Logs:Cool And Blue
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| RL Date: 17 January, 2013 |
| Who: Azaylia, Ceawlin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Azaylia introduces herself and her lifemate's odd habits to Sr. Harper apprentice, Ceawlin. |
| Where: Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 26, Month 10, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr Ringed by rough granite walls to all sides but one, this end of the huge bowl narrows from the even broader plain to the west, continuing the ever so slight downward slope toward the blue and green of the Weyr's lake and surrounding foliage. More open to sun and wind than the western bowl, but less frequented when there aren't weyrlings in residence, the bowl's grassy tufts keep the topsoil in place and thicken into a bloodstained meadow within the feeding pens that adjoin the lake. At the base of the surrounding cliffs lie entrances to several caverns, including the dragon infirmary and the weyrling barracks: the former to the northwest near where the spires begin, the latter opposite to the southwest. Both archways are large and dark enough for any dragon to pass through, but it's the infirmary's that is haunted by faint smells of redwort and numbweed, as though over generations they have seeped into the very stone. To the southeast, between the weyrling area and the lake, there are a handful of structures built into the floor of the bowl, standing out amidst otherwise an empty space. Though there is nothing wrong with the weyrling's training cavern, autumn's cool touch reminds folk to cherish what pleasant weather they have left. Despite being spread out and shifting in ground formations, the seven growing dragons and their instructor don't take up much space. Late in the evening, it seems as though they might be wrapping up. Hraedhyth's great tawny frame lounges nearby, looking as though she has been there for some time, head lifted high to watch the drills. Between her great paws sits Azaylia, along with what looks to be a tall metal pot, several brushes of various uses, and a large rag. She's focused on scrubbing something held between parted legs, clothing far from glamorous for this dirty task. Cool and damp, the weather is held at bay by attire befitting of the cold, the first thing noted if only because of the clean lines and no-less-than-perfection in wear, in complete contrast to Azaylia's own attire. Ceawlin emerges from the Crafting area with little fanfare other than attire, pausing in step to curiously spy on the work of the weyrlings before blue eyes stray to first the gold (hard to miss) and then the goldrider (a little harder to miss). Observation is held for a few minutes, or until discovered. The object in Azaylia's hands isn't small, nor is it difficult to recognize what with the jagged eyesockets and sweeping horns. Hair secured in dual buns, some still hangs in her face as she bends forward, furiously scrubbing. It's Hraedhyth who notices the lad first, ashen head swinging and pinning him with her jeweled gaze. It remains until the goldrider suddenly straightens, looking in the opposite direction and then swiftly over at Ceawlin. She gives him a polite, if mildly self conscious smile, before looking back down at the herdbeast skull. The dragon keeps an eye on him for a bit longer only to be distracted by the weyrlings once more. Steps are taken to move forward, bringing Ceawlin even closer in proximity to the goldrider. Even when Hraedhyth turns her head to stare at him, the boy has enough wherewithal to hold his position beneath the gold's gaze. His posture is easy though, despite the confidence in posture and the sharp set of his features. "It is kind of you to prepare that for the weyrlings," the senior apprentice -- easily seen by the knot that sits prominently on his shoulder -- comments, clearly making an assumption. "Huhm?" Distracted, as if she has already forgotten that there was a young man nearby. Now he's here. Azaylia tilts her head up towards him, making no move to stand, "For the weyrlings?" Her own knot is nowhere to be seen on her rumpled and oil-stained work clothes, as if the brawny gold weren't a big enough hint. Fingers grip the skull by a socket, the other resting a coarse brush atop the cranium as she speaks, "O-oh. No. This is Hraedhyth's. It's not for anyone. Though I suppose it could be..." She doesn't trail off for long, small smile returning, "I'm Azaylia." Mention of the dragon's name has Ceawlin's gaze skipping upwards to the gold that surrounds the young woman. Azaylia captures his attention again with her introduction, to which he returns with a rather formal and proper response of, "Ceawlin, ma'am. Senior Apprentice from the Harper Hall." Without regard to the relative dirtiness of her task, his hand is held out. Pristine, white and cool. "Does she," eyes once again stray to the gold, in curious contemplation, "always require such a," beat, "trophy?" For what else could it be? Azaylia seems started by the offered hand, dropping the brush and reaching for that mostly clean rag. "Ceawlin. Nice to meet you." Thankfully her hand isn't too damp when she grips his, "I think I remember reading something about an incoming Harper." In a report, most likely. "Welcome to High Reaches Weyr." It's a genuinely warm welcome, reaching for a far dirtier bit of cloth to run it over the damp bone. Hraedhyth doesn't look back down at the crafter, but for the most part seems at ease however beastly. "Not always." The woman answers easily, "Sometimes she just decides that it's been a while since she's added a new one." "Pleasure," Ceawlin says, capturing her hand in his with nary a grimace of distaste for whatever might still be lingering on her hand, and affects a charming smile on the upward curve of his lips. "Thank you. I'm looking forward to life at the weyr. My first," he glances around the bowl, encompassing the weyrlings, "weyr." Gaze swings back around to Azaylia, eyes a cool, assessing blue. "Where do you -- does she -- keep such trophies?" genuine curiosity underscores the question and lurks in those eyes. Once she's done patting the skull dry, Azaylia will give a bit of an 'oof' as she moves to stand. Who knows how long she's been sitting there, toiling away? Hraedhyth's forelimb is used to help pull herself up, "My first weyr, too." She says with some amusement, "Hopefully my last." That manages to coax a great huff from the dragon, which has the goldrider giving her leg a pat. Now that she's on her feet, there's a faint downwards tilt to the woman's jaw while speaking to Ceawlin. "In our weyr, of course." Tone is light, as if it's just that obvious. "Do you like the craft complex, so far?" She seems just as curious. When Azaylia stands, Ceawlin's posture straightens, eking out what spare additional fraction of an inch he can. A faint smile plays around the corners of his mouth upon noting the exchange between dragon and rider, "One would hope," comes the answer easily enough. Eyebrows tick upwards ever so slightly, cool blue eyes showing some hint of surprise to her statement. "In your weyr, you say?" That surprise fades as quickly as it's shown, sharp features once again schooled into what can only be 'proper'. "I cannot complain. It's not too much different than what I experienced back at the Hall." The corners of his eyes crinkle, "Except for possibly the conglomeration of different crafts, which is fascinating in and of itself." Spoken like a true harper. "I can't imagine where else I'd keep them..." It sounds as if she's trying to think of an alternative place, now. It doesn't last long. "Some are kind of nice, once they're painted." Her hands get one last thorough wiping on the edge of her tunic before the fold politely, nervously behind her back. "I felt the same way. I was a Herder apprentice. Never made it to Senior, though." She sounds impressed, congratulations implied in her gentle tone. Another rumbling grunt leaves Hraedhyth as the weyrlings begin to disperse, late afternoon often when they are freed from their duties. Azaylia's head turns to glance at them for a moment, smile growing just a touch. "Of course not. Forgive me," Ceawlin murmurs, expression apologetic if not quite all the way to the eyes. "I had never heard of such a..." But her additional detail of painted earns an even more curious, probing look. "Painted? Perhaps, one day, I can see one of your creations, ma'am." A Harper down to his bones, this boy is. Given the slight straightening of shoulders and lift of his chin even that much further at her implied congratulations. "I'm only a few short turns away from walking the tables," he adds, a quiet pride underlying his tone. However, as the afternoon waxes, his own gaze turns with Azaylia's to the dispersing weyrlings. "It was a pleasure to meet you, but I must be off. I can't keep my instructor waiting." This last is said with a charming wink, though blue eyes are still cool, assessing, and not quite holding the warmth that his voice has. Azaylia blinks, "For what? It's kind of a good question." In that, no one really expects someone to just have skulls lying about their home. Her smile turns somewhat embarrassed, "I'm not an artist or anything. I just got the idea one day." While she's interested in watching the younger dragons, Ceawlin's quick farewell has her head turning. Startled, she recovers with an understanding nod, "Oh, of course." She likely remembers those days. His wink has her lips quirking in odd amusement, soft laugh carried in her voice, "Have a nice day." She's quick to return to her gruesome chore, before her own duties manage to whisk her away. |
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