Logs:A Familiar Arrival
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| RL Date: 10 March, 2013 |
| Who: Ali, Hattie, Oreithiya, Serah |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Serah returns to the Weyr with some demands and a surprise. |
| Where: Southern Bowl, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 14, Month 3, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aislara/Mentions, Shevena/Mentions |
| Falling in a depressingly settled mist, layering everything just enough for a slight discomfort, the rain has pressed on all afternoon, making for a distantly emptier Bowl, especially from the direction of the Weyr entrance. Slop, slop: boots trekking from there, crossing the arc of stone, are wet through and through, telling the story of a longer walk than merely from cavern to cavern. Since the mist graciously fails to part for figures, Serah's is bedraggled, wet, darkened by the dampness and heavy, from the thick leathery jacket on her shoulders to her booted toes. No less, the state of her bushy hair, now turned into a miserable, dead creature weighing down the back of her head. A squint through the muck and mist tries to pick up other people, but mostly her half-narrowed eyes hold steady and she strides with a closely-held purpose towards the weyrling area. Oreithiya is huddled against the misty rain, chilled from the wind against chillier rain, and makes her way slowly across the barren bowl. Given pause by the hazy shade of a figure that seems like it should be familiar, the beascrafter draws a blank on name and place, but still stands staring. Probably creepily so, as she attempt to put name to purpose-filled figure. A few steps have her trailing after Serah. From the Weyrlingmaster's office and, from there, out into the barracks and through to the bowl, Hattie is finishing the last few buttons on her long leather jacket when she reaches the entryway to the outside world, voluminous hood already tipped up to protect her from the rain that can't seem to make up its mind if it's going to make its presence better known or not. The last button keeps her leaning leisurely against stone for a moment, long enough to catch sight of the approaching figure and have it stay her step, blinking out into the mist. Having just left the Weyrlingmaster's presence, she makes what seems to be a logical assumption: "Aislara?" "I can tell you're following me." Projected back through the soft, inconsistently consistent rain without her turning around. Serah's hard steps slow only upon the indistinct impression of Hattie's appearance; a figure in the bowl between her and her goal, and now a trap between two of Fort's own, Oreithiya behind -- though she hasn't turned to identify the once-known herder. Since candidacy, the girl's face has since grown even more chiseled, and her stare ahead steels. Boots ground to a halt. Fingers knead into her wet palms as she stands there, stilted but strong posture. It takes a beat, filled with rain, before she's decided, but the moment of composure gives her simple answer strength. "No." Oreithiya's steps pick up when the figure notes her movements, "I wasn't hiding it..." comes the half-hearted statement. Until recognition takes hold and Rei's gasping. And gaping. "/Serah/?!" The incredulity of surprise filters into the apprentice's contralto and widens dark eyes. "You're /back/!" But something is different, off somehow and so her steps once again falter. Hattie's entrance to the scene is spotted, and thus the only reason why she continues forward. To see what happens. Does she recognise the voice, if the mist cannot be trusted to reveal a true image of the girl before her? Hattie leans away from the wall just as Oreithiya puts the pieces together before she does, more trust placed in the crafter's analysis of the evidence before her than her own, for she accepts that, having been identified as such, the figure who has stopped shy of the barracks is indeed, "Serah." The Weyrwoman shoves her hands into her pockets and takes a step or two from the barracks as if she could warn both girls away, stating, "The barracks are off-limits to all but those whose presence has been authorised," in a low voice that invites no argument. Attention settling squarely on Serah, she questions, "What brings you back here? Are you the show's new messenger?" Being recognized snaps Serah's head to the side, allowing her to, with narrowed unreadable eyes, pick up on Oreithiya's long-ago familiar face. Though she speaks not on it, physical evidence abounds, through her tensely held shoulders and back, that being inside the looming shadow of the Weyr's bowl does her no favors. If she could flap her arms fast enough to fly, she might. But they stay held, passively, at her sides, as she obeys Hattie's sentence by merely not moving an inch. "Goldrider." A sharp, not unpleasant, greeting that has the younger woman abruptly scanning the sky with her eyes, head still. Then down. "I haven't been with the show in- " at first, she seems to have deliberately cut herself off, but then her eyes soften, wander, with a sincere lack of knowing just how much time. Another fit of thinking long and hard over her next words lend a silence amongst them, before, "Then I need authorization." Stumbling to a halt, Oreithiya's mouth opens to say something, but the other girl's demeanor stops her. Instead, she looks to Hattie, and then back across the bowl as if, perhaps, she's come to a point of trespass. Biting her lip, concerned eyes turn towards Serah, noting the changes the other girl's gone through. Eyebrows shoot up, however, when the former roustabout makes her claim. Hattie looks past Serah to fix Oreithiya with a look that might well be an attempt to melt her feet into rock and force her to stay, as witness or former like-knotted associate of the girl-returned. "Then where have you-" Likewise, she cuts herself off, opting for another question instead. "Why can you possibly need authorisation?" she asks, perhaps already regretting asking such a thing, for she shakes her head and lifts a hand to press thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose. "Whatever reason you image you have, it can't be done. You're not of Fort, rider or otherwise, and I won't have someone who pops up out of the blue granted access. I'm sorry, Serah," very much as a grown-up might would address a child, "but it won't be happening. If you seek refuge, we can discuss that. There's room in the dorms. But not /this/." "I don't need room." Serah's quick to point out, almost assuring. It's the first time she hasn't carefully collected her words, and it shows, tainting her with a sliver of nervousness- no, of hurry. "Or to stay." Intention laced within tries to assuage a sense of potential damage; she means none, to the precious barracks. "There are..." Eyes flick to the left. "People," is deemed safe, bringing her eyes around to Hattie directly. "In there. Familiar to me. I just want them out." Sentence upon, even clipped, sentence filters more of that pressure into the crack forming on her steely facade. Another sudden look across the bowl, its skies, and even to the ledges barely visible except as foggy silhouettes, reads not of surveying but /paranoia/. Brick by brick, the wall that is Serah looks more and more open: scared. Her fingers twist like her mouth; she fights it. Oreithiya stays by that single look of Hattie's where she would initially flee. That is what holds her to place, until Serah's words and slow beginning crumble of steely facade. With Serah's look, so too does Rei, casting her dark-eyed gaze to the grey skies and the drizzling mist that obscures. "Serah..." Tone reeks of inquiry, question, though she speaks before catching control of her tongue, nervous eyes flicking from the once-Candidate to the Weyrwoman. Whatever was to be asked, is not. With a sharp shake of her head, Hattie flatly denies that. "I doubt that they are," she says more quietly. "Whatever the case is, they aren't being held prisoner; they asked to stay. Nor are they being kept here night and day - it's merely a safe place for them to sleep so that we all know where we are." She takes a half-step forward, not permitting herself to reach towards the - for all she knows - roustabout, but trying to convey a reassuring ease with the gentle motion. "...Serah, you don't look well." Said quietly, thread of concern perhaps a little too audible in its intensity. "Why don't we get you settled with a hot drink in the kitchen, out of the rain. You could catch up with Oreithiya..." The apprentice herself receives an encouraging nod, goldrider maybe trying to coax her closer to Serah; to succeed where she might not. Or is it a request to go ahead and get things sorted in the kitchen? Doubt is just what flashes across Serah's face, faded in the rain, serving as a guard against the hint of concern and, in it, anger. Each a ferocious guard for survival, tensing an already furiously over-taxed body, made increasingly less menacing by how sopping wet each inch of her is. Misty rain didn't do that. Not in a short period of time, at least. "A safe place," she spits out, testing, skeptic. With her eyes downcast, she looks almost betrayed but, looking up, her mouth's firmed thinly and all she appears is strong- defensive. Or protective. All threatened by a ripple of hesitation at Hattie's tone. Unexpected, clearly, and ushering a desperate hope that she determinedly crushes with suspicion. The broiling emotions do little to make her look /better/, as the goldrider has pointed out. A look shoots over to Oreithiya, daring her darkly to- something. Abrupt nod is given to Hattie, Rei half turning to Serah, murmuring, "That'd be nice..." but she cuts herself off again, her proverbial footing off-kilter. "I'll go get that started..." and with a quick turn, the apprentice is dashing off through the misty rain in the direction of the kitchens. The stricken look only visible briefly by Serah's dark look, but it's not hard to get a last glimpse of expression the betrays the many racing thoughts through the girl's mind. The small gathering near the weyrling complex has attracted some attention, and amongst them, a protective junior. Wrapped in her shawl to ward off the spring rain, Ali's hurrying across the bowl, attention on Hattie. "Weyrwoman, what's-" and that's where she spots Serah, going silent, something wary in her gaze at the girl's posture- her tone- eyes flicking towards Oreithiya to take a measure of the situation, easing in to take the place of the apprentice as she departs for the kitchens. "Thank you, Oreithiya," Hattie says steadily, all the while looking right at Serah. She budges not one more step away from the weyrling complex and must catch the switch from apprentice to junior in her peripheral vision as she hears and recognises Ali's voice. "You wanted to be in there yourself, one day, remember? Standing for the eggs, with the others. That clutch has grown-up now," is addressed solely to the figure standing between them. "I think we need to step out of the rain. Perhaps we can ask if they know of you at a later date, but I think you need to dry off and get warm first." Chin lifting, she calls over Serah's shoulder, "Serah stood for Elaruth's last clutch, Ali. I'm sure you remember. She says she knows our guests." Careful, measured. Still keeping an eye on the former Candidate, as though expecting her to pounce. "It was my duty." Serah admits, not agreeably but not /quite/ its opposite either. Ali's approach sullies her mood; Hattie takes no step from her mark, but Serah's left foot glides backwards in a subtle retreat. She may not pounce; she may flee. But some reminder lifts her chin, and she coils strength in the pit of her uncertain stomach to demand with a child's assurance, glancing between both weyrwomen, "They made a mistake." If there is slight to these mentioned guests, it's forgiven even as its tucked away as a betrayal; that tiny vulnerability amongst the others needling at her, steely demeanor's death by a thousand cuts. But this she knows: "We're not of Fort. We're..." A hard swallow blocks her. Her throat's closed, jaw clenching tight till it looks painful for her to slip out, sans judgment, "Alone." "Of course I remember," Ali says, quickly, at Hattie's words, "She was with the show," as if that's a particular point to remember. Her fingers clench at Hattie's words, anxiousness creeping into her voice as she steps closer. While she may be crowding Serah, the junior's about the least intimidating figure in the Weyr, at least. "You know them? Are they... are they /hers/?" The last word is faint, and a dart of her glance skywards where the golden form of her queen cuts through the misty rain is brief. "Please, I just need to know." It's the latter, the /we/, that makes her go dead still, staring, confused enough that her gaze slips to Hattie, questioningly, as if the Weyrwoman might have a clearer idea. "Serah..." Hattie utters lowly, trying to coax her back as her focus drops to watch that foot slip back across the bowl floor. "I don't know what's happened since you left, but we've no intention of hurting you /or/ them. One tells us that they are very much /Fortian/." Her gaze lifts to finds Ali's, no more understanding than hers clear to be seen, only an ill-concealed ache in the wake of her question and pleading, banished by the time she addresses Serah again. "You don't have to be alone. You could stay here, with them." And, with a gentle nod towards Ali: "You could answer the weyrwoman." Eyes dart between women, and Serah licks her lips. Ali's plaintive approach gets wide eyes that mark is as an attack of some kind to the tightly wound girl. Shoulders rearing defensively back, she snaps off, "I," like she means to verbally tell the weyrwoman off. Betrayed by a little quiver turning her voice up at the end, shining in her eye while she stares the anxiety of Ali down. "I..." less confident, till, finally, "I don't know," she admits, lowly- factual, and not apologetic, but still somehow sorry. Her hair must be so big because it's always full of contradictions. "I," another stiff swallow as the declaration seems to become a sentence unto itself before she proceeds carefully, "Put as much distance between me an' the Weyr when I left." Perhaps the distance she walked to get here, in those ratty old boots. It may not ring in either of the women's memories too clearly, but her voice has lost a sense of some of her accent: the uneducated dropping of syllables is now clipped professionalism. Ali's fingers clench the edges of her shawl; she hasn't any soothing words like Hattie does, not in her current state. While she visibly winces at the initial snap of Serah's response, her gaze remains fixed, silent pleading in her expression. When the answer comes, it's accompanied by a shuddering exhale of disappointment from the distraught junior, bowing her head. She's not really in any state to notice much of anything right now, hands wrapped around herself, murmuring distantly, "The Weyrwoman's right. You should rest, talk to- to them, later." The state of Ali seems to leech away much of the kindness that Hattie has been attempting to offer, steely resolve in both her dark-eyed gaze and her voice when she looks back at Serah, jaw set. "Well, it seems like you have a choice to make," she states, squaring her shoulder as a poor substitute for the steps she wishes to take towards her junior. "You either stay here, with us, and we see if any of what you say rings true with the people you claim to know, or you leave." And that's not all. "You will not be getting into the barracks. If you decide to make any attempt to get in there without permission, you can find yourself somewhere else to stay. The offer is as it is." Serah's face speaks of an unsaid apology, or it's an illusion of the rain, obscuring all of their small details. Hands gliding onto her sides to brace, the young woman shifts her weight. But there's no indecisiveness that can bear against the weight of responsibility she appears to wear as mantle. "Fine," she agrees openly to Hattie's conditions. "I didn't come here to impede you." Not a defense, it sits more like a solemn swear; this is her on her honor. "Just- " Her jaw chomps shut. Breeze cuts through the persistent trickling of rain. Afar, but not distant, an ominous lump rises from the weather-obscured horizon, cutting at the rainfall, as the harsh rattling of hanging bones smacking amongst each other echoes through the Weyr by way of dragons. Serah's jaw has become stone, high and braced into the grimace that's closed her eyes in a too-familiar exasperation. Nostrils flare as do wing-beats, becoming closer, becoming more identifiable, like the trail of brown and twist of harsh headknobs. The silence on Ali's part suggests her agreement with Hattie, but it's not verbalized during her efforts to compose herself. It takes her rather longer to realize what's going on, her gaze finally lifting, tracking from Serah, away- gaze distant, as Isyath, high above, issues a query- curious, not challenging, a sprinkling of stars trailing after that rattling. "Serah," the junior finally manages to say, unevenly, "What-?" Behind those stars lies the waiting mists of Fort's senior, Elaruth likewise not in direct challenge, yet there's a definite sense of a protective /lean/ out across the Weyr and of the minds of dragons. Her rider, meanwhile, is quick to reply, "I don't expect that you did..." her voice once again taking on the tone of one humouring or attempting to placate a younger person, a subtle almost-chastisement there, but all too soon her attention is drawn as her lifemate's is, eyes lifting skywards. "You have got to be-" slips out before she has control of herself, muttered under her breath. Kidding? Joking? Dreaming? With a hard crunch, Serah's foot plants backward and she twists on it, glaring violent daggers in the brown silhouette's giant direction. A hand raises and then cuts to the side, a hard gesture suggesting /out, get out/. The dragon's eyes may be not all-seeing, but he catches the motion, seemingly, for he banks off of his course, deftness belied by his bulk. To queries: the bones chime a second time, now tinkling like a laugh, but with an edge of steel sharpening in the distance. A distance the dragon retreats to, as Serah regains her turn on Hattie and Ali, paler than before; angrier. "He checks on me," she says, irritated at a lack of trust, "The other." It's not said with the affection of one to one's dragon. More to another person, one who speaks like Hattie does, down to her. She raises her hand and slicks back ragged hair from where it's been plastered on her forehead, leaving the palm there atop her head. "I'll have to tell him that I'm staying. Talking to them." "What's his name-" but the words trail off, as Isyath's querying that same thing, curiosity lighting the younger queen's thoughts as the stars circle around the brown. He needn't stay back- wouldn't he be much happier circling the skies of Fort with her? "I- I don't understand," Ali finally manages to finish, looking at Hattie, like /she/ might have some sort of answer to this. It's all a blatant accusation that Hattie throws at Serah, glancing from junior to... brownrider? "You don't /know/ them; you're /one of them/." Quite as if she's been betrayed; played, and it's evident enough that she doesn't like it one bit, cold fury burning in narrowed eyes. "Wherever you've come from. Your friends' dragons weren't Hatched at another Weyr. We've checked. But then, I expect you're going to be just as useful on that front, aren't you?" Yet she doesn't -won't - renege on her offer, frustration radiating from her as she throws a look back towards the barracks. "/If/ he's indeed yours... you can stay in the guest weyr, for now." For that, she looks towards Ali once again, requesting, "If you could ensure that it's habitable and our guest... settled." Fury that Serah accepts, rooted, her entire face a bold, unyielding blank slate, just slightly the stubborn side of hardened. Not until the Weyrwoman's gaze has shifted onto Ali does Serah's drop, staring, unrelenting and crestfallen at the damp ground. She blinks, swallows tightly, then jerks her chin to an angle when she can sense the hot disappointment showing in her cheeks and eyes. But she stays, utterly silent, drenched and miserable and pretending not to be either. From afar, Isyath is tapped by a thin slice of cold and an undeterminable, ill odor that wafts back towards where the brown has hidden himself, nudging the queen to get out of her skies and try coming out there, herself. Stunned as she is into silence, the Weyrwoman's direct request finally stirs Ali to action, "Of course, Weyrwoman," she murmurs, straightening, drawing her shawl around her. It's less a reaction to Hattie's fury and more to shock, attention wavering now and then as Isyath continues to send sparkling stars towards that brown in temptation. The ground is /dull/; up here is so much more /interesting/, after all. "Come on, Serah. Let's get you out of the rain, and into something dry," she says, gesturing towards the weyr across the bowl, pausing, hesitant, then finally adding almost inaudibly, "Your brown, too." It says a good deal that Hattie is willing to step away from the entrance to the weyrling complex, trusting Serah to keep her word or that Ali has everything in hand (perhaps both), as she turns to head for the caverns or council room, steps made awkward by the tension that refuses to release her frame. Maybe she'll spontaneously combust before she gets there. Or follow after N'muir and his heart-attack. Sharp eyes meet Ali. Serah's schooled her expression back to cold, but the way she sweeps her hands over her face, wet as it is, and through her hair-- wetter-- speaks of a lingering vulnerability. She's tired, and it must be this that lets her move stiff, unwilling legs towards the junior's intent. It takes long, pensive silences of tension cuttable by a knife Serah used to be known to own before she speaks, blandly, into the rain and not specifically to Ali, her eyes askance in avoidance. "I didn't," she cracks her neck with a swing of her head, "Intend to mislead." Her tone hints at difficulties, a long road full of traps, which may explain her crisp but suspicious pacing, staring about as if constantly marking exits. Distantly, brown scolding reaches Isyath; he is not so grounded-- a shot of harsher smell, of filth and blood is all ground's appeal, peh-- but he is also not so chained as her. His sky is everything. What does she have, but a circle. Ali's mouth thins, and she hunches into her shawl as protection from the misty rain as she starts to move across the bowl, pace slow enough that even a begrudging step could catch up readily enough. "She's angry," the goldrider says, finally, "She doesn't understand. I- /I/ don't understand, either." If it's a plea for more information, it falls flat; the woman sounds emotionally exhausted. A slow but inevitable pace brings them to the ground weyr- while cold, it's dry and clean enough. "There should be some clothes in the back- I'll send one of Shevena's assistants to stoke the hearth for you, and bring some food." She hesitates in the entrance, while Isyath bemusedly regards the brown. The sky /is/ freedom; his sentiments seem alien to the Fortian queen. Still, as bid, she sends the image of the weyr given to his rider, a place for him to rest, for now. Serah stands outside the entrance, letting the rain hit her, so she can scan the entirety of the weyr with sharp eyes despite the wetness. It's thorough; intent, and glares violence at the walls fit to restrain her to a single, vulnerable entrance. She listens, without a tense muscle twitching, to the relay of information: clothes, hearth, food. Nothing really seems to get through to her now that she's re-fortified the walls. Hands sit idle, but half-clenched, half-cocked for anything, at her sides. Then, when she's finished her exterior assessment of the arrangement, she grunts, "Fine," and, no more splendor than that, strides militaristically into the weyr, leaving Ali behind without so much as a glimpse. Above, /haha/! scold the bones and, with little indication that the image was received, he stays to his air, fading from her mind and not darkening the sky till much later. To that rigid, militaristic stride chase the faint words from the junior weyrwoman: "If you are one of hers... this is your home. Where you belong." Ali doesn't linger to see what response those words evoke- she retreats, presumably in search of the Headwoman. |
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