes, he'll absolutely agree to it, but for reasons that will never see the light of day. "You know, I could make copies of them, too. That way you're not just selling the one and being done with it." Oh, there's that slyness again, though it's well-meaning. He's genuine in his promises, even if it is a bit of a scheme. "What did you like best about them?" "You can… just… take the land?" For once, Nineveh is almost speechless, shocked by such a thought. That she needn't fight with different families for patches of earth to call her own. "And the weyr will not… take it back?" Her dealings with any weyr has always been from the lens of her Akzhan family, and never in a good shade. Perhaps it's a subtle rumble that lets Nineveh show her own hint of slyness, "I have breakfast edibles for sale," no longer free, alas, Y'kim missed all the free treats for the first-come, first-serve customers, "baked by a baker I just hired." Beat, pause, and then: "Fresh as of only a candlemark ago." So warm, still, and steaming in culinary delight. "I am definitely an opportunist," Nineveh does not shy away from her nature, "And I should say, that for someone like you, I would make recommendations based on what you purchased most." Spending marks being the key element here, and of course, she has a bias towards her shop rather than the free archives which might have much more interesting books, but she's proud of what she's built. "How much would it cost me to make copies?" her mercenary streak surfaces as she senses yet another pit to throw marks down into, though the wheels of economy also whirl, wondering if she can recoup the loss up in the sale of the books. With a mind of industry, Nineveh is caught off guard by his last question, turning a blinking stare on him. "Uh." Her cheeks enflame as if recalling so vividly some of the written… uh… encounnters in the books. "The writing," deflection at her finest, "was very elegant despite the subject matter. I found it an interesting treatise on the… size and usage of a Smith's Steel… accoutrement. The Miner's Jewels was good, but I do believe there was too much emphasis on the size and weight of the Miner's actual jewels, to the point where it was distracting." "Oh, if you go far enough into the jungle, the Weyr practically has no claim," Y'kim replies with a one-shouldered shrug, so as not to disturb his Lordship. But he will start to steer toward the treats after all. "Sweet talk the right riders, and you'll have easy access to anywhere you'd like. Southern is huge, and the grubs claim most of it." Not the Weyr, not the free folk, not even the holders. It's just grubs. He'll spare a look for the pastries but, for now, he's a feline to feed and then, maybe, he'll consider the goodies in earnest but there is a warm, "Thank you, thank you. I just might," as an assurance that he will. Just give him time to consider. There, too, her recommendation system strikes him as sensible and there's a little more nodding, whilst he plies Lord Stylus with a snacko or three. "It's usually a per-page fee," he replies of the copying, "not including the binding process, of course, but that can be lessened if you provide the materials yourself." Which can be cheap, if she's so inclined. "But, if you don't mind it taking a while," and the life of a rider is busy, so time is always at a premium, "I'm sure we can work out a very reasonable rate for copies of your best-sellers." But that's all quite secondary, a problem for future Y'kim, when present Y'kim has more pressing questions that resolve in such satisfying answers. The red-cheekedness of it all has him forcibly suppressing an amused smile into shades of 'ah, of course' that he tempers with a bit of nodding here and there. "Perfectly understandable, yes. Not everyone is a fan of, ah- low-hanging fruit. Or jewels, as the case may be. They do drag a bit. I wouldn't be surprised if that were an earlier work, before the author could, ah, hone their craft into something like Smith's Steel. Which sounds suspiciously similar to Smith's Hammer, now that I think about it…" Far enough into the jungles… has Nineveh's thoughts whirling together with ideas, wondering if maybe she can find ways to the use the land to her advantage, or possibly move out to the middle of nowhere in a yurt. Both Stylus and Parchment will continue to allow the lavish rubbins' to be plied to their soft, soft fur, though Parchment is not a fan of being carried, but his Lorship totally is. "I think I could work something out," she says slowly, thoughtfully. "It will take me time to, ah, gather up the materials." Perhaps a sevenday or so until she has the marks for the materials and then, well… "Send me a quote and where to send the books to be copied. I've already given the Smith's Steel and Miner's Jewels to the customer, a very large Smith incidentally enough, but for future books…" Nineveh's eyes widen in incremental degrees at the rider's continued expanding on the viability of… "Right," her cheeks are red, tone faint, as the Igen Bazaarite woman finds the overt discussion of even implied topics to be nearly too much. "Smith's Hammer?" Slanting a look at Y'kim, she asks that question almost too quickly. "I wonder if my customer would enjoy that one as well? Do you know of any, say, for other, ah… " Here, she stumbles a bit, and looks to her displays and adds, "Like say, Pirates? Or Seacrafters? Or perhaps Wildlings?" Just in case not everyone wants to read about… smithwork. Now she's ventured into his territory and Y'kim can afford to be a bit- well. It's not slippery is it? Just opportunistic. The felines are set down so he can finally deliver treats and some parting pats before he straightens for the alleged purpose of discussing business with an increasingly blushing and stammering Nineveh. "Of course, of course. I can get you a quote by the end of the day," which will be reasonable, yes, but will likely include a standing discount on her wares. "Well, like I said, I've only seen but a handful myself, though I've heard of a fair few out there," he draws this out with a thoughtful note, brow furrowing a touch. "I can see if this Smith fellow would be willing to lend me his copies so I can read them - and make secret copies, of course. I doubt a fellow of such discerning taste would relish the idea of his precious books being copied for pay." Yet, he has no shame in doing it anyway. Scurrilous rogue, that's him. "But, yes. Smith's Hammer," pulls him back to the moment, "it's the one I saw most recently. I think most of the books are a cheeky play on crafters, but you know-" he trails, thoughtful, with a tap to his chin. "There was a book about a lady pirate who had a rather novel way of besting her foes and taking their booty." With her booty, of course. "And there was another about the, ah, well free folk, but it's a rather filthy read." Allegedly. "I cannot reveal who the customer is," Nineveh's lips are a vault behind which her customers live in relative anonymity. "However, when I see him next — he has a cute little daughter and does enjoy the Shoes books," another series based on fun Crafter wordplay but… with a definite different slant, "I'll ask him if he wouldn't mind if I borrowed them for a while." To sneakily copy them, of course, for she is as mercenary as they come. Once the quote's received and the bargain struck, she will create a discrete little section for these books floating around like flotsam in the general ocean of literature. "I would like to see if the Smith's Hammer sells as quickly as the Smith's Steel did," after Nineveh reads it, of course. "I will also take the Lady pirate… and well, of course, the wildling — free folk — books, too." Having caught onto the shreds of her dignity, Nineveh merely has a slow blink for Y'kim, though the color remains high in her cheeks, adding thoughtfully, "Is it? I'm sure there are many who would still be interested. The wildings, free folk… they are all of a certain breed of men, aren't they?" Big, buff, hot. Though, that can be said of a lot… crafters, workers… ahem. "Southern is home to an unaccountable host of attractive people." Surprisingly so! Not a gap-toothed, ugly sucker in this place! Not even a homely one! It's as if they're all born of Hollywood actors and models! "So I would like to find these books in a variety of options for I have many different customers with many different tastes. Please, also, if you find any of a nature forbidden," here, Nineveh likely speaks of what may be frowned on in the Bazaar in the overt hook ups of men and men and women and women, "I am interested to ensure I have a diverse selection of enjoyable topics for all of my readers." Nineveh builds an equal opportunity store, baby! Did she even mention he was a Smith? Now it's a matter of assumptions but Y'kim is no stranger to those. Of course, the other details given might be enough for him to secure a mental image - and pin some things down. But if she's willing to take them off his hands? "Even better," he agrees of her little scheme, his smile bright. "I'll see about getting my hands on the other one." The man might also have a few others in the series, but she doesn't need to know that, now does she? No, no, this is much better. "Oh, it's all a matter of taste and language, of course. Some books can be well-written for a woman's tastes - but others, ah, well. They touch on the crass language that get's a man's mind going." There's not a drop of shame in him, either; this is a man that speaks from experience - he might even *gasp* be a reader of such material himself! "And when it's a story about a raucous free folk man in his prime, laying claim to the wives of his enemies - after saving those women from an ignoble fate - well. It gets bawdy." His grin curls, impish. "It is, yes. I could say the same of Igen, too, but I am rather, ah, partial to Southern's people. Without preference, for that matter," for that will merely touch on her notion of forbidden things, paired with a wink for good measure. "I do believe the pirate one does involve a handful of forbidden encounters, but it has been a while… a bit of sword-fighting, say, and a smidge of clam-digging." He'll spare her the more direct phrases, but, well, he's petting her, er, cats already, so. Hopefully she gets the gist. He'll absolutely make it as diverse a collection of smut as his imagination can muster - and that imagination is vast. She did mention he was a Smith! Nineveh's composure does not crack, and for that she is enternally grateful for it becomes a game, almost, to not even flicker an eyelid to his bawdy use of terms. "Laying claim to the wives of his enemies," Nineveh murmurs, tipping her head in thought, as if she wonders just how much claiming the wildlings do. "It is a very messy business to dig for clams," she notes rather primly, hands still held oh-so-demurely behind her back. "I shall have a varied copy of all types. Ones to stimulate the male mind and the female imagination, and I will see about investing in copies of the ones that sell quite well." She warms to this idea, eyeing Y'kim shrewdly, for all her blushing — and her cheeks are still high color — the intelligence behind mossy-dark green eyes cannot be denied. "Igen is also full of quite attractive people, it is true. A lady does not offer up her suggestion as to preference, however." Demure, proper, conservative Nineveh is not going to go around telling a stranger — however entertaining he is — her preferences to attractiveness. "I do believe pirates would also be quite popular. Or a Seacrafter going rogue, plundering… a great many ports." Now it is her turn to bare a hinted smile, another slow-blink of her eyes as she effortlessly skirts the waters of innuendo. "Oh, it is, it is, but some of us do rather enjoy it." Cheeky, cheeky, Y'kim will delight in the virtues of clam-digging and oyster-shucking and all manner of other bivalve-related innuendo with gusto. But, where her arms are behind her back, his hang relaxed, thumbs in belt loops and that easy, easy smile of his in place with nary a sign of a blush. Scandal? Salaciousness? He thrives on it. "I will see what I can procure - and if I can't find anything here, then- well. I do know some places where there might be some hidden treasures of all the varied flavors. And even," here, his voice dips low, skimming into husky territory once again, "some illustrated works." He straightens after, his grin manifesting anew. "Oh, no, I would never insist upon a lady divulging her tastes to the likes of me. I'm a cur, a scoundrel, a terrible, terrible influence with my riderly ways and all." Which is a whole other thing, really, but as she hooks into the pirates and seacrafting, he puts on his thoughtful expression anew and sucks his teeth and says, "I think I've touched on 'booty' plenty, along with the sword-fighting, but there is a lot of potential in there with the plundering," a point to her!, "and the walking of planks and salvation at the hands of a well-endowed dolphineer, or, most scandalously of all, a long, soulful kiss on the deck between a pirate and the seacrafter sent to take them to justice. With hand-holding." Like degenerates. Nineveh coughs — never no mind, she has but inhaled wrong — and blinks, slowly. "Illustrated works, you say?" Her voice rises in pitch and holds a strange breathy note, before settles her mien into one of composure and only mild curiosity. "I do believe you're onto something, Y'kim of the blueriding degenerates." Perhaps a touch of a sly smile even as her eyes skate away from Y'kim's to behold the depths of the store and the newly entering customer. "I imagine there's quite a lot of footage to be had between a dragonrider and his lady, upon which terrible ideas may occur on the back of his dragon? A Tale of Dragon Debauchery, perchance?" Does she suspect Y'kim? It would be a long stretch, but she might suspect him of knowing the author. "Please, do continue to peruse the shelves and spoiling of the felines," an invitation, see, to further enjoy the spoils of her store. "Alas, I must attend to this customer," and also the conversation might have reached a tipping point to her conservative upbringing sensibilities. A final look to the bluerider, slight, enigmatic smile, and she dips her head. "Well met, and good day, sir." And off she goes to head off the customer towards Cahia's delicious yum-yums, intending to sell the lot of them before the next batch comes. She will work that sale hard, too, using every trick in the book! What a delightful, delightful day, however, it has turned out to be! "I do say," Y'kim affirms of those illustrated works with a devilish degree of certainty. Her suspicions are likely noted and he, in turn, must deflect with a vague gesture and a smile. "Oh, I'm sure there would be plenty of titillation to be gained from the antics of debauched dragonriders, my dear lady, but anyone in the Weyr long enough will see plenty of it for free. Just wait for another gold flight and you'll see." Less innuendo, perhaps, and more warning; she might be from Igen, but what part? He suspects not the Weyr. But he smiles to see her off to tend to a customer and, he, in turn, will rack up quite a heap of books to buy - and some pastries and klah while he's at it - with promises to bring back any rogue treasure he might come across. But when? And what? Well, only time will tell before the trickle of titillating material starts to flow to the little shop and its cats and the wonderful, wonderful woman who runs the whole affair. A Little... Proposition has 2 comments. |
12 Mar 2024 04:00 |
Y'kim pokes his head into the bookshop and some propositions - and innuendos - are shared. |
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Getting the Awkwards Out Getting the Awkwards Out
"I think there might be one…" Living Caverns Grand and spacious, the cavern curves high aloft in a naturally-vaulted ceiling that soothes any sense of claustrophobia. The ceiling has been altered slightly over the turns, with a great rift filled with hardset to provide support. Gracefully sweeping ribs of white stone further bolster and support the vaulted ceiling with an air of elegance. Rich woods line the cavern floor, varnished and stained a rich mahogany, while round tables scatter about, candlelit and intimate. The largest table lies southerly next to the sideboard, long trestles that seem oriented to providing for the Weyr's youngest. The rich blue of the Azov can be seen from a distance in good weather, when the heavy stone doors covering the entrance are allowed to stand open. Albertine is a veteran Candidate, as much as such a thing exists. She knows the ropes and the tricks of the trade, as it were. The relative perceived desirability of various chores, which ones you can usually arrange to trade away, which ones you can expedite and along the way manufacture yourself a tiny sliver of free time. It's a bit early in the day for lunch, but there stands Albertine, unbent, by the buffet table, enjoying a rare moment of idleness that she either earned or shamelessly intrigued for. She looks toward the opening of the cavern, waiting for someone. Said someone would have received the note advertising her availability and willingness for a long promised shared lunch sometime earlier today, although Joy would not have lingered for pets. She'll grudgingly deliver a note provided it's sufficiently tidy, but she doesn't really do pets. Once drills are done and no Threadfall is anticipated, there's personal time. It's primarily for the dragons and maintenance, but an early lunch can fit in there, too. J'rel's opting for that early lunch thanks to that invitation, stepping into the Living Caverns with his riding jacket resting open. Spring is so very soon, and the temperature is already reflecting that. "Albertine," he calls, a faint smile on his face. While their last meeting didn't resolve feelings towards specific incidents, it was about the steps towards it. And the same day acceptance of that long awaited lunch chat is a step, as well. Albertine brightens, waves a hand high above her head to help J'rel locate her, not that there's enough of a crowd yet that it's a big problem. And then her smile wavers a bit, develops a slightly gauche shade, because, yeah, it's still complicated. But she definitely seems pleased that the greenrider made it, and she walks up and says, "Hey." And shuffles a bit and adds, "I hope your leg is healed? Let's sit somewhere, I can bring you the food if you want. There's paprika roasted tubers and fish with that nice light citrus sauce they make sometimes, and creamed leaks too. Or, well, meatrolls. Whatever you prefer." And she's doing better, Albertine, isn't she? The sadness — and the anger — haven't gone away, they're still there in the way the skin of her face sags ever so slightly under her eyes, in the pinch at the corners of her lips; but there's something more to her. The eggs are hardening fast. She earned the knot pinned to her shoulder, fair and square. It's been a long journey for her, but her wait is almost over, it's got to be. J'rel gives a quick slightly-bobbing nod as he finishes the approach, also answering the question the candidate had offered. "Yeah, it is; I'm good. It was only a small scar in the end, actually. I have an idea of what some of the other guys had gone through for some of the larger ones I've seen." In short, he felt like a wimp and the epic damage he took wasn't even half a pinky's width by the end of the healing period. Maybe it was just top-notch Healers who knew how to reduce a scar, but it clearly wasn't the tenfold scoring that he's seen on his fellow wingriders. "Besides… you don't have to serve me." Between her usual duties between clutches, and her candidacy duties, it's okay for her to just be a friend visiting at lunch, even if he's terrible at expressing that. He swiftly picks up a plate and starts rapidly adding various buffet offerings. "How are the eggs feeling for you this round?" he asks as he spoons another item onto his plate. Oddly enough, despite the quick movement through the line and sampling of several foods, his portions are fairly small. Albertine's eyes drift involuntarily toward the location of said scar. Her cheeks color a little. "Well, glad you recovered nicely, then." For certain, she's been at the Weyr long enough to have an inkling what Thread can do. It's one of those things she'd refrain from thinking about too hard, though, after her usual fashion, especially considering her hopes for what may happen as imminently as in the next few days. In theory, be it as as a Candidate or a drudge, rank says that she'll serve him if he wants serving, but considering she either forgot or omitted to salute him, that's not the sort of relationship she and him are currently cultivating. Fixing herself a plate of food is a good distraction in the interim. She goes for the fish and leeks and adds a glass of pressed fruit too for good measure, and heads for a nearby table where there's room for two. Her eyes fall on the curiously small helpings in his plate, but she doesn't volunteer a comment, and instead leans back in her chair, her expression all at once very different. "It's a good clutch, I think. Solid eggs. Good feelings. I… Eh." All of a sudden she looks all awkward again. No: afraid of hoping, and hoping anyway. "I think there might be one…" she adds, her voice lowering, but her gaze grows intense. "Did, eh, did you feel anything special, yourself? About Karath's egg, I mean." Assuming, then, that J'rel bothered to touch eggs at the time. What with everything else. Salute? J'rel is still uncomfortable with receiving them, even if they were drilled into him as a subordinate. This candidacy has been particularly uncomfortable. With a dish full of little small piles of various foods, he awaits her to finish her selections before he scans the still not-so-busy cavern for an open table. Her spotting it before him, he follows her lead, coming to take a seat across from her. "Umm, Karath's egg. No, not unique to that one, I admit. Others did, but she caught me by surprise." Part of it may have been his fear clouding his perception, but with it now a blur up until that crystal clear moment, it may never be particularly answered. And frankly, a lot of those eggs were just straight up scary. Albertine says, "Uh, right," perhaps a bit disappointed. She leans back in her chair, her gaze lost toward the ceiling. There's a timid pause. "It's just," she says, "there's that one egg… It's probably nothing, but, I don't know. I like it." Watch her minimize it for fear of falling prey to hope. She shrugs. "You know that feeling when, when, like, you're in a Harper class with others and there's that one person you always find yourself sharing a glance with whenever something weird or silly happens and then you're both stiffling giggles? That kinda feeling." She squirms. "It's probably nothing though." And then she squirms harder, and looks at J'rel and then away. "I mean, uh, Harper classes or any kind of classes you had, Harpers or no, that's cool too." J'rel pulls a strand of dark hair behind his ear, it now back to its pre-Impression length again. Resting a heel against the leg of his chair, he thinks for a moment. The precise reference is lost on the young rider, Harper classes not being part of his background. "I haven't really experienced that, myself. I tended to keep to myself during get-togethers. But… I've seen others doing that, particularly at the Gathers, so I get it, I think?" His fork moves around some of the food on the plate, only after a moment pulling some onto the prongs. "I hope the dragonet feels the same way," he tells her, a small smile on his face. It's genuine, not one of those manufactured excesses of excitement for a candidate with empty platitudes. It's muted in comparison with that, but with that muting, authenticity. Albertine shrugs once more, a pretty transparent pretense that she doesn't care either way, really, it's cool, she won't hurt too bad if it yet again does not happen this time. (But what if, Albertine, what if your blue skips you because you make him think you're not interested after all? Guilt and doubt and despair briefly flash on her face before she angrily stamps the whole emotional mess down. Gone. Out.) She assembles a tidy forkful of fish and leeks and brings it to her mouth, closes her eyes at the delicateness of the flavor. That too is a new behavior. Like she comes from a place that really wasn't too food-oriented, and is slowly learning better at the Weyr with its richer options. A young adult now, but still not done mapping out what life can be like. "Yeah, right, I figure you wouldn't have Harpers but I spoke without thinking, sorry," she says, a bit guilty. She gives J'rel an earnest look. "I hope it's okay to ask, and I'd understand if you don't want to talk about it, but, if you're up to it, sometime I'd like to hear about what it was like, growing up, for you." Her lips twist into a crooked grin. "In exchange I can tell you about Brassicourt, but be warned that it's going to be about rain and turnips a lot." "No. Don't apologize. I just…" J'rel takes a deep breath, setting down the fork that hasn't quite hit his lips yet. It gives a small clink as it hits the plate. "I wasn't really social with anyone before Karath. It caused too many problems; when you don't fit the mold of the clan you're born into, you learn to deal with it how you can." The few pieces of food that had slipped off the fork are re-scooped and he finally takes that bite. Maybe Albertine leans forward ever so slightly because there is so much untold between those words. Unknown, therefore interesting, even if she doesn't quite have the education and vocabulary to discuss social dynamics. So she says, "Uh!" because that's what she says, and then gives J'rel a small, encouraging grin. "Yeah, uh, I suppose I get that. Kinda. In a different way, though; me, there weren't a lot of kids my age, mostly just Genevieve. She was my best friend, I guess, but, uh, she's Lord Abelard's daughter, with the duties of her position and all, and me, I had to start working with my Pa, and after that it wasn't the same anymore. I'd do her hair and stuff like that, though." She fidgets on her seat before eating in silence for a moment, because yeah, there's a lot to unpile in her own childhood that she hasn't even started to process. But in time she adds, low, and with an odd, covert anger, "But now I'm here, and you're here too, and I'm glad for both. The Weyr's good." J’rel listens as he grabs a few more bites of his food, every action excruciatingly slow, to savor where he hadn’t had time to savor before, or even still often enough between duties. “Even if it’s just one, it’s good to have a friend,” he replies in response after finishing his latest bite. He then kicks around a piece of fruit with the tip of his fork. “…Do you have friends here, at the Weyr?” There’s almost a sheepishness to the question, because while they both are here now, they were both uprooted from their previous lives, however that may have come across.They’re here now, whatever that means. Despite the wariness of the query, his dark eyes lock on her face rather than the subject of his food. Albertine nods slowly, not looking entirely comfortable. She's not stupid, and she has eyes to see how things happen in the richer social environment of the Weyr; and she's got to realize that her childhood's friendship that came with a relationship of servitude is not a normal thing, for all that it's all she's ever known. She clears her throat. "Yeah, I got friends, thank goodness. Althea and K'var and I'rian, to start with." J'rel? To be determined in the fullness of time, perhaps, and she doesn't force the issue. She wrinkles her nose. "Maybe N'iall." N'iall is kind of a special case. Said case aside, though, it's all people she Stood with, and who got luckier than she did. Still, they're friends, and perhaps even in the fashion Albertine is used to: if she does not do their hair, then she does their laundry. She opts to change tack and points her fork at J'rel's plate. "Food not to your taste?" “That’s good,” J’rel replies, but sensing the lack of comfort, he eases off the question. Somehow, though, it made him feel a little better for his own situation and its shorter list in a rather unfair and selfish manner; he’s not alone. Does that bit of relief show on his face? Her next question does send his eyes to focus more directly on the food on his plate and he takes a more reasonable forkfull. “Oh, yeah, it’s good. I just… I like the days I don’t have to feel like I have to eat and run. It’s better for the stomach, anyhow.” He punctuates that with taking that bite and looks back towards Albertine. It's funny, isn't it, how two humans of such different backgrounds and with so little in common can end up in this place today, sharing lunch, sharing a bit of their inner complications. It's also funny how feeling alone together doesn't make you feel less alone, exactly; but in its way it makes the loneliness easier to carry. Albertine shrugs, like none of this is a big deal, because she's shit at handling big deals anyway. Food's a safer topic. "Ah, right, I getcha," she opines. "I've, uh, been reading this book, right, where this man who is a great cook strives to reconstruct that one dish he knows a lady he fancies loves from her childhood, but the recipe is long lost, and, uh, well. It's very romantic, but also it makes the point that enjoying food is important on its own." Ah, so that's the source of this new behavior of hers. "I used to just grab whatever during lulls between duties. But. Yeah. It's just better if you don't have to eat and run, isn't it?" She looks to J'rel, earnest. “The last one was a romance, too, right?” Of course that’s the part that he recalls and connects with despite it not being his genre. J’rel pauses in his awkwardness with that question and then looks back down to his food again. Karath, go proddy soon so he has something to blame his stupid comments on. “But I agree. It’s not like we live our lives eating unsweetened creamed grains or gruel. We have so much delicious food here, we might as well enjoy it.” Particularly fruits. So many delicious fruits. “…Would you be open to more of these? Lunches?” The question is out of left field, but the situation that landed them here was, too. Albertine can nod encouragingly about romance in general, for sure. If the genre is going to be her window into the world at large, then her life becomes easier if others around her develop the same slanted but heartfelt worldview. Sadly, even the chunk of extra free time she arranged to scoundrel out of her Candidate's schedule is not infinite, and, her last scraps of fish and leeks savored, she sighs and stands. And looks at J'rel. She likes him, that much is clear, despite all the dumb shit that went down and says she shouldn't. She gives another one of those non-committal shrugs, but it comes with a grin, and she says, "Yeah, sure, let's catch lunch again. You're cool. See ya around, yeah?" She hesitates, and then collects her dishes and steps away. And pauses. And turns back. The time is right. Her heart is right. And there's that one egg. She knows it in her bones even as she knows the foolishness of certainty. And, with a fierce, stubborn pride, she says: "And you better come cheer for me at the Hatching, because it might be your last chance to!" J’rel, as awkward as he has been, opens a genuine smile for Albertine as his fork pauses its poking about his plate. “Yeah, see you around.” He had started to focus his attention back on that only partially touched meal when her voice calling out causes him to turn his head. The energy is good, and with good humor, his smile widens and his head bobs in agreement. He has her back in this. Good luck on the Sands. Getting the Awkwards Out has 0 comments. |
08 Mar 2024 06:00 |
A bit before the Southern Hatching, J'rel and Albertine meet up for lunch. Backdated. Occurs before Candidate Crunch Time. |
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Cleaning Chaos: Dragon Edition Cleaning Chaos: Dragon Edition
"I don't think that dragon cared about their father…" Lake Shore Sprawled out beyond the Weyr proper's hustling activity and ambling roads, the cool, blue paradise of the Weyr lake promises escape from the oppressive hammer of Igen summer's cruel climes; the asymmetrical, sandy white shores hook delicately around the deceptively still waters running deep and sure, greedy peninsulas reaching white fingers stretching in crooked lines towards its center. A sturdy shack, weather-beaten and brown as cured leather, resides in isolated splendor upon one such finger, screened shelving offering a variety of brushes and fragrant oils housed in colorful tureens. Out beyond a small and dusty paddock ringed by a white fence, a long rocky pier stabs out into the lake, providing a panoramic view of the Weyr itself, while the southern shores provide varied shrubs and grassed for the massed herds in their pens. As the sun falls, sunset coloring the desert sky, the candidates come out to 'play'. Well, some might have been told this was a game of sorts. Even if this is work, there's refreshing lake water and the excuse to get up and personal with the dragons. THe dragons in question have also heard there are baths to be had, with and without their riders, under the watchful eye of other dragonriders so there's no silliness. Larze comes along with his usual shuffle-step, shoulders bowed with weariness but there's a small, secret smile all for himself. Someone's suffered a debilitating flight loss - and that means a mud bath of epic proportions. After getting his wallow on, Ixzhulqvoth emerges from the muck and mud at the lake's short like a creature reborn and composed entirely of, well, mud. Given the hue of his hide, though, one would be forgiven for thinking he's merely wet. Khu's yet to make an appearance - those in the know would be aware she's doing her dragonhealering duties in the wake of her lifemate's frustrations - and the brown is, thus, unsupervised as he lumbers toward the likely victims cleaners. At the other end of the spectrum is Zheraszth - she's perfectly composed, far from flight-afflicted… and not even a quarter as filthy as Ixzhulqvoth. The green's in need of a bath, though, and her rider's still unable to do it - Yaszha's equipped with a sling for her arm and a crutch to keep her moving, with a broken arm and leg - on the same side, no less - rendering this task especially difficult. Still, the kit's out there to be used and there are plenty of candidate hands at the ready, so she might as well avail herself of the help while it's there, right? The sun falls, and yet — Zekaraiya is up, herded along with the others to the lake and dragons to be scrubbed. A new task to him, and one he seems both nonplussed by and a bit apprehensive; after all, one doesn't ordinarily volunteer for such duty. Quyen is also relatively new to the whole dragon-washing business, but she comes prepared with a tub of sweet sand and an extra long scrub brush to set with the other supplies. There's a bit of a gulp as she takes in the muddy mess that is Ixzhulqvoth and gives a salute to the nearest rider, Yaszha. "Were you…. needing help, rider?" She may even have completely overlooked poor Zheraszth over there and just assumed the dirtiest dragon was the one with a rider nearby. "I wanna wash a bronze!" Comes the annoyingly arrogant voice of Brit. "I gotta learn what it's like, after all." He is flanked with Thad and Thorne (like usual). "Yeah, gots tah." Echoes Thorne. "Aw, there's so many greens…." Laments Thad. THe group move towards the brown. That's better in their eyes. Weslyn joins the other candidates by the lake, which promises a change of scenery, a welcome break from the barracks, and less pleasant chores. Getting up and personal with the dragons is going to be a fairly new experience as well, as he had only been a dragon aback once in his life. Among the assembled dragons, his gaze naturally settles on Ixzhulqvoth. If he was going to get all up and personal with some dragon, he figured it should be the one that searched him. Besides, he and the brown seem to share the same interest in pyrotechnics. He approaches the brown with a mixture of anticipation and a burgeoning sense of duty. "Hey, you want a scrub?" he asked. "I can use any help I can get, candidate. She's in rough shape," Yaszha replies to Quyen while tipping her head to the green that looks as if she could probably go another sevenday or two without a bath. Her smile is wry and maybe it's a reassurance that it's the green she's indicating first and not the brown. "Though, that one does look like he's in worse condition. I think." She squints at the brown that's wandered closer to the candidates. "I guess it's your call which one you want to lay hands on." There are definitely other dragons here in need of a wash, after all! For his part, Ixzhulqvoth seems to like the attention, though he whuffs audibly at Brit and his buddies before swinging his head away to sneeze audibly. Mud falls off him in thick clumps and, when he shakes his head, the stuff sprays everywhere. Sorry, Weslyn, but there's a fan of the stuff going his way, too. His attention swings back to the lad he Searched and his head lowers, aligning his regard with the young man's face as best he can. There's a low, low, low sound that reverberates through the earth - but it sounds agreeable enough. She? There's a look of clear relief on Quyen's face as Yaszha motions to the green and not the mud monster masquerading as a dragon. Especially given those sneezes he's doling out. "He… looks like he went through a lot of trouble to get that muddy. Besides, could probably scrub her at least three times over in the amount of time it'll take to do him." There's definitely some efficiencies in being a green rider with less dragon hide to scrub! Zekaraiya goes still, eyeing Brit, Thorne, and Thad with something like disgust before turning away with a roll of his eyes at their theatrics. Seeing them all converging on the brown at once, the long lad turns toward Yaszha inquiringly, offering the injured rider a salute. "Rider, " The wildling says politely (maybe hoping to impress such behavior on the arrogant trio, "Shall I help wash your dragon?" Larze comes along with the others, but seems a little…unsure. As the other candidates move forward with more sure steps towards various dragons, he seems less confident. A wave goes to Zekaraiya and then he's moving as far away from the Terrible Trio as he can. "HOw did that one get so…dirty?" "She tells me that he's prone to that kind of thing," Yaszha observes to Quyen - and Larze, as he comes along, though she doesn't hesitate to turn slightly away from the brown that is almost offensively filthy at this point. "She's a lot easier - and I can help." A little. With one hand. But let her have her pride. As another comes nigh, she motions Zekaraiya over. "Yes, please. You can get on her other side and-" Larze is roped in as well "-if you want to get on her back when she's in the water, that'll be great. Zheraszth is… understanding of the situation," which means the green won't be a difficult one to bathe. Thank Faranth for small things. Weslyn can't help but snort at Ixzhulqvoth, even with the wave of mud coming his way. There's no point worrying about a bit of mud when you're going to get all wet already. "Didn't like what you smelled?" he asks the brown as he picks up the scrub brush out of his bucket. "Nice to see you again," he continues. His mama always taught him to be polite. There's a dart-flick of his forked tongue at Weslyn, serpentine despite the fact that dragons can't actually taste the air. Ixzhulqvoth is a curious one and he knows it. He offers a nosing to Weslyn's torso before he jerks his head in an eerily human manner toward the water. The trio of other candidates will merely be expected to follow - and if he has an answer for Weslyn's question, it's not offered. Instead, there's another of those low rumbles, a subsonic vibration that will follow him into the shallows. He leaves a trail of filth in his wake, which means Weslyn and the others are going to have their hands very full in getting him scrubbed down. "I heard some weaver journeymen talking about a stall that sells mud masks to help with irritated skin. Maybe he decided to one up the mask to full body," Quyen says with a shrug for Laarze. But a nod as Yaszha explains the plan for who will be cleaning where on the green. And even though her entire shirt will surely be getting soaked through very soon, the miner-turned-candidate starts rolling up her sleeves. "Not sure I wanna know, Zekaraiya mumbles to Larze, offering the other candidate a slow smile of amusement as he ranges alongside the green at Yaszha's direction, brush in hand. Eyeing Larze - oh look, he isn't the only beanpole here! - he whispers, "Too bad they don't step on people." Oh, how he wishes the Terrible Trio would get squished, just a little. "Filthy animal," Brit teases with his friends. "Hey! Lard'o, you go wash a green." Thorne bumps Larze with his shoulder as they breeze past him and go hooting and shouting as they splash into the water after one muddy brown dragon. Zheraszth noses gently at her rider, mindful not to accidentally knock the woman over, and it's her turn to step into the water - a little deeper than the shallows, but enough to make it easy for someone to get up on her back… and not have too far to fall, if they're clumsy. Yaszha motions the green onward and crutch-hobbles her way to the trailing end of her lifemate - that is, the tail. It's the only bit she'll be able to get at with the long-handled brush she has, but it'll have to do. "Message received," the Journeyman Smith mutters as he picks up his waterproof soap-sand bag and heads into the water after the brown. The trio is ignored as he looks over Ixzhulqvoth and ponders the best way to tackle all the mud. "Sorry, rider ma'am," he half-way turns to look at the greenrider. Do we just scrub him down like you would a runner, or is there something special we are suppose to do?" Larze doesn't pay much mind to the trio, not even when they're trying to bowl him over on their way to the water. He rolls his eyes so hard, it might give him a headache. He gives a nod of understanding to Quyen "Better idea than what I was thinking. My sisters like to make mudpies but…do dragons…play in the mud?" He doesn't care what color the dragon is. Being close to a dragon is just a bucket list item for him and all his friends back at the cothold. "What stories I'm going to tell when I go home." He reaches Zekaraiya abd murmurs. "I'm sure a dragon could step on someone. You know, careful-like? I mean…nah, you're probably right…." "Pretty much like washing a runnerbeast," Yaszha chimes in for Weslyn's benefit. "I usually start at the head and work top down, front to back," she even motions as if to indicate the 'best' way to get it done. "Hopefully he'll know to rinse off in the water and not go right back to the mud, though." Ixzhulqvoth utters a snort and slants something of a side-eye to the greenrider. Then his head ducks and he dunks it in the water. Look, see? He's helping. At least on that end. Pay no mind to his tail, which is wiggling like a water snake. Or the fact that his wings are flexing a little, as if to ward off the other three as they get in the water. Or maybe he's just that clumsy? Or itchy? What a mystery. "Like a runner…" Quyen nods like she's ever actually had cause to scrub a runner before. But she has scrubbed floors. How much different can it be? Though going a bit gentler seeing as the surface needing the cleaning has actual nerve endings to take into account. "And there's gotta be some dragons that play in the mud. They can't just sit on their ledges all day, every day when not fighting Thread or drilling or flying sweeps or whatever." Zekaraiya isn't laughing, just ignore that sudden fit of coughing he's got going on there. Eyes gleaming, he gives Larze a wink. "We can hope, right?" He'd seen the way they tried to push past his fellow long Boi. "Shards, they're useless. We sure the dragon always knows?" But look, Yaszha is giving directions on how to wash a dragon, which is a new one on him. Got it, front to back it is, but before he starts in on Ixzhulqvoth, Weslyn leans forward and whispers to the brown, "Don't worry, I tend to get dirty too when I work. It is a sign of being productive." Standing back up, he holds out his brush. "Going to start with your head," he states as he starts knocking off some of the mud that has come loose in the water. Shifting into "commanding apprentices" mode, he calls out to any of the nearby candidates, "Go ahead and start on the neck. It looks like he got a lot of cake in-between those ridges." Even if she's 'dirty' - and that's questionable, compared to Ixzhulqvoth - Zheraszth still smells nice. Dragon-spicy, but with a hint of prickly pear and cactus. Refreshing. But definitely spicy. She stretches out some in the water, head low, wings outstretched, but curved so the candidates are in the shelter of her 'sails. Yaszha remains at the green's tail, scrubbing away with care and the voices of Healers echoing in the back of her head. This time, the low sound sets ripples through the water. Ixzhulqvoth leaves his head low for Weslyn to get at… but his nostrils are under the water, which allows him to make a bit of bubbly burbling. It's probably better than his tailforks getting all bubbly, but- can dragons even fart on command? This is probably not the best time to consider that. So, yes, he's going to blow bubbles in the water while Weslyn does his thing. His thoughts momentarily reach toward the young man, bringing with it a scrim of mist and ice; a touch, then gone, as if to reassure him that, yes, he is listening. As for the mud between his neckridges, well- it looks like he's turned dinosaur with a sail of muck between the ridges themselves. It's gross. Like a runner indeed. Larze's eyes run up and up the dragon and gives a small shake of his head. "Not to argue but..ain't no runner this size." Still, he's all about getting into the water. "They're…expectional. Execptionally full of themselves. Here's hoping the dragon will change them to become regular people. Yes?" The Usual Suspects don't hear Larze. It's Brit that gives Weslyn a cool up-down look. "Excuse me, who do you think you are to boss us about? C'mon boys, we'll take up this side." Glaring at Weslyn, Thad moves away. "Someone needs a tunnelsnake in their bed me thinks, boys." "Exceptionally dense," Zekaraiya muses thoughtfully, eyeing the green with bemused gaze. "Definitely not a runner." Buuut, he'll begin gently scrubbing at her neck anyway, lip curling in annoyed contempt for the trio's obnoxious behavior. "Mm, maybe we'll see if they end up with a bed full of something unpleasant, like chore lists." Quyen gives a look over her shoulder back at Brit and Co and gives a shrug to Zekaraiya. "If I were betting, I'd put more on learning a lesson on not to count one's wherries before they hatch. Besides, think they also forgetting that once weyrlings, hear the weyrlingmasters take shears to everybody's heads. Shave it all off, so everybody looks the same. And cause you don't have time for hair." Scrub-scrub-scrub along with the exagerated weyrling-rumors. Oh. Are they angling for that side of him? Ixzhulqvoth's haunches shift, taking him into a sly side-step that carries him a little further away from the trio. Weslyn remains largely sheltered by the brown's bulk, which will be very important in just a matter of moments. The brown's tail ail coils and promptly thrashes in the water, fanning filthy water at Brit, Thad, and Thorne in foam-laced waves of water that stinks of the runoff near the pens. #sorrynotsorry In a stark contrast to Ixzhulqvoth and his splashing, Zheraszth is downright placid, patient to a fault through the process. She trills softly in gratitude, shifting her bulk and angling herself from time to time to help them get at parts that might be hard for inexperienced hands to reach. Yaszha watches and listens for a moment longer before she intones a conspiratorially cool, "I can always drop a word to the Headman, if they're giving you that much grief." Scrubby scrubby; scrubby scrubby. The green's tail is sparkling now - well, sparkling with suds, but it still counts. Larze gatheres up some sand like he's seen another of the candidate's do and sets to rubbing it carefully against the green hide. "They don't actually do their chores." %n admits to Zekaraiya in a quiet, secret voice. "But, so long as they don't think I was involved, I'm all for collecting something…interesting….for a sleeping companion. " Overhearing Quyen talking about head shaving, he blanches and tries to hide behind his curls by hanging his head. Oh dear…what if people can actually /see/ him. "Shards and shells…that sounds horrible." Weslyn stops scrubbing for a second to look at Brit and Thad. "Oh, he caught that last bit. Giving them a long look, he finally bends down to whisper to the brown again. "I think someone needs a sparkle paint bomb to go off in their trunk next time they open it." Oh, he hasn't had to deal with barrack warfare since he got his Journeyman knot, but he was a master of it when he was a kid. When Ixzhulqvoth seems to take his own command of the situation, he snorts again. If he could give the brown a high five, he would. "No one is cutting my hair." Brit drawls. "Our father will have a word or two to say about …urk!!" The wave of filthy water ends up in Thad's mouth as the wave overtakes him. Brit is also taken unaware and he lets out a girlish scream before he two is sucked under the mucky water. Only Thorne doesn't get a mouth of gunk but he's swept into the waves all the same. hardcore. "I don't think that dragon cared about their father…" Quyen quips with a snort as Ixzhulqvoth dunks a few candidates, even as she keeps giving Zheraszth the proper scrubbing the not-so-dirty-green deserves. He'll not turn down the idea of sparkles, either; Ixzhulqvoth utters a soft, resonant rumble at the suggestion, which is just for him and Weslyn to know. It just sounds like a brown dragon that's enjoying his scrubdown. Or the idea that he's thoroughly soaked three lads. Or all of it, really, because he's a complicated and nuanced entity with a complex sense of humor. As yet, there's no sign of Khu to step in and rein in his worst impulses, so he doesn't bother feigning innocence. He knows what he did and he'll do it again. "Makes me think they're gonna get nothin'," Zekaraiya seems to take an absolute delight in Quyen's suggestions, offering her a maliciously sparkling grin. A short time of scrubbing later, he muses, "Huh. Think they'll squeal like the kids do when they get baths?" He's puzzled, though: Larze seems to want to hide behind his hair — as much as the wildling wants to reassure him, he has no idea how. Instead, he'll pounce on the most informative bit. "You're right, they don't- " Did Yaszhe just offer to… report them? "Hmm. They don't bother me, at all." Maybe it's his size, maybe they just hadn't noticed him yet, who knows. The sight of Brit being engulfed in bilge water startles a guffaw out of him before he can stop himself. "Or their lovely lady hair." Larze looks more than a little paniced at the prospect of the trio being reported. "They'll do something worse if someone finds out." Sighing, he pushes his hair back and out of his eyes, just in time to see the misshap with the trio. He gulps back his laugh and turns his back to them. "Oh, that was brilliant." Finding a friend in Zekaraiya, he flashes a small grin. Zheraszth turns her attention briefly to the chaos over there, but the brown's at least thoughtful enough to bodyblock the water, so none of it gets to her side of the lake. She warbles again, delighted, and shifts in the water again as the washing continues. She's getting quite clean, quite quickly, but it doesn't hurt that she's, well, a green - and she's compliant. "Mmhm," Yaszha utters a thoughtful hum, flicking a look to the candidates before she provides a rather bland, "If you don't take care of the problem, he can and will." Somehow, the words come out deadpan; neutral, even, despite the heretical slant of the words themselves. She will claim plausible deniability if there is a riot in the candidate ranks, of course. "And there's not much they can do if he solves the problem. They'll go home." "You gotta grow a bit of spine or you're gonna get walked on forever," Quyen mutters as she keeps scrubbing. "Why do you take what they say over what others say? Over what a rider says?" A point to Yaszha right there, with possible encouragement of prank wars and/or headman reporting. Now that Ixzhulqvoth's head is clean, he moves on to that neckridge that the two troublemakers avoided, and if some of the dinosaur ridge of mud happens to fall on the pair, well, that is what they get for not listening. Apparently, it is going to be "mess with the idiots" along with bathtime, and Weslyn is all in. After all, who is he to try to curb his favorite dragon's impulses? "True enough," Zekaraiya sighs, and steps back to admire Zheraszith's hide with head cocked. "We'll get 'em settled, one way or another." He turns to give Yaszha a long, thoughtful look. "Can't say we'd be sorry to see the back of 'em, but I suspect that one -" meaning the stinky, muddy brown, "Might be getting 'em together." Too bad Zeke can't just walk up to Brit and just… nudge him deeper into the water. Poor Larze is getting the raw end of the deal. "Larze… Quyen's right. Easier said than done, I know, but I'll back you, you know. Even if it means I go home." Larze peers around the green dragon to blink-blink at Yaszha. But it's Quyen's comment that draws the words from his lips. "I have a sharding spine. But I can take it." He grinds his teeth but his care of the dragon's hide is very careful as he listens to Zekaraiya, jaw set. "What happens if they get sent hom and some dragon goes without a rider?" It looks gross - but it's oh-so-satisfying, too; a whole chunk of mud just sliiides out from between Ixzhulqvoth's neckridges and goes *sploosh* in the water. It elicits an equally satisfied rumble from the brown, as one set of eyelids finally drop into place. It's not just protection from splashing but, also, a way to articulate his pleasure - both at the great work Weslyn's doing and at the opportunity to prank the trio in the water. Another, deeper, swish of his tail sets up a little bit of an undercurrent, but it's not enough to keep them under the water. But, maybe they're really bad swimmers. Not his problem at the end of the day. "Oh -yuuuuck-!" Whines Brit as he is splatted with mud on his glorious hair. And he hasn't been able to get all the grit out of his mouth. "This is all Weslyn's fault!" Thorne decides as he too ends up with some mud on him. It's Thad who's got some sense to try to move to Weslyn. He's going to try for some comeback by an attempt to dunk the other candidate. "It's very, very rare that that happens," Yaszha points out. "They're more likely to find someone in the Stands than not find anyone at all. But, there's at least two candidates to each egg," maybe closer to two and a half, really, but talking about half candidates is probably not wise, "so the dragons have a lot to pick from in the first place." With Zheraszth's tail finally clean, the greenrider takes a few hobble-steps back and settles into a chair that she brought out for the purpose of getting a rest. "And look at you! You've almost got her all done. I have her back end all finished," well, the tail part, but it's fine. As for the green? She trills a bit with encouragement to the candidates near her - or maybe it's gratitude? Or both? Probably both. Apparently, it is time to reach into his history and pull out some of the tricks he learned. As Thad comes around to his side of the brown and makes a pay for him, Weslyn does a little side "swim" and tosses the kid over his shoulder. He may not be the tallest of the bunch, but his turns of jumping out of the way from danger have given him some killer reflexes. "Oh, sorry, man," he sheepishly tells the boy before turning away, moving on to the next clump, and pulling down on the boy before he can recover. How does he have this much mud on him? Ixzhulqvoth is probably a mud magnet, defying all laws of physics or known reality or… something. Doesn't matter. What does matter is that there's enough mud to go 'round until Weslyn knocks off the worst of it. At least his tail is getting incidentally clean, with all the thrashing it's doing in the water. So, that's a good thing! But the rest of him? The mud is slowly starting to dry out in some places where it's particularly thin, making him look like he's growing scales in some spots. For now, he leaves Weslyn to handle himself here - but the brown is, no doubt, scheming somewhere in his mind. Quyen gives Larze an if-you-say-so sort of shrug before she resumes scrubbing until well… she runs out of green flank to scrub. "That was quicker than I'd imagine it'd take." But that happens when you have four-ish people scrubbing together on a smaller dragon. "And who's to say any of that trio is gonna Impress?" Zekaraiya counters, pointing the brush at Larze gently. "It ain't guaranteed, you know." Look at him, confidence personified. He has no idea, not really; he gives Yaszha a questioning look to confirm that, and she does, maybe, by mentioning the two-to-one odds. "Besides, the lady rider says they can pick from the Stands, too. You ain't gotta put up with 'em." A pause, then, as an all-out war of mud, water, and dragon tail breaks out, and it's Zeke's hope that the Trio With One Cell Betwixt them come out much the worse for wear. "'Come, man, look at them. Don't even know they're outmatched, there." Thad is no lightweight, being one half the muscle behing the trio. It's probably why Thad is shocked into silence as he's 'tossed' so. Face blazing with anger, the big candidate surges up from the water, murder in his eyes. And it's probably not fair for Weslyn that the other two hold brats are looking at him with real spite in their eyes. "You best watch yourself 'round them dark corners. Lard'o is pretty accident prone. You don't wanna be like that." Brit warns in low tones. Forgetting that the dragon might inform with his rider …. or…just arrogant enough to think the dragon will take his side. "Mmhm. She goes quicker than some," Yaszha opines with a nod to Quyen. "But she's also a fan of soaking in the water as much as she loves sunbathing. So, she doesn't really get that dirty," even if the greenrider might jokingly suggest otherwise. "She'll need a good oiling, but I'll leave that for some other candidates to do after she dries off. It looks like that one will need some helping hands," for at least half of him, anyway; the other half appears to be pretty clean. "Thank you, all of you, for helping out with her. If she could re-Search you all in thanks, she absolutely would." The greenrider glances to Zekaraiya and nods, adding as an aside, "No, there is no guarantee of Impression; some people Stand until they age out." Larze nods his head, seeming relieved at the news that some baby dragonette might still find a rider if the pickings are slim. "That would be neat. Maybe it'd happen for my sister. She'd make a real good rider." He gets that far off look on his face before blinking back to the conversation. He nods and scowls as he watches the antics. "Wish they'd just get sent home. I'm just…I ain't no snitch." He looks at the work in front of him. "Should we go help with the brown? Might take ALL of us." Because the trio sure ain't helping. There's a problem in certain assumptions - and assuming Ixzhulqvoth will choose any side is a huge mistake. The brown doesn't trumpet or bellow; in fact, aside from his rumbles, he's eerily quiet - but his rider needs none of that to manifest. Ichor and blood alike stain her hands as Khu makes her way to the lake, her apron smeared and grotesque, but indicative of how recently her work has been abandoned. Her hands lift and clap together sharply, meant to draw attention. "Enough." For candidates? Her lifemate? It seems to be more for the former, for the brown swings his head 'round to look at her with an adoration that's evident in the rapid wheel of blue eyes. "I will see to the rest of his cleaning. Go, go, and do not make the mistake of thinking dragons are deaf or that the Weyr is blind." Pointed, that, though only three are truly at the receiving end of that sharpness. And incidentally send assist in getting the trio embarrassed further? Zeke's all for it. He gives Yaszha a brilliant smile for her confirmation - if they're all lucky, the three will walk away sans baby dragon. "Mhm. I see." He grins wryly at Larze, considering subtle mayhem to make the lives of the boys uncomfortable — but what's this? A reprimand in the form of an authority the group has no choice but to respect. "Don't think ya gotta." Zekaraiya considers thoughtfully, for it seems both Yaszha and Khu are keenly aware of them, and will be keeping an even keener eye upon them. "Maybe we should go help. You're right about that." The brownrider isn't her wingleader, but she is a wingleader, and Yaszha pushes herself to her feet to tip the other woman a salute. Then it's back to sitting, while Zheraszth wades out of the water to find somewhere to dry off - some distance from the lake, for good measure. It won't do her any good to get muddy or icky before she's dried off enough for an oiling, after all. As for the greenrider? She'll make herself scarce soon enough, now that her dragon's been so dutifully tended to. Weslyn ignores the trio with all the flare of his typical rank, but to Khu, he bows his head. "Yes, ma'am," he says as he moves back towards the water. It was good to see you again, Ixzhulqvoth." Once on the beach, he drops the brush and the soap bag into the bucket and picks up his towel. For all his pleasant nature a few minutes ago, the Smithcrafter suddenly becomes very quiet as he turns inwards, muttering a "list" of items softly to himself. Looks like sparkle bombs might very well be in the works in the near future. Cleaning Chaos: Dragon Edition has 0 comments. |
11 Mar 2024 04:00 |
Khu & Ixzhulqvoth, Larze, Quyen, Weslyn, Yaszha & Zheraszth, Zekaraiya, NPCs: Brit, Thad, Thorne |
Dragons need washed. The candidates do their best. Ixzhulqvoth does not help. |
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The Wrong Business The Wrong Business
"Shut up." The Tea Room This shop is easy to miss from the street. It bears the same striped awning that most shops have, this one in shades of lilac and sand, but it has no sign save for a plaque of sandstone hung beside the door, on which a teacup has been carved. When open, the heavy curtain that covers the doorway is pulled aside to allow entry. After stepping through, one will find themselves in a tiny space decorated with classic desert touches. The walls are whitewashed to increase the sense of light within but the floor is tiled in hues of blue and green, with each tile bearing in its center a brilliant red lotus. There are only five small tables, all of them of dark, heavily carved wood set low to the ground. To sit at one requires reclining on the plethora of pillows and cushions and layered rugs provided for that purpose; each seat is provided with a carved wooden back-prop to rest the pillows against, for those who want spinal support. Tea is served from the service at the rear of the room, where a tiny smokeless hearth keeps water heated, and a row of trays are kept loaded with teapots, tiny cups, and containers for sweetener. There is a small selection of fruits, breads and cheeses also available for those looking for a snack but this is not a place for heavy meals. It's a beautiful autumn day, quite comfortable for the desert, and the candlemark comes for T'rin to presumably have some time off for consumption of food. But of more pressing matters, there's still 'business' to be had this day. The bright day, and bright walls, soon give way for the cool, dark columns of Luxeraeth's hellish mindscape as the great bronze reaches out to a very particular Steen heir. « Ezra, mine would like to speak business with you. Weyr business, in case that should be specified. » Amusement tints the dragon's Fortian-esque accent. « Would the Tea Room suffice? » Imperial columns of creatures entirely unhuman should not become… "familiar"— and yet, as though another trauma for the boy to process, Luxeraeth has settled on the outskirts of the known conscious, a tolerated inconvenience. The bronze is left to wait on the cusp of Ezra's questionable attention. Possibilities roll about, simulated in the way Ezra lays his forefinger on a nearby small metal container and glides it back and forth on the table. The Weyrleader and he barely "speak" much anymore; not that a sober Steen can claim. And in the blaze of the light of day, it must burn down to the truth: business, then. The young man pulls one leg towards himself, knee in, and then extends it again, deepening his languid lounge. Considering the careful crafting of light and tile playing to the ceiling of the place. A wash of sweet and sharp scents — and cheeses of both — more naturally relaxing than any spa. Head mostly dependent on the cloud of pillows shoved beneath, Ezra glances over each shoulder. There is no such thing as privacy in the Bazaar, but two of five tables are occupied, and the Steen heir's number four, at the back curve of his low table when coming from the entrance. Of the Tea Room. The metal container is a very precisely shaped, very expensive, leaf tea infuser. His mug's been on the table a while: empty, with dark grounds of leftover tea sludge forming ambiguous symbols to be read. So… would the Tea Room suffice…. "… Mmhm." The one other patron and Steen attendant at the hearth pause, but decide to take no mind. « 'Mmhm.' He will arrive shortly. » Luxeraeth recedes his little touch, still tinted with that good natured humor, and then there's nothing for a few minutes. Swift as a dragon's ::between:: can be, it can do little good with walking through the Bazaar, even if the busy rider was already enroute before the the call went out; the Bazaar being the general locale required, there was at least some time cut in the process. Stepping through the curtain of the doorway, finally, the herb pack is not over his shoulder, but rather that other pack, the one that tends to carry the rather monotonous hidework that Ezra had previously found to be unworthy of stealing. Now inside, the rider loosens his shemagh for the inevitable consumption of tea, and makes a direct line towards the young Steen. What can't be hidden is the affectionate smile he has plastered on his face as he approaches. "Good day, Ez. May I?" Steen business, Steen table, daylight hours. Anticipating the imminent arrival of political business— Ezra's done absolutely nothing; he's not even sitting up when T'rin's silhouette brushes from outside to inside, hustled into the untouched precision of the Room. Could almost make you think the Bazaar had not met with an ill hand. Except a scar on the land is a scar in Ezra; he's blooded whenever anyone else of the caldera comes to misfortune. He does place a hand and leg underneath him to begin rising as the Weyrleader makes final approach. The Steen heir's begun to change again. Dark curls have grown longer, left to toil down the side of his face as they grow too heavy for the pompadour. Just a little handful make it into a knot at the back of his head, keeping the shifting length from brushing against his neck throughout the warm days. He does scratch idly there. While it's been a slowly incremental transition — often unnoticed when seeing each other day-to-day — T'rin's… not precisely known for not staring. Now with his legs partially drawn in, he rests that fidgeting hand's elbow on the one knee. "Go ahead," that low unbothered rumble cracked by wryness, "Your creature already didn't ask." Tolerated; not left off the hook. "He never does." T'rin settles into the seat and puts the bag to his side. It's not opened just yet, so it still leaves the subject of the meeting as clear as mud. "Don't be afraid to just tell him to fuck off. He won't take offense." Being on that exclusively tiny list of people Luxeraeth will directly talk to and holding himself amused at the young man, Ezra might have some difficulty getting on the bronze's bad side. Settling in comfortably, he'll wait patiently for the usual tea service, making no request to expedite based on his knot upon his shoulder or who he's chatting with. The pause is clear as his eyes remain calmly upon Ezra and he taps the tabletop, not out of a request, but out of working through his own thoughts. "Yes, business…" as though to confirm Luxeraeth's term, as well as attempt to be a shift into the discussion at hand. He has. Told Luxeraeth to fuck off in those precisely lined up words, but it's from an experience Ezra has no compulsion to revisit — can only be dragged, kicking and drinking, on any dragonback now. Ezra only benignly blinks through T'rin's gamely explanation. He'll field no complimentary view of himself in regards to a dragon kin's feelings; no one's ever really able to tell they have them. Not really. It's a thing riders say. It's the smoky satisfaction of Lu in his head, all pipe lighting and so proud of himself after. Thinking he's subtle — or not caring. He's just Tee, isn't he. Tee wanting without boundaries. Either this or any other unreadable palette paints the Steen's features through the properly luxurious slowness of tea service; to rush would be to disrespect it. Where his one leg is propped up near him, now the other drops its knee in front, heel almost to heel, where he can pick heavy-ringed fingers at the autumnal fabrics of the rich and famous. Today, noon, his tunic is contrarily open. Several buttons, though the gentle fabric lays over itself almost enough not to glimpse his chest, a few dark hairs. He denied a replenishing of tea and is beginning to grasp at the corners of regretting it when he has to stare out from under his eyebrows at the Igen Weyrleader. "Say 'business' one more time." Hardly could be a threat? Sounds awful like one; a dare, even. What's hardly is the etiquette of crown prince Steen; he's been known to grow bored and wander away from relatively important conversations in the past, and can surely do so willfully. Not that Luxeraeth would remember his faux pas that led to Ezra's additional aversion. Even today's visit is largely on the bronze's urging more than T'rin's own, because he knows how this will go down; he knows the young man well enough, without the benefit of forgetting after so many days. With a soft laugh, his eyes move to the table briefly, and then from his lounging position, he pulls the pack into his lap. That action alone, business in hand, has calmed his features down to a neutral expression. What is pulled out is not hide, nor herb, nor any manner of first aid. What is pulled out is a simple white knot, as stark as the Steen's family color and lack of adornment, highlighting its low yet honored standing within the rank structure. "I formally ask if you would be willing to Stand for Pariisamith's clutch." Already from his lounged sitting does the young man contemplate, and then begin to orchestrate, stretching the propped up knee over towards T'rin's borrowed side of the low Steen table. Perhaps to thieve a pillow, or merely to press the advantage of his foot being there, on the Weyrleader's part of the seating, flexing the younger man's power in this meet— or like an ornery sibling bidding for superior space. Something he'd know nothing about. But the flash of white caught up in the young man's nebulous dark eyes trades their place another way. Neutral is shifted aside for a bare but present consternation; focused mostly in Ezra's eyebrows, so that little else betrays him until he's bent forward, scolding lowly, "Shut up." No barely to think, whispered disbelief, nor amazement, nor that blubbering honored confusion that stagger other young people. There's an earnest worry there, on Ezra's deliberate features, sharpened by disappointment. Still forward, in one smooth and swift movement, he's already grasped his empty tea mug, clamped it over the offensive white accessory. With a lightning quick thrust — reminiscent but leagues faster than any he's performed high — he slides both mug and knot to the edge of the table. Letting the formal offer drop silently to the padded and pillowed floor by Ezra's half-out leg, while the Steen keeps hold of the mug. The Steen— heir to Essau— with every thread and tile where they meet seeped with Steen colours; their eyes and ears. Painted on the floor, their presumed knowledge: that red lotus its beating heart of the territory. Maybe the patron at table two or the attendant who was just at the hearth again but cannot, now, be tracked. Even though Ezra drops backward like to lean again, empty mug rocked against his chest, the fearsome edge in his gaze remains heated. T'rin lets out a long, deep exhale. There is disappointment written on the Weyrleader's face, but very much anticipated disappointment. "Very well," he replies, even his tone fairly neutral. Luxeraeth is going to whine about this missed opportunity later, but the bronze can deal. He kicks his leg out to hook the white knot upon his boot, and reels it back in for a simple, discreet replacement back into the bag, out of sight. He could go on about notable riders within his bloodline, and that he would be serving the Bazaar, but T'rin knows better. That topic is very obviously concluded, and he hasn't been kicked out of the shop, so there is that. "There's something else," he says as his tone becomes more somber and the adjustment of his seating again reflects the subject change, in part to try to become more comfortable, and in part to hopefully transition Ezra out of the last query. "Issa's… severely injured after a recent Threadfall. She's in the Infirmary. You're under no obligation to visit, but… I thought you should know." The Weyrleader can exhale all he likes; not quite so soon will the legitimate concern abandon Ezra's mind, or look. The subtle rolling of one shoulder back against the pillows, easing his posture into a practiced one — if only by half. 'Very well' he mouths sardonically although, with his own exhale that follows, the man's already becoming the unbothered youth again. His only last indication of what's befallen them is his leg drawing back, foot against the table's stem beneath, keeping them on their separate sides. Once again merely watching T'rin, the Steen's barely time to feel uncertainty rise again before it's knocked clearly off with the little jolt of surprise that accompanies the information given… to him. Ezra's eyes stare across the table, disappearing behind two long, lazy blinks as a sober mind wanders darkness for a tinge of light, of understanding. Fingers twirl the mug in his hand once and a half times but, this shuffling in the recall that it's empty, he sets it blindly aside. Usually a mundane thought may release one's true vision just out of reach. Nonesuch here. He exercises his jaw noiselessly a second and then decides, "… Okay." The polite thing to do: acknowledge one has been spoken at. Even if he's less structured at disguising both his confusion of what thread ties him to this, and the blandness of reply it causes. Curiosity breaks through, sliding in at the last possible moment; it must have overslept. "Aren't dragonriders injured all the time?" If the Bazaar was supposed to be furnishing two hundred or more tithes of consolation, this is news to this family member, at least. "Not like this," T'rin replies with a painful shake of his head with the moisture in his eyes betraying his emotions in the matter. Even the Healer within him is worried about the injury of his partner and its long-term repercussions. He purses his lips into a tight line and with a twitch of his eyebrow, he suggests softly to Ezra, "If you've time later, maybe we can grab a drink or ten to keep my mind off of it." T'rin, sitting up and rather not settled comfortably at the low table keeps to his half of his table, Ezra to his half. There's far more affecting this request than the 'official' one that he had set before him prior, that even bringing it up has changed his demeanor. Ezra merely watches again; not without sympathy, but mostly weighing the true consequence to such a low suggestion, not out of line with them but laced with such personal ingredients beneath. Even the famously lazy young man appears to have been jostled, twice over now, from his relaxation and he shifts against his pillows, no longer finding the comfort of before; a body that will need to move soon. "If that's what you'd like," his ever-so-easy reply sits above all that which the Weyrleader has dragged in with himself this afternoon. The tea attendant still has not returned. Service sits empty and quiet, considering the one other patron nursing these last candlemarks. A long inhale by Ezra. "As long as you're not planning on bringing any more business." That surely cursed other bag slung nearby. Less familiar, and now: enemy. Slightly, this stranger tension cracks, bringing out a breathless gasp, "Cannot believe you'd show that here." Ezra's head shakes, just a little, but even a little is now enough to loosen the curls to move with him. "Do you like looking at my face?— Wait, don't answer that." More words than usually said sober, but the taut string of T'rin's barely held emotions are making Ezra antsy enough to smoke. His knee bounces once or twice. Surely there are riders for which this would be sensible. And yet- and so with them both in no more privacy than the near-back of the small Room, Ezra leans forward, ostensibly to shift empty mug from pillow bed to table. However, blocked by the Weyrleader's frame, the Steen's arm slips forward and, hesitating once, commits to laying a couple of fingers on the rider's wrist. Hopping all over Pern is Sriella's life at the moment, though one might wonder why she got a wagon if she's always begging rides off dragonriders, but, well, that's a question for another time. She's not usually here though, the Tea Room typically far too fancy for her tastes, but here she is, carefully weaving between the tables towards the back of the room. But since there's no one there, she just leans against the counter and naturally, curiously, lets her gaze drift back to T'rin's table. Then. Brows arch. Ooooh, damn. What's she walked into. She turns back to the empty service station. "Hello?" she calls to the back of the house. "Yes." T'rin's simple one-word response could be for any number of the statements and questions put forward by the young Steen, aside from one. In low tones, he adds, "Well, no on the business. I won't, but I can't guarantee Lux won't try to bring it up again, dragon memories as they are." He offers a weak smile back towards him, and then the sound of Sriella's voice pulls him out of that whole wibbly wobbly fog of concerns. With a single nod towards Ezra, he pulls his hands back, leaning back into the cushions of the chair. "Sriella, it's been a while," he greets warmly, although his eyes still appear a little glassy from a recent topic of conversation. Ezra's skepticism has made a comeback as the rider twists away from their conversation, but, then again— There it is. "Well. That's my lounging ruined," he remarks airily, still keeping to tones of utter privacy between him and T'rin. Whoever's across the room can call as they like: service is, as seen, momentarily closed. On his note, Ezra's risen with a graceful swirl of expensive fabrics made to do just this. From habit, he coasts a hand along his hair. More dangerous now, it seems, as it threatens to release the tense little bun barely long enough to live, there at the nape of his neck. T'rin's left the gift of Ezra's long empty mug, the soggy fortunes within jostled out of distinction by that expression of another possible fate. "If you need me— " By merit of standing, that rumbling baritone of his gets louder to reach the low-seated Weyrleader. But what reach? At this declaration — answered quite sufficiently in their hidden exchange, yet so dangerously worded — Ezra pauses, his balance drifting slightly back and forth from stolen momentum, blocked by his own dismissal. His features twist into a soft hrrmm, although the noise does not escape. So instead, he opts to merely leave it, exactly as it is. He sweeps in his deft way around from the back of the far table, glances down, now, at the Weyrleader… an extended hand perfectly positioned to dip and press comfortingly to that shoulder… Doesn't. He curls his fingers anxiously together and slips away into one of the private doorways through the back. Where he may possible stay, not really so far at all, feeding the felines that have gathered in his wake. Sriella is still hopeful there's someone back there, because wouldn't the outer doors be locked if they were actually closed? T'rin is given a smile, but since he has company she does nothing but watch Ezra make his exit, curious ice-blue eyes observing his departure. Once he's gone, she drifts to T'rin's table with a little smile. "T'rin." Eyes shift to where Ezra departed, and then back. "That didn't seem to go well," she says with a tilted, slightly sympathetic smile. "Bad meeting?" Those are never fun. "How're you?" "No, that went better than expected, but Luxeraeth insisted," T'rin replies with a half-smile, pulling up his pack full of work hides, and discarded white knot. Bringing himself to his feet to better meet Sriella face to face, he throws the pack's strap over his shoulder casually. "The matter of greater concern is… Well, Issa's in the Infirmary. She got hit bad by a patch in Threadfall." His eyes start to trail off a bit, drifting over towards the entryway than Sriella directly. "I should, while I still have some of this afternoon available, get some things to bring to her… But if you'd like, I'm sure she'd appreciate some visitors." If she's conscious. Even the Healer in T'rin is affected by the severity of the score. Sriella winces at that news. "Shit, I'm sorry," she says, tone heavy with concern. "Does she like anything here?" she asks, looking back at the still closed service area. "If they ever come back…?" She notices that white knot and her eyes drift towards the man who left. "I turned down Search once," she says, a smile for the bronzerider. "It's just not right for some people…" "She loves tea," T'rin replies with a half-shrug. "She and Ezra have discussed various tea blends in the past." He turns his head back in the direction the Steen had disappeared with an affectionate gaze. Readjusting the strap he slowly nods once. "I hate to depart on you right after you arrived, but I should get to that. My night is also accounted for now." Drink, drink, drink. "But we should catch up soon?" Despite the awkward conversation for her to walk into, the statement is genuine. With an apologetic look, he starts towards the front. Sriella nods, "Sure, I'll take her something if I can, or send it if I can't." If the back of the shop ever opens again. She tracks his gaze to where the young man - Ezra? - departed, and she gives a little nod. Then a warmer smile. "I'm sure we'll find a time eventually," she reassures. "Safe roads, Weyrleader." The Wrong Business has 0 comments. |
11 Mar 2024 05:00 |
There's some business you just don't bring up to a Steen, white knots are one of them. |
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Monsters
River Clearing Just north of the river delta, the jungle's grip loosens enough to expose the sand-enriched soil and lichen-kissed rocks as the river battles through the rapids before dumping into the gentler delta. Cacophony of sound is made through the roar of the rapids, the spray of white water as it rains upon the nearby shores, and the shrieking of birds and wild firelizards that call from the nearby jungles. Treacherous to cross, most would follow the bank to either the river's delta or the calmer river bank, but a few courageous souls find the lure of the rapids too tempting to not cross as the far bank holds the promise of accomplishment. Not all Seacrafters are alike: Kjartan's rest day could have been spent upon his journeyman's boat, but it is not. It could have been spent in the Tipsy Kitten, tossing darts and throwing back ale, but it is not. On this fine, fine, fine spring day, Kjartan stands over an upturned dingy shirtless with trousers hanging low on his hips while he roughly sands out the bottom boards of his boat. A bucket of pant and sealant sit off to the side, and it's clear he's been at it for a while as the dingy itself is dry. It's not very big, but seems to be a personal vessel - at least for now, anyway. Two necklaces hang around his neck, one in gold and one in silver, and they wing with each sway and swing of his arms sanding down the old paint to bare wood. With Rukbat barely halfway through the morning, it looks as if the seacrafter started early to be as far along as he is. The dingy itself is set up on some rocks to keep it from the wet earth of the river's clearing. Indeed, it is a fine day, fine enough for a green and her rider to have just a little jaunt right outside the Weyr proper, a slow and sedate speed of flight along the river's edge, like it's been a game perhaps to trace the river's course until. Until. The landscape melds and shifts to the clearing on the riverside. A stir of wings, a rush of air, and the curvy green sets down easily — though away — from the overturned boat and its owner. Rillawyth's rider does not linger aboard her lifemate, no. The redhead — in a tank and trousers for this seemingly more casual gallivant — slides from the straps and makes a beeline straight for Kjartan and his dinghy. Walking up to him with his back turned to her, she calls out in a not-so-friendly greeting, "You Seacrafter Kjartan?" that — despite the nice temps of the day — holds a distinct iciness. Dragons and their riders are a thing of weyrs, and while Kjartan is not a boy of weyrs, he has come to understand what the sounds mean. At first, he gives little care to the sound of dragon wings, though the gusts of air that inevitably come his way tightens tension at the corners of his mouth in mild annoyance for the small disruption. Perhaps surprise at being found out here — though his whereabouts are not secret, any could easily suss them out — by a random dragonrider has him straightening and turning around, sanding tool still in hand. "Yeah, sure." Kjartan squints against Rukbat's glare, taking in Brissa and Rillawyth as one eye squeezes shut against Rukbat's bright light. "I'm off duty, so can't help you." Just in case Brissa were here to extract work from him, he's making it (assily) plain he's on personal time. Or maybe it's in response to her icy tone shaping his name. Brissa's morning began, see, with a little trip to the seacraft compound, and told the 'Kjartan' — which she mispronounced when first asking after him, but here manages to enunciate in perfect, perfect coldness — she was seeking was somewhere along the river. Tracing that path lead Rillawyth and Brissa here, to this moment, where the greenrider has memorized a laundry list of complaints she has come to personally, face-to-face register with this seacrafter with whom she has only had not-so-nice correspondence. Her finger even lifts to get ready to point it in his face when he turns around: but once he does? Blue eyes sweep up and down and take stock of this unknown, unhelpful misdeliverer at her cottage. "Oh." That almost-breathy exhale escapes before she's aware of it, the woman's hand already curling to her chest in second-thought of lettin' him have it, when he faces her fully. Brissa stalls out, for a blip of a second, mashing her lips together, taken aback by something that didn't quite meet her expectations. The green behind her, lovely in the sunlight, seems to be enhanced by Rukbat's rays this morning, in some small way; and the dragon stretches languidly before settling down, like a spectator ready to watch some sort of sport. Perhaps it is that, or some sort of exchange, that has the woman regaining composure, pursing her lips while narrowing her eyes to see nothing but Kjartan's face. "You." A breath. "Dumped your shit in front of my cottage and made it look like a fucking midden pile. I had to spent three restdays clearing it up when you didn't even come get it." Kjartan's single brow-lift as the woman shifts from harridan to sighing simpleton, lips twitching at her breathless 'Oh.' Dark blue gaze shifts from greenrider to the green behind her and then back to the rider before folding his arms across his chest, the sanding tool dangingling easily from loose-finger'd grip. "Me." As if the woman can't quite string together more than one syllable sounds. Yet, that amusement darkens into a scowl when she goes on to lecture him on something that was entirely not his doing at all. With each word, his brow lowers as the only bright spot in his demeanor comes with the glint of metal. From the gold chain hangs a golden disk that looks a bit like a signet, and from the silver hangs what looks to be a pendant of silver shaped like an anchor as well as what appears to be the Seacraft emblem. At some point, he realizes that he's coming face to face with the crazy chick. "First," he holds his tone reasonable, even conversational so point for Kjartan, "I didn't dump shit at any cottage. I sent things needing repair to the Seacraft and if they got diverted, it's on Southern Weyr's obviously lacking messenger," read: mail, "system for getting it wrong." Once more, he squints at Brissa and then at Rillawyth and then settles his attention on Brissa. With eyes as dark as rich sapphires, his regard could be described equally unfriendly, but he points out, "If you had actually asked nicely," again, he manages to lift one brow, "perhaps I might have helped you, but I got a page of glittery writing demanding I do whatever the fuck the writer wants. So, with all do regards…" A mocking shirtless bow now, "… fuck off." Oh yes, Kjartan. The crazy chick. The greenriding crazy chick of the cottages. Here with her glittery, sparkly green. "If they came from you and were for you, they are your responsibility," she insists, mirroring his movements subconsciously by crossing her arms over her chest. "What, were you going to just — let them live there? Until you remembered you needed them back, repaired? They would've been rusted by that point, buddy." Sidenote: he isn't her buddy. "In my yard." How many times has she mentioned that grievance? Brissa has spent turns developing relationships with crafters. She adores them, almost all the time. She caters to them, goes out of her way for them, helps them in whatever Craft-related endeavors that calls for transport or travel. But in this instance — or maybe this particular occasion, with her jewel of a dragon half-distracting her — she is not being so amiable. Or accommodating. Or even trying to win Kjartan's favor. "But I shouldn't be so surprised that a little apprentice was responsible for this." One who just dismissively bowed her away while telling her to fuck off. Her eyes flash a little, at that, and she takes a step forward, her hands finding her hips. "I decided to help you out, and had them taken all the way back to where they came from," instead of where they were supposed to go, "so you'll have to resend them all again to wherever they were going to be repaired." A crisp little smile in mock-return to his faux-formality, and she may even toss some of her fire-red hair over her shoulder as she does so. "Look, I was busy," hunting a sea monster, "and couldn't, at the time, come and retrieve them myself." Nor did Kjartan want to, truth be told. Watching her at first mimic his stance, then advance on him as she warms to her argument, her lecturing, her anger, has him somewhat impressed at how damn tightly she holds onto anger what… sevens after he sent the mails? He gives no ground — he can't, actually, with the dingy behind him, but he wouldn't have anyway — when she comes closer until the space between them closes. "Little, huh?" dry humor courses through his voice when he looks down at her. "Lady, I've been in the seacraft near a decade, more time than most new journeymen. I'm bound to rank only by my age, so yeah, this lowly apprentice sent a bunch of things to get serviced that got misdirected. Golly gee! Hang me now! Send me on the way to be exiled!" He smirks, but when she states her last, his eyes widen and he rears back a few centimeters. "Damn, lady, I didn't think you had it out for the orphaned children like that. That's cold." Is he fucking with her? It's really hard to tell as he keeps a damn good poker face (he'd have to, being in the Seacraft), dark, dark blue eyes yielding little other than a furrowed brow of 'concern'. "Guess they won't get to send the sick ones on their 'make-a-wish' journeys." Turning his head away from the fire-spirited greenrider, it might be to shield her from seeing his amusement, though again, hard to tell. For he's distracting her by clucking his tongue, and then thrusting the sanding tool at her. "Look, if you're looking for an apology form me, don't waste your breath, but if you are going to continue to lecture me, then you can sand down that corner of the dingy. I don't got all day out here, there's a river monster to be discovered." She can take it or let it drop in the dirt, he's got a spare! "And I aim to get this sucker ready so I can go out on my next rest day." Did he say… river monster? "Lake monster? I don't know, some giant man-eating thing in the water, that I am absolutely going hunting for." That… pointed rebuttal of his size isn't lost on Brissa, her eyes lifted to his but she will not issue a retraction at this point of the argument — lecture — stand-off, whatever this is. She'll stand by her opinion — which he clearly received — that by little she meant lowly, and he may even prove his point for her when he goes on and on following that smirk which she definitely noticed. If he's trying to manipulate her, there is a sideways glance towards Rillawyth — fact-checking? — and a momentary scowl that mars her freckled features. "A what? Make-a-what? That's not a thing," she snaps dismissively, attempting to avoid the bait, the guilt, the idea that she could be a villain for orphans. While also attempting, this close in proximity, not to look fully at him looming so near to her. With a startled sound of surprise, she takes the sander, cradling it like a baby, looking at the tool in her arms uncomprehendingly. "A water monster? There's no such thing." Skeptical, he's obviously fucking with her again to try to get her to fuck off, and while she is dearly tempted to stay and hover just to get close to under his skin, ahem. Rillawyth is… Rillawyth… has had enough of this sidequest because something much more entertaining for her will be coming soon. But Brissa seems to shrug off something unheard, an impatient look towards her dragon, before her attention settles fully back on Kjartan. "Aren't you going to ask my name?" The greenrider suddenly sounds disappointed that he hasn't yet, or hasn't given any indication he remembers it. She has yet to chuck the tool — a good or bad sign? — and has yet to step back from the seacrafter, towards the corner. "You can always ask the orphans," Kjartan throws out, as if sealing the idea that his broken seacraft stuff was in deed to fix a ship up to carry sad, sickly dying orphans on their heart's last wish… there is such a program, but with some sleuthing, she could easily find out that his stuff was not meant for a ship of sad, dying orphans. "I'm not lying, it's what an older rider told me," Kjartan makes pointed sanding gestures at the greenrider as if to prompt her into action. The action of doing half his work for him, by the by. "She told me someone got injured by the monster, and it's massive. Like dragon massive." Grabbing up his other sanding tool, he leans over and begins sanding the boards in long, even strokes. The muscles of his back and chest work in time with the movements, testament to a hard life at sea in the 'craft. "Cordially yours," he singsongs her salutation in perfect memory, "Brissa and Rillawyth, Serval Wingriders, Southern Weyr, the Cottages." He slants her an amused look, lips holding some enigmatic purchase around what might be as mile, "I didn't realize dragonriders lived in houses and not weyrs. Always figured you lot lived in stone, but again, I protest any responsibility for what mistakes a messenger makes." Nor will he apologize, and maybe a hint of mirth does glint in dark, dark blue gaze before he turns back to his dingy. "If I can find the sea creature… I'm curious what it'd look like. I've seen a lot of bad shit out on the open waters with teeth to eat flesh, but nothing so large." Yet, anyway. Yet. If she's getting under his skin, he hides it well or maybe merely because there's so much skin there to need to work her way under. The chains swing now with every swipe, glittering in sunlight. "You interested in seeing the monster?" If Brissa is concerned about the monster, then maybe she'll forget to lecture him. Look, Brissa hasn't ever sanded anything in her life, so please forgive her for taking a little too long to observe Kjartan's technique, and the muscles needed for such endeavors. Don't tell the seacrafter the movements are familiar to her — washing great lengths of dragon hide incorporates some of the same motions — for as she rounds to one side of the boat, she continues to watch his progress. "I added all that so you would know where to come," defends her sign-off, and his mockery of it, though her lips purse slightly after such protest. She finally looks at the actual boat, for the first time, with an assessing mien, pushing the sander atop the curve of its upturned bottom. "Which you didn't," and he may have reminded her — after distracting her — and wound her back up again, for she continues with, "but yes, it's a much cozier arrangement than a dank, cold, dark stone weyr-cave," that many other dragonriders still fancy. "Especially when the area out in front is cleared of someone's shit." Hasn't quite gotten distracted enough, yet. Too, she has yet to actually move the sander across the grain of the boat's planks, back to watching Kjartan now across from the boat's curvature, her expression absent-minded. Listening to him? Or something else? Brissa blinks at the chains' sounds, suddenly, or perhaps its the light thrown by them, then gingerly — half-heartedly — makes the first swiping motion with the sander in faint, feeble mimicry of Kjartan. "Seeing the — monster? No." It could almost be classified as a scoff, her answer. "Will you win a prize if you do?" That may be a little smirk from her, here. "Coward," Kjartan levels at her, letting all those pointed comments roll right off his broad back for her cottage and dankness of a weyr for he calls a ship home and it's probably more akin to a weyr than a cottage in comforts. "It isn't about winning anything," he points out, "but about seeing something you've never seen before. I am not doing it to get first dibs on the monster." Nor does he seem inclined to want to kill it either, but merely find it, seek it, see it, and leave it to wherever or whatever it wants to do with it's life. If he's aware she's taking her time watching him before she ever gets to the half-hearted sanding, the only indication comes with a moment's pause and lift of brows before he's back to aggressively sanding. "So, Brissa of the cottages," he begins mildly, "Are you always so quick tempered?" He still has the lashes on his proverbial back from her tongue, and maybe they sting a little. Blond hair falls forward, catching Rukbat's light and turning golden though sweat beads on brow and shoulders, rivulets running down the sides of his temples as he, at least, puts effort into the sanding. Of course, it is his boat, so he has vested interest in making sure the job's done well. His question might be a little off putting but for the amused half-smile turned on her with a quick turn of his head to catch her in the frame of his attention. "I fight Thread," Brissa's sharp reminder comes with a roll of a feminine laugh, "and been 'Scored by it," so whatever Kjartan may think of her lack of interest in a sea monster, the greenrider will never think it makes her a coward. Maybe just a little boring. "But good luck," comes across just as half-hearted as her sanding efforts, but is timed with yet another lingering look upon him; this time to the necklaces which sways in the sunlight. Perhaps that implication — or his display of aggressive sanding — is impetus enough, for she picks up the pace a little more, without being as deft with the sander as the seacrafter. And as if her quick, offended response to being called a coward didn't answer his question already, the greenrider broods over her answer for several more intensive strokes before grudgingly admitting, "I try not to be," but of all the things Kjartan has spoken or asked of her, that wasn't one which rubbed her fur wrong. "Today's just…" She trails off, for that wouldn't help explain the glitter-green demands she wrote back to him. "Are you always so rude?" Kjartan will get an off-putting question in return, and while there isn't a smile, there's a curious glance across to him, the greenrider's silent attempt to reframe the seacrafter in a less irritating (and glittery) light, or else try to imagine him ever being charming under any other circumstance. "And yet you don't seek out new things?" Kjartan doesn't hammer her with it, for there does exist an impressed look, for the idea of fighting Thread isn't one that's lost on him. He's had to do ground fighting before, and it's not pretty so no matter what he might verbally label her, she is a dragonrider and a kernel of respect may still exist for that. He seems satisfied when she joins in the sanding, getting the work done rather than half-assedly skimming the sander on the wood. "Today's just what?" Does he recognize what is going on with Rillawyth? Most certainly not, for Kjartan doesn't seem to glance at Rillawyth beyond those first impression of a green and her rider. Instead, he turns attention to the work, the muscles of forearms and biceps working with each stroke, his weight balanced on his other hand, calloused from turns at sea and dealing with rigging, sails, and other elements of ship life. "Maybe," he admits with a shrug, "But I can't stand people who smile and lie either. You can tell a lot about a man by what he says and how he acts." A thread of darkness converges in his tone, but he shrugs it off, "And you came on strong and sounded insane." This time he does look up with a teasing grin, "So yeah, I'm probably rude in all those cases. Grew up on the sea, didn't have time to learn the flowery languages." "I sought out you." That rebuttal is more sly, more musical, and lower than Brissa intends, along with a smile that lashes — there and gone — with her words, an implication that spending her morning to locate the seacrafter qualifies for the greenrider as something new. She's stopped her motions to answer, and doesn't pick the sander back up quite yet. "Rilla," may be the beginning of why today is just… but here she nods towards her green, her look finally trailing away from the boat and boards and the shirtless man near it, to Rillawyth who is fair and gleaming in the sunshine. Captivated for a moment by the curvy dragon, she lets her silence stretch, before confiding with an absent, affectionate, almost feline-like smile, directed to her lifemate, "Rilla loves new things, actually." So perhaps a different day — a later date — her green's intrigue for the unknown will lead to more… wholesome curiosities. If a people-eating sea monster could classify in this instance! As if from a distance, she hears that sudden turn in his tone, that compelling darkness; but in her state of mind there is only a swell of intrigue for it, without the intention to pick at it. So for now? Brissa turns in time to catch Kjartan's grin, finding her own smile still in place, hers a slightly different quality than his teasing one. What was he saying about her appearing insane? Crazy? "At least I did not lie to you," she maintains, tilting her words to teasing, picking up the sander and carrying it around the boat until she is once more standing before him, this time with much, much less contention. Kjartan is a young man with eyes to see beautiful women fluttering their lashes in what might be coyness or slyness and his own expression shifts with the lift of his brows. 'Rilla' draws his attention to the green, squinting at the dragon as if to ascertain just what Brissa might mean, but alas, Kjartan might have heard the stories of what might cause dragonriders to shift their personalities, what he sees right now does not bear the same stereotypical markers the books might offer. That and his focus has been the ocean and her many, many moods so he's hardly one to judge the moods of human women when the ocean is so much more. "So you did," seek him out, grin sliding crooked and exposing the boyish nature of his demeanor at his teasing. His youth on display despite a maturity well beyond his turns, but he drops his head once more, sunlight gleaming off golden strands to sand a few more vigorous runs of the sander. "Nor I, you." He points this out with another lift of his head, eyes glinting. "I very plainly told you hell no, if I recall." Or some other vulgarity, but he is a sailor, and thus, his language has the markers of his craft. Straightening when she begins to walk around so he's once more achieved his full height by the time she comes to stand before him. The signet disc lays against his chest, shorter than the anchor and seacraft emblem on the silver chain, and the design of this side of it is of a thorned rose around either a dagger or sword. Details, unless she presses her face to his chest, are going to be hard to see with the bright light reflecting off the gold. "If 'Rilla'," he uses the nickname she does, "likes new things, then do new things." Beat. "Find a sea monster." Brissa closes in on him until she can pass the sander back to him, pushing it against his stomach though not swiftly nor sharply: slowly, so where she doesn't have reason to step away from him right away. Lips still curved in that sweet pursing smile, she hedges no impulses as before to only look at his eyes; blatant appreciation for the figure he cuts, she enjoys without broaching contact to see if she has, in fact, gotten under his skin, whatever little gleam those bright blues of hers may take. "I wish you hadn't told me no," drawls out sweet and thoughtful, such a contrast to the ire with which she greeted him not even a candlemark before. Rillawyth has stirred from her lounge — perhaps disappointed there were not more fireworks at this particular showdown — and rises to her feet with a long, lazy stretch, her tale flicking restlessly when there must be some silent insistence which passes between the green-rider pair. Brissa's attention finds the anchor pendant, though, and she lifts a finger to curl around one hooked side of it, pulling it away from his chest as she seems to give careful consideration to his exhortation. "Maybe," leaning just close enough to study the anchor, close enough to see that the sawdust from the sander which clings to her red hair, "I already did." A flick of her finger, and she releases his necklace, letting it fall back against his chest. "But I just can't stay to find out." One comely smile imparting her pity that she is most desperately required elsewhere, Brissa backsteps a few paces before turning to walk quickly the rest of the way to Rillawyth: brighter, and beautiful, and glowing. One dragging look over her shoulder to the young seacrafter, then the greenrider is deftly scaling the straps to settle upon her lifemate. Kjartan's smile trends towards a smirk, as he is most assuredly grateful he hadn't had to deal with all his own junk, but he'd never confess that. Her fingers find the metal he wears, the anchor coming up easily on its long chain for her to examine. Perhaps a name or letters are engraved on the front side of the anchor, perhaps not. It would take a finer and longer look to discern those tiny letters, but suffice to say the two pendants must have some meaning to Kjartan for the dark sapphire blue of his eyes narrows at her perusal of them. "Pity," his hand has come up to take the sander, watching Brissa with low-lidded eyes, blond eyelashes thick and long up close, where their fine, downy-blonde gold tips can be seen for the length they are. A hint of pale blonde scruff paints his cheeks, but then she's walking away and seacrafter will not deny himself the visual eye-candy that the greenrider cuts when he strolls to her glowing lifemate. Only when the pair are gone and his eyes have drank their fill does he turn back to his dingy with a huffing sound akin to laughter and the shake of his head. "Crazy ass woman," might be his words, yet, somehow they don't seem quite the same insult they had in the beginning. Eventually the heat, the humidity, and the work overcome the comely, proddy greenrider's attractive approach and returns his focus to the boat and his goal to finding the sea monster. Monsters has 0 comments. |
11 Mar 2024 05:00 |
A (proddy) Brissa comes to tell off an apprentice seacrafter profanity, minor proddy themes, talk of sea monsters, |
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Whiskers & Words & Miss June's Whiskers & Words & Miss June's
"I would be honored to have your services in my shop." Whiskers & Words Cafe Not a large shop, unlike other establishments, no lighting does the trick to add space, when the truth lies in the long lines of two main rooms and one entranceway. Little nooks carved out of oblong shapes lit by large windows overlooking the Southern jungles seen off the garden terraces. This spot was chosen not for the size but for the windows. Hewn of stone and wood, it was derelict, left in disrepair from a previous owner, but work has gone into making it cozy, though a better word would be 'rustic.' Golden afternoon sunlight spills through windows, lighting up dusty books and green plants in their pots all across the little bookshelves. The cafe part of the little shop is tiny, but the klah and wine are delicious. Some rare vintage wines can be found within such a humble establishment, besides various klah options to give the Klah Bark a run for their money. Whiskers & Words Cafe is the ultimate one-stop place to buy (or read!) books, sip klah or wine, and have cozy encounters with the felines that roam the various rooms. Wandering about are two friendly, love-seeking felines: Stylus, an orange tabby, and Parchment, a black tabby. Nineveh has a lot going on in her life: first, she's now living (temporarily) in her backroom, and she also has a full-time (wild man) worker who also may or may not be staying through the night as a 'family extortionist' deterrent; second, she cannot afford — scratch that, she does not want to keep buying ready-made treats for a high price when she can potentially hire someone. Eventually, she will likely hire on someone to help with sales, but one thing at a time for third, she needs to get that safe installed. So here Nineveh is, opening the shop on a bright spring day with her display of intrigue mystery adventure romances — not smut — set as front a center with the latests Shoes book, "A Breeder's Shoes" prominently set up. She caters primarily to parents (children) and to the lonely hearts (romance) crowd at this point, with the rest of the shoppers falling into a wide array of interests. Behind the counter, she pinches off the edge of a scone, the others warm and delightful, sitting on a plate for her first customers. The shop is empty of either customers or Clayd, and it is just Nineveh, reading through a purchase order list. Poor Hal will see "A Breeder's Shoes" and be SUSPICIOUS of that title. But, alas, poor Hal has a brief reprieve from embarrassment for it is Cahia that comes to the bookshop this morning. Should Cahia have given warning first? Should she have set up a time to come for her audition, as it were? Maybe she should have but she did not, so it's a surprise Baker who carefully navigates through the doorway with her tray of delicious fresh baked goodies. Cahia must have worked out a deal with Southern's kitchens, because you need a kitchen to make things, but that's a detail to be discussed later. Right now, she walks into the bookstore and stops to look around with a soft, delighted smile pulling at her lips. She is dressed neat as a pin, long skirt and loose sleeves, a Bakercraft apron (borrowed, she forgot to pack hers, whoops), her hair back in a bun. The tray is much more interesting. Sweet and savory treats adorn it, no two things alike as this is a sampler. She probably borrowed the kitchen in exchange for giving the rest of each batch to the weyr. She finally sees Nineveh and offers a bright smile. "Nineveh, ma'am?" Even though they're - damn - only 5 turns apart in age. Nineveh raises her head at the sound of Cahia's voice, but also likely at the scent of the tray of deliciousness presented to her. It isn't so much that she forgot she sent the letter back to Cahia, merely that she never expected the baker to be so prompt in her physical reply. Tucking strands of dark hair behind her ear, she sets aside the purchase order and gives the baker a quizzical look. "Yes?" she asks in slow, measured tone. "I am Nineveh, but please, no ma'am." It makes her feel old, or at least, on the leading edge of formality. Her eyes drop from Cahia to the tray and then dark-green gaze lift once more to hold Cahia's steadily. "Do I know you?" … and your delicious gift-horse? Cahia blushes a bit as she sets the tray down and offers her hand. "I'm Cahia, Journeyman Baker from…Igen." Ignore that brief hesitation. "Come for the try out?" Hence the tray of AMAZINGNESS. "Cahia… Oh!" Nineveh, at first not placing Cahia's name, eventually puts the woman's face with the note she received. With a brief draw of brows, the shopkeeper flips through her papers to find the copy of the letter Cahia sent, and sets it on top of her work. "Welcome to Southern. I am, too, of Igen," for Nineveh's Bazaarite accent would give her away, though she does not expand on who she was in Igen, rather focusing on the tray as she makes room for Cahia to set it down. "Perfect," her smile stretches genuine as she gestures to Cahia closer to set out her goods. "You did receive my response? I am a small, upcoming bookstore," and some tension to her lips hints at the worries of opening a new shop and being solvent rather than swimming in debt, "and will not be able to pay a competitive wage, but can at least pay a living one." Sort of. She's letting future Nineveh work that one out on the hopes that her patrons truly do love having snacks and lunch. "My goal is to expand Whiskers and Words Cafe into a place of sweet treats but also of quick lunches on the go." Think… Starbucks in a Barnes & Noble, but Pernese style. "I also want to expand my klah offerings, but I am not a baker nor am I all that creative in the kitchen. I also want to expand the wine offerings to wine and cheeseboards and the like." And finally, finally, Nineveh smiles and lets Cahia speak. Cahia nods along, because there's a lot Nineveh is saying, and Cahia knows she'll forget some of it, but she remembers the important things. "I'm not too worried about the pay," she reassures. "I can work in the kitchens when I need to, and I, uh." She pauses, because this is new to her. "I just sold my bakery in the Bazaar, so I am…" Free. "Comfortable, but eager for new challenges." That's a good way to put it. "I do not know much about klah," she admits, wanting to be honest, "but I can learn. I know someone who works in Barrier at their specialty klah shop, and I'll bet I can learn a few things." She's good at pilfering recipes. "Wine and cheese is also not my area of expertise, but I am friends with one of Igen's most prominent cheesemakers." Shoutout Sienna! "My specialty is baking." And now she gestures towards the tray with a wide smile. "I did a mix of sweet and savory. Croissant rolls, plain, ham and cheese, and a klah-paste I have developed." Think coffee/hazelnut spread. YUM. "Some cookies," citrus (love you, Lukasz) and klah-chip and sugar, the sugar cookies intricately iced with lace patterns or little books. "Cakes in various fruits, and I am very excited to experiment more with local flavors. Breads and rolls and of course sandwiches, and I've made little tasting dishes of some of my favorite spreads," garlic and pesto and mayo with herbs, and is that enough stuff yet? Cahia has MORE. "Some fruit tarts, and those are of course cake pops," of course, "and the kids love them," especially since they're decorated like little kitty faces with little sugar ears. "I tried to do a range of flavors and skills and audiences so you could see my range…" And her range in baked goods is, not to brag, extensive. Nineveh listens very carefully, knowing that to get everything she wants in a baker would be very costly. She reaches out for one of the savory croissants and pinches the end of it off to taste. Don't worry, she will take the entire tray for later. "This is good," she notes after Cahia's stopped giving out her resume, which she listened to very seriously. A little pinches here and there as Nineveh tries just about every type of taste on Cahia's tray. "It's a small shop right now," she says, dark green gaze welcoming on the baker, "but I hope to eventually," turns down the road, "expand into a bigger," and better, "space. For now, this works and provides a cozy little klah and chat area, where I hope maybe some folks will come for a light lunch. I close at sundown, but usually finish serving food long before that. I'm not interested in serving dinner," she muses, finalizing the details even for herself. "I'm most interested in breakfast and lunch, and leaving the wine and cheeses for later in the evening. I might expand into a sort of date night theme, here and there, but on the whole, I tend to close up when Rukbat's behind the mountains and it starts getting dark. By full dark, I close the doors as not many folks are interested in sitting and reading too late in the day." And she's the only one operating it, so, she wants to keep the candlemarks down. "As of now, I'm open all seven days of the sevenday, but I'm considering shutting down for a day off." A faint smile, "So I don't burn out. I have another worker who's here in the mornings and in the evenings. His name is Clayd and he's here to do the heavy lifting, but will sometimes help set out the klah. If you have tasks," Nineveh assumes by Cahia's demeanor she's going to accept, "let him know. He's willing to learn just about any job and makes sure the trash gets to the middens before it soils the senses. I open at sunrise, but am here a candlemark before setting up. I'd expect you to be here then, but I think you could probably work through the lunch times and into the afternoon, but I don't expect you'd have to stay all candlemarks. At a certain point, if we have no more of these," those ham-and-cheese croissants are clearly Ninny's fav, "then too bad, tomorrow's another day. Even better if we can tie in your experimental choices with books on the flowers or native plants you used." Anything to sell a book! Cahia watches Nineveh try her baked goods with an eager attention, because she never gets tired of watching people eat her food. "For my bakery," and with the understanding that she was running a bakery and not a bookshop, "we would do fresh batches of the day's goods every few candlemarks. If you'd like to provide food through lunch, that's probably two or three rounds, depending on how much you sell, but it's good to keep things fresh and adjust the amounts for the next day." She looks around. "I assume there is no kitchen? Clayd can run food in the mornings as I finish it up in the Baker's kitchen. I can be here to sell for a bit, but I'll have to be in the kitchen most of the time making the next batches of things…" Nineveh is not so prideful as to not take advice from someone else who had a business. "Yes, I only want you in the mornings the first few days at least so you have an idea of what the shop is like. I feel if you know a business and it's customers, you can tailor your offerings to what those people need or want," she says, more as a thought process as she works out what she needs of Cahia. "I'd like to be able to pivot quickly if something does really well or doesn't do well at all and I believe Clayd can help run the food." She will have to ask the man since she has little idea of what he does when he's not in the shop, but… Tapping a nail on the tray, she gets a little distracted and points to one of Cahia's deliciousnesses. "I like that one. I think we could do pre-made stuff, package them up and you can get the bulk of the proceeds off premade items, and I'll take a percentage. That way, people could take little gift cookies and the like to their friends." Look at all these ideas! "I'm sure," now Nineveh turns to Cahia, dark-green eyes bright, demeanor calm and collected and tone soft, "we can come up with a lot more ideas, Baker Cahia, if you are willing to take the job. I have some paperwork for you to sign showing what I can pay right now. In a turn, I am hopeful to be able to offer you more." Quietly, Nineveh drops her eyes from Cahia's and slips a little piece of hide towards the baker, the bazaar's mannerisms — most importantly, a female's mannerisms — ingrained in Nineveh as she works on a contract between her and Cahia. "I would be honored to have your services in my shop." Cahia nods eagerly. "Absolutely. I love trying out new things and adjusting to my - your," ahem, "customer's preferences. It was probably my favorite thing about my bakery…" She trails off a moment, wistful - but she knows it was the right decision and so she smiles and reaches for the contract. "I am happy to take the job, Nineveh. I'm sure we can come up with lots of different things! What would you like for tomorrow? What have you been selling, and when did you sell out?" "I have been running down to the bakery in the shops and grabbing a kind of random selection of sweet things, but I'd really like to…" Nineveh raises her eyes and leans forward, voice dropping, "… be competitive. So I think a sample of savory and sweet breakfasts, for lunch tomorrow let's try easy to grab-and-go options as well as fancier options for those who want to eat inside. I think I'll shift some tables around to better accommodate those who might want to eat and read. I think I might set up a little lending library where people can put used books for others to read, that way I don't have to worry about people eating around books they've not purchased yet." Nineveh frowns, or perhaps she makes it so that only bought items go into the cafe section. "I leave the suggestions to you, Cahia, as the resident expert in culinary options. I do want more of a Cafe than I have right now, however, and I'm willing to try and experiment to whatever you think might be good ideas." A slight, honest smile draws her lips up an adds a sparkle to her eyes. "Welcome aboard. You'll likely meet Clayd tomorrow morning. He's not talkative, so he won't run your ear off, and he's not verbose, so if he answers in one-word answers, don't be alarmed. He's good people when you get to know him. So," Nineveh claps her hands together and offers one to Cahia in the ways of Southern Weyr for the baker to shake. "I'm looking forward to what we put together." Cahia nods again, her thoughts already running quickly for what she can - should - make for tomorrow. "Excellent. Yes. I'll…yes." She's already thinking, see, and standing here isn't going to get anything marinating or proofing or measured or mixed. "I will see you before dawn," she promises, "with the first offerings for the day." She shakes the other woman's hand with a bright smile. "Clayd. Quiet. Got it." Easy enough! She's used to quiet men. "Bye!" she says happily, fairly darting out of the bookshop. She has things to dooooooo! Nineveh watches Cahia go with a smile on her face, and she looks at the tray the Baker left and considers it. Carefully, she wraps up two lunches and two dinners for later and takes a few of the sweet breakfast offerings before considering her display case in the Cafe. That is going to need work. And so, after arranging Cahia's selection for the customers, and putting a price tag on them, Nineveh sets out to consider how best to set up the cafe to suit her purposes and draws up more work for Clayd in the 'moving and reorganizing' manual labor of his job description. At least she is going to offer him lunch and dinner from Cahia's selection of awesomeness! And on that bombshell? Nineveh gets to all the glories of running a shop she hopes becomes successful. Now, with her very own (sweet) baker! Whiskers & Words & Miss June's has 0 comments. |
11 Mar 2024 07:00 |
Too long of a name? Cahia accepts the job offer from Nineveh to bake exclusively for Whiskers & Words Cafe! |
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Crossroads vig Crossroads vig
"The position is still open…" West Bank of the Fort River The road turns here. To the east lies the bridge that crosses over the Fort River. The low stone causeway has seen many thousands of Turns of traffic, but its sturdy construction barely shows the wear. The languid clear waters of the Fort River meander southward towards the sea. Journeyman Baker Cahia, The position is still open, and I would love to taste your samples. I am not a rich shop, so I will be up front before you travel all the way here and let you know that I am unlikely to be able to pay competitive rates. I believe in what I do, however, and do believe that it can grow into something bigger and will be a great way to showcase one's culinary skills, especially if you have klah making and designing skills. Nineveh, owner of Whiskers & Words Cafe Cahia read the letter over and over again, tracing her fingers across the parchment as if she could absorb their meaning into her soul. As if she could always remember how it felt, this shift in her life, this choice to make. Because there was zero hesitation. She knew, more firmly than she'd known anything in her life, that this was what she wanted to do. Was it the best choice? Would it work out? Was it what she wanted for the rest of her life? She didn't know any of those answers, but she knew with certainty that this is what she wanted for now. "Cahia!" Rellian walked down the path towards the river's edge where she stood, and she turned to greet him with a warm smile. "Rellian, thank you for coming." She reached for him, curling her fingers through his and giving them a gentle squeeze. "I have something to tell you." Of course she didn't know if the job would pan out. She had no doubt in her skills - not anymore - but would Nineveh like her food? Would she like Nineveh? Would it work? That she didn't know, but the possibility of the job had set into motion things that she'd been running from. Choices that she needed to make regardless of if this job worked out. If it didn't, there would be other jobs, other places to go. Which saw her back in Igen, walking through the dusty streets with her headscarf pinned neatly to cover her hair but not her face. The destruction from the stampede brought tears to her eyes, but that wasn't why she was here. The bell to Miss June's Bakery rang as she slipped inside, and she breathed in deeply of the space that had been her home for turns. Her home that she was walking away from. It hurt, but she knew it was what she needed to do. "Gullian," she said, greeting her friend with a warm smile. "Let's have a chat." By the time she left the bakery it was with several signed documents, a bag of marks, and a sweetroll. They all were equally sweet. A visit to her mother's home lingered into the evening but Cahia hoped her mother could see the changes in her. She felt calm, she felt confident and secure in these decisions as she explained them to her mother. She left most of the marks from the bakery's sale with her mother, either to pay her back for the extortion money, or for safe keeping. She didn't specify, trusting her mother to do what she needed to do. She kept some of the marks for herself, but she wasn't worried that the possible job in Southern couldn't pay well. She was a Journeyman Baker. She could find work, even if she worked in the weyr a few days a seven. Or use her savings. It didn't matter that much and she wasn't worried about it. The cost was of no concern to her. She was doing this. Her things from the apartment above the bakery would move back into Wild Hearts, and if the job worked out she'd take what she needed to Southern. One step at a time, and she took them calmly and confidently. Leaving Fort wasn't that big of a deal. She hadn't been there that long, after all. Rellian was sad she was leaving, but since he'd just been posted to Telgar, it was going to come to an end anyway. It had been a sweet romance and she was grateful for it, but she was fine leaving it for now. Perhaps someday… but not now. She saw Lokeiv on a dragon back to Igen Weyr, giving him a long, fierce hug. She would miss him something terrible, but she knew he belonged in Igen and she… she didn't. Not right now, anyway. She made him promise to write, and saw him off, and then she turned to the blue that would carry her to Southern. She'd never been to Southern, she didn't think. Reaching up, she stroked Madeline's muzzle. "You ready for this, girl?" The gold nuzzled her neck softly, and Cahia smiled, gripping the handle of her bag. "Me too." Dragonwings carried her aloft and into the darkness of ::between::. Crossroads vig has 2 comments. |
11 Mar 2024 07:00 |
With an invitation, Cahia finally makes a choice. |
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Masokissing Masokissing
"I'd say we had a choice to accept the opportunity, but- it's not much of a choice, is it?" Mountain Vale Cellar The cellar can be accessed through a door in a small hill. A short flight of creaky stairs later and one will find a rather spacious place, with old shelves filled with jarred foodstuffs of all sorts. Are those pickled chicken's feet and eggs? Of course. Pig's feet? Absolutely. There are also several bins full of root vegetables of all sorts, though the types and quantity will always vary depending on the season. There are a few barrels stuffed in the back as well, though the contents are a mystery. The whole place smells earthy and cold and faintly musty, but not unpleasantly so. The candidates have been hard at work at Mountain Vale for a while now - and, with so many of them, a considerable amount of work has been done so far. But, today's the day of the great cellar cleaning - with Graeme making it clear that no one is to touch or open the barrels collecting dust at the back of the cellar. Dajin's taken the warning to heart and, now that he's down here, his attention is fixed on the sagging shelves that are packed full of jars upon jars and bottles upon bottles. Perhaps it's a blessing there are no tin cans on Pern; at least the contents can be seen, if not identified. "I wonder how much of this is edible. There are no labels on at least half of these jars." "We've probably been eating some of it already," Quyen deadpans from where she's busy sweeping or trying to. But down here even the dust seems to have dust and so it's almost as futile as trying to sweep sand away back in Igen. "There's a lot of us after all. Food's gotta come from somewhere." He suppresses a shudder, but only barely. "If we have, then it looks like it's not even dented his stores." Which is an even more ominous thought, somehow. Dajin gets out a cloth and starts to wipe down a few of the bottles, tilting it this way and that as if to discern its contents - and whether it's worth saving. There's no label, but the glass is fine, so it remains. A few jars further back, though, appear to have cracked or the seal's gone bad. "What do you think this was?" He knows what it is now and that's trash. Quyen takes a break from her sweeping to go over an inspect those cracks jars Dajin's found, giving a cursory sniff and then a look back to the various pickled feet and eggs in other jars. "See pigs feet but not much the rest of the stuff considering how many porcine they got out there. There should be sausage. Maybe that's some sort of jarred meat?" "Maybe?" Dajin tilts the jar a little, the contents loosely thunking around inside until he puts it in the rubbish basket to join some others. "Maybe the sausages are already gone. Those don't keep quite as well as some of this other stuff." Like, oh, the feet and the eggs and all. "I'll admit, I kind of avoided eating the meat here." His voice pitches low, in tones of superstition. A glance is darted to the door, though there's no way anyone can sneak up on them; the door's as creaky as the stairs. "At least the tubers are still good." "If you ever had to eat some of the stuff prepared in some of the smaller mines… you learn the knack of not tasting, just eating. As much as you're able anyways," Quyen says with a shrug. "If you get hungry enough, food is food. And tubers… tubers are a lifesaver many a times." There's a grimace for that and Dajin continues in his sorting through bottles and jars to add to the rubbish heap. "It's hard to eat doing the work I do, sometimes- but that's because the curing and tanning processes stink. It'll turn your stomach quicker than that jar of- oil? I think that's oil." He's not opening it to find out. "Do you ever eat good food? Or is it all, just- ah, 'food is food', as you said?" Fortunately, there's no risk of feeling hungry, not with a full lineup of pickled wherry's feet awaiting his attention. Quyen's definitely had the misfortune to walk past the tanneries judging by how her nose wrinkles in sympathy at that. "Yeah. Eat before, and eat after. Preferably after a shower. If you eat a big enough breakfast, should be able to get through a full shift." And a nod in confirmation of the probably oil. She's not questioning it! "Don't get me wrong, if there's good food and bad food both in front of me, I'll go for the tastier option. I'm not a… what's the word. masocist?" The oil goes back where he found it; it looks clear enough, so it's prooobably safe. Dajin flicks a look to Quyen while he listens. Eventually, "Sometimes I just eat after - and after a bath," because it does help considerably. "I know some people that will still eat just hardtack and jerky or other, ah- field rations? I think that's what they're called." The word she offers is one he has to ponder over with a furrow of his brow. "Maso-kissed?" Unfortunately, there's no Harper-candidate on hand to confirm. "Whatever that is, it sounds weird. I don't think you're that kind of weird." "Masokissing is weird," Quyen nods and goes with it. "Like folks that insist on making life harder for themselves, when they could just…. do something else." A pause as she considers some of the jars, straightening them out on the shelf, facing them. "But I guess I also don't chose the easiest way either." but she has her reasons! "Yeah, that doesn't make a lot of sense to me, either," Dajin agrees, moving on to another shelf of Stuff and Things. "Well. I guess some of it does," he speculates after a moment or two. "I like to work on harder projects and I guess that makes it more difficult for me- but, I also like it, so I guess that makes me some kind of masokissed." At least it's not the kind of 'kissed' that'll get a candidate or apprentice in trouble, though it's clear he's starting to make some (very erroneous) linguistic connections. "Why did you pick mining, anyway?" That last question gets a shrug from Quyen as she sorts out a few more jars. "It's what I knew. I'm from Crom." Or what is getting re-established in Crom. "Didn't want to spend a life cooking or doing laundry or those sort of things. And been sorting out firestone since I was old enough to see into the bin. Why'd you choose tanning?" He'll ponder on that a moment as he wipes down a couple of jars - and has a moment of regret until he realizes the jar in hand is olives and not eyes. Dajin shudders, but the timing is pretty bad. "That sounds a lot more fulfilling than doing what they call 'women's work'," he admits, offering her a smile that tilts a little. "Though, everyone should know how to cook or do laundry. Everyone should know basic skills like that." As for his choice, there's a shrug and his smile falters, settling into a serious line. "My grandfather used to make leather armor at High Reaches Hold. I wanted to follow in his steps." "Think that's part of why they rotate us through all those chores, not just as busy work. But for learning," Quyen nods along. "And supposedly a whole lot of meat chopping for weyrlings. Or sewing for straps. If." It's a big If. So much held in those two little letters. And she stops the tidying to look at Dajin. "Igen's a long way from High Reaches?" "Yeah, that makes sense." Dajin sucks his teeth a little and pauses in his work, but only to take a few moments to collect his throughts - and school his expression. "Crom's pretty far from Igen, too," he points out. "But- ah. My father moved to Benden Weyr and that's where I was born. And the I got posted to Igen." And now he's here, with a white knot for his troubles. "Are you- do you want to Impress? Or do you enjoy your work more?" It's a difficult question and he's not Harper-delicate with his words, resulting in a wince that he masks by turning back to his work. "About as far as Telgar, but… I was posted as well," Quyen may also be joking just the slightest with her delivery of that, there's even a ghost of a smile on her face for like half a second. "I like being useful. Impressing… hadn't really ever been a thought. It's not just something you can decide to do, right? But for my work, next twenty turns will mostly be firestone, firestone and more firestone. Whether it's on dragon or in the mines." Two sides of the same mark and Quyen's definitely not got delicate sensiblities at risk of being offended. There's a soft 'ah' for that, a nod, and a glance over his shoulder until Dajin resumes his work. The rubbish basket is nearly full - mostly with cracked jars, bad seals, and a few cloudy containers with vague horrors shifting within. "I guess that's one way to look at it," he surmises after a moment or two. "I guess- well, it'd be the same for me. Working with leather, one way or another." There's a lack of enthusiasm there, but that might be due to the work at hand. "I'd say we had a choice to accept the opportunity, but- it's not much of a choice, is it?" "Is that… a tunnelsnake?" Quyen asks as she comes across a jar with something coiled inside. Snake or intestines, it's a bit too murky to determine which. "You could have said no. Any of us could have said no. And there's some decide they can't keep it in their pants or stay away from drink long enough to make it through." "Saying no isn't an option. It wasn't for me, anyway," Dajin replies. He puts something down and comes around to squint at the mysterious contents of the jar Quyen has. "I hope that's a tunnelsnake." The alternatives are too numerous and horrifying to consider. His gaze tracks to the barrels at the back, then snaps back to Quyen. "And that's what I mean, I guess. You said you can't decide to be a rider - but you have to decide to take that step. The dragons choose after that. So, in a way, that is the life we're choosing to be open to." "Gotta wonder…. how often do any of the search riders actually get turned down?" Quyen says after a moment. "Like being a rider in a Pass… maybe we are all masokissing." That's something that'll get the thoughts turning some. Dajin ponders it, tilting his attention to the ceiling of the cellar. "Not often, I imagine. Some of the cotholds are pretty hard-off, you know? Going to the Weyr has to be better than that." His nose scrunches and he tries - and fails - to stifle a laugh. "All of us, masokissedes. Masokisseds?" None of that feels right on his tongue at all. "Masokissing makes it sound dirty." "I know," Quyen's focus on the cleaning may betray the level of how much this former Crom Colony resident knows about hard-off cotholds. "Maybe that's why folks just say 'You're crazy' instead. When doing something. Choosing the hard life." "Maybe." It's something to chew on a while, anyway. Dajin finishes up what he can and goes to gather that basket of rubbish up. "But crazy isn't right, either. There's crazy and there's crazy and it's hard to know the difference, sometimes." He glances to the barrels again, his expression thoughtful. "Just like the guy here. I wonder what's in those barrels - but I don't think I'll ever be curious enough to find out." He might be a masochist, but he's not crazy. Quyen turns to stare at the mystery barrels once again. But the barrels win the staring contest mainly cause they're inanimate objects without eyes. The Cheats. Quyen just gives a shrug. "Probably be something disappointing anyways. Folks tend to hype up the unknown. Make it bigger than it can actually live up to." Which may also be why she's so deadpan in regards to wanting to impress. The anti-hype can't be disappointed, right? "You're probably right," Dajin says after a final look to the barrels. "Knowing everything else he has in here, it's probably salted fish or something." Unusual, yes, but not horrifying. "I need to haul this up," the basket is jostled, "and dinner's probably going to be served pretty soon." The old man always insists on early dinner - and an obscenely early curfew, too. "You want to come with?" "If it's like some of the preserved fish my pa would have… you really don't want to open it. Swear some of your tanner vats smell better than that lufish." Quyen gives a shudder at that memory. "But yeah. Maybe try and get a quick wash up before everybody else does. Need a hand?" she'll offer to help carry the other side of the basket if so. Before they can both go prepare for that dinner. Masokissing has 0 comments. |
10 Mar 2024 06:00 |
Creepy Cellar Cleaning leads to some philosophical ponderings. |
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Candidate Crunch Time Candidate Crunch Time
Beach An eerie mirror, the glass-quiet Sea of Azov: the clear waters stretch along the dark-pebbled shores, and along this narrow beach. Here the faintest lap of waves belies the calm beyond; here the rocks have been ground down into finest, softest sand - those observant would mark upon the similarity between it and the sands of the hatching grounds. The soft sand soaks up summer sunlight as a sponge; painfully hot during the warmer months, it is only truly pleasant at wintertime. Rocks rise to east and west, lichen-limned and green against the abyssal darkness of stone. There's not quite a bounce to Albertine's step as she strides onto the beach, because Candidacy is exhausting and bouncing is for people with some energy left; but the spirit is definitely there all the same. The eggs are as hard as they're going to get. The time is close. Any day now. And it will be Albertine's fifth try. Five is a good number. And it's a beautiful day, and she's on dragon bathing duty and not just any dragon, either — and who knows what amount of bargaining and intrigue scored her that choice chore — and perhaps she's even daring to be hopeful today, as opposed to merely stubborn. She scans the beach for her quarry. Then resumes striding toward the shoreline. Ariith isn't in the water yet, but his straps are off and neatly piled on the beach. I'rian's there with a couple of long-handled brushes, those being the pair's preferred method of getting hide clean. He's thumbing the bristles of one: they seem quite soft, perhaps from repeated soaking. He's keeping a lookout for candidate help, though, and smiles when he sees who's coming. "Albertine! Come to help us get Ariith clean? I wondered if it'd be you." Ariith croons a warm welcome and moves his head into contact with Albertine's hand. The message is clear, but I'rian grins. "He says, go right ahead!" With a quirk of the lips, he considers the implied question. "I don't know about that - I got some of it, but then, I was new to the Weyr. Anyway, we're both glad to see you." He listens for a moment. "Ariith says he's glad you're trying again. How's it going, this time round?" He turns one of the brushes round in his hand so that the handle will be on offer when he gets that far, but doesn't yet hold it out. There's important scritching to be done first! Albertine dutily, delightfully performs a thorough round of scritching, around the nostrils and under the jaw, applying just a bit of pressure with her fingertips but not too much. Ariith is probably the one dragon she's scritched the most, and she has a basic understanding of how he likes it. "It's going okay, I guess. It feels good going through this again," she comments during the proceedings. Her tone is casual, non-committal. She's not going to jinx it. Isn't she? "I… ah, I don't know. There's this one egg I like. It can get pretty wild, the way it feels when we touch them, I mean; but this one… I dunno. I like it. Maybe it's just me reading too much into it, though. Y'know." Shrug. Pause. Then she turns fully to I'rian. "Did you feel anything in particular with Ariith's egg, yourself?" "Oh, I've never really been sure. It felt like it at the time - something sort of warm. But… nothing as strong as some of the others seemed to be feeling." I'rian's aware that he hasn't answered Albertine's enquiry as to their own wellbeing; it's taking him a while to sum it up. "You know we're flying with Lynx now? It's keeping us busy: there's more for us to do - or, it seems like it. We had duties when we were with Siberian, especially sweeps and flying practice and then there were his wing exercises, but it's harder now, with the drills. And Threadfall, of course. But we're really pleased." Well, I'rian's really pleased. Ariith just tilts his head to invite a scratch of the eye ridges. Albertine produces a neutral sort of grunt. Probably that egg thing is just her imagining things, then. Yeah. Surely. She repositions her hands on the offered eyeridge and gets scritching again. "Well, guess we'll see soon enough, either way," she comments, quietly, like it's more for her benefit than I'rian's. "Might not even be a blue in there, for all that anyone knows." She listens to the update on her friend's situation, and nods firmly in approval of positive developments. Wings and their specifics would not mean all that much to her, but she can see the pleasure on I'rian's face and in his voice, and that's all she needs. She pumps a fist. "Whoo, congrats! And I know you deserve it. You're thoughtful and thorough! And you two make a great pair. So! Shall we get started then?" "Found one you like, then?" But I'rian doesn't press the subject of eggs, instead he holds out a brush to Albertine, handle first. "Yes, I suppose we'd better. Do you want to start on his chest, and I'll get up and do his neck ridges?" Ariith starts to lumber into the water - though he's not as ponderous as some dragons, being relatively small. "At least the water's nice here now the weather's warming up: Until lately I've been bathing him in the Cove, or up at Old Southern. We like it there, but now they've told us to stay off the beach there." Albertine shrugs, and struggles for an instant with the urge to gush profusely about the egg and its vibes and the dreams she shouldn't dream about it but is dreaming anyway — but only for an instant. She's a drudge. Repressing her emotions is a lifelong habit. Instead she kicks off her boots, bends to roll up the legs of her breeches, and grabs the offered brush. "Yeah, sure, chest is fine," she says. She waits while Ariith choses a spot for his bath, and then waddles into the water after him, brush in hand. "Thank you again for taking me to Old Southern that one time, it's really lovely there. Honestly I wish the Weyr was still located there. Here it gets sweltering in summer. Any reason why the beach is off limits?" I'rian wades into the water alongside Ariith - his own boots are already off, and he's wearing shorts and a sleeveless tunic, the latter mainly as sun protection. "The healers say that firehead season's started already. You know, the stuff that gets washed up on the beaches in spring. They've had some cases at some of the Holds, apparently. I reckon that's about the one problem with the old Weyr - apart from being ruined, of course. Anyway, there are other places you can go to bathe a dragon if you're living there." Ariith offers him a foreleg and he hops up onto the blue's back to start the ablutions. Albertine gets started with that brush, broad, regular gestures the way she was taught. She keeps her other hand on Ariith's hide the whole time so that he knows where she is. It's Ariith, she knows him and he knows her, and the usual precautions are perhaps not all that necessary. But hey, she's being a good Candidate. (She just forgot to salute I'rian earlier — or felt it unnecessary — but hush.) Ariith may be on the small side, but that's still a lot of chest in front of her; that, and perhaps, just for once, she's taking her time. Throughout she makes conversation. "Oh, I had no idea that there were firehead places," she notes, distractedly. "We don't really get it in Brassicourt. Lots of regular colds, though, with the rain and all." "I think they only get the stuff on the beaches in the tropical places." I'rian's sounding rather puzzled. "At least, Assistant Weyrlingmaster S'nar told us he lost his sight to it when there was an outbreak here, but that was turns ago. I don't really understand that; I don't think it's normal to get a lot of it here. Not that I know anything about diseases, except the ones plants get." Ariith holds his head tilted so that he can watch Albertine, which means I'rian's having to stretch. The blue gives an occasional soft croon in appreciation. Albertine hmms, but is otherwise quiet. All this stuff about mystery illnesses doesn't bear thinking about too much. She's going to be raising a baby dragon soon — maybe — and being ill during would be bad. Better to focus on the happy now. Ariith's chest is as thoroughly scrubbed as it's going to get, at this point, and on an impulse, she spreads her arms and hugs him, her eyes closing. The tranquil animal warmth of him. It's more her pressing herself flatly to his chest than an actual hug, given the bulk involved, but it's nice all the same. She pulls back, and looks up at I'rian. With joy for the experience of bathing a dragon she's good buds with, after a fashion, but also with a touch of envy. "Is it as cozy as it looks, up there?" Slight hesitation. "Do you think he would mind if I joined you?" Ariith rumbles happily. Hugs are good! He lies down in the water, forcing I'rian to grab a neck ridge, though he's laughing as he does so. "He wouldn't mind at all! Come on up." He reaches down to offer a hand-clasp. "Tell you what, if you come up here, I'll go down there. Then you can carry on with these neck ridges. I don't know why they trap dirt, but they always seem to." Albertine brightens. Even after five Candidacies, bathing the topside of a dragon will be new experience. And she clasps I'rian's hand without hesitation. "Sounds like a deal! I'll have those neck ridges sparkling in no time." She's not a novice to riding dragons; everyone who lives at the Weyr gets to score a ride once in a while. But doing so without straps being involved in also a new experience. An exciting one. It feels more personal, somehow. "Right, so you put your foot right there on his shoulder, right? And then up and swing a leg across his neck?" I'rian nods. "You can hang on to a neck ridge if you need to: they're quite tough." Ariith is making himself as low as possible. « Don't worry, » he tells Albertine, « you won't hurt me. But I might be a bit slippery, being wet. » I'rian hears it too, and smiles. He must be hearing something more, as well, because he continues, "He likes you. And… he's wondering if you're worrying about the Hatching. He's always telling me not to worry." Albertine will not shame herself by being either clumsy or indecisive. She leans her weight onto that foot, pushes with a grunt, and there she is, at neck ridge height, thanks to Ariith's help and perhaps thanks to his encouragements also. She lets go of I'rian's hand to grab a ridge, stabilizes herself in preparation for that leg swing. "Not too worried, I know how to stay safe now," she comments along the way, as if to show that she's got this in the bag and doesn't have to stop talking just because she's in the middle of a mildly acrobatic process. "As to what happens, eh, we'll s— WHOA!" In an eyeblink her wet foot slips on Ariith's wet shoulder, and with a nice, loud, resounding splash, Albertine finds herself sitting in the sea, her hair dripping. A second or two pass while she finds her bearing, and then she calls, "I'm okay!" But she looks a tad stunned, and does not try to stand. There's a minor tidal wave as Ariith hastily turns round to get a better look at Albertine. « I'm sorry! Are you all right? » It's echoed by I'rian: "Are you all right down there? He can put his neck right down for you if that's easier." He frowns, looking at Albertine's stunned expression. "Are you all right? You didn't hit your head or anything, did you?" He slides from the blue's back into the water and wades towards Albertine. "Yeah, I'm okay," Albertine repeats, but her face has gone a bit paler, and there's something vacant about the way she's looking toward the horizon past Ariith's bulk. The superficial shutdown of a body in shock. Under the water, there's a nasty bruise on her leg just above the ankle, where it hit the sea-smooth rock that was lurking there under the waves. Slowly, she gathers her legs under her, tries to stand, yelps and falls back down. That seems to bring colors back to her face. Angry colors. She tries again, this time on a single leg, and manages to get up. But she won't put weight on her other foot. "I'm fine. Sorry, didn't mean to worry you," she says, showing I'rian a forced grin. "Foot's a bit sore, that's all." She looks up toward Ariith's back, like she's stubborn enough to consider trying to climb back up again. "You don't look very fine," I'rian says with a suspicious frown. "Let's get back to the beach, shall we, and have a look at it?" He looks at Ariith for a few seconds. The blue starts to wade towards the shore, where he'll soon be dry enough to fly should that be needed. "Can you put weight on it? Take my arm if you need support." He's alongside now and offering the aforementioned arm. Albertine takes I'rian's arm, but not his meaning. She will remain in denial all the way to the beach and beyond. The bruise has spread and that whole part of her leg is swollen. She can't put weight on it, but she'll insist it's fine, it's just a bruise, it will pass any moment now. She'll keep insisting so all the way to the infirmary, clutching I'rian's arm hard, for support or for reassurance. See, she can't be hurt. That'd make no sense. She's got a Hatching to Stand. She's got that one egg she likes, her blue might be in there, she can't be in the infirmary when her blue hatches, that'd be daft. That'd be so daft. So, so daft. Ariith is mortified; his eyes are a distressed shade of yellow as he lowers his neck as near to flat on the ground as it can get so that I'rian can help Albertine get aboard, while apologising profusely on his dragon's behalf for letting her slip. Blue and rider are both still a little damp as they fly back, leaving a couple of wooden brushes bobbing on the waves. Candidate Crunch Time has 1 comments. |
10 Mar 2024 00:00 |
With another Hatching imminent, Candidate Albertine is assigned to help I'rian wash Ariith. It doesn't end well. |
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Green and Growing Green and Growing
"If it were going to get anybody firehead, they definitely wouldn't be letting people bathe in here." Baths The steamy fog of the baths could be an entirely different world, transitioning from the well-lit brilliance of the inner caverns: a different world entirely, one wrought in dreams and humid fog. Steam lifts from hot waters, obscuring those who bathe within, drenching any who dare enter. Well-maintained, well-stocked, the baths offer pre-netted portions of soapsand in various scents, fluffy towels in orderly rows, and five separate spring-fed pools, all of differing temperature: from scorching hot to soothing chill. Normally after a long day, the baths are usually teeming with people getting a quick scrub in before dinner. Not tonight however, but that's not exactly a relief. Ilyana is one of the few currently in the bathing cavern though she hasn't quite worked up the nerve to get in the water yet herself. Or even undress as if she makes the debate. "How is it all green? Even the cold one…" Sriella is not going to have a choice of getting into the water or not, as the Herder tromps into the baths with a scent preceding her arrival. We won't go into specifics but the smell plus all that…stuff… on her clothes means she's shucking them as quickly as possible and getting into the hottest pool with a hiss, not even noticing that the water is green. Let her without odors cast the first stone. A day of farming may not be quite as bad as the Herder's…. condition, but Ilyana certainly needs a bath as well. And she watches with scientific interest as Sriella just goes right on into the hottest of the pools and can't help but ask, "Does it actually feel just like normal? The healers all have been assuring that it is…." Sriella vanishes beneath the water to scrub at long hair, and when she emerges she only catches the second half of that. "The Healers what, now?" she asks, eyes closed as she gropes about for the sweetsand on the edge of the pool. Hissed breath through her teeth at the feel of that hot water on skin that's been through the wringer, getting into various cuts and abrasions. Ilyana pauses as Sriella fully submerges and comes up, still with eyes closed. A glance back the faintly glowing pool. "The water. You know…." She just gestures a wave to it's entire green-ness. "If it were going to get anybody firehead, they definitely wouldn't be letting people bathe in here." That fact she's at least sure of. Sriella pauses as well, finally opening her eyes with soap dripping across her skin. Wiping it away with her forearm, she stares at the water. "The fuck is it green," she says flatly, frozen in the pool. Finally noticing she's the only one in the water. "Are they letting people bathe in here?" She doesn't remember seeing any signs but then again, she wasn't paying that much attention either. "I think it's something more your field than mine, Herder," Ilyana laughs a little but seeing as Sriella hasn't busted out into a rash or anything yet, the farmer does start disrobing to also get into the water too, a bit slower but still getting in. "Some teeny-tiny beasties in the water. That are apparently not to worry about, not here. But it just looks so odd. Think most have decided to brave the beaches and convince them selves it's warm enough out there." Sriella snorts. "The beasties I deal with are at least visible," she says, but a wry note of amusement has creeped into her tone. The water is…strange, yes, but she's certainly seen stranger things in her life. "Well, more hot water for us then," she says with a low snort. "Can't convince me the sea is anything like these pools. They can have it." Ilyana dips her hand in the glowing water and lets it trickle through her fingers pointedly. "It's at least somewhat visible…" And then a nod in agreement about the sea. "I was probably fifteen before I learned to swim. And never got particularly comfortable with it. So when the current is particularly strong…" A shudder there. Sriella nods a bit. "Yeah, hope they've got people out there watching for that." She's known how to swim ever since she can remember, so that's never been a concern for her. "I love to swim, though. Especially in the river. That is a thrill." But not for someone not comfortable with swimming, to be sure. "My daughters have absolutely no fear, dive right on in," Ilyana admits as she finally slips in enough to begin the scrubbing. "though right now they're usually content to stay in water shallow enough that I can easily stand in." A wink there. The farmer being nearly six feet tall certainly helps with the 'water she can stand in'. Sriella grins, "My daughter is the same, but unfortunately she doesn't know how to swim just yet, so she's basically enthusiastically trying to drown herself whenever I take her swimming. Thankfully both her father and I are good swimmers, so it hasn't been hard to scoop her out of her attempts at self-destruction." Such is the nature of toddlers, though. Sriella laughs again, scrubbing at tender skin and long pale blonde hair. "Given her parents, I'm not too confident," she says with a wide grin. "Ooof, I am not looking forward to the teenage turns. My sisters are in their teens and…man. They're a pain in the ass." But it's fondly stated, promise. She loves her siblings, but. Teenagers. It just is what it is. "Gotta stop myself from asking where did the little one that asked to be cuddled to sleep each night go sometimes?" Ilyana laughs. "But she's a good kid. Even if she's on her fifth possible apprenticeship of the turn. Lasted two sevens with the dolphineeers. Three with the starcrafters…." A headshake there. A suddy, suddy headshake. Sriella exhales softly. "They grow so damn fast," she says wistfully, scrubbing at her arms and trying not to think about how her baby girl is half a planet away right now. "Having a hard time choosing?" Sriella is going to assume the kid isn't getting kicked out of said crafts. "They doooooo," Ilyana agrees, actually slowing down her frantic scrubbing at that thought. "And yes. She gets excited about the good, but doesn't really want to deal with the bad. But any job is gonna have good days and bad days. Just gotta find one where the good greatly outweighs the rest." Sriella ahhs in understanding. "Yeah, that is difficult. If you're not interested in it, then why suffer through the bad stuff to get to good that isn't all that good?" Clean, now, and hair rinsed and washed and rinsed again, Sriella does it up in a quick braid and settles down to relax and lounge, eying the green water and hoping the Healers are right and she's not gonna die later this evening. Ilyana nods again, still scrubbing away. "And it's hard. Don't really want to tell her to just settle if there's something out there she'd be truly happy doing. But… need to at least stick with something. Doesn't even have to be a craft. Seen too often the pressure put on kids that parents are in the same craft." Sriella nods. "Yeah. I followed my mother to the Herders but I'm the only one that did." So far, at least. "Brother's a guard, sister's a Weaver… my youngest brother will get the cothold I'm sure. No clue what my other sisters will do." Mikaelya… she shudders to think of that wild child in a Craft. "My father and brother run games up in Bitra, mother does laundry, I was the only one in the family to go to a craft but…. their father is also a farmer. With his master's knot," Ilyana's face can't help but wrinkle when she mentions the girls' father. "So a part of me would love to see one of them with an interest in farming…. but I also know if they did, they'd be going back to Nerat for apprenticeship is so." Sriella's brows twitch slightly at mention of games in Bitra, but then her ice-blue eyes are zeroing in on the other woman's features and that shift in expression. "Is he upset none of them are Farmcraft?" she asks wryly. "I think he's too happy to have a son now to even care what any of the girls are doing," Ilyana gives an irritated roll of her eyes. "Couldn't even be bothered to send a note for Jhil's turnday a couple sevens ago." Sriella frowns sharply. "What an asshole." She is never one to hesitate on passing judgement upon others, especially people she's never met. "Girls are just as important. I'd argue more-so." And she is grateful, not for the first time, that her daughter's father does not seem to be sad that his child is a girl. "How old is your son?" Ilyana just laughs at that. "Oh, the son's not mine. I have all girls. The youngest a turn and a half. His son is just turning one." She'll let Sriella do the math on that one. Sriella winces at that math. "Damn. I'm sorry." somethingsomethingthrowingstones… "So he's got a new woman - younger, I assume," because men are terrible, "and a son, so on he goes and fuck you and your weak-ass daughters, am I right?" "Barely old enough to have her journeyman's knot," Ilyana confirms, though doesn't include that she was also around the same age when she first feel for her Ex as well, when we're talking about stones. "He probably thought he could have his cake and eat it too…. pretty sure that wasn't the first time he cheated. Though only time I know of where she ended up pregnant." A shrug, past is past. "But when I found out, filed for divorce and took the girls to the first posting I could get. And since we're out of sight, guess we're out of mind and not really his problem any more." Yeah but he was also younger, so. Not the same. "Good for you," Sriella says firmly, though her expression is a bit distant. She unravels her hair from the braid to work on finger-combing it out instead, deciding she wants it loose. "But I'm sorry he abandoned his family. Better off without him, clearly, but still." She looks at the other woman with a frown. "Couldn't have been easy. For you or the girls." "I was the one that brought the divorce. Don't think he thought I had it in me," Ilyana admits as she scrubs her hair a bit more thoroughly than necessary. At least the topic is a distraction from the green-ness of the water. "But it sucks for the girls. Because how do you even explain that to a kid?" It's been a turn and she may not have really done much explaining. "Southern's been unexpectedly good to us though. Water conditions aside." Sriella shakes her head, "He abandoned his family, regardless of who filed the paperwork." She's firm on that point. "Men often underestimate us. Sure fun to prove them wrong, though." But then she sighs, nodding. "I can't even imagine… if I had to tell my daughter that she couldn't go see her daddy anymore. I don't know how I'd do it." Evie would be inconsolable. She loves her daddy. "I'm glad you've all found a new home." Ilyana sighs as she rinses herself off. "Their cousin is going to be having a turnday party soon. Might need to actually navigate the whole seeing him in person soon." She is very much not looking forward to it. Even less so than diving into green bath water. "Good luck," Sriella says with a little smile. "It can be so awkward, but… yeah. Sometimes you have to." "At least the new home comes with plenty of distractions," Ilyana winks. "I think they'll be raving about the hatching for at least another two months." Sriella grins. "You got the kids. You win by default, but yeah, no one can say a weyr is boring." She lifts her hand to cup some of the water. "Case in point…" and she's hauling herself up and grabbing a towel, really, really hoping the Healers were right about it being harmless. "Do I glow?" she asks teasingly. "The kids are sharding fantastic," Ilyana grins at that winning measurement. "And no, you don't glow. Unless my eyes have just gotten so accustomed to it that I can't see it. But if something happens, guess we'll be in the infirmary together." Sriella laughs, kicking her filthy clothes towards the laundry basket and making sure her towel is snug around her body. She is not going to put those things on again, and of course she came completely unprepared, so. Towel-walk it is. "See you there," she grins, and then she's gone to the hallway, probably down to the stores to steal procure some clean clothes for herself. Green and Growing has 0 comments. |
10 Mar 2024 07:00 |
Two Crafters discuss green water and moving on. talk of cheating, divorce |
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Another Offer, Another Chance Another Offer, Another Chance
"It's a long ways away, but." Fort Hold Great Hall This grand room is the largest in the entire Fort Hold area. It soars over two stories in height, and serves as both a dining hall and as a place of entertainment for the residents and guests of the Hold. A door in the northeast wall leads to the Fort hold Tavern, the Dancing Dragon. Cahia has settled into life in Fort these last sevens - months? How long has it been? - but the note from Southern has kept her preoccupied. Today, for once, she's not working the lunch hour. Instead, she's sitting at a little table by herself, picking at her food, lost in thought with her firelizards draped around her. He's found some work at Fort, though it's been interesting for the Igen native. Lokeiv isn't naturally inclined toward shirts or 'normal' work, but he's doing his best to fit in and he's even found some measure of satisfaction in it, if not happiness. It's hard to tell, really. But, what he does know is that he's happier around Cahia than not around her, so that seems to tilt things ever-so-slightly in Fort's favor. Lunch finds him nosing around the kitchens for food and, after finding Cahia's not working, he promptly goes on a hunt to find her and plunk down in a seat opposite her without preamble. Cahia is much happier to have him around, too, though she also feels guilty for it because she knows this isn't his place. He's Igen. Definitely not Fort. But she is grateful just the same. She looks up when he sits, a bright smile crossing her features that's quickly faded to pensive. "Hi." "Hey." Lokeiv flicks a look to her firelizards, to her lunch, then back to her before he leeeeans in with a finger primed to boop her nose. "What's up? You always work at lunch. Are you okay? Do I need to carry you to the Healers?" Worry limns his features - though, the time at Fort does seem to be doing him some favors: he's not all skin and bones. So, that's a win? Cahia wrinkles her nose at his boop, leaning back with a little laugh. "No, no, I'm fine. The Apprentices are working this shift." Alllll by themselves. Cahia might be here just in case disaster strikes. Maybe. She fiddles with her food again and then gives him an apologetic smile. "How are you liking Fort?" Her laugh makes him smile and that's enough to ease the worst of Lokeiv's worry. If she didn't laugh, he'd haul her off without a question. Instead, Lokeiv flashes her a grin of reassurance. "You trained them well, so- I'm sure it'll be great. They'll do great." He has faith. He has no lunch of his own - whoops - but he'll rectify that later. Maybe after she's actually eaten hers. The question hits him askance and he pulls back, perplexed. "It's… uh. I guess it's okay. It's not like Igen," not at all, "so, it's just- different? Why? What's up?" Cahia gives him a look. "I know you too well for that, Scoundrel," she teases him fondly. "But," she adds, her tone softening, "I'm very glad you came here for a while." She reaches into her pocket to pull out the the job offer from Nineveh, as such. "There's a lady in Southern, who has a bookstore. She's looking to hire a Baker to make treats for her customers…" "You being happy makes me happy," Lokeiv replies, briefly sticking his tongue out at her. "And it's different. Not good, not bad, just-" He shrugs. "It's good to explore." But that last might be more for his own benefit than hers. A reassurance. But then there's that job offer and he reaches out to take it, if she'll let him. Just to read it. To verify it. To try to see if there are lines between the lines. "You should do it," is his immediate reaction once he's done, though he's quick to add, "I mean, if it's something you want to do." Cahia lets him have it, of course, and finally takes a real bite of her food. "You think so? I'm thinking about it. But, if I do…" She watches him. "Please don't feel like you have to follow me all the way to Southern. I'm. I'm so glad you found me here, but I'm…I'm feeling better now. About…everything." Sleeping better, she means, and it's easy enough to see. Especially when he stays in her room and gets to see her sleep and not pacing half the night jumping at every noise. She's settled. He reads the offer again, his mouth tugged slightly to a side in thought. "I think so. I think- I think Southern might give you more peace of mind." Lokeiv finally offers the paper back, a smile surfacing and going lopsided. "And I'm glad you're better now," more than glad, even; he's seen the changes and they've been good - not just for her, but for himself, as well. He reaches up, pulling his hair back a bit before he slouches in his chair. "As long as I know where you are and that you're happy," he continues, "I'll be happy. Okay? I can always send Apple or Caramel to check in." Cahia nods. "It's a long ways away, but." Unspoken: that's a good thing for her right now. She takes the offer back and studies it for a moment, before she's nodding, having made up her mind. "I'll write to her and see if she still needs someone. And I know. I'm happy. I…I think owning the bakery was too much. At least right now, it's too much. This," she looks at the message again, "seems just about perfect." He can imagine: a whole ocean and then some between her and the trouble? It can only be a good thing. "Yeah. Yeah, I think- I think you'll have a lot more happiness there." Than here. Than Igen. At least for a time. "You deserve that happiness and peace of mind and- and just… the chance to do the thing you love without all the stress, you know?" Lokeiv's smile remains, tilted slightly. "And just think about all the fruits and flowers and stuff you'll get to experiment with that you didn't have before." All the tropical delights! The fantastic flavors! "I can always come visit." Cahia looks surprised and then delighted. "Oh," she breathes, "I hadn't even thought of that…" She's heard tales of the flavors of Southern, and now… now she can see them all for herself! She reaches for his hands though, giving them a firm squeeze. "You can always come visit," she stresses. His mood brightens all the more and his hands are easily caught and squeezed; he'll return the squeeze with a soft laugh. "I know, I know. It's just- you know how it is." Him dealing with the Weyr and the riders and all of that? It's not a strong suit of his. "But I will visit. I bet you'll be even better by then," not just in terms of mental well-being, but as a baker, too. "Just- ah. Let me know if I can help with anything to get you ready for it, okay? I can even go down with you for a few days-" just long enough for Lokeiv to get a taste of the humidity and nope on out of there, but still. Cahia shrugs with another smile. "You're welcome, but you don't have to. I can do it on my own." And she can, and she knows she can, her confidence returning despite her fears and mis-steps with the bakery and that new family. "I know I don't have to," Lokeiv replies with a firm squeeze of her hands. "And I know you can do it on your own. You're strong and you're smart and you're resourceful, Rogue." All points punctuated with a little wiggle of her hands and a bobbing of his head, just so. "But, the offer's still there if you want it." And if she doesn't? He'll be okay. "Either this time or if you leave Southern or- just- I'm here for you. Always. No matter what, okay?" Cahia nods, "I know," she says and she does. "And same for you, too." Or at least she'd try. Try her hardest. She finally lets go of his hands and stands, carefully tucking the offer away. "I need to go check the kitchens and then I'll write to her, see what she says. Even if she says yes, come right now, I'll still find you before I go." Guilt still hangs in her heart for how she vanished on him last time. And he nods in turn, affirming her affirmations, as if to secure them in his mind. "Okay. Good. And- I'll hold you to it," though he trusts she'll follow through, Lokeiv can't help but offer the words on a teasing note with an easy grin. "Otherwise, I will follow you down." Threat? Promise? A little of both. He pushes to his feet, his attention hanging askance on the lunch offerings. "I'll see you at dinner." For his day's still only half done - and barely, at that. Another Offer, Another Chance has 1 comments. |
10 Mar 2024 05:00 |
Cahia gets the offer of a lifetime and Lokeiv offers his support. |
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Dawn Work Dawn Work
"They don't need me." Central Bazaar All roads in the weyr ultimately lead here, to this center of commerce. Canvas awnings jut out over time worn, sandy cobblestone, sheltering customers and wares alike from the majority of Igen's elements, and funnel scents both mouthwatering and vomit inducing through the thin streets. Almost all store fronts are open air, delineated by sandstone arches with intricately carved facades. The insides of these stone-shingled buildings act as an amplifier for the salesmens' bawled enticements, and are held up by the chipped swirls of marble pillars. Enjoying the relative coolness of the dawn time, and having finished up the tasks Taski had for her this morning, Nesyari is currently wondering loose, a little at odds with herself as she hadn't expected to get done quite as early. Aside from eating a bit of breakfast in the form of a small broken off bit of fresh-baked bread that's still steaming and dripping in butter. She looks around at the changes to the bazaar since she was last in. The various states of repair. And then, suddenly, there's a small teen dropping down from a rooftop beside her. He didn't intend to startle her (if he even did), because he comes down feet-first and facing the wall, dangling from his fingertips as far as he can before he drops the few feet to the ground with a solid *thump*. He turns to move off in his chosen direction, and nearly runs into the other teen. "Ahh, shit," he fumbles, awkwardly swaying out of the way. There is indeed a bit of a startled and quickly suppressed squeak. Though that may be more from almost dropping her buttered bread. Nesyari though has simply not /not/ gotten used to people dropping from the roofs as tends to happen around here. She gives little ahem though as her gaze turns towards the lad. "Well, that was quite graceful there, wasn't it?" she asks with a but of a cheeky grin. "Might think about actually looking, don'tcha think?" Ryeklom shrugs, pushing reddish curls away from a sweaty forehead. "I knew it was a safe spot to land." NEVER MIND that he almost landed on her. "Usually, anyway," he amends. "Wouldn't want to come down head first…" Is that what she was suggesting? That's strange. "Where'd you get that," he asks then, a chin-nod towards the bread. There's a bit of a hrm as Nesyari continues to eye the lad. "Well, landing on your head would be a bad move. Typically doesn't end well when you go head first. Trust me." She then looks at her bread "Taski has a lady friend that likes to bake for him, and since we got in real early this morning, she put in a few extra for us. Just got finished baking." she explains. "So what about you, what has you," she looks upwards a moment before continuing. "trying to land on poor hapless travelers that are out enjoying a bit of a bite?" Ryeklom eyes her. "You say that like you've done it," he says, a tickle of a smile tugging at the edge of his lips before he squashes it. "Looks good," he says, looking hungrily at the bread. He hasn't yet had his breakfast. "Work," he says with a shrug, a hand dipping into the pocket of his worn pants to feel around for something, but he doesn't draw it out. There's a little bit of a shrug even as she breaks of some of the bread to share having noticed the look to the bread. "Perhaps." though she doesn't on that particular matter. "Here, want some? It is good but I'm getting full and would hate to waste it." she asks matter-of-factly. "Work huh? Well nows a good time to be doing it, that's for sure. What do you do if you don't mind me asking?" Ryeklom is quite the suspicious lad and he knows she's lying about being full but his pride wars with his hungry belly, and he takes the food. But his mother didn't raise him to be rude, so his "thanks" is genuine. "All over. Mostly errands." He will not get more specific than that. He does tilt his head towards the rooftops. "Way faster to get around from there, and you can see where things are blocked off for repairs." Nesyari glances up and then nods "Yeah, I remember being able to see quite a bit more when I ended up there." she notes and looks thoughtful "Though I really hadn't thought about it being a good way of getting around. I'll have to keep that in mind when Taski has me out doing things. I still sometimes get turned around trying to find various things, course I don't really get much a chance to spend wondering around all day." Ryeklom gives her a curious look. "So you'd just climb up and then climb back down?" That idea had honestly never occurred to him. When he gets up there, he moves. "Who is Taski?" "Well, it'd all depend. But climbing's no bog deal, typically easy enough to find handholds, and there's a good deal more than back home on and all. But sometimes just a quick look would be good but staying up might be good too. Less distraction and all maybe. Dunno. Haven't tried it yet. And Taski's a Trader I travel with. Pays me mostly with food and a place to sleep, but the occasional bit of a Mark and all." Ryeklom tilts his head to study the older girl. "Is he… your…" he trails off and then just tosses caution to the winds. "Lover?" Because why else travel with a guy who just pays you in room and board? There is silence that greets that question and then Nesyari bursts out laughing "Oh Faranth no." She takes a few momemts to catch her breath "He's like ancient." Well maybe not ancient, but relatively counts, right? She then sobers a bit "It's better to be working hard for not much with him, I get a chance to see places and I do a little trading myself. Better than being out there alone. It's protection." She shrugs some. Ryeklom huhs. "Sounds like he's taking advantage." That's his totally unfounded opinion based on nothing but the barest bits of information about her life. "Can understand protection though," he adds, fingers fiddling with whatever is in his pocket as he frowns down the street. Nesyari follows the glance to see what he may be looking at even as she answer "Well, most everyone takes advantage, but he doesn't hit and he doesn't have roving hands. I'm strong enough to help unload and load, and running errands doesn't bother me." There's a bit of a pause and then a quiet add. "At least I'm useful to him." Ryeklom snaps his gaze back to her at that additional comment. "Were you not, before?" There's a bit of a snort "Only so long as I didn't show my face." Nesyari states "As a girl, I'm only as good as my looks." She rolls her eyes a bit "At least that's Fathers opinion. What use is someone that can't attract a wealthy lad and all? And he's got Jahlah. She's proper lady and all and he's working on a contract for her. She's a decent sort though, so I don't hold it against her." Ryeklom studies her for a long, long moment. "Holder?" he finally asks, his voice pitched much softer than before. Nesyari kind of half shrugs and tilts her head into the rising shoulder "Yeah, and Mother is sister to the Holder. So, gotta keep up appearances and all. Not like I'm even near in line of succession. My cousin's married and with a babe on the way, and he has a sister who is also married, and then I've two brothers over me, as well as my sister who'll likely be married to someone with sense just in case. They don't need me. At least some of the outlying holders have need of an extra pair of hands when I'm not out, and I'll pick up things for them as well that they're not likely to get easily." Ryeklom listens to her talk with a steady gaze, staring intently at her face. As she finishes, he gives a small nod. "It's worse to be heir," he says firmly, already shifting away from her, "and lose the hold, than to have nothing from the start." Again silence. How does one reply to that. "Well, I certainly can't argue with that." Nesyari states. "I can't even imagine." she shakes her head a little. Well mother always did tell her that there were other's that had it worse. "I'm sorry." she says simply without a trace of pity, but certainly some sympathy. "I don't know if there is anything, but if there is anything I can do, let me know?" she asks quietly, but with tones of a transaction being offered. Ryeklom just shrugs, not stopping in his trajectory away from her. "Thanks for the bread," he says again, and then he's vanishing down a darkened alley, presumably to continue the day's work. Or what he can get. Nesyari watches the boy go. "Anytime." she murmurs as she watches him go. Then she sighs a little "Well, that'll teach me to whine about my life." she murmurs to herself and rubs idly at the side of her face. "After all, my lot is my own doing I suppose." she shakes her head and wonders off herself. Dawn Work has 0 comments. |
09 Mar 2024 07:00 |
Two teens meet in the Bazaar's dawn hour. |