Nathanael, Cha'el, Bailey


Cha’el meets a young seacrafter and winds up inadvertently putting his foot in his mouth until Khalyssrielth sets him straight via Sikorth.


It is noon of the twenty-second day of the sixth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.


Southern Weyr, Galleries

OOC Date


nathanael_default.jpg cha-el_default.jpg bailey_default.jpg



Stone benches rise, black and showing the lack of polish from a thousand seats — by the look of it, these have not been used in… forever, if ever indeed.
Type 'help here' for info on how to view objects on the sands.

Timor: 1_m5.jpg
Belior: 1_m8.jpg

Its been raining all night, the staccato drum of water falling in sheets found to be a soothing rhythm. So much so that Igen’s Weyrsecond had overslept and woken with such a start that he’d almost fallen out of bed when Sikorth had weighed in with a ringing reveille. Now, freshly bathed and dressed, he’s keeping watch over the eggs and the pair on the sands from the lowest tier of seating while Hannah enjoys a leisurely breakfast with her bronzerider. Using his knees as a make-shift table, the quick scratching of quill over linen paper is all that fills the cavernous area as Cha’el makes notes for the day ahead.

The utterly tuneless whistle proceeds the sound of sandaled feet as they scuffle strangely at the top of the stone steps. Their uneven rhythm is explained when a half-grown teenager steps around the corner and proceeds to skip right down the stairs. In his hand is a covered tray of food, which, by the looks of it might be getting a bit extra shaken. A corked bottle hangs off of one elbow upon leather string as he moves downwards. No food spills, at least he is paying enough attention for that, but he probably is moving a whole lot faster than he ought to be. The emptiness of the cavern makes the brownrider easy to spot, and Nathanael directs his step towards him, then with a marked bounce still in his step, moves towards him. "Sir? Ma'am Ardstelle was tellin' me ye'd proly be wantin' this 'bout now."

The whistling is indeed noted as is the scuff of sandals of another entering the caverns. However, the brownrider remains bent over his work for a few more moments before looking up. And when he does, his stomach weighs in with a longing growl of hunger before he can offer comment. Slightly sheepish the curl of lips and then gratitude shows in the warm smile the blonde teenager is rewarded with. Gaze to the knot looped over Nathanael’s shoulder a brow ticks upward. “Now what’s a seacrafter apprentice doing delivering breakfast, eh?”

The bright smile that flashes across Nathanael's face doesn't fade at the question thrown at him. Rather the apprentice will set down the tray and take off the cover, revealing the hearty contents of a rather large breakfast that is more or less not all that messy (okay, so the perneese equivalent of eggs and bacon might spill, but the waffles are still safe!) "Ma'am was knowin' I like to be lookin' at 'e eggs givin' a chance." No shame at all at this double role does Nathanael feel. "'n 's still too rough for 'e juniors t' be out on 'e waters."

Seated on the lowest tier of the gallery seating with what looks to be work balanced on his knees, is the Igen Weyrsecond. Glancing down at the tray when Nathanael whips the cover off, a slow grin pulls across the brownrider’s features - Nothing like a hearty breakfast to start a man’s day off right. Looking back up again, he’s suddenly struck by the sky-blue of the lad’s eyes, the arrangement of features and the mop of blonde hair he sports together with the lilting accent all tie together to create a sense of familiarity. “You look like someone I used to know,” Cha’el tells the teen setting the leather binder aside to take up the breakfast tray. “Her name was a Kisha. Married to a fellow named Dorrono.” Idle chit-chat while he gestures for Nathanael to pull up a piece of polished rock.

When waved away by the weyrsecond Nathanael bounces right to that edge to look downwards at the eggs. When the names curl off of Cha'el's tongue though, he twists around to peer backwards at him. "Kisha was m' ma's name. 'n Journeyman Dorrono's m' Pa. Kinda tall," He'll stand on tiptoes to indicate a height almost a foot taller than him, "beard…" and Cha'el's face gets examined, "kinda like 'e one ye've got, 'n sea-rough?"

It's a goldrider not affiliated with the current behemoth seated 'pon the Sands that picks her way up the stone staircase of Southern's hatching galleries. Her hair betrays her, burnished-bright and braided, as much as the sharp cut of features or shrewd nature of grey eyes: Bailey mounts the steps to the tier in which Cha'el and Nathanael house themselves, scanning her gaze over the Sands below with her lips curling upwards at a corner, an expression of wry mirth canted thricely with irony. Silvered eyes shift focus to encompass the foreign and the familiar, and Bailey picks her way over towards Nathanael.

Having cut a thick square of waffle and pile it with scrambled egg and bacon, it’s already in his mouth when Nathanael identifies himself as being the offspring of the pair named. Around that mouthful, a grin grows and Cha’el hastily chews and swallows. “Aye, that’s him.” The teen is given closer inspection. “Well you’re not one of the twins. They’d be around…seventeen? Eighteen now? You must be a new one.” New being relative. “Sailed with your da back in the day,” he goes on to tell the teen cutting another neat section of waffle. About to add more a flash of light over burnished locks catches the Igenite’s eye and he pauses, openly tracking Bailey’s approach. With a tray on his lap and fork lifted to his mouth, Cha’el is caught by indecision. Set the tray aside and stand or stay where he is and look like a complete cretin. He goes for compromise and dropping his food bearing hand, offers the goldrider a smart salute. “Ma’am.”

A flash of something indeterminable crosses Nathanael's face when Cha'el mentions twins. It is gone as fast as it appeared though, and he turns fully away from the eggs to look at this sudden twist. "Aye, they'd be 'bout…. eighteen I'm thinkin'. I do no' remember ye from Nerat… 're ye from," but he breaks of as Bailey draws closer and transfers that bright smile right over to the weyrwoman. "Ma'am Bailey! Are ye well this mornin'?"

There is a tightness that infiltrates the sharp lines surrounding Bailey's eyes as she overhears the last bit from Cha'el's conversation to Nathanael, a Look transmitted quicker than thought to the Igenite before she's all smiles to Nathanael himself. Fingers reach out to card hair out of his eyes, if the seacrafter doesn't partake in evasive manuevers. "Good morning, Nathanael. I see you're up and about early. I'm fine, and yourself?" Then, as if whatever expression she shot to Cha'el a moment prior never existed, Bailey lilts in mild alto amusement, "Oh, don't let me interrupt the breaking of your fast, brownrider."

Unaware that he’s potentially bludgeoned into sensitive territory, Cha’el completes the course of food to mouth, does the chew-swallow bit and reaching for the bottle Nathanael had brought with him, shrugs. “Ista. Cross-trained with a crew out of Nerat for a while.” That’s for how he knows Dorrono. He doesn’t however go on to say how he might know the lad’s mother; stalled as he is by that look Bailey flashes him. There’s a brief narrowing of eyes but having gotten used to being the spectacle of gossip and yes, a few pranks too since landing his brownriding butt in Southern, the moment soon passes. “Not an interruption at all,” the Igen Weyrsecond assures and setting his tray aside, pats at his mouth with a napkin and finally stands, a hand held out in greeting. “Cha’el,” probably unnecessary, “Igen’s duties to Southern.” And a BUNCH of eggs but lets leave it there shall we?

Sikorth senses Khalyssrielth is scorn ice-borne and iron-forged, disdain broadcast from all the high places of the world. Rarified air deigns to breathe thought into words, the sharpness of her sopranto reverberating with an achingly-beautiful vibrato, one at odds indeed with the message she delivers. « Mine, » bitten out loftily, « Requests that yours cease acting like the idiot he looks, inquiring about souls obviously lost. » 'Dumbass' is just kind of … implied at the end, there.

"A'fore I was born?" Which would explain why the former-seacrafter doesn't know him but knows his older brothers. All of the looks exchanged bring a slight tilt to Nathanael's head, and blond hair brushing right over those eyes of his, but elicit no further comment. Who knew why adults did what they did? When the fingers reach out to put those strands back in place he grins, all sorts of long suffering, to answer her question. "'s lookin' like it might be turnin' pretty ma'am! Rain was no' enough t' be keepin' 'e boats in 'e morn." Something to be commented upon in the rough winter weather that Southern endures. Ma'am Ardstelle had me brinin' 'e foor for 'e weyrsecond."

Sikorth thinks to you, « I bespoke Khalyssrielth with: In the face of that icy buffeting scorn, Sikorth is a solid rock of indifference, the thwump of blades slicing the mists of his mind rising in steady beat. Silence greets the admonishment, old and eerie, gathered about the monoliths of his mind as he holds consultation with his rider. « The loss of souls, » his tone a scratch of gravel, « is new information. Mine deeply regrets the error. » Radio static thereafter. »

Sikorth senses Khalyssrielth cares not for the mistakes of those beneath her. Scorn and ire, iron and ice, she recedes back to the enterprises worthy of her attention.

Fingers itch to set astray the strands just sorted, but far be it to call Bailey unchained by an iron will. The goldrider reaches over to trade a grasp of palms with Cha'el, her own grip both easy and strong, self-assured. "Bailey. Southern's hospitalities to you, weyrsecond." She inclines her chin to him and takes a step back, lingering as is her typical wont about the fringe of the cluster. Her smile for Nathanael is genuine: "I was thinking of taking Khalyssrielth out to the cove on the northern shores this afternoon. You're welcome to come with us, if you get your father's permission." Lips twitch then with mirth: "My apologies for our head cook, Cha'el. She probably thinks you're too skinny." Bailey's eyes laugh her opinion of Ardstelle.

“Aye,” Cha’el begins to say and then suddenly snaps his mouth shut, paling a touch beneath his tan and darts a look first to Bailey and then to Nathanael. “Fuck me.” He mutters into his beard looking ten kinds of awkward all of a sudden and rather a bit saddened too. His breakfast forgotten for the sick feeling in his stomach, he carefully gives the teen a once-over from a fresh perspective frantically sifting through what little information he’s been able to glean from the lad. Kisha was his mother’s name. Was. Deduction grants the lovely blonde he’d known a little better than most, her final rest. But Dorrono? The twins? Mouthful of teeth! That is until Bailey saves his sorry hide by clueing him in. “Well met,” his voice a pale shade of the confident baritone that is his. Weak the smile that is sent to the goldrider shortly thereafter. “Its better than whatever it was I was given a few nights back. I think someone lost the salt shaker in it.” Or executed a prank.

A very speculative look runs across Nathanael's face as he ponders Bailey's offer. "I'll be askin' m' Pa, Proly he'll be sayin' aye." But then the mutter from Cha'el reaches his ears, and rather then manage to pull the inappropriate comment from his lips, he unthinkingly allows the phrase to fall from his lips. "Why'd she be wantin' t' do that sir?" Then he rethinks and colours a bit in chagrin. "Beggin' ye pardon ma'am."

Bailey has one last look for Cha'el — she's better at playing her cards close, that face so familiar with the necessary veneers of politics that require little outwards indication of personal involvement - before turning her eyes and thereby attention to Nathanael. "Well, if he says yes. I wouldn't want to be stealing you off and making him worry." Bailey's lips lift at the corners. "I…" and then there's a laugh startled out. "Oh, the weyrsecond isn't my type," she assures Nathanael, "But I'm sure if he really needed to find a lay he could. It is a weyr, after all," she murmurs to the seacrafter, laughing-eyes shifting one last look to Cha'el before she settles down on a seat a span removed from the other two.

With a boot still firmly stuck in his mouth, Cha’el doesn’t immediately parse the teen’s question. “Why would she be wanting to do wha….OH!” His brain catches up. Heh. Aheh, heh, heh. At his age he’s a little passed the blushing stage and instead a throaty chuckle rolls out. “It wasn’t an invitation,” he tells Nathanael, flicking the striking redhead a privately amused look, “that was me trying to pull my head out of my arse.” And then Bailey weighs in as she does and a short snort lifts up. “Thanks but no thanks.” Attention settles back to the teen and setting a hand to the lad’s shoulder he gives it a light squeeze. “Sorry for your loss, kid. Your ma was…one of a kind.” Spoken to suggest he’d known the woman of who he know speaks rather well.

"Oh, was just thinkin 'cuz, ye ain't" but THIS time Nathanael's mind manages to catch up before he insults the weyrsecond by saying that he figured Bailey was way out of his league. (Because, well, she is.) He'll cough once then lick his lips. Cha'el is providing an abrupt return to the previous conversation though, so Nathanael retracks his mind. The smile only fades a little bit. "Been 'bout five years gone, sir. 'n 'e twins."

It seems fit that this time meets with a prudent rise of Bailey to her feet. "I'll be in the courtyard by second 'mark, if you've permission," declared to Nathanael in a voice tempered by amusement. She slides Cha'el one last look, this one measuring, and moves to pat Nathanael once on the shoulder. "I'll see you later regardless, Nate. Cha'el," her voice notably more professional to the brownrider in question, "Try not to start brushfires, if-you-please." On that cryptic statement the time is met and her chin inclines, the redhead turning and traversing back the way she came to exit, stage left.

Even had Nathanael’s tongue gotten ahead of his mind, the weyrsecond would likely have been more amused than anything else. But as things stand and none the wiser, he drops his hand from the teen’s shoulder, dark brows pulling toward one another when the lad expands on the loss of his mother and siblings and nods. “A right shame.” Cha’el murmurs and then fits the focus of his attention to Bailey as she takes her leave; standing firm under the measuring look she fits him with. Brushfires? Blue eyes narrow at the corners. “Bailey.” Her name spoken by way of farewell along with a polite dip of head, gaze unreadable as he tracks the tall redhead’s departure back out of the enormous cavern.

If Bailey had stood here much longer she might have gotten a brief hug in return for the shoulder pat. But since she's already moving Nathanael will simply beam. "I'll be seein' ye ma'am!" His eyes will follow Bailey right out of the room before flicking back to the weyrsecond with full on curiosity now. "Why'd ye be starin' fires? 'm not thinkin' 'e queens would be likin' that much…"

A soft chuff of amusement spills at Nathanael’s question and Cha’el sits his ass back down again, taking up his breakfast tray and pushing aside the by now cold scrambled egg, in favor of what’s left of the waffle and bacon. “It’s a warning. A way of saying she doesn’t trust me.” He tells the lad not looking particularly put out about it. Cold waffle and bacon down the hatch, he waves his fork at the teen’s shoulder knot. “How long you been in the ‘craft now?” The interloper goes on to ask.
"If'n ye pardon me sir…. why ain't she trustin' ye?" Nathanael's suspicious look manages to look more like a kid who has just found out that the candy is within his reach, rather than suspicious. As Cha'el moves onto his food the seacrafter decides to follow suit, pulling a meatroll from a pocket and plopping his butt down into a nearby chair. "Oh, uh, 'bout three years."

Pausing in piling bacon onto the remainder of the waffle, Cha’el fits the teen with a long look. “Because we’re strangers. Intruders. Not the pair that was supposed to catch Dhiammarath’s flight.” Wry his tone as he carefully lifts the waffle in his fingers like a fluffy slice of bread and takes a bite. Chomp, chomp, chomp, nod to Nathanael’s reply. “S’a good life,” the brownrider notes with affection for his former craft. “Nothing like being out on the wide open seas with sails filled like pregnant bellies and shipfish at the bow.”

"Oh." The thought is a bit confusing so Nathanael will fall silent for a long moments, his jaw working at that meatroll. Blue eyes wander back down to the sand and he cocks his head sideways as if deep in thought. "Aye, ain't no where else I'd be wantin' t' be." Finally he flicks his gaze back to the brownrider speculatively. "'m wonderin if Pa might've mentioned ye afore, would ye be mindin' if'n I was askin' what ye name was afore?"

Leaving Nathanael to mull over what he’d said, the brownrider finishes off the waffle and bacon and goes on to make short work of the sausages. “Only thing I’d ever trade it for was that lump down there,” Cha’el states wiping greasy fingers on the napkin before opening the bottle the teen had brought with him. “Chadarel.” His name easily given as he holds the bottle out to Nathanael to have first drink if he wishes. Lets hope its not whiskey in there. “Your ma…” he begins and then falters unsure of whether the lad might rather the things that hurt were left alone.

"Chadarel," Nathanael carefully turns the name over his mouth, tucking it into memory to mention to his father later. Cha'el has continued talking and thus attention is fully back on. "No thanke sir. Ma'am Ardstelle was sayin' ye were needin' t' eat all've that or else. Ye knew m' ma well? I think she grew up in Ista, aye?" He reaches upwards and brushes his hair out of his face again, that blondhair not falling at all properly in the heat of the sandy area.

With a nod when the offer of a drink is turned down, Cha’el uncaps it and lifts it to his lips, eyes of ocean blue locking to the blonde mop of hair that Nathanael tries to shove back and experiences an unexpected pang of loss. So like his mother. Quickly he turns his gaze out to the sands swallowing both the mouthful of juice and the lump in his throat. Clearing it he offers the teen a smile. “Aye. Once. A long time ago.” He’s not about to say just how well he’d known the effervescent Kisha but he’ll offer what he can. “We grew up together. She was sweet. Gentle. Funny too. Always put a smile to any that met her.” A pause and then his expression warms. “You look just like her.”

"Ye know, Pa says jus' 'e same thing, 'bout lookin' like her. Ye dun think I'm gonna be jus' as short as her, ye think?" He'll bob upwards to his feet again, so that Cha'el can see his full height again, probably not helping the weyrsecond believe he's going to be a proper height. "I'm missin her sometimes, she'd love Southern, but ye know, 's jus' 'e way it be, aye?" Nathanael isn't one to be worn down by sorrow, especially sorrow years gone by. There's too much life to be lived. "'re ye likin' Southern?"

Fond amusement twitches the Igenite’s lips in the frame of beard and he makes a show of putting Nathanael under close assessment. “Maybe another few inches,” he finally tells the littlest seacrafter. “A man is never shorter than his ma.” Is added with a firm nod of head. Compassion shows in the softening of Cha’el’s features. “Aye, I still miss my da too. Nothing wrong with missing them. It means they’re still remembered, aye?” As to how he likes the Southern continent, the Weyrsecond’s expression turns wry as he sets his tray down and covers it back up again. “Its beautiful,” he’ll easily admit, “good hunting too. Some of the people I’ve met have been friendly enough.” Such as the sweet lad standing before him. “You like it here?”

"Good. 'cuz just between us? Bein' short ain't much fun." Sitting down would require him to be less active for a bit, and that isn't quite on Nathanael's to do list. So he stays up on his feet and bounces gently, without his feet actually leaving the ground. "Aye! Pa's learned a whole lot like 'bout 'e Dol-fins though, 'n with 'e crafters up north playin' nice 'gain, we might be goin' back."

While suppressing the chuckle that lifts up, blue eyes are lit with internal humor but Cha’el nonetheless manages to deliver a solemn nod of agreement before he tries to put a positive spin on lack of stature. “Being tall isn’t all that great either sometimes. I’ve lost count of the times I bashed my head walking into low-hanging shit and on a smaller boat that boom comes over real quick too. If you’re tall, getting out of the way in time can be a problem.” With that shared, the Weyrsecond collects up the things he’d been working on before Nathanael had arrived and pauses to fit the lad with a look of surprise. “Dorrono’s looking at heading back north again? Why?”

"Aye, that be true, 'n ain't no une fits in 'e riggin' quite as well as I!" The bouncing has become a bit more apparent. "'n aye. Pa's thinkin mayhap he should be takin' what he learned 'ere back to Nerat. Uncle been sayin' he's wantin us t' be comin back." His eyes shift sideways for a moment, examing the amount of time he has left. It comes up short, so the seacrafter will smile one last time at the brownrider. "'s been real nice meetin' ye sir. I'll be tellin Pa I saw ye."

Leaving the breakfast tray for a drudge to pick up, Cha’el stands with his folder tucked under his arm and snaps a smart salute off to the small seacrafter with a smile lingering. “It’s been a right pleasure meeting you, lad. You’re a credit to your ma and your da.” Stepping down to the walkway that leads outward, the weyrsecond nods. “Do so. I’d like to catch up with him for old times sake.” And so idle conversation will follow as the two, complete physical opposites of each other, make their way out and their paths diverge to their separate duties.

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