Who

Khulan, Ko'an

What

Khulan makes use of a personal book of hers among the Standing Stones. Ko'an has some unsought advice about it.

When

It is early morning of the twenty-second day of the twelfth month of the sixteenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Standing Stones, Igen Weyr

OOC Date 10 May 2019 07:00

 

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"Does the soil speak to you, sha?"


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Standing Stones

It is perhaps a pity that the Standing Stones lie in quiet isolation, half-forgotten in the Weyr's easternmost corner. Or perhaps it is inevitable: the grandiose beauty of these red rocks is ill-suited to Igen's coarse grit, and maybe only their loneliness allows them to survive unmarred. Whatever the reason, it cannot be denied that the Standing Stones, a lonely jumble of ancient boulders, have a glory about them. The tumbled field of pillars and arches has been shaped by eons of wind and water into strange shapes, twisted and rutted. The going is treacherous: only the Weyr's half-feral herd of caprines navigates the terrain with any ease. To the northwest, the lakeshore glimmers; to the east, rough-carved steps lead towards another ancient pile of rocks - though the Star Stones are less haphazardly placed than their Standing cousins.


It is both early and cold, though Khulan is sufficiently layered - and in shoes, for once - to keep the bite away from her skin. In this, she's grateful for her habit of wearing headscarves and veils; it makes the air tolerable. She's picking her way along slowly, a precious and battered notebook or journal of some sort open in her hands. She pauses from time to time to mark something down, her expression unreadable but her eyes searching. Stones are prodded with a foot, dirt scuffed experimentally. Scattered on the stones nearby are a myriad of firelizards - but whether hers or wild, it's impossible to tell from any distance.

Far above, dragons come and go- few in such hours of the day but it is not terribly uncommon. With them, the intermittent interruption of the watchdragon's bugel champions the skies in short greetings here or there. Some dragonriders have already taken to the fields for early exercises, and in further reaches, smaller squads have collected to more casually discuss plans. A very normal day, really, that boasts that at-east sort of feel where Thread isn't expected. Yet, in the same vein there is always that tickling tension that it could come anyway. Abruptly, unsettling is the appearance of a dragon whose corroded copper throat and time-worm and wrecked underside near skims the highest points of the standing stones. Far enough, yes, that vast outstretched wings of a massive bronze in glide are of no true threa to touch- those wings naught but black sail tattered from the moment he'd broken shell being risen from some Faranth forsaken place, and the war that has unwraveled since. It does disrupt the chilly air, though, buffeting the one below briefly before the slope takes him downwards in direction of the sparkling lake's edge. Within the shaken wind is a horrendous yet somehow low hiss-creel that tremors like some sort of laugh. Just as the bronze submits to gravity where the water may meet him, Ko'an would appear. Well, sort of. Somewhere in that distraction, he had leaned against one of the stones. Ice-blue eyes, kohl-rimmed, watch Khulan in a loud silence, roguish scruffed face twisted in a grin. His long leather black coat rustles as he crosses his arms, feint of gaze taking in the firelizards he suspects have already tattled on him, "Ay' lass." Serves as his greeting, "Mapping a place already writ? I can find quite a few for you to save you some time."

It's not a proper intrusion as such, but the girl tips her gaze skyward all the same with a darkened expression blissfully veiled from view. A brown firelizard squawks challenge, wings half-furled before a click of tongue-on-teeth stills the little beast. He kneads the stone instead, grit falling where claws touch. Tension coils in Khulan's shoulders and stiffens her spine - but it's not just the passage of that dread beast overhead; just a dragon, yes, but a dragon every bit as dire as some others she is more acquainted with. The lack of familiarity prickles at the back of her neck, discomfort drawing gooseflesh to hidden arms. "No, sha," she does not turn to address the man that speaks; she knows he's there and the brown, poised as he is, is quite keen to tattle on any potential threats. Of Igen, yes, but not here; there's an exotic lilt to her tone that speaks of far more distant, rural places. Eventually, she half-turns, head instinctively ducking with respect, even if her eyes are shrouded. The book is shut, the writing implement stowed, and the object clutched to her chest - even as distance is sought, in incremental measures. "This place may be on maps, but what I need to know will not be on them."

Black Pearl'd shipwrecked dragon submerges into the (relatively) deep of the waters of the lake, for now vanishing from view as the ghastly thing of Dark and Death and Dread he is. No firelizards accompany the man, though, leaving to reason he's… outnumbered in his current company. Amusement marries the darkness of his features, bathed in shadows and those things Harper's sing about in tales of warning. Ko'an's attention must have been on that book as she closed it, for perhaps there is a twinkle of disappointment in the chill of that gaze which now falls upon her with a natural intensity, soul-searching depth that is a relentless, heavy, suffocating thing. His fingers tap near the crook of his arm where they rest, the glint of jewelry on those fingers evident, his other hand wrapped in more black to hide whatever lies beneath. His poise is arrogance and self-given authority of unlikely any boundary. Gravel-touched accented voice intrudes again, just as he shifts to a stand from that lean, "What is it that you need, then, exactly?" Each word unhurried just as he seems to be, as he returns that semblance of respect that just doesn't seem to hold the same meaning when he does it- his wrapped hand touched to the flat of his chest, his head bent in a brief bow in a sinister extravagance which utterly suits him. "Perhaps I may be of assistance. I quite fancy the.. ah.. art of navigation."

On his perch, the brown firelizard puffs up, wings threatening to open again. Another soft click from the girl stills him, but he remains agitated. Elsewhere, a blue takes a tumble and warbles his way between. He'll be fine. Khulan is peripherally aware of some shifting of the firelizardly ranks, though her expression - limited to that window of space that exposes eyes and the freckled bridge of nose - betrays nothing. The particulars of him are taken in keenly and with an artist's eye, as much as the eye of a maiden trained well to avoid men like this - especially when alone. She turns more fully, facing him directly, even if her gaze is forced to the ground at his feet by the very training that should have prevented her from being alone and here in the first place. Skittish, this one, but not so much as she once was; she doesn't flee, which perhaps speaks well enough to the nature of her spine. He in his black and dark; she in her drab whites and sun-bleached colors. "Does the soil speak to you, sha?" And she should be retreating further and faster than this. Yet, she is not known - of late - for keeping safe company, for good or ill. "If it does, then perhaps I may ask your assistance if it is not an imposition, sha." Her fingers drum a soft tattoo on the battered leather; one roll, then done, with an unconsciously coquettish look up to the tall, dark entity that almost certainly bears the name Trouble.

While he is likely still aware of those firelizards, there's nothing about him that further notes he cares to pay them any heed. His attention- far too much of it- weighs on Khulan. Reading her. Waiting for something not verbalized, not even hinted at. Looking for something… in particular. Crossed arms fall to his sides, relaxed in a way of a man who thinks he owns it all, with a step towards her inclusive of the Pressure which that brings with him. The nature of him looms as if he may engulf her entirely even from the couple yards between them he's left as distance. The thumb of his good hand brushes against the backs of his rings, his dark hair permanently tousled in a way not even the winds up here seem to make it look any less mischievously dashing in only the way a rapscallion can make it. "I can't say that it does, m'lady." Ko'an hums in those low tones of his, considering her word choice more thoughtfully than someone with so much evident self-obsession really should, "Only the sea speaks to me, I'm afraid. But." He trails off, his grin curling further, crookedly, "I know of at least one who could pull a grass out of a dragon's toe and tell me what isle it surfaced from. What about the soil calls to you, mm? The rocks- The weeds?"

Details are picked out as he approaches; the rings, the wrapped hand, the sheer weight of his regard. Khulan's spine straightens and she squares up as he approaches, teenaged defiance finally rearing its head. Perhaps that defiance is a cousin to confidence; her jaw tightens a little under the veil, taking his measure more thoroughly this time. This time, there is no consideration given to turning and walking away; her gaze holds steady on him, nigh unblinking and more intense for it. "I have never heard the voice of the sea, sha," she replies, "but I am told it is loud and impossible to deny." One shoe scuffs at the soil again, turning up nothing but pebbles and barren dirt. Fingers stroke over the book, unconscious but connected to her next words, "It is not the soil that calls, sha, but the seeds that wish to grow." One corner of her mouth pulls to a side slightly, distorting the veil. "But, the soil still speaks. It says what will grow. My people know plants, sha." Another gentle tap to the book, plain and weathered as it is. "But, I think, that is all they know."

That gaze narrows just the slightest hint as she squares to him, etching a sense of approval, entertainment or both. One could almost say that nefarious grin has touched his eyes, but it is too crooked, too just-a-little-off for that. "What you've heard is true, love. Mostly. She is not so loud about her secrets, for which she has many. But she does remind those who forget to respect her just how much her beauty isn't to be misunderstood. Perhaps someday you would like to see for yourself?" It's unclear whether it's an invitation with him, or if she just desires to make it there of her own volition. Ko'an has decreased that distance between them insomuch that details are easy now, that with another step and ahalf he could reach for her or that book. But for some reason doesn't fully invite himself into her personal bubble when he so easily could. When he so usually would. Not yet, anyway. He listens. He doesn't interrupt. He takes his time to move, to respond, to do anything as if he expects the world to be waiting at his beck and call. His wrapped hand is raised to scratch idly 'neath his earring'd ear. "What is it that you seek in the end of your search? There are some plants that will grow just about anywhere, and seek no man- or woman's- interference. Ones that would sprout mere sevens after a volcano has turned the land to black stone. Do you care of only beauty of their presence, or…" The risen hand gestures dismissively, as if the first is not an answer he cares for, "perhaps something a bit more useful?"

There is no hint of smile reflected in her, just a seriousness that's better-placed in someone turns older than her voice suggests she is. Her visage - what is seen of it - is a strange and shadowed thing, even now. Wary - but not entirely hidden. "Khulan," is a correction, firmly made, but placed in a way to not impede the flow of his thoughts. Of the sea, she has no further comment, though the words are put to memory. She listens and listens well, she does; training does not account for that savviness. That's just her. The girl neither retreats nor advances, holding her ground against the oncoming shadow. That he is within range of reach does not escape her; the fine hairs at the back of her neck prickle, but she suppresses the discomfort with an ease that's uncanny. It's a conversation that sways; one listening, the other speaking, giving and taking without urgency. "All plants are purposeful, sha," she replies after some time, with a pause to press teeth to her inner cheek in consideration. "Even those that are more thorns than plant. But, yes, sha. I would grow things that are of greater use than what grows here as fodder for wild caprines." There's a lengthy consideration of him, that wrapped hand in particular drawing her attention again. It's a lingering look and she does not attempt to hide it. "My mother would say that those plants that give the greatest benefit require the greatest care."

The name granted to him is written down somewhere in that conniving mind, underlined with only, "A pleasure." in that way one has of being innately formal but not entirely genuine. The fact that his own name remains unsaid could be as much habit as intentional. Though he carries no knot and no uniform so set it on, the beast who flew above is of a color of hide that would make finding his identity no difficult feat in this particular place, really. "I believe caprine would make just 'bout anything fodder, even what might kill them." It's an off-handed remark, but he bares no attempt at hiding his general distaste for animals. "Is that what that's for then?" Ko'an's head tips in indication of her book, "To write what could be? Or do you write what already is? A book such as that can tell a great deal just as much about the person as about what she puts in it." Devilish are those accented words, though it is just a mere sentiment certainly of no consequence. His heavy, expressive brows raise for a second, curiously, "Did she now? I would say that's a wisdom that carries much further than plants." The man considers her amidst that intensity, this almost-interrogation with no clear end game, his tongue tracing his teeth, "You said your people only know of plants. Is that all you know?" Is there more to her? Could there be more to her?

Nor is his name asked for; indeed, it likely won't take much for her to find his name later, asking around with the wealth of information she's already gleaned. Khulan does add, "Rukbat's graces to you, sha," in response, rote, yes, but never said without earnesty. Of caprines, there is a slight quirk of brow, but no dispute; there might even be a pull to the corner of her mouth, momentarily reflected in her eyes before all settles again. "This? No, sha. This is-" and she falters, digging for words that are not her own to try to explain it. But, though they're at the tip of her tongue, they do not spill, and she huffs softly, hugging the book more tightly to her chest. "It is knowledge, sha. Past and present and future. It is my birthright." There, that's the word she was mining so desperately for a second ago. Her own brows knit and there's a soft click of tongue on teeth; thoughtful, more than chastising. "She is sometimes wise, yes, sha. Not always, but those words I hold to." Perhaps as desperately as she holds that book, in truth, though she'd never admit as much. There's a slight lifting of her chin at his latter line of inquiry, silence spun out on the span of a slow breath. "I know plenty, sha- and not all of it is in here." But if he's looking for more? She'll not give it so easily.

For a brief second, something a bit more is present in that look of his. His too-light eyes the color of the sea herself, yet within them an abyss deeper than any earthly thing. His attention on her unfocuses, as if that Darkness that is not his own takes more of him than his turns of experience may hide. That Bond is uneven in power and unkind, and despite himself, that smirk-like grin crafting lines into his roguish scruff fades for one second, two.. A blink, and nothing has happened, except an impression of vague, distant annoyance at the edge of his accented, graveled tones that wasn't quite there before, "The value of such a thing is immeasurable." Ko'an notes, metaphorically painting the very covers of that book of hers gold, and each leaf within studded in jewel. Dangerous. "I have one of me own. A journal of places, things, events, people near and far, started by a man before meself. Knowledge nigh impossible to find at even the farthest reaches of the bloody sea now. And that one I mentioned before? Aye, she's one too. One of plants that should only exist in nightmares." He chuckles with this, as if it is fantastic- his chuckle is a breath, barely allowed through his nose rather than anything vibrant or loud. "What you hold… Maybe you should consider keeping it somewhere safe." That being not on her person, he means, given the predicament this could have been.. or could be. "And under a mattress doesn't count, love."

Such shifts are familiar enough to a girl who deals with riders on a semi-regular basis; that distancing, that ghost of annoyance, that vagueness that steps in when the mind partially steps aside. Khulan observes this change without comment, though there's a decided darkening of already dark eyes, the windows of her soul shuttered. But, for as much as she might wonder at the nature of that bond, there is no knowing. Only speculation, and ill-advised at that. "Yes, sha. But what good is it if it is kept locked away?" Its value is better measured in rare spices and herbs; a burden more intoxicating to bear than mere gold and jewels. Yet. Despite herself, she finds herself leaning in some at that description of his own book, lips parted just a touch, but not enough to leave an impression. Curiosity is a dangerous thing and, now, with anxiety so swiftly replaced with ease, if not comfort, it takes a firm root. "It is safer with me than anywhere else," she asserts, suddenly prickly - thorny, even. "And it is a thing that only grows in value as it is used, sha. Tell me, when was the last time you looked at this journal of yours? And this one of plants?" Because, of course, that's the hook she'll bite - greedily so.

"Aye, but what a shame it would be if it happened to go missing." Ko'an's right hand raises in gesture between them as if he would pluck it from her tight grasp. He doesn't, but it's a display. A warning. When she derives that bit of defensiveness, that shady amusement creeps back up in full from where it had previously been slightly worn away. A glint in that ice of his blue eyes, another chuckle that is summoned from deep in his chest yet still suppressed to no more than that breath, "Keep that." Not the book, he means, but the assertion, confidence, "You'll need it." Though something about that silver ring'd hand of his looked like he would have proceeded to at least touch, he lets it fall back to his side, his head tilted faintly. "Nothing is safe here, love. Nothing that you want to keep your own belongs where other hands may wander and eyes may seek. The pages of me father's hand are far from these walls, though I've seen his words with me own eyes so many times I need not read them anymore. Those of mine grow every day when I return. Each night, taken from its place and then returned. For anyone else to see it, well, it would do me no good service. To have it stolen because of carelessness-" His slow, tempoed rambling pauses, his brows furrow slightly as he looks to meet her gaze, "Well I suppose there would be man 'round Igen with no eyes." For reading that which isn't his, of course. "The one of plants- ah, aye. That is a more troublesome one. I had me hands on it once. If she still keeps it here, she has gotten much keener on where to put it." Because clearly he's a problem.

"It is worthless to those that cannot read it, sha." Khulan's fingers retain a firm grip on the tome, small and thick as it is - how much is full? how much is left to be filled? Who is to say, save the girl? "And you certainly cannot." Thorny and confident, that. That lifting of his hand is met with a shrill shriek from the suddenly not-so-distant brown. The young woman's arms tighten around the book but, to her credit - or as further indication of her faith that the dragonbonded won't make an actual grab at her - she does not step back. A slow draw of breath follows, her eyes unyielding; fixed and dark on his face and for more than simply to read the emotion or relative lack thereof. "No, sha. Nothing is safe." Here. There. Anywhere. There's a tilt to her tone that carries a curious kind of weight; a knowing that isn't easily shaken free. There's a shrewd narrowing of her eyes as further details of this other book emerge, though she doesn't comment on it; names are already filtering through her mind, though which? It's a thing to consider. Edged again and warning, if in low tones that roll more distinctly with her accent: "But, with me, it is safest, sha. There are more eyes on it than you can see - and they have long memories."

Unfortunately, it isn't his specific dragonbond which keeps some form of control of this man. Many dragonriders know the pair all too well, or at least of them and their scarcity around the Weyr proper. Of control, maybe it is the eyes which watch. The dragons not his own from their perches all around the bowl. The other riders not all that far away. The firelizards to sound an alarm at any time. The walls have eyes. And he is no stranger to this 'problem', though within the Weyr he makes (almost) no effort to make true on that apparent devilish nature of him, and that other Presence which works on the worst of him. Maybe it is something else altogether that pulls on the inner strings of the man who can't possibly be all bad because he did indeed Impress. Regardless, he was successful in getting whatever he wanted, and the cocksure smirk on Ko'an's face illustrates that with enigmatic perfection. He leans into her, as if with a secret, dropping his volume appropriately, "Aye, that is true." That nothing is safe. "But neither is anyone out alone." A sideglance betrays a look to one of her 'lizards nearby, then back to her while he straightens again. A longer, heavy intermission follows this where his thoughts are elsewhere but not draconic. That wrapped hand runs fingers through his dark hair, almost too long in the way it lays over his forehead to his eyes, "If ye get bored staring at these rocks and the ground hardly fit for whatever Igen thinks green is-" ignoring the vast types of desert shrubbery simply because he can- "Come find me. Perhaps I can add a page to that book." If not, he might find her again since that invitation assumes he's found whatever he was looking for in her. A bronze firelizard foreign to her flock, older, sits atop one of the rock towers, head tilted to look down at her with blue-green and faint orange tinged facets. Memorizing, perhaps, before he leaps back into the air and vanishes again to Between. "Until then, m'lady." He offers a bow again, just as extravagant, this time with a hand swept out while the other remains on his chest. He rises just as he's stepping back, his look of her lingering until he finally turns to head down towards the lake.

Here, at least, she can feel some species of safety; more than out in the desert, with her own blood in their traveling wagons and their herbs and their obligations to ties and tithes. Safer here with this dark shadow of a man, this rogue element that would be ill-advised company even for the hardest of men - and women. It's fortunate that she has her veils and scarves; less to maintain her modesty, however, and more to keep the twist of her mouth and flare of nostrils from direct visibility. A dart-flick of dark eyes catches on the man's long - to her - hair, with a mote of abstract disapproval that's blinked away a moment later. "There is little to be bored of here, sha," she replies. "Even with the lack of green." A slight jut of her chin, challenging, then: "But I will consider it." Which might as well be an absolute certainty of paths crossing again, one way or the other; whether the girl seeks him or he finds her, it matters little. That little thread is already tied with inevitability. His bow is answered with one of her own, sans skirts-shifting, for the sake of keeping her book close. It is with the same grace that he fell that her blue emerges anew; to call it falling is to somehow give it dignity. All the same, the washed out, too pale blue ends up on Khulan's head, perching in a rickety assembly of limbs to approximate a natural pose - even if he looks anything but. He looks at the man and blinks, one eye then the other, before offering a half-baked warble that's inappropriately friendly. She clicks at him, softly, but is given an idiot chirp in reply. "Rukbat light your way, sha." Khulan will not move until the man is far from sight and, only then, will she return to the task she started, scuffing and looking and making her strange notes.

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