Who

Bailey, Frostana

What

Bailey gives Frostana the lay of the land and a free pass for violence? Not Bailey.

When

It is sunset of the thirteenth day of the tenth month of the eleventh turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Weyr

OOC Date 26 Aug 2017 07:00

 

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"You'll figure out that most bronzeriders are assholes, though. It's just… typical of the breed, I suppose."


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Galleries

Stone benches rise up.. and up.. and up: grooves upon grooves show marks of their hand-hewn origins, small chips and uneven textures to tell the tale of humble beginnings in a place which looks upon the black-and-white Sands of Southern, a place of greater beginnings indeed. The Galleries take up roughly a third of the perimeter of the Sands: to the west are flat, staggered entranceways, ledges for dragons interested in watching the proceedings. Below and just easterly, a stitched-hide curtain covers the entrance to the bowl, keeping the wind away from the precious cargo often housed upon the Sands. It cannot help the shrieking of the wind above: though it is muted in this hollow, the intermittent sighs and moans of the thermals shrieking through the viewing-ledges above can be unsettling.

It is the seventy-third day of Spring and 94 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.


So as it turns out — there's eggs. There's eggs that will likely hatch at or after high summer, and for once — for ONCE — it's not Bailey's Khalyssrielth twining around the eggs below. But Bailey's up in the galleries, enjoying the priority box down at the front, casually drinking a tall glass of iced sangria as she considers the activity below. Whilst Dhiammarath and Dhioth are both guarding those ovoids jealously, K'ane and Hannah are nowhere to be seen. The galleries is bustling, people coming and going with the fresh appeal of new motionless ovoids to stare at and speculate about.

Candidates, freshly knotted, sweep the stands. … well, somewhat freshly knotted. A young woman pauses to knuckle her lower back and smoothe, again, the dingy knot on her shoulder. Curly hair is pinned up, but dark strands lay plastered to her neck. She mutters what could charitably be called apologies to those she's skirting around, brittle smile offered when they move sluggishly out of her way. For all that she seems less than thrilled with the work, she works steadily, stealing glances at the any time she has to shift posture or direction.

"Candidate," Bailey calls, leaning out of the box and flagging down Frostana with a casual wave that rides the magical line of being both attention-grabbing and generally non-offensive (it's a skill!): "Would you please bring me my bag?" She gestures up the way to where a tote bag lies half-slumped on a tier of seats four or five steps up from where she's lounging.

Hmm?! Frostana, rather deep in her thoughts, twitches at the nearby address and blinks at the sight of the Weyrwoman. This is the closest she's been, thusfar. "Hello." Ma'am. Damn. That was in my head. She draws up and salutes, as instructed, but forgets to mind her broom. The handle balances momentarily and then, falls in a broad arc, landing perfectly parallel — CRACK! — a sharp report. Like a cat, Frostana drops prone. Nothing to see here. She inches along towards the bag, trying to stay out of line of sight. The bag the Weyrwoman indicated jerks. And jerks again. An unseen hand tugging on it.

The salute receives a half-smile, one of those tilted affairs that gives the full lines of Bailey's lips an enigmatic appeal. The redhead returns the salute with a wave of her sangria glass. Then there's a crack, and a disappearing candidate, and Bailey straightens from her casual lean to try to figure out where on earth the candidate she was just talking to has disappeared to. Her grey eyes catch on the tote being jerked, and the woman sits back to watch, her expression split between amusement and vague consternation.

As the muller of response to the loud crack subsides, Frostana peeks up, speculatively, bushy hair and dark eyes peering. Deeming things safe, she stands, dusting hands on her trousers before picking up the bag and heading down the half-dozen rows to Bailey's prime perch. She darts a glance at Bailey and hands the bag over. She decides mid handover that maybe she should have bowed or saluted again or something and the bag's progress halts. It's in her right hand. Her saluting hand. She can bow. Maybe that's good enough. She bows, extending the bag. Uh. And she should probably say something, "Ma'am."

Bailey wordlessly accepts the bag after that bow-handoff, placing it next to her body with prim neatness. It seems strange, the bag rough reinforced homespun with a childlike embroidery at the edges — it doesn't quite match the rest of what Bailey's got going on there, doesn't seem to meld with the cadence of her attire. "Thank you," the woman replies, her smile abruptly brilliant for the girl. "I'm Bailey," she introduces, like that's not immediately obvious. "And you are?" She arranges the cloth straps of the tote underneath her arm as she props her elbow up on the seat adjoining, twisting more to attend her attention to Frostana's face.

That mismatch is noted, with a quick narrowing of dark eyes. Frostana scratches at her ribs and realizes as Bailey settles onto her elbow in languid sprawl that the woman wants to talk and she's stuck there, frumpy and lumpy and rather uncertain of what to do with her hands. "Yes, Ma'am." Bailey is Bailey. She scratches at a bit of an itch on freckled cheek. "Frostana." She's so itchy all of a sudden. Itchy. Twitchy. Itchy. "There's- uh." She clears her throat, "Can I ask a question?" Her accent is a strange one. Glottal vowels of Crom leavened with Fort and a smattering of Southern's own broad rolling shape. In other words, a mess.

"Of course, girl with no name," Bailey replies, lifting her eyebrows politely. For all of her words, her voice seems more jaunty than pointed - she's in a good mood. It doubtlessly means that SOMETHING bad is happening somewhere.

"No, um." Frostana's cheeks color, "Frostana's my name." She makes a noise in the back of her throat. "It's- my parents thought it sounded awfully poetic." Just ask her sister Emberlene. Frostana, bless her, has no reason to fear Bailey's seeming good mood and trundles on, "Is that normal?" She points out at the eggs. "There're so many." She can't quite tell what are lumps of sand and which are eggs.

"Frostana," Bailey proclaims, her alto rolling the syllables with the very slight Benden accent that plagues her, time to time, despite all of the turns and intervening areas since her childhood. "My parents didn't seem to realize that Bailey's a boy's name," she offers a personal anecdote, turning her attention to the eggs when bidden. "Normal?" questioned a heartbeat after, then — with a throaty laugh — a smile for the candidate girl, indulgent. "Yes, quite normal. For us, anyway. A nice, big clutch." She points out the one egg yet cradled between Dhiammarath's 'paws: "And if I don't miss what my eyes are telling me, a gold egg to boot."

Frostana makes a noise in her throat. Parents. A lifeless smile offered in commiseration. Freckled features crumple, a head tilted. "Dragons…" she's taking the Weyrwoman's allowance rather further than a single question, "…don't they give their riders new names?" The stories are full of honorifics and lovely re-namings. "What happened?" Frostana's eyes narrow slightly at the laughter, not sure what's funny, or if maybe the joke's on her somehow. "Oh, I've only seen firelizard clutches." And not very many of those. She looks out over the Sands to the event horizon of supernova's protective curl. "Do they always know? Do they know the others?" All the questions. Gears churn and turn away behind dark eyes.

"Sometimes," Bailey replies. "My name has always been Bailey. But Arianna became Arianne… Yulena became Yules. Sometimes the names the dragons pick are strange. Kasavi became Iska." There's a brief pause. "But her blue has always been a little… eccentric." She tastes the word briefly on her tongue, considers if it's accurate, moves on. "Nothing. Just the question of what's normal. We've a tic of clutches specifically forty-two eggs in total." Her slender shoulders rise and fall. For the last line of questioning, her eyes land on the chiaroscuro bronze and narrow slightly. Then, simply, "No."

The nicknames are taken in stride, even if Kasavi-Iska gets a puzzled brow furrow. "Well, if a dragon doesn't change mine, I'm changing it myself." The proclamation is a mostly muttered side-mouth. Frostana is not fond of her name it seems. "I meant what happened with your name." This is the important thing here, see? "If you didn't like it, I mean." She's assuming Bailey doesn't like her name. She watches Bailey closely and hones in on those narrowed eyes, tracking to look out at the bronze sitting sentinel over his clutch. "Did he surprise you?" Eyes flick upward briefly. "Dhioth." Did she say that right?

Kasavi to Iska, y'know, whoever engineered that one is fucking crazy. "It's a great time to do it, if you're going to do," Bailey tells the girl, "Though you can change your name today if you really want to. What would you change it to?" She rearranges the tote under her arm and allows her gaze to fully rest on the girl. "Dhioth. No, he didn't surprise me. He's always been fond of her." She gestures with her chin towards Dhiammarath. "Thank fucking Faranth," she mutters under her breath.

Frostana should have seen this question coming, really she should have. And the better part of a decade's day-dreaming about the names she might have had go pinwheeling away, with a trace of heat rising in her cheeks, too embarrassed to speak them aloud to another, now she's voiced the intent. "I, uh," she scratches again at her ribs, some stray hay there? A glance down to break storm-gray gaze reveals that, no, no stray straw sticks in her clothes. She shrugs, "I don't know. Something…" lamely finishing, "Different." She blinks at the indication of fondness between Dhioth and Dhiammarath. "Why did you squint at him?" She narrows her eyes illustratively. Like so. Squinty-squinty at Dhioth.

"Frostana," Bailey says, thoughtful. "Ana? Does anyone call you that?" The focus of her grey eyes roam out toward the eggs again, probably giving the girl a little bit of metaphysical space in her hay-checking. "His rider is an asshole." She shrugs. "You'll figure out that most bronzeriders are assholes, though. It's just… typical of the breed, I suppose." She leans back against the back of her bench. "Have you met many people since coming here?"

Eyes widen marginally at the blanket disapprobation of bronzeriders. There's a distinct impression of Frostana storing that bit away. K'ane's Bailey-avowed Asshole Status, or the more broadform warning. She smiles a bit at 'Ana.' "No. Everyone calls me 'Frost' or 'Frosty.'" It's enough to warrant a commensurately chilly response. She screws up her face, nose crinkling, "Do I look like an Ana?" She smoothes her clothes, simple, worn. Dingy knot. Self-consciousness bleeding through in the flutter of fingers over patches and threadbare patches in the face of Bailey's elegance. She's still not totally sure what to do with her hands. Palms gone sweaty press to her trousers. "No. Not many. Not yet." A beat, "Some apprentices, in the dorms."

It's a worthy generalization, Frostana. If you ask Bailey. (well… okay that totally did happen) "Tell them you'll punch them in the fucking face the next time they call you something you don't want them to." #unfiltered "And then do it. And if anyone tries to punish you for it, send them my way and I'll handle it." Weyrwoman-instigated violence: top story at 11 o'clock, and now on to weather… Bailey takes in the girl, her smile softening with an element not frequently seen outside of El'ai and his kiddos. "You look like you could be whoever you want to be."

Forgive Frostana the gape-mouthed reaction to Bailey's instruction. She curls, unwitting, the fingers of her right hand into a fist and when her eyes fall on it seems surprised to find it thus. Though her lips flatten into a pressed line, mind flashing briefly with the imagined sensations of how lipflesh would feel spreading against teeth. A fierce flash flickers and she nods. Orders are orders. Bailey is the Senior Weyrwoman, after all. Frostana smiles at that, a real smile, color rising again in her cheeks, freckles dark, eyes bright. "That sounds better when you say it." Her cheeks flush hotter with that little revelation and she clears her throat, scowling a bit. "I, uh-" she glances up at the gallery steps, "I should sweep." She looks around the steps, "Unless there's another bag you need." Frostana is totally willing to help Bailey's handbag theft ring. A twinge settles between the young woman's shoulder blades.

It's not the transformation that overtakes the girl that has Bailey smiling — though it would be worth a smile, to see the near-cellular reconstruction of thought made manifest in flesh — but the smile she gives herself. It's a smile that deserves a response, and so it gets one. White teeth flashing, a dimple in her right cheek manifesting in brief totality. "Go sweep. Best not make all of the dictators mad. It's character building." The woman gestures with a careless sweep of long-fingered hand. "No, I think I like this one." She pats it and gives another of those crooked smiles of hers, this one openly conspiratorial. "And Frostana," subtle inflection given to the last pair of syllables, "If you find yourself in need of anything… don't be a stranger."

The mention of dictators has Frostana's expression sharpening, dark eyes scanning the steps. She glances at the patted bag and Bailey's conspiratorial smile before giving the Weyrwoman a quick nod. "Yes, Ma'am." She blinks. Anything? A nod precedes a promise, "I will." She backs up a step lifting a hand to salute while oh-so-gracefully checking a heel against stone unexpectedly near. There's a look of alarm, a quick, blind, half-step up and back and a pinwheeling of arms that turns into a loop-da-loop salute on the next higher step. Just like she meant to do. Ahem. "Thank you." That last bit is rasped to the inert eggs on the Sands below, she doesn't want to see whatever reaction the Weyrwoman has. In a rustling, she turns and dashes up and away off to be mortified in the relative solitude of sweeping. Hnnnghh. Though, later, she might be overheard talking quietly to herself, 'I'm Ana.' 'You can call me Ana.' 'Hmm? Oh. Everyone calls me Ana.' Hnngh… No one does. The knuckles of her hands whiten on the broom handle and her mouth firms. What do you know? Sweeping does build character.

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