Ksenia, Cha'el


Cha’el is trying to catch up on hidework and Ksenia is bored.


It is evening of the sixteenth day of the twelfth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.


Igen Weyr, Sanctum Sanctorum

OOC Date


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Sanctum Sanctorum

It is undeniable. A man does live in this cave. There is a musk that hangs in the air which tickles the nose of those who enter. The clues are subtle. No clutter hides in corners. In fact, the simpleness of the weyr is what makes it have that manly vibe. Table and chairs are cleared off of clutter, though the occasional out-of-place nick-nack speak of the sentimentality of the man who lives here. The large bed is neatly made, the soft touch of white linen sheets contrasting with the military precision which they are folded into. A gentle fire flickers on cold nights, with a kitchenette area nearby so that the weyrsecond can entertain. Perhaps it is the cabinet standing just slightly open, bottles of rum peaking out, or maybe the lack of lace anywhere which completes the manliness of this space.

The day has passed in utter boredom. Ksenia's life has come to exist in this series of two rooms bounded by rock walls, broken by Cha'el's appearance and disappearance into and out of her life. Over the course of days, despite the relative comfort in which the brownrider has kept her, the trader woman has become slower and more lethargic. Spending her days on his ledge, gathering up Rukbat's rays into the honey'd skin before retreating into the cover of stone-laden darkness at night. Cha'el's own schedule has put his arrivals and departures at odd times, particularly when Thread is falling, so it's a singular sort of solitude that Ksenia has only ever experienced once before, and even that doesn't have the depth of silence that this captivity does.

So on this night, with Cha'el home to do work since the middle of the afternoon, the boredom has set in. The trader has claimed the bed for her own and lays on her belly with her legs crossed in the air at the ankles, sewing a bell onto the shroud to mark the passing days. She runs her fingers over the tinkling bells, counting the days before shooting Cha'el a look. When boredom holds sway and even the mere presence of one not bored can cause tempers to be short, Ksenia glares at the infuriating man who innocently passes the time scratching the nib of his pen over the reports he's doing. It's been days, at least, since the last time she touched his work and threw it over the edge of his ledge. "I'm bored," she announces, sounding irritable even to herself.
Having one’s ‘cousin’ come to stay for an indeterminate amount of time can prove to be tricky in terms of trying to split attention between work and doing what can be done to entertain the wily woman. But Cha’el has done his best although admittedly, when she doesn’t have access to the ground, its not been nearly enough. Thus it is that despite what had happened the last time, he’d gone for a compromise of sorts and taken hidework back to his weyr to do. Because just his being there is something right? Must be so to his mind for he’s currently lost in concentrating on the delicate oscillation of riders required throughout the wings to balance those lost to Thread and still recuperating in the Infirmary. Much occupies the Weyrsecond’s mind this night not the least of which is Trek having moved to Mirage. Arroyo has thus far been stable enough under N’cal’s leadership yet the chromatic heavy wing is still being closely watched. On top of which are the ever increasing amount of reports coming in of raids and muggings taking place outside of the Weyr. That in itself is a frustration.

So it is that when Ksenia makes her announcement, initially all she gets from the brownrider is a distracted grunt.

Tap, tap, tap, tap. The staccato beats of Ksenia's nails against the side of the bed, where the wood slats hold the mattress. The only interesting thing in the weyr is Cha'el — she's destroyed everything else — and so she keeps her eyes on him. Imagining, as it were, that she's currently in the act of smothering him with a pillow he doesn't deserve while he sits there and does work. "Cha'el." Louder this time. "I'm bored." Pern doesn't have TV, and Cha'el's taste in books is… well… slim to not here, so she sits and stares, idly twiddling her thumbs. Glaring. Finally, getting frustrated enough, she reaches over and grabs a slipper and hurls it at the brownrider. Hey, it might not hit. Maybe it spills into the inkwell and sends ink going all over the place.

Having just figured out how to rotate a specific pattern of blues and greens throughout the wings and back them up with the sturdier browns and bronzes, Cha’el lifts a finger at the call of his name in a ‘One moment’ gesture. At least he’s not flipping her the birdie, right? Wrong. SMACK!! The slipper slaps him upside the head crushing his ear against his skull. With nib having been to hide a long wiggly line gets scrawled across the neat stacks of names. “FUCK!” The Weyrsecond growls in frustration and turns in his chair to glare over at Ksenia. “I’m trying to work here!”

"And I AM BORED OVER HERE," Ksenia yells back like a petulant child, because really, she doesn't have "work" to do or anything to do but sit here. Waiting. So she glares at him and grabs her other slipper and hurls it at him. It's been long enough that she knows he's not an evil monster, by far, but sometimes he's just so damn infuriating sitting there being all business like not bored. She doesn't move from the bed, instead she rolls over and throws her arms over her head to expose a thin gold filament that she's wearing around her waist. "Chaaaaaaaaaa'el. I have nothing to do." Never mind that she's just thrown two slippers at him, and not even sure she wants to see where the other landed, surely the sounds of him cursing will be enough.

At least this time, Cha’el sees the second slipper coming and demonstrates what turns of training to catch firestone sacks will do by plucking it out of the air before it can do any damage. With a scrape of wooden legs over rock, the rider stands and begins to advance on Ksenia looking for all the world like he might be of a mind to spank her with her very own footwear. That is if one doesn’t take into account the piece of fine linen paper he has clutched in his other hand. “I offered to get you knitting and embroidery stuff. You said, no.” He reminds with a growl though less heated given that he does in fact feel more than a little responsible for her boredom being as how her incarceration is by his own hand. “Here,” the leaf of blank paper is thrust out at her, her slipper still in hand, “how about you write a letter to your family and I’ll have Butterball deliver it.” This while he does his best to ignore the glint of gold spied glittering from the corner of his eye.

"Because I am not some housewife!" Ksenia shoots back, shooting up from the bed when he brings her a leaf of blank paper and the stylus to write. "I don't knit and embroider. I hunt and tell fortunes and send dragon riders like yourself up the river with nothing but that damned dragonrider pride to carry them home." Snatching the paper and stylus, the woman curls back on her belly and starts intoning in a voice that sounds eerily like a parody of his own, "Dear mama." Gruff and like she's got a stick up her ass a mile lone, she carefully says while she writes, "I am high above a desert weyr — I'm not supposed to tell you where I am. I had to sneak away after stealing this leaf of paper from a very, very," she curls a dark look over her shoulder, "boring man who keeps me and my little boat hostage. Don't worry about me, Mama." Now her voice rises an octave, sing-song like. "I only get whipped at night under the cover of darkness where the rutting bastards just think I'm a canary in the mineshaft, singing the same song everyone else is singing. I've been sorely abused, Mama, but I'm alive. Treated like I'm in a gilded cage that I can look out of but can't get down from." Ksenia huffs. "Mama. I am very bored." Now, she taps her stylus and narrows her eyes at Cha'el. "The end." Hastily, she scratches that out and scribbles, "I let down my long hair for a man worthy to come and save me. Tell Iain I'll still whip him when I get home." Proudly. "The end." But when she's done, she'll slap that letter at him and strut out onto his ledge. There are actual words on the page, nothing so heinous as what she spent her time saying they were, however.

“What!? Knitting isn’t the chore of a…” Cha’el cuts off his protest and narrows a look onto Ksenia. Slowly a smirk fits lopsided to a corner of his mouth. “Aye, well you’re shit outta luck, darling because this dragonrider, can swim.” So she can take her river and stick it alongside the mimicry of what he can only imagine, is supposed to him. Eyes of ocean-blue roll at the supposed wording of the letter she writes but he leaves her to it because at least she’s now occupying herself with something, right? “You left out the bit where you’re fed only on bread and water and made to wear the same clothes you were taken in.” The Weyrsecond drawls turning to head back to his desk and his work and finds his attention briefly sidetracked to the corner of his weyr that she’s claimed as her own. A box of neatly coiled hair ribbons in a rainbow of colors, the neat row of shoes, fabric draped carefully over a hangar - All reminders that in as much as he has work to do, so he also bears a certain responsibility. Snapped out of his reverie when he gets slapped with the ‘letter’ bright blue eyes follow Ksenia’s huffy exit to the ledge and Cha’el exhales a sigh. He’d come to learn over the past few days that she wasn’t always the harpy she tried to make out she was and so compassion lifts up but before he follows her, he glances down at the sheet of linen paper.

Ksenia, escaped from the weyr before she stuffed hides into Cha'el's big mouth. "Swimming. Pfft. The fishes can take him!" she mutters to herself, before finding a sunny spot in which to sprawl. She knows it's coming. The Weyrsecond likes to meddle in everything — from ensuring she doesn't drink to ensuring that she has NO FUN. "You forgot about how you chain me to your wall, boyo! Maybe if I scream loud enough, someone will come and rescue an innocent like me!" At least then, she wouldn't be saddled with a dragonrider who spends SO. MUCH. TIME. WORKING. Emblazoned on that paper isn't a letter home, but a message for the Weyrsecond. Maybe she taunts him by telling him that his children will be born cloven hoofed and red-eyed little monsters. Or maybe she maligns his manhood once again. Whatever it is, it will probably stick like a bone in Cha'el's throat, that's for sure. Which is, of course, why she did it. Just to be contrary.

Reading what is really written on the piece of paper, Cha’el’s eyes narrow and brows SCRUNCH together. Again he reads it and then his head jacks up and he stares down the short tunnel Hurricane Ksenia had swept through. Stuffing it into a pocket he hastily goes after her, coming out onto the ledge and having to squint for the sudden change in lighting. “What…” the letter is pulled from his pocket and waved in the air, “is the meaning of this?” Rather disbelieving of what she’d scrawled on that piece of paper.

Ksenia's eyes narrow when Cha'el follows her out onto the ledge, where she set up shop for some serious sun soaking. Yes, he's turned her into a woman of leisure. Lazily, she lifts her hand up and uses it to block the sun while squinting up at him from her prone position. The glint of gold rests against lower tummy. "You can read, I presume. I may not be as learned as you lot here," she sniffs in annoyance, "But my script is passably fair!" It's actually pretty; the woman has enough pride to sink a ship, now. "Take it or leave it, it's the truth." And with that. She closes her eyes and hazards a fat little smile. Now, who's not bored? This girl.

Sunbathing out on the ledge for all to see that fly by? That just won’t do! Questions will be asked! Questions he’s not about to start answering. And so, when Ksenia comes back with that snarky quip, Cha’el closes the short distance in a few strides, bends and will bodily haul her to her feet though with a strange sort of gentleness woven in. “Inside. Now!” He orders, features lined about an odd pattern that either means he’s about to burst a blood vessel or…school her in lessons of how a proper letter to one’s family should be written.

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