Logs:Crafty Geography
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| RL Date: 29 January, 2013 |
| Who: Ainslee, Azaylia, Brieli, Vienne, Wakizian |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Geography harp(er)ing, klah, beauty supplies, introductions, discussion of crafts. Then, Brieli fills in Vienne on the tale of two goldriders, and Vienne tells Bri a little of Oswinth. |
| Where: Living Caverns, HRW |
| When: Day 6, Month 12, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
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| The Living Cavern might usually be described as a chaotic place with the frequency and volume of visitors partial to taking meals or least-ways snagging food for meals elsewhere, but on a day like today, it holds a certain calm, almost eerie in contrast to the usual hustle and bustle. Perhaps it's only in contrast to the wind whipping about thick lashes of snow out in the bowl, but today this cavern is a refuge. Mid-morning sees most people already at work and not yet come for the mid-day meal, so only a few scattered faces populate the cavern. One of the faces is the slightly sooty face of Wakizian. He hovers by the serving table, one plate in hand, the other hand eating from the plate, his eyes darting towards the servers as they arrive to clear the serving table and replace dishes. Like a wherry waiting for the opportune pray to come along, he dances in among the servers to snag a bite of this or a spoonful of that, then back off a few feet to continue his munching. "It's generally considered good manners to fill a plate and sit down," comes a bemused voice: alto, husky, Bitran lilt - or is it Benden? East-coast for sure. The voice belongs to a curvy little redhead who's apparently fresh from a mid-morning bath: she carries heavy-duty winter boots in one hand, her own feet bare on chill stone. The other hand has a frilly little tote, almost spilling over with multitudinous products of femininity. The greenrider claims a nearby seat by tact of setting her stuff down on the chair, turning back to the food table to squint along the length of it. Klah is procured while she makes up her mind on if she's here to eat or not. The turn of Wakizian's head happens in slow motion. Mostly because of a server bringing out a tray of sticky buns who garnered the majority of his attention. Pulling his eyes away from the buns seems to take effort as his head turns most of the way towards the speaker before his eyes follow. "Oh?" His baritone is touched with absent curiosity, and then the realization of what she said seems to hit him. "Oh." With that, he grabs two sticky buns onto his plate and turns towards the tables, settling at one of the seats closest to the table. Despite sitting, his body is twisted towards the table, prepared to pounce on the next delectable vittles. "Better?" "Possibly." Ainslee's tone is remarkably dry: amusement. "Do the-- smiths?--" questioning there, lilt upwards; she doubts very much that there is any use for miner here, though cromcoal dust looks similar regardless of interaction or craft. "--limit the amount of time you have to eat?" She's heard crazier things. She does eventually decide to procure a small plate: a sticky bun and a couple of strips of bacon, leftover from breakfast and a little on the burnt edge of the cooking spectrum. She returns, food and klah, to sit next to the seat where her stuff is, one leg settled tucked neatly underneath her. Being "possibly" better with the manners thing seems to suit Waki just fine, as the young man continues to eye the prospective bits of meals, though his eyes now flutter between food on the serving table, food on his plate, and the redhead. "Ummm." He draws out the sound thoughtfully, "No. Not really. But I'm on lunch duty. No one wants to trudge through the snow just for lunch if they don't have to." His broad shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. "But if I don't eat before I bring them lunch in a bit here, I'll have to make a trip back. They're like scavenging wherries when you bring a tray over," says the wherry watching a server with a covered dish exit the kitchen. Then it seems to dawn on him that the woman has collected a plate for herself, and the food on someone else's plate is always interesting - at least to scavenging wherry smiths. "Bacon, mmmm..." This is sort of half-mumbled, as though he's not entirely aware it's being said aloud. "Bathes warm enough today?" "Ah. That makes sense." Ainslee is just /slightly/ familiar with the incidence of working men eating tremendous amounts of food... and being less than generous to others. The experience manifest: a sympathetic glance, short but there. She tucks her plate a little closer when the young man takes a bit too much interest regarding the contents. She flicks a glance up, bemused. "Do the hot springs ever get un-hot, here?" She's a recent transplant, relatively speaking - she likely wouldn't know. (Except that they've been warm the times she's gone!) Wakizian seems ready enough to drop the talk of working men, and perhaps something in the protective movement of her plate prompts him to pay attention to the fact that he has two perfectly delicious-looking sticky buns on his own plate, which he starts to tear apart with his fingers and much down. "I'm pretty sure the water never changes-- much, but the air, that's another story. Some days it just seems like it's not warm enough. Then again, I spend a lot of time near the forge, so my sense of hot is, well, rather like an Igenite's sometimes. Or at least, as I'm given to understand an Igenite's is, since I've never been. Have you? To Igen, I mean?" "Yes. I've a friend who hails from Igen, too. She definitely-- prefers the warmth." Ainslee chomps through a piece of bacon, taking her time, enjoying the burnt pieces probably more than she should. "It always seems warm to me. Benden is fairly similar climate - I think I would absolutely swelter, at Monaco or Ista or Igen." A shudder, here, for that. Too hot. Like a forge: notably, Ainslee doesn't even -touch- that subject. One sticky bun is already half demolished, and the rest of it is following quickly as Wakizian listens. The devouring only slows a moment as he observes her enjoyment of the burnt bits of bacon, and he eyes her plate again with that familiar covetous look - but only for a moment. Then he's back to swallowing down the sweet glazed bread. He nods along with her words, as though following along. "Is that where you're from? Benden? That's by Boll, right?" Thank goodness he's a Smith and not a Harper. "I'm originally from Crom, actually," Ainslee lightly states. "Went to Benden by-way of Bitra. Benden's north, situated along the east coast. Boll's almost due south of us, here." There's a brief glance for that, but whatever Ainslee would have said in reply to that is tempered. He /is/ a kid, after all. "But I lived at Benden for-- twelve turns?" It's almost inward directed, the question, and rueful. Such a long time. Ainslee's getting old. "Crom... Crom... Crom..." Obviously the name rings bells, but the bells aren't loud or clear. "Oh, right. Crom." Wakizian was not built for lying. Not even built for feigning, as he attempts to do now with geographic areas outside his own direct experience. Too much time at the forge, and not enough in the classroom, most likely. "That's... near here, right? And what made you move? What do you do now?" Maybe he's genuinely interested. Maybe there's strategy to his questions - enough questions make her talk long enough for him to put away the other sticky bun without interruption? The boy might be smarter than he looks, albeit with the most trivial things. There may be an eyebrow lifting for that: High Reaches' long and storied history with Crom is both well-known and-- well, storied. Even recent-transfer Ainslee is well-aware of the political tension there (and apparently being a teenager isn't enough to spare Wakizian the skepticism of her glance). She precludes answering his questions by querying, lightly; "What did you say your name was, again?" "Didn't." The Smith's chewing slows and his eyes drift up from his roll and regards the older woman. "Am I in trouble?" His fingers begin nervously (and stickily) pulling apart the remaining half of his sticky bun. "Because that might change my answer." Wakizian's lips twist in a brief impish smile before anxiousness returns to his expression. "It may pay you well to pay more attention, in the future," Ainslee comments in reply. Vague answers for EVERYONE today! "Especially in terms of where things are. Where people are from. What questions you ask." She's finishing up her sticky-bun, the process a slow one due to the fact that she's very systematically unrolling it, tiny piece by tiny piece. "Especially here." Speaking of questions asked: "Your name?" she prompts again, a flicker of wry and then she's leaning forwards: "Here, I'll show you. I'm /Ainslee/, and you are...?" Waki's baritone voice rises in a whine as he defends himself, "I pay attention to people." He fidgets in his seat next to the serving tables. His brown eyes go to the woman sitting nearby. "Places-- well, they're hard to keep track of when you've never seen any of them." He chews his lower lip a moment, maybe because he's out of sticky bun or possibly just because giving one's name to someone apparently so shrewd is something worth thinking on. Good manners win out. "Well met," He mutters, "I'm Wakizian. Waki if you like." His tone has turned a little sulky, like he was strong-armed into making known his identity. His index finger smears into the glaze left on his plate. Perhaps Ainslee was a Jedi Master in a past incarnation. It's entirely possible. She remains calm in the face of the sulk, unpeturbed by the apprentice in the least: "Well-met, Wakizian." Another bit of honey-bun peeled off, considered critically. "How long have you been in High Reaches?" Apparently manners require a conversation reset: but the lingering whisper of amusement emphasizes the lines of smiling crows-feet, vainly defended against but nonetheless visible. The curvy little greenrider is fresh from the bath, her red curls glossy and a little damp from a recent dunk; she's barefoot, one leg tucked up under her, the other dangling from her seat. The seat next to her is filled by-way of a tote nearly spilling over with feminine implements of torture, and she's focused upon the soot-faced apprentice across from her, her expression one of mild bemusement. "No, really I- Only if you insist, otherwise I couldn't possibly..." Azaylia's airy voice might be heard in the pauses of a rapidly speaking kitchen worker, the squat older woman a few years shy of being an auntie. The weyrwoman is being shooed out of the kitchen holding a steaming mug so large that it looks more like a bowl with a handle. It's a subtle spectacle, one that will only amuse those nearby rather than cause any disruption in the living caverns. Mittens are tied and hung from her neck, along with a scarf of pale 'Reachian colors, which match her black cloak, black leggings, blue dress-- sure she's not their mascot? On her way of carrying that big mug-bowl, Ainslee's hair is something of a beacon and it draws the goldrider in. "You have lovely hair." Unsolicited compliments aren't rude, apparently. "Do either of you mind..?" Only now is she hesitent about forcing her company on them. It's amazing how innocent questions can sometimes take one spot of obvious ignorance and paint a disturbing picture. Doesn't know exactly where Crom is despite being here at 'Reaches? Well, that's not all -that- scary, until: "About nine turns. Since I was eight or so." Wakizian is apparently unaware how such an answer might get him into more trouble with the critical redhead. The Smith seems glad of the interruption in any case. Maybe he figures one more body might serve as a buffer. "Not at all. Please." He rises and gestures to one of the seats. The apprentice might know his manners after all, although whether he rose out of respect to the woman joining them or because a server just brought out a steaming tray of roast bovine, one can only guess. He does snag his plate and take the few steps over to the table to help himself before returning to his chair. The mild commotion from the kitchen draws Ainslee's eye; the woman glances to take in Azaylia and the kitchen-worker, further bemusement filling out the curve of lower lips. Only when the young woman approaches - and compliments! - does faint amusement turn to flattered friendliness: "Thank you." She knows how to take a compliment, at least, without getting flustered: then a hint of wry expression and she gestures to the seat next to her. "It wouldn't be that way without a /lot/ of help." Implements of beauty DOOM. She's about to say something, klah-mug raising for a belated sip, when Wakizian's statement grinds her attention to a halt. "Nine turns?" The incredulity: it may BURN. Azaylia dips her head to both woman and lad, a wordlessly shy greeting as well as thanks as she takes a seat next to Wakizian. When her mug is set on the table, it is revealed to be full of broth and some floaty bits of vegetables. Not hard to guess why, the way she stiffens for a muffled sneeze-squeak. "You're welcome." She remembers to add, glancing at the tote full of beauty supplies. "Oh my." Impressive, even to other women. Lifting her broth, she takes a polite sip and all seems well, judging from her small smile. "Nine turns?" Brown eyes shift to Wakizian, curious. "That's longer than I've been at 'Reaches. Oh, Azaylia. Gold Hraedhyth's." Sometimes, when you're a weyrwoman, you forget that introductions might be necessary. Obliviousness is the gift given to those for whom it would be too painful to exist were they aware of certain of their shortcomings. And so the tone of incredulity is entirely missed by the Smith apprentice. "Yep. Nine turns. My parents were posted here when that meteor hit the Starstones. They brought us all along." And abandoned the children to be raised by fictitious ice-wherrys - no doubt, as he uses his fingers to grab a long thin slice of the roast bovine and tilts his head back to drape it into his open maw before closing to chew. Ice-wherrys with some manners maybe? He glances towards Azaylia, managing to swallow before adding, "I'm practically a weyrbrat." Except the Weyr probably wouldn't want to claim him as one of their own at the rate he's measuring up. "Wakizian, ma'am. Senior apprentice Smith." His eyes go for the first time to Ainslee's tote and his eyes bug a bit. "ALL that is for bathing?" He apparently doesn't recognize incredulity when he hears it, but does a pretty good rendering of his own. There's no evident reaction from Ainslee at Azaylia's self-introduction: she's been around enough for the weyrwoman to be pointed out to her. "Well-met, Azaylia. Ainslee, green Kalaith's." She's slightly preoccupied at the moment, though: later examination will doubtless occur, but for the moment, she's just staring at Wakizian as if he's some rare and foreign beast (and maybe on that smells bad, the way she angles back from him after a minute). "And you don't know where Crom is." Her expression of somewhat-mystified-horror, pristine Benden emotion that, could be clearly subtitled: /this/ is the standard education level of those raised in this weyr? Or maybe: Oh Faranth. "And you thought Benden was next to Boll." Definitely leaning towards 'Oh Faranth', now. She opens her mouth to say something, closes it, and suddenly her shoulders are shaking from the pressure of holding back laughter. She chokes into her klah-mug a moment, presumably to take a sip. The strangled noises are probably pretty hilarious, really. Eyes peering over the rim of her large mug, Azaylia seems more than happy to watch the conversation already in progress. Wakizian's eating has brown gaze sliding off to the side, though it's paired with an odd quirk to her lips. "Well met." Her attention shifts back, polite and genuinely friendly it seems. "Kalaith... one of the transfers." Likely reminded by a certain tawny gold. Ainslee's laughter has her looking somewhat surprised, turning to give the apprentice a sympathetic smile, "When I impressed, I didn't know very much about the area. Or history." Hopefully that's changed. She's not terribly helpful with her next words, "Then again... I hadn't been here for nine turns." Hm. The vast expanse of a star-strewn vista imperceptibly edges in, the bleak emptiness of mindspace invaded slowly, purposely. The incomprehensible endlessness of it all is peppered with bright flashes, memory of dead brilliance that flickers momentarily; the stars are as fireflies. Transience. Eternal. The mental touch of this latest outlander spins slowly about an invisible axis, cool and streaked with nebulous matter, shining and crumbling and gone. The faintest of stars remain constant about the edges of the flames the starscape encroaches upon: faint homage, silent greeting. (Kalaith to Hraedhyth) More of Wakizian's brilliant intellect shines through with his blank blinks, another strip of roast bovine halfway off his plate as the laughter commences, and an honestly innocent, "What? What's so funny?" He looks helplessly from greenrider to goldrider. "Crom's near here. And Boll is far away--" He pauses, brows knitting in concentration, "--but not near Benden?" Someone give the boy a prize for putting that together from the obvious context! He chews his lower lip, looking towards Weyrwoman for confirmation or denial. To Kalaith, Hraedhyth is not silent. Her greeting is less so. She is the thumping pulse that makes up half of the Weyr, balanced with with the push and pull of Iesaryth's tide. Now, the drums are all too loud. Focused. Kalaith. Stars are accepted, wecomed, flames offering little in the way of light pollution. There is no reason that both of them cannot simply be. The laughter doesn't stop - and now Ainslee is kind of helplessly gripped by it, too, klah-mug slowing settling down (only to be replaced by fingertips branching over the bridge of her nose, palms pressed against the hollow of cheek to better cover lips, eyes downcast). What's so funny? The whole situation, apparently. The greenrider tries to recover. She doesn't. She's down-and-out for the count (for the moment). Goldrider, greenrider and apprentice are seated by the food tables- the redheaded dragonhealer has a leg tucked under her and a large tote next to her, and she's currently suffering a terrible laughter attack. She's stifling it viciously, ruthlessly -- in vain. "Oh dear." Azaylia's set her mug-bowl of broth down, fingers reaching up to rest against the corner of her lips as she watches the greenrider. "Are you alright?" For Ainslee, who doesn't even seem capable of giving a smart quip in the state she's in. Turning to the smith lad she's sitting next to, "Ah... no. Crom is near us, but Boll is closer to Ista than it is Benden." Her hand lowers and gives Wakizian's shoulder a delicate, comforting pat. "Unless you're planning on traveling I don't think it's that important?" So at least Ainslee knows who to blame for the poor education of 'Reachian whelps. The starscape vibrates as if an incredibly obnoxious stereo cranked up oversized subwoofers nearby: bah-WHUMP, bah-WHUMP, bah-WHUMP. The axis shifts, firefly-stars blinking in-and-out of existence. The faintest displeasure of a lifemate's antics statics over, expressed with the faintest of emotions communed then turned swiftly inward. The stars recede, darkness against the flames, mere vacuum once more. Coexistence: the merge, the change; acceptance. (Kalaith to Hraedhyth) With the quizzical cant of Waki's head, and the half-scrunched brow and slightly puckering lips, the Smith now resembles more a confused canine than a ravenous wherry, but the pat on the shoulder solves all that, much like a good boy! would for puppy. "I can tell you all about metals and gems, if you like..." This is directed towards Ainslee, "But I haven't been out of the 'Reaches since I got here. Except back to Smithcraft - and that's just a blink between once a turn." He looks to Azaylia for further approval, "As you say, I don't plan to travel so I--" His look becomes comical as it seems to dawn on the apprentice that he's making himself sound like more of a dolt, and so he just stops, and shovels several pieces of roast bovine into his mouth, until his cheeks puffed out. No way he can talk now! Vienne comes in from the snow; it's stuck to her everywhere, though that's basically the state of everyone else who walks in from the bowl. She pauses at the entrance, amid the slush and grit that mars the floor, taking off her hat and gloves to use them like weapon as she tries to bat the snow off her coat. Then she can go about stomping her boots. And only after all of that does she actually look around the cavern to get an idea for how busy it is. Were it any other time, she might just pass Ainslee a friendly smile and go about her business -- the red hair does stand out a little. But now, given that her fellow recent transfer is caught in a fit of laughter, her curiosity gets the better of her and the bluerider wanders over, grinning already. "What's so funny?" She looks to the puff-cheeked apprentice and then, oh, it's Azaylia. Recognizing the goldrider quirks something in Vienne's expression. What a pleasant surprise. To Kalaith, Hraedhyth is only encouraged by the shifting of that starscape, the beat increasing in power and volume. It's short-lived, if only to avoid giving her own lifemate a headache, drums settling into their usual constant over the Weyr. Her pack. The one Kalaith is now a part of. While she pulls back, as the darkness creeps between them, the gold's flames burn hotter still. There is no use in attempting to fill that void, her own acceptance turning her focus back onto High Reaches as a whole. Okay. Laughter-fit is slowly subsiding, fingerpads wiping away the traces of laughter-induced tears in one smooth swipe. It's a close call when Vienne comes wandering by - Ainslee's grin threatens to resume to previous manic levels. Luckily (for everyone), she manages her composure this time. "Vienne!" she calls, brightly. "I'm alright," she belatedly assures Azaylia. Again to Vienne: "We're educating..." Here her lips twitch; "...young Wakizian, here. You'd be ideal for the task, really." So innocent, the smile cast upwards, sunny and bright for the bluerider. Azaylia is always approving, except for those rare moments that she isn't. When Wakizian looks to her, she's still wearing a smile that only seems slightly tired: it's okay not to know stuff. It really is, or so she thinks, despite the way Ainslee is carrying on. For his stuffing his face, "Careful. Don't choke." Tone downright maternal, and possibly meant for both apprentice and greenrider. At Vienne's question, "Hello. Oh... I'm not quite sure." Leave it to Ainslee to explain and only have the goldrider even more confused. "Vienne." Repeated, looking thoughtful, possibly recognizing the other transfer. "Azaylia. I'm sorry you couldn't transfer during nicer weather." She means it, too. There's a fine line between dumb and stupid. Dumb is not knowing that Boll is across the continent from Benden. Stupid would be to keep talking when now three women have focused their combined might on educating Wakizian. The apprentice goes silent, nodding a greeting to the incoming rider, but simply chew-chew-chewing away, another little nod towards Azaylia as though to yes, mom, or yes, ma'am. It all amounts to the same thing in this instance. Vienne's eyes are bright for Ainslee, perhaps because of the goldrider's presence, though perhaps more likely because she knows better than to believe the greenrider's innocent look. But either way, she smiles sweetly as she stuffs winter accesories into her pocket and sinks down into a neighboring empty seat with her attention turned to the boy. "Wakizian," she repeats. "Nice to meet you. What..." Her head turns before her eyes move, to check with the other women. "What kind of education?" And then, aside to Azaylia. "Thank you so much for the gift basket. I know I'm a little late in saying it. It's been a busy few sevens." And there's some sympathy in her smile, since Azaylia's variety of busy rather seems to warrant it. "But thank you." At least the whole aside might give Wakizian a moment to recover himself. Belated, to Azaylia: "Oh, that /was/ from you! Thank you." Ainslee, jumping on board of the Vienne thankful parade-ship. "Geography," she offers succinct to the bluerider, speaking-of: "He needs a refresher." There's an element of kindliness in that, perhaps; amusement still lingers, however, at edges of eyes and flickers of lip. Leaning back, the greenrider offers a change of subject-- "Are there a great number of crafters, here?" For Wakizian and Azaylia, likely: "I seem to have met a great deal of ... apprentices." The weyrwoman looks surprised, pleasantly so, when Vienne gives her thanks. "No, no. I was late in giving them to you." Something she doesn't have to admit, but does anyway. Ainslee's addition has her looking down right bashful about it, "I'm glad you both liked them. You're welcome." With the broth in her sights to remind her, she drains a good deal of it, hinting to how she must actually eat. She's polite about it, at least. "We have a Craft Complex." Said with gentle pride after she wipes at her lips, "I came here as an apprentice myself. Beastcraft." With a look to Wakizian there's a hint of something understanding in her gaze. She's been there. The interlude about gift baskets does grant Wakizian some much needed recovery - or strategizing - time. On the one hand, he could excuse himself, on the other, the serving staff has been putting out the lunch spread - and it does look really good. Brown gaze bounces between food, women, and the door. There are some cravings in life, however, that young men are just ill-equipped to ignore. So while the women talk of welcome baskets, he's slipping the few feet over to the serving table and gathering up still more food. He's already back in his place before Ainslee is asking her question, "Lots. And-" to Vienne, "-nice to meet you, too." He adds to the goldrider's words about a complex, "When they were repairing after the meteor hit, they ended up making some significant improvements to the crafting complex here. Journeyman Thraland says that's one of the reasons so many crafters get posted here - the facilities are great, by comparison to some other places. Although a few turns old now. You should see them sometime. Pretty impressive." Pride strengthens his tone, and it shows in his face - pride for his craft, for the complex, for the Weyr even." His brows lift a bit as he considers the Weyrwoman, "You were a beastcrafter?" There's a nod to Ainslee -- yes, this is who gave them baskets -- but most of Vienne's attention returns to Wakizian, once he's back at the table, for whom she smiles again. Then, in a voice not bothering, in these circumstances, to make its best show, she sings a quick learning song that names a few major places and some defining feature of each. There are more verses that she doesn't get to, and it might not actually contain any pertinent information, but there. Wakizian has been harpered. And now the bluerider is momentarily distracted by Azaylia's broth. "Why does that look so good?" she muses aloud, perhaps surprised to find something so simple is also so appealing. Meanwhile she shrugs her shoulders out of her jacket and nudges the thing to hang over the back of her chair. Then her quick fingers can go about smoothing down some of the snow-and-hat-inspired fly aways that are curling in her hair, while she, too, turns her interest to Azaylia and her beastcraftering days. Blue-green gaze is -- perhaps jaded, that latest glint of amusement to shine within. Ainslee is adjusting herself, shifting off that tucked-under leg and pushing empty plate away from her. Wakizian's sudden fount of information causes eyebrows to raise, but she doesn't comment. Until Vienne starts singing, and Ainslee buries her face again in her klah-mug, coming up to snag something from her tote and hand it over to the bluerider: here. Take this. "A table of crafters. Wonder what /those/ odds are." Her voice is slightly distracted, trailing off at the end: a broad-shouldered greenrider is walking by, talking to a wingmate, and she's enjoying the sight. (It's the simple pleasures, guys.) "Beastcraft. Born, taught, and raised in Keroon." Azaylia confirms, tone warm for the smith lad's obvious pleasure with their complex. Fingers lift to pinch the air, "This close to becoming a Senior myself before I impressed." She won't bore them with her scars. It would be rude, given Vienne's quick learning song, "Oh." Breathless surprise, "That was very nice. And informative." She gives a soft laugh, hefting the broth up, "I made the mistake of sniffling near the kitchen. If you give it a try, they might shove some broth onto you." Not that she looks overly sick, just tired. "What odds?" She asks of Ainslee, following that blue-green gaze to the greenrider. The fact that it lingers is completely on her, however, and she's quick to rejoin the conversation. Wakizian's brows creep up as he's harpered. His look is a mixture of surprise, admiration, and fear. When Vienne finishes the tune, he's left staring silently. The conversation moves on, but the Smith apprentice doesn't. Whether he's puzzling over the lyrics of the melody or something else entirely is anyone's guess. It isn't until Azaylia speaks about Beastcrafting that he stops staring at Vienne and color brushes his cheeks in pink. "Where's Keroon?" Then to Ainslee, "Which craft were you a part of?" There's a touch of surprise in his baritone, as though he's having trouble picturing the redhead as an apprentice, doing chores and enduring education from their betters. A table of crafters? "You too?" Vienne asks Ainslee, only a quick glance downward before she takes whatever it is, as nonchalantly as if she'd expected it. "Did I know that? What craft?" And turning the little jar in her hand, she wonders, "What's this?" but then, maybe the greenrider has trouble paying attention when broad shoulders go walking by. So Vienne turns then to grin back at Azaylia with, a wry hitch in the gratitude of her smile. "I do what I can," she plays it off easily for the quick little song, rotely delivered. Really, it's the sniffling that snags her curiosity and the bluerider's smile transforms to sympathy once again. "Are you coming down with something? They say, when you move, that you're likely to get a cold. With the weather... I'm sure it won't be long before I won't have to pretend to sniffle." She frowns for that. Not looking forward to it. Thankfully she can pipe in for Wakizian, "South of Igen. Grassy plains." It might be a lyric from that song she was singing, just one she hadn't reached. How does Wakizian /think/ Ainslee gained her repetoire of large words, geographical information, and absolute sass? "Healer," Ainslee reports, more to Vienne than to Wakizian. Why is this so /surprising/? Her tone drifts lighter. "So close to making journeyman." Her husky alto is almost nostalgic. "So close." She shakes her head, moves on. "The odds," belatedly to Azaylia: "Of all four of us having been crafters. Statistica--" She catches herself, tosses the other a rueful expression, shakes her head. "Nevermind." The woman leans back, wrinkles her nose at her cold klah. Hitches a half-smile at questioning about Keroon. "Dreadfully dusty," is her interjection on the subject. "I really don't think I am." Azaylia answers Vienne, not that she's going to argue about having free broth. Well, not now. "I'm as healthy as a runner." And she's ex-beastcraft so she should know, right? To aide the bluerider's question, "Keroon is actually near Benden." Nearer than Boll, that's for certain. "Oh. Healer." Yes, Ainslee, she does sound surprised. Then, "Well isn't that funny? I wonder just how many apprentices and almost-journeymen the Weyrs have snatched away from the Halls?" There's a flicker of guilt at the subject, one that is somewhat hidden in her glance towards the Smith. "Careful," She teases all too sweetly, "Or the dragons are going to get you." It might've even been a lyric Vienne already sang. Judging from the man's display of knowledge thus far, teaching songs don't seem to penetrate that broad brow of his. Wakizian nods and smiles politely in response to the details Vienne provides, "Thank you." The Smith tilts his head a bit as he considers the goldrider, "I like runners. Keroon is famous for them, right?" To Ainslee, he gives a puzzled look, "Were you the kind of healer that studied behind closed doors or the kind that pokes and prods people when they come into the infirmary?" Something in his tone suggests the Smith is having trouble picturing the greenrider's bedside manner as being that of a quality healer. Then brows rise as he looks at the Weyrwoman again, "That wouldn't be so bad, would it? You all seem happy enough with dragons in your lives?" The query is clearly to the group. Vienne's brows lift in polite discovery when Ainslee shares her former craft, but there might just be a little extra amusement around her smile that doesn't seem to belong. Anyway, she can drop her attention to the little jar the greenrider passed her way, twisting the cap and giving the contents a sniff. She daps a little of whatever it is on her fingers, rubs them together and then runs her hairs quickly through her hair. There. Flyaways fixed. She passes the jar back to Ainslee and a nod over to Azaylia, glad to hear the Weyrwoman isn't on the verge of ill health. "The cold makes everyone sniffle," she observes. And to Wakizian, "The dragon is neither here nor there, really. It just is. But," and she'll go out on a limb here, with a glance to her fellow former crafters, "There are things you give up. Or at least, things that change and will never be the same again. For some people, that's a wonderful thing." Ainslee is beginning to look just this side of honest confusion; what -is- with all the judgment? "I was studying to become a mindhealer, though it's routine for all apprentices to 'poke and prod', as you say." Her voice is nothing if not polite: but nothing beyond that, her genial amusement dampened down at the two-pronged disbelief from Azaylia and Wakizian. She takes her jar back from Vienne and settles it back into her tote, uncurling herself to stand and take her plate and near-empty mug to the nearest dirty-dishes bin. Her snack break, apparently, is over. What a perfectly awful day outside. Every entry into the cavern brings another pile of snow with them, given they're covered in it and have to stomp and shake it off, lest it melt and leave them wet and freezing instead of merely freezing. One of the stompers-and-shakers who comes in just now, as quick as long legs will carry her, is dark and wearing red; once de-snowed, more recognizable as Brieli. Pulling off her gloves with quick, sharp motions, she's immediately concerned with the state of her hair. The goldrider runs fingers through her curls with a displeased expression, walking over to the end of the serving tables, finding a spoon and peering into the back, as if it might provide enough of a mirror. A flash of red catches the corner of her eye, distracts her briefly enough to note Ainslee dumping her dishes. Azaylia is seated next to Wakizian, bowl now empty save for a shallow puddle of broth at the bottom. With Ainslee and Vienne across from them, it's a table of crafters, the majority of whom have impressed to dragons. "Yes it is. It's also where the Beastcrafthall is." Just in case he might not have put two and two together. "I like runners. Then again, I like all animals." Ainslee's loss of humor strikes the goldrider as not only odd, but something she should apologize for. Unfortunately it's only after the greenrider has moved to leave that she murmurs, "Oh dear. Was it something I said?" Probably. The arrival of Brieli, more like a six sense in regards to the other goldrider, has Azaylia sending a smile her way. It's lacking some, as she's still fretting over Ainslee's departure. And all is right in the world again! Or so Wakizian's tone seems to indicate as he response to Ainslee, "Oh. That makes sense." And not another word of explanation does he feel the need to give. His eyes follow the exchange of hair product between the two transfers, and the curiosity is too much for him not to ask, "What is that?" His gaze does slip down towards the full tote of beauty supplies again, and his expression clearly says he expects it to bite were he to get any closer. A self-conscious hand goes to his own long hair, as though checking to make sure no one snuck anything weird or foofy-smelling into his runners tail when he wasn't looking. Then to the former beastcrafter, "Do you ever have time to spend with runners and all? Now that you have a dragon -- and well, a Weyr -- to take care of? I mean-- not just you, obviously you're not on your own taking care of the Weyr--" And there he is wandering into mucky, uncomfortable waters. At least this time he seems to know it. It's not Ainslee's reaction that makes Vienne's brow furrow, but rather the trouble it seems to cause Azaylia. She's quick to shake her head across the table at the goldrider, to disuade her from worry, whether she has real reason to or not. The bluerider, meanwhile, misses Brielie's arrival and instead lifts her hands to touch her hair again when Wakizian asks after the jar. "Oh, it's for hair. I don't really know how it works. Or if it does. But she offered so I..." tried it out. Her eyes roll upward as if she might be able to see the top of her own head to discern whether the jaw of stuff has done it's job, but as that is impossible, she just settles back in her chair, no meal before her, and finally does look toward the serving tables and all the familiar faces that have ended up over in that direction. Ainslee is perfectly amicable. So long as snowballs aren't involved. Ask Brieli, of the Ninja Defense System! Speaking of, the dragonhealer offers the red-garbed goldrider a brief smile; "Nasty out, isn't it?" Distracted and unusually formal, she gathers up her boots and totes, offers a politic smile to Wakizian and Azaylia - then one a bit more of her normal vivaciousness to Vienne - and flags a hand in her usual farewell before taking the path back into the guts of the weyr, no doubt to find the infirmary and the dragon-infirmary beyond. The spoon really isn't all that useful. Brieli gives up on it entirely, tossing it with the dirty dishes and giving a wave to Ainslee as she departs. "Terrible. Be careful, yes?" It's noticing the greenrider that has her able to catch Azaylia's smile, however lacking it may be - though that lack may bring fine brows together for a moment, in a frown. It takes but a moment for her to fill a mug and pluck a muffin from the serving table before she makes her way over to the table. In response to Wakizian, "She most certainly is not." It's not said pointedly, just matter-of-fact. "Though some people are less help than others. Hello." She has a lovely smile for the table, for Vienne as she sits, crosses long legs, starts to pick a piece from the muffin. "You could lose your own hand in front of your face out there." Azaylia may be bothered, but she won't use that as an excuse to be rude and ignore Wakizian's question. "Not much, no. I do make time in the spring to see all the baby animals being born." That, coupled with Vienne's reassurance has her in high spirits once Ainslee comes back for her things. There's little time for an apology, so she sends the greenrider off with a gentle smile instead. Brieli's there to fill the void, her words earning a faint nod from the other goldrider, backing her claim. "Hello Brieli." Bright and shiny, "I came over to see how the kitchens were doing and now I'm a little... stuck." Not really. Ropes and dragons could lead her back home, but then she wouldn't be having such lovely conversation. Wakizian nods to Azaylia's response, expression turning thoughtful for a moment. Whatever it is that has him distracted soon seems to evaporate, and his attention is on Brieli. He gives her a rather embarrassingly large smile. Boys. "Afternoon, Weyrwoman." He glances between Azaylia and her counterpart, "I'd imagine running a Weyr is challenging." Was he trying to sound smooth and intelligent there? If so, it was a laughable attempt. Not to forget Vienne, he tilts his head towards her, "Wouldn't you? Which Weyr did you come from? The same as Ainslee?" From Vienne, there's a parting smile for Ainslee and one to greet Brieli, nice placid smiles, both of them. But Azaylia's comment wipes it away. "Oh, you don't have to stay on our account," she says with a shake of her head, speaking for Wakizian as well as herself, even if she doesn't really have the right to. "If you have..." Duties? Stuff? Other things? Any of that will do to fill in the blank Vienne leaves. "Not that I'm hurrying you away either," she's quick to tack on, her smile finally breaking into a self-deprecating laugh. She turns back to the apprentice then, "I came from Igen. Ainslee from Benden." And then, a thought suddenly and visibly hits her and she turns toward Breili, sticking her foot out to show off the nice big fur-lined boot she's got on. "Look!" She's just a little proud, a little excited. "Just in time, too." "Stuck. It's awful out. I don't blame you for lingering." Brieli wrinkles her nose girlishly at Azaylia, glancing over her shoulder toward the entrance, the melting snow that marks the path from the outdoors. To Wakizian, pleasantly, "Afternoon. And... that's one way to put it, yes. Challenging." A smirk. After popping the bite of muffin into her mouth and finishing it, "Oh, Vienne. It's like a sandstorm, but freezing, yes? Are you managing now? Did you get boots?" Her concern for the bluerider seems genuine, and just as she asks, there's Vienne's foot. "Perfect!" she says, visibly pleased, leaning over to peer closer. "And yes, excellent timing." If her smile is a touch wry, well. It might take a moment, but Azaylia will catch on to what Vienne means. "Oh! No, I meant stuck by the awful weather." She's nothing but apologetic, "It's an excuse, really." Probably not what one wants to hear from a weyrwoman, that she'd rather sit and talk instead of going about her duties. There's a curious glance for Vienne's boots and an appropriate 'ooh' of appreciation. Once she eases back into her seat, she has a nod for Wakizian, "It is. It's not like working out in the fields, or the stables..." A note of something wistful, "But it's good, hard work in its own way." Peering into her bowl, she realizes the puddle has gone cold and decides to listen to boot-talk with a faint smile. "Awful weather..." Wakizian repeats this in the thoughtful tone of one who has forgotten something and just about-- there it is! Remembered! "Shards and shells. I'm in trouble." Suddenly the easy-going Smith is moving with urgency - so he does know how to hop to after all. He snags up a near empty serving tray and makes his way down the line piling things on. Then an empty tray is snagged to cover the first. Once he's loaded up, he turns back towards the women - sees his plate and does a precarious shuffle of items until the plate is perched on top (though what's on it is sure to be soggy by his destination, not thinking that one through!). "I was supposed to bring them lunch." He says by way of explanation and farewell. Whoever them is. And then he's off, hurrying towards the door. Vienne laughs again, more warmly now as she's showing off her footwear. "Not like a sandstorm," she tells Brieli, her smile pulling to a smirk. "But it's remarkable." From the shine in her grin, this little bluerider is impressed with the snow, even if it is cold and wet and supposedly awful. She does, however, remove her foot from display, wrapping her ankles around the chair legs, and, with half of an apology in her voice for the little shoe-detour, she explains to both Azaylia and Wakizian, "I've had a lot of things to get, for the weather." Except then the apprentice is making his hasty departure, which she watches with wide eyes until he has a chance to share his reason. Then she's left lifting a hand after him, an afterthought of a wave he doesn't even see. She turns back to the two goldriders. "So." It's not weighty. Just an empty moment. Lightly, "It's our fate, yes? I suppose all riders in the winter. Either hanging about your weyr to delay the trip to the caverns or vice versa. I think everyone might be guilty of such things." Brieli's not really in any big hurry to get to where she's going after all - at least, not as long as she has a muffin and a mug of tea. Swinging one of her somewhat-more-stylish-less-practical boots, she notes to Azaylia, "I wanted to lend or give Vienne something to wear, but we sorted out that wasn't really viable. Do you know anyone her size?" The apprentice smith's departure gets a blink and a bemused glance as he heads off, and she notes, "Odd kid." As if she's so much older than he is. Turning back, "So." After a pause, she'll tell Vienne, "At least we can leave, when the visibility isn't so bad. Even if it is, I suppose. It was worse being stuck here. Our weyrlinghood was all winter long." Azaylia watches Wakizian with somewhat wide eyes, surprised at his speed for such a bulky lad. He's sent off with a little wave, the goldrider turning her attention back to Vienne's boots. "Ah, yes. It must be very different coming from Igen to High Reaches." Perhaps she realizes how tired the topic might be to a transfer, and looks back down into her bowl. Empty mug-bowl. A young woman cannot survive on broth alone, and she takes a moment to stand. "I think go check up on the kitchens again." Certainly not to get more freshly made broth. "Make sure the menus are right." Talking business with Brieli, she turns a smile onto Vienne, "If I can remember anyone that has the same size boot, I'll let you know." Not a promise, but it might as well be. "We'll talk later." Her departure is far from quick, careful to make room for those that seem in much more of a hurry than she. The goldrider will eventually make it to the kitchens. "Needing to bundle up definitely makes it all more of an undertaking," Vienne agrees, her eyes casting out across the cavern at the many so-bundled folk milling around in varying states of dampness. Idly, she brings her hands to the table's edge, her fingers drumming out a quick, light rhythm. "It's not so bad, really. Not yet at least. Though I suppose that's only because it's all new to me." And becuse it could be even colder. The bluerider grins her thanks to Azaylia as she makes her departure, gaze following after her before getting distracted by the surving tables again. But once they're alone, she smiles to Brieli, "So that was Azaylia. It's the first time I've really met her." As the other goldrider gets up to check on the kitchens and the menus, Brieli murmurs, "I'm sure they haven't changed in the last few hours." But she doesn't seem overly concerned that Azaylia should hear her, just offers the woman a wave as she makes her way off into the cavern. Picking off another piece of muffin, she'll agree with Vienne, "It does take some time, doesn't it? It's nicer with the sun, and some people like to skate... I'm just not terribly good at it and I don't love the idea of falling down in front of people all the time." Imagine that! After she takes up her mug, she quirks a slight smile to the bluerider in return. "She worries too much. I'm glad you've met, though." "I've never tried it," Vienne remarks, probably not a surprise. But it would seem, from the way her lips press together, that maybe the idea of repeatedly falling in front of a number of onlookers might not be to her liking either. "I can't imagine that falling down would be much fun, crowd or not. Unless you like to be purple. How about sledding? And skiing?" More winter sports she's likely never tried. She arches a curious brow for a native's report on the alternatives. But the bluerider is a little more thoughtful on the subject of the other goldrider. "She does seem... Was she always worried?" Vienne wonders, no need to explain the past tense versus the present, the before versus the after. "The ice is hard," Brieli agrees. "Some people fall so hard you'd think you could hear bones crack. But it's like it's nothing. I suppose you slide a bit, but still..." A grimace. Before a sip from her mug, "Iesaryth liked to glide across the ice when she was smaller, let the wind take her. I doubt it would work now. And the sledding isn't difficult, though you wind up a bit wet. As I understand it, skiing requires making sure both feet go the same way, which sounds... potentially harder than it sounds." Back to the muffin after, though she'll pause in her decimating to look at Vienne thoughtfully. "I didn't know her well before? Only a little as candidates." A pause. "It can make her... hesitant. Conflicted." Vienne makes a skeptical face for this magical ability people supposedly have to fall hard enough to crack bones and somehow come out unscathed. But it probably says more that she opts to tease the Weyrwoman for her word choice. "It sounds harder than it sounds?" There's an arch to her brow, an impish smile. But it's all in jest. "No that does sound hard. Maybe... I'll try sledding first. I've been wet before and I got through it without breaking anything." She is, however, not going anywhere right now. She might not have a plate or a drink, but she seems comfortable enough without either, just enjoying the warmth of the cavern. And she could potentially remark on Azaylia's conflictions but instead, it's something else that catches her attention. "You were candidates together? So you've really just... been through everything as a team." With another little grimace, "It sounds harder than... it should be. Or something like that." Brieli waves a piece of muffin at Vienne diffidently, like her lack of decent diction in front of a former harper isn't that big a deal. Tearing off another piece of the muffin to explain more clearly, holding them parallel, "They have to stay like this, but I'm told they want to go like this." The muffin-skis cross, which, were a person atop them, would be counter productive. Then they're eaten. Nodding, tone now a touch wry, "I stopped her from running away from Hraedhyth on the Sands. I met... well. A lot happened that night. I was sent to Monaco to stand not too long after, and we were brought back here for weyrlinghood, Iesaryth and I." Vienne has a grimace, too, when she's shown what skis want to do and infers what that does to a person's legs. "Sounds like trouble." Though given how she seems to react to new things, maybe it will still be on her list of things to try, some day when she isn't feeling a healthy respect for her limbs. Anyway, tales of goldrider impressions are far more interesting. "From running away?" she repeats, her smile returning, warm and curious. "She didn't want to stand or was it just that, in the moment, she was startled?" And then also, "How did you get back here from Monaco?" Dryly, "They say that you learn, but..." Brieli seems skeptical. Perhaps she's likewise wary of new things, or at the very least, looking like an idiot in front of a bunch of randoms. How does one maintain a reputation that way? Vienne's curiosity doesn't seem to make the goldrider all that wary; after all, anyone who'd attended might have seen the same thing. "She was a bit surprised in the moment, yes," she agrees quickly, perhaps grateful for an opportunity to avoid 'frightened'. "Hraedhyth had wounded a few girls, I think. Even Azaylia." As for her own story, "Ah. Well. We were flown back by some bronzes and browns from there, on a sort of... tarp, more or less. For all Iesaryth sees it as a throne." As most people who have stood, or even just seen a hatching, it's certainly understandable that a person would be 'surprised' if a dragon was coming at them. Vienne nods for the part about there being a few wounded girls in the process. But when they discuss the moving of a gold hatchling across the world, by throne no less, the bluerider's grin breaks wide again. "Yeah, that's what I was wondering. Actually, I would have guessed she might have been unhappy about it. Not that I know her, but so many dragon... they're proud. To be carried around by others might have been a bit undignified. But it was a throne." She puts extra emphasis on the word, making it all the more grandiose, her eyes merry at the idea. "I like it. I suppose it's luck that Oswinth has never needed to be moved by throne." How quickly she adopts the word. Thanks, Iesayrth! "We've come close once or twice, though." There's a hitch at the corner of her smile, sheepish, which might just say something about the blue's take on the matter. "You said a lot happened at the hatching? More than the usual?" Again, it's hardly a probing question, since surely there were plenty of people around to witness the event. "Were you close during candidacy or was it not until you'd both impressed?" With her own grin, "She was awfully young then; everything was a bit undignified. I don't think she'd like it much now. It was difficult to convince her that she couldn't fly just because she knew how it worked." Brieli shakes her head, but she doesn't try to hide her fondness for Iesaryth. Why bother. Dark eyes bright, she'll assure Vienne, "If it comes down to that, we'll be sure to find him something fitting." If. "Has he... always had a hard time? She's a bit worried about him, I think she's... watching." As for the bluerider's questions, smile slightly abashed now, "Lots of injuries. And I met N'rov that night, right off the sands, more or less." A shrug that belies the importance of all of that, then, "Not really until we'd impressed. We knew each other, but I suppose weyrlinghood is different, yes? A lot of time together." "Does she?" Iesaryth watching Oswinth? The notion seems to please Vienne, her smile wider, softer, a bit of something in her eyes that seems flattered, perhaps honored. Though there's something else, too, something that steals her gaze downward. Perhaps it's just the admission: "We didn't have an easy time of weyrlinghood." Her hands withdrawing to her lap, her finger brush together. "He had an accident early on. A crash with another dragon. It was pretty bad, really. If I'd been on him at the time..." Well, not good. "He never really recovered entirely. I am, honestly, a little worried about whether or not the cold will make a difference. It never bothered him at Igen but... You have a different kind of cold here. Anyway." Anyway. It marks the end of her tale, not that she appears hesitant to talk about it, just that she doesn't want to bore her companion. Plus, "He really is in decent shape most of the time." Just in case there's any concern about transferring in a bum dragon. N'rov?" Perhaps Vienne has heard things, but then, you really shouldn't listen to rumors. Brieli explains, "The other day, at the water? I think she was a bit concerned then. And she... just likes to watch the bowl. She likes to know what's happening, have things to think about." Lest Oswinth feel like he's too obviously... delicate, or Vienne feel as if he might be causing too much trouble. She's a smile for the bluerider that starts to fade as the other woman looks down; she listens as she finishes her muffin and brushes off her hands, wincing in sympathy. "I feel fortunate that we never had that. An accident, or an accident like that when we were weyrlings. Maybe take him into the infirmary after the cold's set in for a bit? Just to make sure." She seems less concerned with transferring a bum dragon than the dragon himself. As for N'rov - for some reason, that's less easy to explain, though it shouldn't really be. "Vhaeryth's, at Fort. He's..." How to put it. "With me." That works? "Even before the accident," Vienne tries to explain, "He was always been kind of... He's very much in his head. There's enough going on in there, it's almost safer if he doesn't... do too much." She smiles, but it's pinched between her teeth, chewed on rather thoughtfully. And somewhere out in the Weyr, Iesaryth is likely to feel the fizzing hum of Oswinth's mental touch, a wordless contact that is at once part gratitude and part testing, just to see if she's taking note of him even now. "I will. It's a good idea," Vienne answers readily, probably not one to be unfamiliar with the dragonhealers, given the story she's told. And as for N'rov? The bluerider mouths a silent 'ah', her smile understanding enough not to ask anything further. "Does Azaylia..." Have someone? "I mean, not that I'm trying to pry," she's quick to clarify, one of those little hands held up to chase away the very idea. "It's none of my business. It's just... it sounds like your lives have been so in sync. I marvel at it." And since marveling at someone's life sounds maybe kind of lame, she has to laugh. "It's like a bedtime story!" Vienne jokes, making fun of herself more than anything else. "Iesaryth is a bit like that. She... it's a little disturbing how much is going on, how much she can think about at once. Where she comes up with things from." Brieli sips from her mug, now holding it with both hands, thoughtful herself. Despite the blizzard, Iesaryth is a touch of sunny ocean warmth, bubbly tide a match for the blue's fizzing. She is always around, her tide a counterpoint to the other queen's drumbeats that echo over the Weyr. The weyrwoman has a nod for Vienne's agreement, perhaps gratitude for the understanding. She's not entirely comfortable with the subject. And really, is 'boyfriend' appropriate? "I don't know about Azaylia. I imagine she would tell me, and she says she's not involved with that man sleeping on her couch, but..." She has a shrug for the bluerider. Even she's not sure. But, a touch amused, "Is it? I suppose there's something to that." It's an easy grin Vienne has for dragons who have a lot going on upstairs, as if it's a thing to embrace rather than something be disturbed about. But then, she does seem to be just a touch more positive than the dark goldrider. "It's hard to follow him sometimes. He gets distracted by his distractions. And then so focused on something that it's like nothing else exists. But I love they way he comes up with things, those little observations I would never have noticed." And just as Brieli made no attempt to hide her fondness for Iesaryth, neither does Vienne for Oswinth. However... "Man sleeping on her couch?" She cocks a brow, daring a chuckle. "Should I ask?" She'd like to; it's there in her smile. Who can resist a bit of gossip like that? It's not something that Brieli's bothered all that much about either, intelligence in dragons, in fact; "I don't know that I always follow her either, to be honest. She's likely smarter than I am. But that can only help, I think." Help the dragon or help her? Maybe a little of both. After finishing her tea, she has a faint smile for Vienne, nodding. "Observations. Ideas. Thrones." A little laugh for that. "Oh, Bones. Barnabas. She's been letting him live on her couch since... well, for a long time. It's ridiculous. She'd tell you that. Not that it's ridiculous, that he sleeps on her couch; she sees no issue with it." There's a little eyeroll, then a touch regretfully, glancing down into her cup, "I ought to get on to stores." Vienne isn't about to cast any judgement on who is smarter, Brieli or Iesaryth, but she does share wry little grin, conspiracy and commiseration in one. Her eyes narrow on hearing Barnabas' nickname. "Bones? The guy with the..." Her hand comes up to describe a bit of insanity about the head region. "Hair?" And if that's they guy, well, her glance flicks off in the direction that Azaylia headed in, as if she might spot the Weyrwoman now and give her a second look with this new information. There's another question on the bluerider's lips, but this one she keeps to herself and in no small part because Brieli has things to do. "And I should actually get something to eat." It's why she came, after all, some time ago now. But realizing that she's spent all of this time sitting here, talking, no food to occupy her, she looks on the goldrider with an expression that's pleased and maybe a little surprised. "Next time, a drink. I think that's what we said last time." Her own grin mirroring the bluerider's - been there, yes? - Brieli pushes out of her chair and finally, finally undoes her coat. Finally warm. Nodding. "With the hair. The big one, the gardener, yes. He seems nice enough, it just seems... I mean, we don't have roommates, do we?" She looks at Vienne like, am I the only one who's not crazy? Weyrmates, maybe... Glancing over her shoulder, she notes lightly, "Wait too much longer and it'll be dinner. And yes. Next time, certainly. It's not as if I couldn't use one." Another wry quirk of lips for that before she offers the bluerider a wave, drops her mug with the dirty dishes, and makes her way down into the caverns. Where there is no snow. |
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