Who

Lorawyn, Treivyshe

What

A wildling and a healer search for something misplaced.

When

It is evening of the sixteenth day of the third month of the fourteenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Garden Terrace, Southern Weyr

OOC Date 12 Jun 2018 05:00

 

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Garden Terrace

Tucked-away and bejeweled, here is a hidden treasure of Southern, beckoning and beguiling those who may trod 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.


Ah rain. Southern just wouldn't be the the same without it. But Lorawyn has learned to live with the constant, not letting the light drizzle deter it from going where she will. A little water never hurt anyone. It was a good thing that the terrace was somewhat sheltered, only letting, but it didn't stop her from being an umbrella just in case. Most people were taking shelter within the covered area of the shops while she remains out on the terrace, staring up at the canopy as the rain dripped down to the colorful flowers below, umbrella in hand.

Tuneless whistling precedes the wildling candidate mounting the steps up from the weyrbridge toward the terrace above. Moving with an easy grace to masculine movement, Treivyshe is post dinner, post chores, and present in the regularity of the rain. It seems to distress him very little, his hair tied back so that only the whispy pieces at the sides of his temples matte against his face. He makes the terrace in the dying of the light and blinks raindrops from the thick fringe of his eyelashes, unblurring the sight of Lorawyn before him. "Miss," he says, nodding once, respectfully, as he moves to cross her path.

It is that same whistling that catches Lorawyn's attention, making the healer turn her head toward the source. Her gaze quickly takes in the man's appearance before shifting swiftly to the knot on his shoulder when he addresses her. A nod in return, along with a wisp of a smile. "Candidate." There's a step taken backwards to give the larger man more room to pass her, slow and deliberate as not to slip on the wet wood. Then, she folds her umbrella as she turns to take a seat on the nearby bench, fully embracing the drizzling rain for the moment.

The whistling returns momentarily, once Treivyshe has navigated a boxed step around where the woman stands in the rain. For a moment it seems as though that's the sum of all interaction, two strangers passing without comment or consequence, the whistling fading from the air. Then there is motion behind Lorawyn, a rifling of greenery that was elsewhere and then manifests in an arc to give her some small refuge from the rain. Is that a baby banyan tree? Whatever it is, it's cultivated in a round planter, more bush than tree, and manipulated by the wildling who's now rummaging where it was before, as if looking for something in particular on the now-vacant terrace ground.

With her face turned upward towards the canopy and eyes closed, Lorawyn does not notice where the Candidate moves to. She does notice that there is no more whistling but only comes out of her reverie when she no longer feels as much water on her face. An eye peeks open to see the bent tree, making her tilt her head curiously before straightening and turning around to see what was happening. She turns just enough to rest her elbows on the back of the bench, resting her chin in one palm. "Looking for something?"

With one arm engaged in balancing the planter and therefore the tree, it leaves Treivyshe with only one arm and resultant hand to search. His blue eyes lift from the exposed floor to match against the healer's attention, a brief smile giving a patina of softly amused self-deprecation to the otherwise bristling combination of his features. "I left something here," the riverborne says, the flavour of his words speaking to more irony and internal humour than vexation. "It would help if I could find it." Isn't that always the way it goes?

Blue eyes meet blue when Lorawyn meets his gaze, the corner of her lips curling upwards to match his smile. Her gaze shifts briefly to the area the Candidate searches before moving back up. "What was it? I'm rather idle at the moment, as you can see." She motions her head slightly, indicating the bench. "Perhaps I might be able to help you find it."

"A bag of buttons." Treivyshe allows the planter to go back to rights, a simple unflexing of solid-limned forearm. The tree obligingly scatters the pair of them with extra droplets of water, fat and full of promise, and memory of greenery. "I thought I left them here." Under a planter of a moderately-sized tree: this one has particular ideas when it comes to hiding things.

A delicate brow raises slightly at the Candidate's reply though she makes no comment on it. There's a bit of extra blinking as the droplets make contact with her face, proceeded by a quick wipe. Lorawyn's gaze goes back to the tree for a moment before she asks, "What does the bag look like? How big is it?" She turns to stand, her full height probably reaching nowhere higher than his elbow as she walks around the bench. She waves at the planter as she looks up at him. "Hid it under a tree?"

Treivyshe gazes downward with thoughtful intensity, studying the rim of the planter he's just jostled. Still crouched, he glances up to the Healer, not seeming likely to relocate in the immediate future. "A leather bag, about…' He makes a modest dimension by bracketing two callused hands, describing a bag roughly the size of a large mark-pouch. "Maybe I put it under the sage." He rises to his feet, with little visible concern for how thin the air must be up there where he does the majority of his respiratory function.

Lorawyn peers thoughtfully at the planter, arms loosely held behind her back before looking back at the man. Her gaze shifts to his hands when he gives her a rough estimation of the bag's size. When he stands, her neck follows upward for but a moment before giving a slight shake of her head and stepping away from that particular planter. "Sage…" she mutters softly, looking around for a sage tree. As she steps away from the larger man, she glances back just briefly, "I'm Lorawyn, by the way. Journeyman Healer."

"Treivyshe." No title, just his name offered in simple reply to Lorawyn's own self-introduction. The wildling's attention is briefly capture by the woman for a slightly longer consideration: "A Healer?" he can't resist inquiring, the generous line of his mouth assuming a low-key smirky sensibility to the curve. "Sitting in the rain seems less…" he hunts for a word simultaneous for the planter with the sage plants, "…likely," he ends, finding no other word to his full satisfaction and that only partially.

There's a brief nod of acknowledgement of the name, though it is followed by a brief tilt of her head. The name perhaps seemingly a curious one for her. Blue eyes light up when she finds a sage tree before chuckling softly for his comment. Lorawyn turns, an amused smile on her lips. "A little rain never hurt anyone." A hand comes up to brush aside a wet strand of hair as she approaches the sage tree and crouches down to search for that elusive bag of buttons.

There — she's found the sagebrush, a scrubby little thing better suited to Igen than Southern, and Treivyshe moves to join her. "No threatening pneumonia?" he asks her, voice rich in amusement and low in the relaxed way of a man who's done hard labor for most of the day already burnt. The wildling gently reaches around Lorawyn to claim a waterlogged hide bag; it jangles with wood tonalities as he lifts it. "Thank you." A momentary picking at the jammed thongs tying the bag closed rates an even slice of formerly-hidden knife, wielded in casual functionality. Then Trei flips a single button in the air toward Lorawyn: if she catches it, she'll find it skybroom and well-worked, with scrimshaw edges fanciful. "Ma'am," the candidate says, dipping his bearded chin toward his chest respectfully before turning and starting to make his way down the stairs, his whistling carrying him through.

"Not today at least," is Lorawyn's reply, amusement laced into h er own tone as she watches his hand come around to retrive the object. She stands, a nod given for the Candidate while she watches for a moment. Eyes lift, following the path of the button before she deftly catches it with one hand, turning it in her palm to observe the craftsmanship. "Candidate," she says in turn as her gaze lifts to meet his once more with an amused smile. His departure is observed for a moment before she pockets the button, then retrieving her umbrella to go towards the sheltered area of the shops, done with the rain for now.

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