Roslin, Threvobek


Threvobek's doing research, doesn't, but may have made progress with Roslin.


It is midmorning of the nineteenth day of the sixth month of the second turn of the 12th pass.



OOC Date


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A grand room, lost to more pressing concerns, the Archives hold many treasures well past their prime, from instruments to examples of older flying gear and agenothree tanks. Faded and disused Records lean tiredly against their shelves, their bindings peeling and creating layers of dust on surfaces long left without maintenance. The floors are dirty, various footprints creating crisscrossing paths between rickety wooden chairs and drunkenly off-kilter tables. Columns rise upward to the ceiling, hung with glow-baskets scarcely tended and fast losing their strength. The hum of activity is duller, here in this forgotten space — few visit in search of historical facts.

Threvobek is restless, has turned indoors after cleaning up after the sandstorm's fury. At first blinded by the darkness his eyes acclimate and there's the whim to gather a large quantity of lukewarm klah. The stablehand sheds a few greetings to Weyrfolk he's acquainted with but hasn't the current temperament to get too engrossed. For a while he's stirring the lower cavern corridors, hunting the dark corners of his youth, finds them wanting, and keeps roaming. Eventually the teenager is self-lead to the Archives and he ignores the flamethrower relic he and other Weyrbrats used to try on when no one was looking. He has his mind on a few records, ones easily found. Careful with the klah, a seat is taken at a desk with a patina of dust and the large book when opened cracks, its joints seldom used.

Roslin is on a mission, dark eyes searching every hall and corridor until she gets to the archives, pressing the door open with both hands before slipping her body inside. "Mom?" she calls out, glancing around the room before finding Threvobek, a little embarrassed flush coloring her cheeks as she steps towards him, all while eyes still sweep around. "Hey, Threvobek. Have you seen Linny?" The weyrwoman has proved to be elusive this morning, though it's entirely possible she's locked inside the council chambers, given that the door is shut, and if listening closely enough, raised voices can be heard. Or maybe just one raised voice. Does W'rin have an inside voice?

Either the stool is built for women or daintier men because Threvobek's habit to sprawl is undermined. Efforts to compensate, a leg hitched here, a boot heel dug there. It'll due short-term. Pulling his eyes up from unfamiliar columns of dragon names, he regards Roslin professionally. "Not if she can help it." A faint laugh is annexed on statement's end. "Sorry girl, I haven't seen her neither Kaelidyth this morning." Not helpful. "Would she visit the Weyrwoman on the sands?" Better.

There's a frown on Roslin's face for her lack of luck when it comes to finding her mother, but easily enough, there's a shrug. "Possibly. I'm sure she's just in a meeting. It's nothing too important." Just a daughter wanting marks, fairly typical. Bottom lip is pulled in between her teeth as she glances at the records he's got, tilting her head to the side to try and peek, her mission to locate her mother abandoned now that she's found Threvobek, and finally, "What're you looking for?"

The prize of the harpers, Threvobek was not. He got lucky learning letters to read, can hold a pen properly (and doesn't), and that was enough measure of success to please the Weyr's harper. So the written world of words is a jungle best struck one machete-sharp squint at a time. "Not really anything in particular," voice wet from a fresh sip of cool klah. "These are the Weyr's dragon records," flipping the spine up, "volume two. Parentage, riders they Impressed to, the whole yahleh." A relic word for 'kaboodle'.

Brows arch up at the revelation, certainly not the answer she was expecting, but it's impressive, causing Roslin to close the distance between them even more, lingering. "Why?" she asks with a hint of a laugh, since those records aren't fun, casual reads. Apparently having decided that she's going to stick around instead of resuming her search for Linny, Roz grabs a nearby stool and pulls it closer, hopping up on it and getting settled in comfortably.

"This must be— let me rephrase that— is a place like the archives second nature to you?" Threvobek tweaks the assumption of a goldrider's daughter spoon fed vast quantities of chronicles, records room like a nursery. He uses the interim to straighten out a leg to make room for Roslin, posture still unsure of their ability to coexist. "I want to know how they set it up so some day maybe we can use it for the stable stock. Nothing, I'm sure, of your interest." Not a slight, a generic application of observation. Women like topics of clothes, men, and other women.

Roslin shrugs as she glances around the room, studying its layout before eyes are back on the boy in front of her. "The one in High Reaches was. This one, obviously, not so much." The girl certainly spent an extensive amount of time running around the records room in High Reaches with her younger brother, chasing and hiding, giggling and running, before being told by someone, Linny or otherwise, that they need to find somewhere better to play. "Is that your way of asking me to leave?" she asks, suddenly realizing that she may, in fact, be interrupting his quiet time, nervously tucking a lock of hair behind an ear.

The desk has a slant to it, awesome at catching certain angles of light but perilous to place anything on, especially liquid. The tall mug of klah is therefore pinioned between his legs, the most ancient of cup holders. "Not exactly," how best to elaborate, "our circles just don't… overlap." She's a leopard, he a zebra, something like that. A topic, maybe the only thread to tie them, surfaces: "How's your mother? The last I saw her three sevens ago she wasn't like herself." Didn't drink alcohol.

That comment pains like a stab to her chest, for yet another time in her life hating the fact that she's the daughter of a goldrider, as everyone assumes things about her, whether true or untrue. Roslin braces hands against the stool, ready to get down off of it to leave Thevobek to his business when his question comes, getting her to pause, at least for now, in that action. "She's doing fine. Busy as usual with work, and now with F'dan." A little shrug as Roslin's eyes focus on a random imperfection in the table. "Weird that she's having another baby. I know she's still young, but I don't know how I feel about another sibling."

"That explains a lot then." Threvobek's mouth parts in an unvoiced 'ahhhh'. "That's good for the Weyr, a child with dragonrider parentage." More sacrifices for the dragon young. "You'll learn to like the babe, they have that effect on people. People see that new life potential and they think of their own hope." He reads the name 'Kurieth' off a page and instantly forgets it. "If you care to answer," arranging the opportunity for Roslin to demurely avoid answering, "what're some of your hopes?" His face is at an angle, but she has his long-haired attention.

"I guess. Still just odd. Weird that I could have a baby, and she's still having them. At least it's with someone her own age." And not with Linny's former interest, Finn, who's more aged for Roslin than her mother. But it's a subject she is happy enough to leave behind, not necessarily wanting to face the fact that her mother has sex, despite the fact that she and everyone in the Weyr knows it. Thevobek's question gets a soft sigh and a little shrug, suddenly interested in picking random things out from under her fingernails. "I know everyone else's hopes for me. Obviously to impress. But I don't know about my own. I guess I just want to be happy, whether that's impression or marriage. I just don't want to do something because someone wants me to." Eyes flick back up to him before daring, "And yours?"

Threvobek shifts in the high stool, first it's an inch closer then the same distance back. "She has at least a full decade left for breeding, it's natural." Animals do it and he is in a position to shape it: develop bloodlines, end them, combine their genetic boons, it's manipulation you see just as often in people. Torso switches, unfurls to Roslin so he might better take stock of her newness. "Begging your pardon, but you don't seem all that happy." Aware, healthy, but lacking a 'spark' to his observations. "Me? I guess I try to get better, learn more things about animals." His dominant arm relaxes, rests on the book of dragon genealogy. "It has to be done."

Another shrug, but this time, there's a little grin at accompanies it for his observation, making it clear that he's hit the nail on the head. "I'm starting to become happy. I just started a new job, which seems promising, and really not that much like work, which is nice. I guess…" Roslin flicks a look to him, assessing to see if she should say what she's about to, and in the end, whatever she sees in him, she opts to continue, "It's hard watching every other girl my age with a boyfriend or someone, and I…" Again, she trails off, with an embarrassed little laugh. "Never even been kissed," gets murmured, now definitely avoiding his gaze, but since she definitely doesn't want to talk about that particular issue, Roz latches onto his hopes. "Are there many more things to learn? It would seem to me that animals are fairly simple to learn about, not really complex."

Threvobek toes a fine line between antagonizing and charming those he comes into contact with. Sometimes there's the talent to do both at once. Welcome to the experiment, Roslin! Threvobek finds he agrees, "job's are nice." Provided they suit a lady, though a proficient sheep shearer in Keroon he's heard about may be acceptable. But not to marry. When Roslin discloses the subject of boyfriends and kissing, the stablehand subtracts his open posture as casually as possible. This is awkward and his words are selected thoughtfully. "Your mother sorts through suitors carefully with your better interests at heart." In truth he got fired from the prospect pile quite quickly. "It's a good thing." Tone reinforced. "They are and aren't like lots of things if you think about it: playing a lap harp looks easy but try it!" Klah is swallowed and he holds onto the mug. "To feed and clothe not just a Weyr but a world, animals need to be efficient and that is something, ask any smith, that's never an absolute. There's always some better tool, some better method, some accident, that might ruin all the progress you make." Thread decimating a herd of the Lord Holder's prime white bovines would tear Rev's heart.

"Honestly, I love my mother, but she's not someone I'm about to listen to when it comes to love and relationships." Given that she has been through so many men, Roslin's not going to take her advice to heart, and it's aggravating that Linny seems to be at the heart of her boy issues. "You know, I guess I never thought about it that way," she replies, enlightened, tilting her head to the side as she regards Threvobek thoughtfully. "I guess I'm pretty clueless, then, about what your job entails. I suppose I take my food and clothing for granted." In fairly typical Weyrfolk fashion. "I never thought about it being like that, almost an art form. A craft."

A clutch of fourteen eggs hatched on the second day of the tenth month of the sixty-first turn of the eighth interval. Threvobek wonders how they managed to fit all that in such a tiny space, eyes nearly crossing. "Maybe she wasn't shown the proper care as a young woman," in heathen Oldtimer days, "and wants to see it doesn't happen to you." That is as much wisdom on parenting as he can wring out. He empties what's left of the klah into his mouth with a little pride; only Roslin and Sienna have attempted to part the veil, or dirty canvas, surrounding what herders and stablemen do. "It is," if he can catch her eyes his expression is an ironic mixture of stoicism and surprise. "Life's full of details disguised as insignificant. You're smart to notice." Fingers edge the tattered leather bindings peeling aplenty.

Thevobek's observation isn't all that far from the truth, but Roslin keeps her mother's depressing upbringing to herself, if only out of respect and love to not blab about Linny's painful past, putting it all to bed with, "I'll kiss whoever I want to, and that's that." Provided she can find someone who wants to, which at this point is easier said than done. The girl smiles at his compliment to her intelligence, chest puffing out just slightly more as she alternates her gaze between his face and the records. "Maybe I can stop by the stables sometime and you can show me firsthand?" Roslin's no stranger to taking up interests outside of her: Finn taught her some smithing before he started bedding the goldrider, which promptly ended the lessons.

Threvobek recrosses his legs by incorporating some of the desk components until they've reached indistinguishable coexistence. He could never be an archivist unless he shrank and learned about poise. Roslin's propensity to kiss whoever wounds something inside him, a thing expanded when she seems intent on stopping unattended by the stables, where men are coarse and liable to go into full detail how mating bovines or caprines work. He rubs his forehead, deviates to his hairline and keeps on going. Does no one believe in chaperons for their young women anymore? "The stables won't be very good for you. Too many bad smells, and you'll get dirty, and the men are mean." They're something, mean being perhaps the most golden of their character traits.

Lips twist back and forth at Threvobek's answer, a stirring of emotions inside of her that refuse to stand still. Obviously, Linny has already gotten to this one, and poor Roslin has no chance of undoing what has already been done, but there's at least the attempt to put a cheerful grin on her face despite his denial of her company. "Okay," is the best way she can think of responding to him, and then she's finally pushing herself down off of the stool, careful to put it back to where it lived previously. "Well, good luck with your records," she says, pointing to the ones in his hand before that hand reaches up to brush her hair back out of her face.

Threvobek swallows nothing in particular, resentment maybe, not of Roslin or Linny, but of their time period and chasm between them. Forced to reconcile these repercussions, Threvobek has no desire to injure the girl, suggests, "lunch in the bazaar someday and I'll show you some of the animals we keep." I.E. bring them to her in full public view. Hazel eyes look over from the page he hasn't hardly read yet.

Roslin considers for a moment, feet stilled in their path out of the archives as she stares over at him, pensive. "That sounds wonderful," she replies, giving Threvobek just a hint of a grin before inclining her head in a little nod, or perhaps a subtle bow to him. "Good day, Threvobek," she bids him, and then the girl is off, perhaps off to resume her hunt for the elusive Linny or maybe that's been called off with this revelation of halted opportunities. In either case, Roslin leaves him to the stillness of the archives and his records.

"So long, miss." Threvobek, user of titles, conveys as Roslin leaves. He lowers his head so the aged volume takes up the majority of his field of vision. It will help him concentrate. "That didn't go as bad as I thought." Ending with a sentiment to himself.

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