Logs:Discomfort
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| RL Date: 3 October, 2010 |
| Who: Nehvien, Uillean |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Uillean meets someone from home! She inadvertently causes stress. |
| Where: Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 4, Month 12, Turn 23 (Interval 10) |
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| Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr Ringing the southwestern side of the hatching sands are ample tiers of carved stone benches, the lowest of which is some six feet off the ground -- just high enough to separate wayward hatchlings from unwary viewers, and vice versa. A metal railing on the outside helps prevent anyone from falling off; it also extends up the stairs that lead the way higher into the galleries. While most of the area is open seating, ropes section off some of the closer tiers when dignitaries are expected; those areas even feature cushions in the Weyr's blue and black. The higher one climbs, the more apparent the immense scale of the entire cavern becomes. The dragon-sized entrance on the ground is dwarfed by the expansive golden sands that glitter in the light. Everything on them is easily visible from the galleries, whether that's a clutch of eggs and a broody queen, or simply its emptiness and the handful of darker tunnels that lead to more private areas than the bowl. Wherever one sits or looks, however, one thing is constant: the overwhelming, suffocating heat. Sprawled on one of the benches closest to the sands - apparently because of the warmth from there - Nehvien's head is tipped forward, resting on the railing, the audible sounds of snoring coming from him. On the bench next to him is propped a shovel, a trail of snow that's mostly melted to mush follows the path from the entrance down to where the scrawny candidate is seated. Uillean sweeps in to the Galleries in a flurry of ice and snow, the clipped sound of her boots and her low sigh of contentment providing more audible introductions. The weaver makes her way towards the front tiers, and although her nose wrinkles as she catches sight of Nehvien, she leaves him alone: instead, gloved hands rest upon the railing, as she considers, with an unreadable expression, the sands below. It's the sound of the weaver's boots that brings Nehvien out of a dead sleep; he snaps upright, muttering sleepily, "'m awake, Vivi, be right there--" blinking a moment or two, the scrawny lad looks around. Sighing with relief as he runs a hand through his hair, the candidate only belatedly noting Uillean's presence. "Um. Hi, sorry, I was--" he flails, as if trying to decide exactly what he's apologising for, and decides on a generic apology as the easiest: "Sorry." Politeness, or perhaps disinterest, keeps Uillean from glancing back at Nehvien until it's patently obvious that he's speaking to her. /Then/, she turns her head, rewarding him with an eyebrow-raised glance, though not an unkind one. In the polished, precise tones of the high-born of Crom, she assures him, "It's of no consequence. Though..." and she considers him for a moment, "I would not have thought this the most comfortable place to rest. Is it just the warmth?" /She/ begins pulling off her gloves, ladylike, one finger at a time; warm, indeed. For longer than is probably polite, Nehvien stares at Uillean with a furrow of brow, perhaps bordering on the outright rude. Though nowhere near as polished as her, his voice holds the accent of native born Crom: "They um, kicked me out. Of the barracks. I was keeping them, er, awake or something." His paused, nervous response is followed by a rough, useless attempt to try and straighten his shirt - something in her voice, maybe. "Ma'am," he tacks on for good measure, after a moment of trying to find a knot and failing. Uillean's consideration takes on a more intent demeanour - and then, as if out of nowhere, she smiles. "You're from home," she says, by no means an accusation. Having said it, she draws herself away from the railing, and instead settles herself onto the bench a short distance from the candidate. One hand, now de-gloved, is extended towards him as she introduces herself, "My name is Uillean. I suppose it is one of the dangers of sharing living quarters, though that seems terribly impolite." "Home?" Nehvien echoes, before recognition finally sets in. "You're from Crom!" He seems genuinely delighted, a pleased grin spreading across his features. "Oh, it's so good to see someone else from home. It uh, feels like not everyone here quite trusts me, you know? Well, I guess you -would- know." He's babbling, excited, perhaps. Her quick changes of subject are, perhaps, difficult for him to follow; at any rate he seems to stumble for a moment or two. "Um. Nehvien." There's a moment of hesitation before he moves closer - slouched still to hide most of his height - and takes her hand in his, briefly. "Well, they are right, I guess." Uillean has the hand of a lady, and the grasp of one, too: no firm shakes from her. As she draws her hand back towards her lap, she goes back to considering Nehvien. "I understand," she agrees, presumably of the indignities of being from Crom at High Reaches Weyr. "I can only hope that through more prolonged exposure to us, they might understand us better." Something in her tone suggests, however, that she thinks this unlikely. "You are Standing for the eggs, then. Nehvien." "You really think that?" Nehvien says doubtfully, scratching at his hair; he's apparently missed the tone in Uillean's voice. "I think they want what's best for them, which is understandable, really, but um, not best for Crom-- us," he adds the last, hasty and almost embarrassed, sliding a sidelong glance at Uillean. "Um, yes." He darts a look at the eggs, then back to the woman. "Apparently. I don't-- I mean, have you heard," his voice lowers, and he dares to slide a step or two closer to the weaver, "What they say about the eggs?" "You could well become one of them, should you Impress," she remarks, a knowing, and amused, smile resting upon her expression, lingering from his correction of 'Crom' to 'us'. "I think a lot of things," she continues, plainly, "and many of them I have grown unused to speaking aloud. To be honest, I doubt relations will ever be as close as the boy Weyrleader appears to desire. But can they be improved in a mutually beneficial fashion? Perhaps." She turns her attention back to the sands, unwrapping her scarf, now, and adding it to the growing pile of her abandoned - and terribly fine - clothing. "As for the eggs-- yes, I have heard. The rider of the sire seems utterly convinced, however, for all that means. Whether or not they hatch, it is a good opportunity for me: I hope to dress the riders, for the hatching." "Oh," Nehvien grins a little, returning to his slouching pose, bringing him, perhaps, a little more of a height with Uillean. "I doubt that. Um, that I would Impress. Haven't found the uh, pattern yet, but I don't really fit it. I mean, um, look at me. I couldn't lift a sack of firestone if I tried. I'm, uh, meant for more-- mental than physical pursuits. If the dragons are you know, all knowing as everyone says they are, they will know that. Still, it's interesting." He has the air of a scientist bent on study, dark eyes peeking back towards the eggs, lips pursed. Only belatedly does he seem to realise that she's still talking, hearing the last part only: "...dress the riders?" Patiently; "The riders of the queen and the brown." Uillean's indicating the clutch with one hand, presumably implying the queen and brown responsible for them. "For the hatching. It's not, perhaps, quite the same as dressing a member of the Blood for a formal Gather, but it will do. As for Impressing: do you believe they brought you here to say 'look at us, we're extending a hand by Searching someone from Crom'? I cannot believe, surely, they would do such a thing... unless it is to bring up the numbers? I had heard that many of the young people from the weyr have refused to Stand." "Oh." Judging by Nehvien's expression, he doesn't appear to see it as quite the honor Uillean does. "I suppose that's uh, good. You did that for um, fun?" His interest is pretty obviously feigned; he's scratching his chin absently, still watching the eggs as if they might somehow start to move. "Maybe," he concedes, after a moment of consideration on her words. "They were pretty um, reluctant. Maybe it's part of a uh, you know, scheme to get more Crom residents on side, you know, even the balance?" His tone is skeptical, however; he doesn't really believe that. "Refused?" he echoes her, surprised by that, actually tilting his head. "I wouldn't think someone from a Weyr would, uh, refuse. Amusement, suddenly, seems to dance across Uillean's face - and she laughs. "Not dress as in put their clothes on for them," she explains, head shaking. "I intend to /design/ their clothes. I'm a Weaver, you see." Her tone is condescending, but not unkind. "I do not know if it is true," she continues, in a more even tone. "The refusals. Such things go around, and one never does know. Perhaps. As for whatever the reasons of your Search, know that I /will/ be hoping for you, come hatching day. Should they hatch. Should they hatch /right/. I do not believe it presumptuous of me to add that I believe our Lord would be most proud." "-Oh-!" Nehvien's response, this time, is one of understanding. "I was wondering why you would--" a quick flicker of eyes takes in her clothing, with a bit more understanding. "I'm sure they'll be-- delighted, um, to wear your clothes." His attempt at kindness, is, perhaps, just as condescending, though judging by earnest expression that's far from his intention. "He would?" the scrawny candidate seems a bit unsure. "I wasn't sure-- with the Reaches, you know--" he muses on it a bit more, then a slow expression of relief spreads across his face as he exhales. "Well, that's good to know. It'd be, well, nice to make someone proud." Relieved, and yes, still amused, Uillean inclines her head forward to accept Nehvien's kindness, though it does genuinely seem to please her. "I can only hope that they will," she says, quietly. "I have offered my services, but as yet, had no reply. Perhaps soon." She presses her hands into her lap, turning a warm gaze onto the Candidate as she adds, "I do believe it. Our Lord-- oh yes, he will be proud. He will likely make the effort to attend, and I will make sure to point you out." She pauses a moment, then adds, "Not that you should consider this to be pressure, of course." "No reply? I can't see why they would refuse. Unless it's a-- Crom thing?" Nehvien ventures, a little uncertainly. "Oh-- well," he seems flustered by Uillean's latter words, running a hand through his hair, nervousness apparent in the sudden shifting of feet under her gaze. "Well, I wouldn't want to um, let you down. Either of you, I mean. You really think Lord Aughan would come?" Uillean's head shakes: she doesn't know, but something in her expression is mournful. Perhaps it /is/ a Crom thing. Or perhaps she simply hasn't given them time enough to respond - anything is possible. Nehvien's fluster seems to bother her, and she clasps a hand to her breast, saying hastily, "Oh, please don't be intimidated like that. I believe he comes to most of the hatchings here, truly. You shouldn't think about us watching events at all - no, you'll be far too busy, and it will all be terribly fast." "Well maybe I can um, say something," Nehvien offers, though it's a little half-hearted, like he's not really sure how to go about it. "I mean, you're from Crom, we should help each other out, uh, right?" he runs a hand against the back of his neck, avoiding her gaze now. "Oh. Okay. Yes--" apparently the candidate hadn't even thought that far, and the planting of ideas like -busy- and -fast- earn a hint of discomfort in the scrawny lad's stance. "Well, I suppose I should uh, get back to it. I've got some um, path making to do." He reaches for the shovel propped against the bench nearby, and straightens. Uillean looks positively /mortified/ by this point. "I am /so/ sorry," she tells Nehvien, imploringly. "I've just made things worse, haven't I? Oh stars. Yes, of course, return to your duties. I suppose I will need that path later, myself. I truly /am/ sorry, and truly, it's no matter, about talking to them. Don't concern yourself with it, I am sure I will work it out myself." Flustered, now, her hands move quickly, emphasising wildly. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Nehvien." If anything, Nehvien seems more flustered by -her- fluster, as if somehow knowing he's responsible but not -why-. "No, no, it's not, um--" he falters over an explanation, then blurts out hastily, "Uh, you too, Uillean. Um. See you around." He picks up the shovel and scampers out as fast as he can manage.
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