Hjaskr, Chyrean


Chyrean tries to educate. Hjaskr just wants an answer.


It is evening of the first day of the fourth month of the second turn of the 12th pass.


Dining Hall

OOC Date


Dining Hall

A space where people come and eat. There are tables and chairs, and it is server-style: there isn't a buffet in sight. Come in, sit down, order some food. There's a menu in the corner announcing what is to be had daily.. there's a lot of fish soups and caribou roast. And tubers. Lots of tubers.

Right around the dinner hour, the dining hall is full of rough, hardy men, chewing and swearing their way through dinner. Tucked tightly into one corner, surrounded by a cone of solitude, sits a slip of a woman, eating studiously and neatly while ignoring the throngs around her. She's got a book with her, the un-forked hand pressing an index finger along a line of text. Her one indulgence, a glass of white wine, sits next to the meal that is going cool while she eats it mindlessly.

WHUMP-clatter. It's a perilous sound to hear, a plate crashing down onto the table, and it origninates directly across from Chyrean. Hjaskr is attached, the bald man staring unblinking at the slender woman as he seats himself. "I bring bread." His offering is unceremonious, for he does indeed allow a breadbasket to clatter down before him as he sits and waits for a waitstaff to approach him. This is possibly his third trip to try to attract attention of one of the wary ladies who staff the hall at this hour.

Chyrean jerks back, startled and offended by this racket offered by her new and uninvited dinner guest. Crowsfeet gather around her eyes, and she stares at the young wildling acros from her. Eyes fall to the bread and her fork, clenched in one hand, slowly creeps back onto the table. "You do," she confirms, trying a nearly tremulous smile and asks, "May I have some, please?" One finger pokes at the bread tentatively.

A calloused hand, thankfully clean, reaches out to grab hold of the whole loaf. A knife appears as if by magic, or maybe just sleight-of-hand, the better to saw the hearty brown bread in half. Hjaskr holds the only somewhat-crumpled half-loaf out to Chyrean. "Here. Here. You eat." If Pern had cheeseburgers he'd be demanding she eat one right now. "You want other half?" She can just put the rest of her plate in-between. Perfect sandwich to pair with her wine.

Tentative fingers pluck the half-loaf offered and Chyrean gives a genteel smile as she brings it back to her plate, "Thank you, sir." It takes a while before her fork lifts another mouthful up but that pauses halfway, "Ahem. Um. My name is Chyrean." Almost brightly, she asks, "And you?" The bread is slowly torn into pieces though she doesn't reach for the second half, "No, thank you." The vision of politeness amongst wilderness.

"Sir." Hjaskr tastes the word thoughtfully. "Is not right, I think. Sir is for…" If he had a fork, he'd stab it towards a grey-haired wildling passing by, not too far. But he doesn't, so he's left to gesture. "Him. Those like him. I know I have no hair, but if I did, it would not be that. No." He scuffs a hand over his bald pate and resumes his not-at-all-socially-acceptable staring of Chyrean. It's probably because she has food and he does not. His eyes certainly have some kind of fey light to them. If it isn't covetous gluttony, Chryean may want to fear for her life.

Chyrean shakes her head and tries, "No. Um, no." Faint cheeks blush easily, and Chyrean's are quickly gaining color, "Sir is for a man. Any man." She dips the torn bits of bread into her meal and then nibbles on each slowly. A moment passes and to fill some awkward silence, she asks, "So, what do you do here?" Freed of bread, Chyrean reaches for her wine, sipping at the pale liquid while looking curiously at the man for a reply.

"Any man. Are you sure." Hjaskr is doubtful. "I do not look like… grandfather." Someday perhaps he will learn how to use all parts of grammar, but for now, he sounds as rough as he looks. Or maybe that's just hunger. He's staring at her plate with the voraciousness of a velociraptor. "I do…" He is interrupted by the most angelic of interruptions, a woman with cankles and a bad attitude asking him what he wants to eat for dinner. He'd probably propose marriage to her if she wasn't a redhead. (Even wildlings prefer individuals with souls.) He orders one of everything available, no punchline there, and turns his dark eyes back to Chyrean. "I do what they tell me." He did not forget. Manners.

"Oh, yes," Chyrean is eager to say, "Any man is a sir, and women are misses." Aww, look at her educate the less fortunate. The interruption of the serving woman earns a nearly grateful look but once the woman's gone, Chyrean presses, "Yes, but… do you herd? Mine?" Stab in the dark, "Cook?" She flushes again and clears her throat, "Ahem, I should apologize for my forwardness." Awkwardly, she smiles, "My name is Chyrean." At least she's not trying to shout at the poor man, "What is your name?"

"Misses. Missus?" Hjaskr has heard them both, and he distinctly speaks the difference between them, tasting them carefully. This craft of language, it comes to him but slowly. "No, no, no." He's not berating her with negatives, just answering her questions. Still staring. Maybe he's trying to find out if she is hiding a soul behind those pale eyes of hers. "Forwardness? You are seated." So LITERAL, Hjaskr, Faranth. "Hjaskr, son of Bjordn, of the ice valley." Somber and grave does he give his lineage, prompt when asked. "Chyrean." He tastes it carefully. "You are a missus then."

Chyrean is confessedly lost, blinking at Hjaskr in slight confusion: "Well… yes. I am. So are you." In case there was some question on that. The staring does make her flustered a bit, so she concentrates on her meal for a moment, except it's nearly done. She acknowledges, "Hjaskr. Son… of Bjordn." How unique these wildlings are. "Well met, Mister Hjaskr. I am a miss," she says a bit stiffly, like that's a sore point, "But I am also the Assistant Archivist!" The title is flourished like a cape around her.

"I'm not a mister." Of that Hjaskr is certain. "A miss. Is that different? What makes a miss different to a missus?" Tell him ALL THE THINGS Chyrean. ALL THE THINGS. While he sits over here and tries not to completely screwy-face at the discussion of her title. Oh Chyrean, y u so literate. :-/ "Archivist. You… work with books?" His words shade a litle more mystic, a little more cautious. "With words?"

Chyrean's eyes widen in astonishment at Hjaskr: "No, no, you're a mister…" Books are easy. People are hard. She takes a sip of wine and smiles tentatively, "A mister is a man. A miss or a missus is a woman." Let's get the groundrules straight. "A missus is a married woman, and a miss… isn't." Clear as ice. As the tall man gets the idea, Chyrean nearly claps in delight, "Yes, with words! Words in books!" Oh isn't she so proud, she taught a thing! "And you?" They're getting so close to an answer!

Poor Chyrean. All of her hopes and dreams. "I do not like words," Hjaskr darkly, "In books or other." Oh look, food. Plates and plates of food, surrounding the wildling like a virtual buffet. His eyes get large until he actually laughs aloud, delighted at this unwitting bounty. He does have time to eye her hair as if it is significant and then ask, as bald as his head, "Why are you not married, Chyrean of the words?"

"Bu- but you're using them right now!" Chyrean chokes out, and then her breath is equally taken away by the massive amounts of food that arrive. Her eyes are like the saucers the food arrives on, unnoticing of Hjaskr's look and she asks faintly: "Can you eat all that?" Hand clenches around the wine nervously and stills at the question. The Archivist (assistant)'s face goes flat and bright red with embarrassment: "I… I don't… that's not a polite question to ask!"

"Those not words." Hjaskr stares disapprovingly at Chyrean. Why, you would think a woman of words would know these things! "I do not have pen." He gestures as if he was writing something with a stylus, but the gesture looks somehow strange. It is likely because he is describing writing from right-to-left, unlettered barbarian he may be. "This?" Broadly he indicates his plates. "Oh yes." A critical contemplation of her face at his questioning: "No? I am sorry." Repent he does not, because: "So why aren't you married, again?" A dog with a bone, Hjaskr with words-that-aren't-words.

Chyrean is totally confused by the brawny Hjaskr: "Words are more than written down," she persists, "Words are… how we talk! Communicate!" And still, the man's not letting go of a painful subject; with a pinched expression, Chyrean rises to her feet, the chair scraping backwards: "That is not information for you to know," she says, voice trembling slightly. Cheeks a violent pink, she grabs her dishes and stares down at Hjaskr, "And you'd do well not to ask a lady that again." Harrumph, hem hem.

"No, words written." Sorry Chyrean, you may have turns of formal training, but Hjaskr has his Opinions. "Wait!" he calls after her, alarmed. Well. Between bites. "You said you missus, not lady!" He's scraping himself out of his chair to bow at her, awkwardly. 'lady' or 'Lady'? This word thing is difficult.

From flustered and angry to confused in a few seconds; Chyrean pauses and blinks, "I'm not a missus or a Lady," putting careful emphasis on the L, "I am a miss." The confusion is setting in, so Chyrean slowly sinks back into her chair. "A lady," no emphasis, "is a woman of proper behaviour and comportment." Chyrean's hands clench around each other on the table, dishes left to one side for the moment.

"A miss." Hjaskr screws his face up as if he can't quite follow all of this.. er, sounds. Not words. He can follow his plates, and deftly starts tucking away all of his various foods. "How are you not a Lady then?" Cue a long, thoughtful pause. "Oh. You not married, not proper?" It's like there is a giant red button, and he just can't not press it.

Chyrean nods, "Yes. A miss." Not a hit. "I'm not a Lady, because I'm not of the Blood." Who doesn't know that? Chyrean will still explain, right up until Hjaskr comments on her unwed status again. Pink, slightly mottled, and then even paler than her red roots normally give her face, Chyrean's eyes go slate with anger. "I can hardly imagine why you do not understand that I don't wish to speak of it!" she hisses at the man, "The subject is closed!" Her left hand, slender and nails uniform, slaps the table emphatically before Chyrean rises to her feet. "I bid you good night, sir." Somehow, it's insulting, but the Assistant Archivist isn't about to explain further as she proceeds swiftly out, the remainder of her meal left behind.

Hjaskr shrugs into his food, watching after Chyrean as she goes. "No wonder she has no husband. So angry." Obviously she should eat more! Like Hjaskr. But more… missy.

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