Logs:Corner and Crusts
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 1 January, 2016 |
| Who: Olivya, N'rov, Catling |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Olivya and N'rov make the best welcome wagon to Fort. |
| Where: Herb Garden, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 15, Month 9, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Quick winds spend most of the day darting busily, chasing large clouds across those blue autumnal skies. |
| Mentions: Mirinda/Mentions |
  |
The herb garden is a veritable feast for the eyes and nose. All manner of
herbs from medicinal to edible are grown here and tended on a regular
basis. The area is fenced in, separating it from the rest of the grounds
around it, with a trellis arch over the gate leading into it. The pathways
are lined with irregularly shaped stones that lead between the various
plots and patches of exquisitely aromatic plants, each section labeled
clearly. Pots and boxes provide alternative growing spaces for plants that
do not thrive in Fort's native soil.
Stone carved benches scattered throughout the sprawling garden provide
places for quiet conversation or for gardeners to take a rest. In the
southeastern corner of the garden is the shed where gardening tools and
supplies are kept. Patient Ivraeth has her whirling eyes on the two pairs of weyrlings that have wandered off to the lake, the little brown and blue so small and fragile looking from the distance of where Weyrleader and Weyrlingmaster sit, even up against the size of the full-grown green. The Weyrlingmaster is certainly the more distinct of the two, even if the knot on her shoulder is not as fancy; the fact that she wears a bright, red jacket with fly-away blonde curls in the autumn breeze is enough to do that. "They are already the restless ones," Olivya is remarking to N'rov, humor very dry in the way she watches the pair. "There's always some in each crop. And I think these two," she doesn't quite point to the two young men who stand so closely in deep conversation, "formed some sort of relationship during Candidacy. As long as they don't upset their dragons--." N'rov, shamelessly nondescript if only by comparison, is nonchalant in his slouch if not his words nor the slant of gray eyes; "I wonder if they know we're watching. Out and about. Enjoying themselves, seemingly. This while, at any moment, your whip could crack." "Oh, darling. I only use the whip on those that want it," counters Olivya with a quirk of her brow upwards and the hint of a smile. But her gaze only slides briefly over N'rov at that before returning to the candidates. "You forget how often weyrlings get wrapped up in their own heads and lives, especially in the first seven or two. I doubt they'd notice if I walked around naked, yelling about incoming Thread. At least until they figure this all out." A slight figure comes into the weyr-bowl. It is female, dusty, slightly limping. The teen is carrying a small, battered pack only large enough for maybe one change of clothing and some underthings. Her steps slow as she enters the garden, and she blinks owlishly, her mouth dropping open for a brief moment. She brushes back some wayward hair, and then starts towards the two nearest humans, bringing up her hands and rubbing at her arms as if cold... or very nervous. "That's what you say," N'rov says doubtfully, but with a smirk tugging at his mouth. "Anyway, I'll grant you that those two might not notice, but for the rest?" Perhaps it's the winds that make the Bowl so deserted, enough that they might be the first their visitor spots, even across the caldera and into the garden: the winds and the autumnal weather that have the deciduous occupants changing color, but Olivya's jacket brightest of all. It's when one of the dragonets turns and sniffs the air that the weyrleader turns, too, slitting his eyes against the distance. "That's not one of yours." Olivya only breathes out a sound that could be a laugh. Ivraeth rumbles something to one of the dragonets as it turns, her mind already so rooted in her charges that she's immediately there to reassure him. Without dragon senses, the Weyrlingmaster is left to have her attention only drawn when N'rov points out the young girl. "No," she agrees easily, able to tell hers apart. She catches the pack, observing Catling with a sharp gaze as she approaches. "Not yours either, of course. One of Mirinda's, I'd wager." Catling freezes as the dragonet turns, and then ducks her head briefly as the man and the woman look at her as well. Despite the winds she has no jacket, coat, cloak, or outer gear of any sort, and she rubs her arms once again before making her way over. She stops several paces away, opens her mouth, and then shuts it again. She wipes some dust from her cheeks, then begins to rub her arms again. Her mouth opens once more and a hoarse squeak comes out, and then the teen looks down at the ground. Nice, safe ground. "More unkempt than her usual run," N'rov observes, keeping his voice low for Olivya rather than the girl. For the latter instead, after an impenetrable look, "Hello, lass." It's kindly enough. "I'll have Ivraeth bespeak Zaisavyth," is all Olivya answers lowly, softening her own features into what could be a smile. She adds in a question that she may already assume true, "New to Fort?" Another squeak, and then the girl clears her throat. "I am." She rubs at her arms again, then looks up. "I... I am...." She scuffles her foot briefly, then draws in a deep breath. "NewtoFortandwonderingifIcouldliveherebecause...." Her words all run together, and she bites her lips. "Have nowhere else to go." "That's what her minions are for," N'rov can't resist an under-the-breath reply, though he doesn't intercede; perhaps there will be minions, perhaps it's as well to give Mirinda an excuse to enjoy the out-of-doors and their weyrlings. And then the girl's talking, and his eyes are widening, and he's not laughing; no, it's contained to a grin. And then, something more sober. "What's your name, lass? Your name and your story." To Olivya, more audibly, "I stand intrigued." "I'm afraid that for all of our fancy knots, neither of us have the power to allow you to stay or not," Olivya points out in answer, her gaze sliding sideways to pin on N'rov at his words, but not without the hint of humor buried deep within soft blue eyes. "Your story can be saved, if you want. But your name, certainly, would help." "I... ermm..." Another clearing of the throat. "Name's Catling. And I--" She licks her lips, then sags a little. "My father died in the plague. My stepmother threw me out. And.... my father said I was born here. And that he once lived here. And that I lived here until I was three. I don't remember. His name was Demar. And I don't know where else to go." "And no possible influence whatsoever," N'rov drawls, all sardonic humor. He nods to the girl with approval when she doesn't hold that story back despite Olivya's words, though he does murmur, "He said that before he died, I assume." More conversationally, "Now that's a pretty pickle. I'm sure one of Blume's women will be able to help with the paternity. Which holding is it that you're from, Catlin?" "Don't excuse your nosiness by assigning it elsewhere," is what Olivya counters in a murmur to that drawl, a brow curving up challengingly with the hint of a smile, but she doesn't press that further. Not with their company. She adds more helpfully, "And her own birth records. If you were born at the Weyr, there will be a record of it." "Demar was my father," Catling says. "Never said who my mother was, or why.... she didn't want me." She hunches her shoulders a moment, then shakes her head. "It's a little cothold between Fort Hold proper and Gar. Not much to it.... but...." She brushes some of the dust off her skirts. "So I'm not sure what use I might be, but...." N'rov smirks outright at the murmurous one; lest she become murderous, though, he refrains from further riposte. Besides, there's Catling and her story; "Quite a route," he says, dressed as you are." He doesn't challenge her story, though no doubt he'll remind Blume to have someone check it; rather, with a shivering shy-seeming girl in front of them, he gives Olivya a look and stands. "Let's go and get you situated. Someone will find out your use later," no doubt of that in his Bollian drawl. "I'll catch up with you later, darling," promises Olivya to N'rov as she draws to her own feet as well with him, in a way that is likely not helpful to any of the rumors that may be floating around about them. "I should go gather my stray weyrlings before they forget themselves." She turns back to Catling with a look, adding to the young woman, "It was nice to meet you, Catling. Weyrleader N'rov will take good care of you." "Wey-- weyr.... we-eyr...ll--leader?!?" The word comes out as a stammered half-squeak, half-shriek. Catling blink-blinks rapidly, then backs up a couple of steps, as if N'rov might suddely bite. She drops into a hasty, humiliated curtsey, tangles her feet in her skirts, and plops awkwardly down on her rump. "I... I... I...." "Am embarrassed, but not nearly as much as I get," N'rov tells Catling, all the more deadpan to cover her reaction. "Just you wait until she finds you a nickname of your own, she might call you sweetmeats or something." To Olivya, by way of parting words, "This is the most reaction I've gotten yet. Usually they just babble and pull their forelocks." His weyrlings, though, his weyrlings get a quick grin and a wave. "Maybe you are getting more impressive as you settle into the knot," Olivya offers in turn, looking only a little empathetic for the young woman's reaction. But then, it's likely that the Weyrlingmaster has never reacted like so to anything in her life, even as a child. Her weyrlings get a look, as one of them murmurs something to the other while clutching hands, and there is a brief hint of what might be a sigh (kids) before the greenrider turns to retreat. "It's just I should know! I wasn't that bad a student. When I got a chance to study." The girl scrambles to her feet tiredly and a bit reluctantly; the ground must be more comfortable than standing. "Forgive me for the... the ignorance. And you must be the Weyrlingma-- weyrlingmistress, m'lady? Ermm... ma'am?" She looks over at the men, then flushes slightly and looks down again. "This time," N'rov allows, after a nod that recognizes what Catling has to say about it without delving deeper. And then he's smirking. "Traditionally it's 'Weyrlingmaster' or, yes, 'ma'am.' Olivya?" Does she care to comment? A suspicious look is cast to N'rov for his smirk, and Olivya even stops the retreat towards the young men (who will surely survive with their moment without her interference) to correct, "Either is fine, though since you are not one of my weyrlings, Olivya would also be acceptable. But I will insist that no one, at all, anyone here not call me Weyrlingmistress." She gives another humored glance to N'rov at that, but she adds to Catling, "If you'll excuse me. I don't want to keep you from getting situated." "Yes ma'am," Catling murmurs to Olivya's feet. Then she turns towards N'rov and nods again. She slightly raises her glance to his knees. "I haven't much to situate, sir. I just have this bag to my name." She licks her lips. "Any corner is good enough for me...." N'rov doesn't entirely stifle his laughter, a low baritone rumble in timbre not far off Vhaeryth's; "Another day, Liv." With that, Catling has his attention; he hadn't helped her up, and he certainly doesn't lend his coat now, but he does move to take her elbow with a glance but no lasting regard for any travel stains. "This way," he says, aiming to move her briskly across the Bowl. "You're lucky the weather wasn't worse. What were your tasks at the Hold? And how did people treat you, along the way?" "I know how to milk and shear, to bundle a fleece. I know how to comb wool and wash it, but Druala says my spinning is worse than a toddler's. I know how to mend a fence and find lost lamblings, and how to weed. I know how to cook and bake. I..." Catling sighs. "I helped my father. Ran errands for him. Oh. I used to mend the harness too." She rubs her arms. "Mostly it was family. Father was good to me." She licks her lips. "Some of the ways people looked at me on the way here.... was scary." "Is it worse than when you were a toddler?" N'rov is positively compelled to ask. He nods for all these taks, for all of these useful or at least Hold-useful tasks; when she gets to that last, though, his hold tightens momentarily. No more. "'Scary.'" "I don't know. I don't remember when I was a toddler. I don't remember *here* at all." Catling blinks, though, at the tightening grip, and she bites her lip briefly. "Y-yes... yes sir." "Do you need to tell me about it," is a question after a beat. N'rov neither raises his voice nor lifts it. "Some of them looked at me like lords look at drudges," muses Catling. "That is embarrassing. Some of them looked at me like I saw Trantef the Thief looked when he was about to rob the potter's stall. But I don't have anything to steal. And some of them looked at me...." She shakes her head. "A couple looked at me I don't know how exactly, but I didn't like it. So mostly I slept up in trees or where there were rocks to climb. I climb well, anyway." "Ah." N'rov doesn't prompt her to elaborate; the wind has picked up, though, now that they're away from the comparatively sheltered garden. There's a large dragon up ahead, seemingly asleep, his head laid atop his paws; the bronzerider seems to think nothing of it, though, merely giving him perhaps a greenlength's worth of room. "What happened to your coat?" has the timbre of a frown. "I..." Catling rubs her arms again. "I wasn't allowed to keep it. It was more like a man's coat anyway, and it fits my half-brother. My stepmother kept it for him." She bites her lip, then shrugs. "It isn't so very cold...." "That's how I know you're not from Boll," N'rov says easily. "Which is just as well, considering that it's an even longer trek. Or from Southern," but that's more afterthought. He notes her demeanor around the dragon without comment; instead, "Not much further, Cait." Indeed, the cliff is starting to loom up ahead, though any of the dark openings might be the right one... or the wrong. Catling hardly notices the dragon at first, as fixated on the ground as she is. But she does look up, finally, as he misspeaks her name. She blinks, then goes still. "So that's a dragon," she murmurs, then flushes again. "What's his name... sir?" Hard to tell whether he's noticed her reaction to that impromptu nickname, gazing off into the distance as he is, though there is that slight tug of a smile. "Him? He's," and N'rov gives her the big brown's name, with barely a pause in between. "All their names are different, have been through the generations, Weyr upon Weyr," he relates. "So it's said. Given that we write down the spelling, I wonder; at least we aren't left to Mumbojumboshellifyth or the like." The dragon himself hasn't moved particularly, until he does, just a yawn and a shift of his head to rest on his left cheekbone instead. "So you might find a Catling down at Ruatha Hold, but never another Vhaeryth." "Hello," Catling says to the dragon. "And sir, my duty to yours. And oh! I forgot to give my duty to the Weyrlingmistress' dragon! Oh! Please, I'm not this badly-raised, I swear it. Double-swear! It's just...." She blinks, then goes still, absorbing her first weyr lesson. "I wouldn't find a Vhaeryth living at Ruatha Hold, though," she says softly. "Once a Ruth...." She sighs softly. "*Will* I be allowed to stay, sir?" "We do have watchriders posted," N'rov does say, after a nod acknowledging rather than dwelling on those duties. "But no, no Ruths. I don't expect we'll see his like again." He looks from her to the dragon they're passing, the dragon who seems to not have noticed them at all, and back. "As to staying, that will depend a great deal on you. If you work hard and have a solid character, however, and you follow orders, that will take you far." "I learned how to work hard and well and not talk back," answers Catling. She licks her lips, then sighs. "I won't give anyone any trouble, I promise. I'm not sure what you mean by 'solid character'...." She licks her lips. "And I know how to follow orders, even ones I don't like or think are unfair." "Stop doing that to your mouth, you'll make your face fall off," N'rov instructs her with dry humor, or possibly as a test. "Pretty much that. Work hard, follow instructions, don't steal things, don't be a grump. When you've worked here a few months, a half-Turn maybe, you'll get to be a grump until you've had your first klah of the morning, though: call it a promotion." "They're dry. I don't have a water-skin and the last bit of the hike..." Catling bites her lip instead of licking it. "And sir, my face can't fall off that way. Only my lips." "I'm told such things are part of one's face," N'rov points out, and with a smirk. Given the caverns approaching, he asks the girl, "Anything else you think I should know, before I give you over to Headwoman Blume's entirely functional hands? Or questions, I suppose, those too." "My father said that my mother was an old friend of his. Said they danced .... hem .... at Gather.... before I was born." Catling flushes, tripping over her own weary feet. "Is it true you do unnatural things here? That's what Druala told me." "'A Gather.' You do realize that it's the father that's most commonly mislaid at such events?" N'rov says, catching her without comment as she trips. "Of course," is his answer to the rest, but in much the same part-jocular tone as before, with only the slightest undernote of seriousness after a nearly-as-slight pause. "This is your chance to run back now." "It's not my fault," murmurs Catling. "I didn't ask them to make a baby. Didn't ask her not to want me. Didn't ask him not to tell me...." She brushes at her eyes, then bites her lip again, this time hard enough to make it bleed. "Sorry. You're giving me a place, sir. It's been a long trip." She looks at him, really up at his face. "You weyrfolk save Pern. It can't be *that* unnatural.... and it can't be *that* bad." N'rov rubs his forehead; a different sort of seriousness weights his voice when he says, "Look. Catling. Nobody's saying it's your fault. And forget 'unnaturalness.' You're, what, fourteen?" His tone suggests he's guessing generously. "Put it out of your head. Talk to the headwoman, or her assistants. They'll take care of you." "Fifteen." Catling answers. "Just turned, not even a sevenday ago." She brushes at her dress. "It's all right. Like I said. A corner and a crust of bread... that's all I need or deserve. Thank you very much, sir." She tugs at her dress and then rubs her arms again. N'rov lifts a brow at her, but only says in the deadpan tone of earlier, "You didn't mention crusts before. Now, that's incentive." It really isn't that much further, and then they're in the warmer, if not warm, populated cavern and he's introducing her to one of Blune's kinder assistants... with, before he leaves, the recommendation that she get something to drink. |
Leave A Comment