Amani, Ibrahim


Ibrahim goes to the Galleries to draw the clutch newly on the Sands; Amani sees him, and conversation is had.


t is 11:38 AM where you are.
It is noon of the tenth day of the third month of the fourteenth turn of the 12th pass.


Galleries, Southern Weyr

OOC Date 10 Jun 2018 05:00


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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's been three days since Zymuraith brought her eggs into the world, and while Amani has still been tending to her duties (that don't involve flying), she's finding herself surprised at just how much not being able to climb up on her queen's neck and fly somewhere affects her. She's hoping Zymuraith will want to go hunting soon. That will be a welcome change of pace. Not that she doesn't find herself fascinated by the way her lifemate broods. She's moved a few eggs, adjusting them according to some intent and pattern Amani has yet to decipher, always placing them within one of the concentric rings she's made. And never moving the glowing white one in the center. Right now, the young goldrider is in the galleries, trying to figure out why Zymuraith is building up the sand on the side of the eggs closest to the cavern entrance, taking care to do the same to each one.

Three days since the clutching, and the eggs still fascinate the young wildling. Ibrahim has been spotted, every now and then, discreetly settled to watch the eggs like every other curious soul; quiet, introspective, his gaze follows those many shifts and checks and balances made, occasionally sketching the arrangements. Take today, for instance: he's turned up in the hopes that Zymuraith has set a new pattern, and it seems she has! He hasn't noticed Amani yet, for he's still closer to the stairs than the tiers.

Being lunchtime, there are a fair amount of people here, quiet murmurs and whispers breaking what would otherwise be a somewhat eerie quiet, given the way the wind works here. Other spectators are mostly higher up, though some wander down every now and then to have a quick word with Amani, usually congratulatory. She's alone now, though, clearly focused on Zymuraith as she comes around to one egg, small and dark and slashed with red, that has been a small point of worry for the queen. There's apparently something she needs Amani's up-close opinion on, and the goldrider turns and heads for the stairs. But a familiar face, deeply familiar though she's not seen it in nearly a Turn, slows her, then pauses her altogether, and she straightens. "Hello, Ibrahim." Zymuriath pauses in her worrying for a moment as well, lifting her head to survey her rider and the long-haired wildling curiously.

Pencil moving swiftly, Ibrahim takes in the crowds, the stairs, the tiers: the entire scope of the place in broad strokes, giving a sense of the hopeful energy, the speculation, the thrill of wonder at what is yet to come. It's to be a record, of course; a record for the wildlings he knows so well, who as yet will not come to the Place of Stone. There's a sound, though, that stills his pencil mid-stroke, and he looks up, puzzled. He knows that voice. Oh, it has been awhile since last Ibrahim heard Amani's voice, and is startled to find her there: intimately familiar. "Amani." He greets her gently, as serene as ever. His glances takes her in, quiet, still, thoughtful. "How are you?" A good, safe question, yes?

Though Amani could never be certain of not seeing Ibrahim again, of course, she was rather certain the odds were low. Nearly a Turn would definitely follow that reasoning, of course; she can see that. Low odds aren't no odds, after all. So here they are, both startled but both schooled to something more placid. "I'm well," she replies, taking note of the wildling's sketching. "I'm well," she replies, eyes never leaving him though she idly smoothes the indigo silk sash against her hip. "Especially now that Zymuraith's out there, with her eggs." And at the moment, she's still parked by the small, dark one, settling on her haunches with her eyes still turned their way. "And…you?"

Nearly a Turn will heal many an emotional volcano; given sufficient time, Ibrahim has come to terms with many a thing. So, those odds are more likely now than they had been. Putting the pencil behind his ear, Ibrahim will offer Amani a gentle smile. "I see she is still a very meticulous sort." There's a warm amusement in the fact that that hasn't changed at all. "I am.. I am well. Enjoying life." Whatever that means for him - usually involving much of plant-finding and other things of that sort. "Managing to survive the antics of family and Weyr life."

Amani smiles in kind, chuckling softly and nodding as she glances out toward her lifemate. "Meticulous, mysterious, all of her usual," she affirms, "but…she worries over little things with her eggs. As I guess any mother would, most likely." She nods to Ibrahim's next, clasping her hands at her back when she catches herself fiddling with the sash. "I'm glad to hear it," she says, and means it, though finds herself trying to shove away a small, nagging voice in the back of her mind that insists he won't believe her. Fortunately, it's easy enough to make shut up. For now. "I heard you'd been helping out in the Infirmary sometimes."

"Mm." Ibrahim considers the queen thoughtfully: wondering what's going on behind those whirly eyes of hers. He's unlikely to find out — a silent mystery even above most dragons, as is her wont. He turns to look, again, at Amani — funnily enough, he does believe her, now. Time has erased the less fortunate emotions. "Hmm, well, I'm a stubborn man." His grin is of self-deprecating humor as he winks at her, playful. "Yeah. It seems silly to withhold my knowledge of Southern's particular cures and illnesses simply because I am not Hall-trained in medicine."

At Ibrahim's self-description of stubborn, Amani smiles in full, though it's a cautious thing that becomes less so with the addition of his wink. "I imagine you've had a conversation or two with Rielle, in that case," she ventures. "That's what she'd hoped to study before Impressing, she told me once." Klah-dark eyes fall upon his sketchpad in earnest. "Is that a record, or just for yourself?"

"Rielle?" Wait — oh. "Yeah, one or two. Keep meaning to pick her brain." Literally? One hopes not, that would be horrid. He glances down at his drawings, then back up to Amani, shrugging a little. It's a rather silly thing, to be a bit bashful over, but there it is. "It is — I'm trying to show how the Weyr works. Some of the younger folk are actually interested." He shyly offers her the book to see — her interest is plain to see, and she ought to be able to feed her curiosity as well as any other. "It's a way to add to our histories."

Amani accepts the book with a quiet murmur of thanks and surveys what Ibrahim his done so far, smiling gently at what he's captured of the present setting. "It's very well done," she says, and passes it back, lifting a hand to tuck back a stray bit of hair that's escaped her runner-tail. "If any of them want to see…they're welcome, just like everyone else." Which he likely knows, just as much as she knows that it isn't as simple as just taking a walk to the Weyr to look at the eggs for many of the wildlings. Her hands link behind her again as she slips into quiet, worrying at her lower lip for a moment. "It's…good to see you, Ibrahim."

Ibrahim takes the book back with a murmur of thanks, closing it and settling it on his lap. There's a wry chuckle for her assertion that the wildlings can simply walk in anytime. "Well. It's what I hope to convince them of, eventually." He's come by his stubborn will quite honestly, it seems! Her last comment has him looking to her again, his dark eyes steady. "Hm. Is it?" He tilts his head to one side, studying her. "You seem worried to find me here." His tone is gentler than usual, measured and calm: concerned, really, for the nervousness she seems caught up in.

And there's that little voice trying to nag again. "Not worried, no," Amani asserts quickly, giving a little shake of her head. "It was just unexpected to run into you, that's all. Though maybe it shouldn't have been." Considering Ibrahim has always been accepting of and curious about the Weyr. "And I have wondered how you've been. I just..wasn't sure I'd see you again to find out."

"For awhile, I wasn't certain I'd be back." Ibrahim admits softly. "I had to heal." He looks about, assured that they are at least somewhat isolated from prying eyes that might misconstrue. "Well. It's done, now, Amani — and for whatever it's worth, I do understand." His gaze is steady on hers, and solemn. "Are you happy, Amani?" The question holds no malice, merely hope that she's found her way, and whatever it is she's looked for.

It doesn't surprise Amani to hear Ibrahim's first, and she nods with complete understanding at his reasoning for it. When he says he understands, she finds herself swallowing over a sudden lump in her throat, blinking a few times against a subtle burning at the edges of her eyelids as she meets his gaze. His last turns her pensive for a moment, but she soon nods. "Yes. I am now," she replies softly…and then another sound arises, Zymuraith's pointed rumble drawing her attention, the impatient flicking of her tail-tip earning a rueful chuckle from the goldrider. "I'd better get down there," she tells Ibrahim, smirking apologetically. "I'm sure I'll see you around. Here and other places." It seems much more likely now.

Tears. He hadn't expected that. "Amani. It really is all right. Perhaps we were never meant to be more than friends. I can accept that now. Okay?" He assures her gently. "Don't take on so." His grin is quick, meant to reassure her — and then she's being called away. "Ah, I can see you're being summoned. I'll be around, yes." He'll begin to open his book, eyeing Zymuraith's impatient tail-flicks with wry amusement. "We've catching up we should do, when she doesn't need you so much." Plainly, it will be a bit; the queen is an exacting taskmistress, indeed.

Not full tears; Amani wouldn't be caught doing that anywhere in public! But she nods again, smiling in turn, and sidles onto the stairs. "Alright," she agrees, and starts downward before Zymuraith can figure out what noise to make next…or bombard her rider's mind with some more-confusing-than-normal imagery. "See you later, Ibrahim."

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