Logs:First Impressions
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| RL Date: 21 October, 2013 |
| Who: Gallagher, Azaylia |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Azaylia introduces herself to Gallagher, one of the older (oldest?) candidates for Iesaryth's clutch. |
| Where: Lake Shore |
| When: Day 17, Month 1, Turn 33 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Brilliant light plays off of the dunes of snow as a cloudless winter day brings with it extreme cold. |
| Mentions: Barnabas/Mentions |
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| Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself. A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one -- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly tempting stairs.
Dragons of all hues are difficult to miss when they're on the move, but especially a queen. Oddly enough, Hraedhyth is taking far more care at picking her way across the snowy ground. If one were to watch long enough, it would be obvious that the gold is nursing her foreleg, gingerly setting it down as the rest of her limbs propel her forward with her usual force. Still, she nears the lake much more quickly than a person might, which seems to be Azaylia's aim- breathless laughter making it difficult to cling to her lifemate's limb. No wonder Hraedhyth takes such care, as any errant jolt would send the Weyrwoman flying. Warm black leggings and a thick navy dress are visible for the second it takes her to leap down, midnight cloak fluttering behind her. The gold relaxes in a careless flump that sends snow up all around her, possibly aimed Gallagher's way as they're removed enough from the rest of the folk and snow games. Azaylia's laughter isn't the only giggles that carry, but they're new whereas the others have been there a time, so Gallagher shifts, blue eyes scanning. They miss the goldrider initially, though one can't miss Hraedhyth. It's on his second or third pass that his gaze zeroes in on the woman clinging to and then leaping from the dragon's forelimb. An arm raises insinctively to shield flying snow from his face, though it doesn't get that high by the time it reaches him. His arm is dismissed to his side, a single brow arching, "Quite the entrance, Weyrwoman," He lifts his voice to compliment the goldrider. Azaylia turns in an effort to shield herself, cloak's hood yanked up and over her head. By the time she relaxes, she notices Gallagher, "Oh! Hraedhyth." A quiet scold follows, one that the dragon doesn't seem to hear. She's too busy watching the weyrlings and folk frolic among the dunes. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you... harder to steer from down here. Uhm." The Weyrwoman approaches while dusting herself of powdery snow, motions slowing as she nears. "Entrance-- oh! You're a candidate? Congratulations." Nevermind her surprise comes from how old he looks, but she's hardly one to judge. "Yes, ma'am," Surprise is glossed over in a way that suggests Gallagher hasn't even noticed it in his polite response. He doesn't smile though, the lack of it giving him a rather serious sort of look. The apologies are equally dismissed, though not in words or in action, he simply doesn't answer it with the typically polite response or-- well, anything. "I thank you." So there's that, for the congratulations. "Gallagher, at your service." He offers further, "Not that you look in need of any just now. Coming out to enjoy some of the weather?" The question is politely posed. Once she's properly de-snowed, Azaylia straightens and pulls the cloak closer around herself. "Well met, Gallagher." The greeting is genuine and bright, for all that her eyes search his face deeply for a hint of a smile. There's only a shadow of worry when there is none, though the small curl of her own lips doesn't falter. "And please, call me Azaylia." Rather than Weyrwoman or ma'am. The goldrider peers across the lake, gaze naturally drawn to the energetic games off to the side, "That, and to watch some of the growing dragons... see how they're doing." Without appearing too much like a mother hen, hence the distance. "And you?" "Call you Azaylia." Gallagher repeats, his lips quirking into a purse of brief contemplation. "Why?" He then has to ask. To some, such an inquiry would come in a more subtle form, but she is the leader of this place, so he gives her candor in the curiosity showing in his even gaze and in the manner of the question. "I'm getting some fresh air, starting to feel a touch of barracks-fever. If he is as old as he looks, is it any wonder that he would be feeling the consequences of sharing living space with those, some of whom he has a decade of experience on? His question obviously startles her, easy smile dropped for several startled blinks, "Ah... Instead of Weyrwoman? Or ma'am? I mean, if you'd like. Some people are more comfortable with formalities.." Azaylia's discomfort has Hraedhyth's head swinging over, watching the two from on high with a curious blue gaze. "Oh? I... used to living alone?" She tries, an attempt to understand someone who doesn't enjoy sharing barracks with others. In this moment, it would probably be nice if Gallagher was more sensitive. But guards and sensitivity don't seem to mix so well. The man isn't unnerved by the goldrider's startlement or discomfort. "Calling you Weyrwoman is an appellation of respect. If you're doing the work, why not enjoy the respect owed to you by those benefiting from the fruits of your labors?" One hand gestures to indicate everyone here at the Weyr, though those at the lake shore will have to do as a representative population. "No. Just used to having a little more freedom. Not that candidate life is so very restrictive, just-- it's more like being a trainee all over again. Lights out times and kids who wake with nightmares and wet the bed." That last is probably an exaggeration, but some of the youngest Searched might be guilty of it. Maybe. It takes Azaylia a moment to gather herself, biting her lower lip as she regards the man. Finally, "People can't respect me if they call me by name?" A rhetorical question that is aimed at his own beliefs, rather than expecting an answer. In return, she considers the reason for her own preference, "I'm not just a Werywoman. But whatever makes you comfortable." The last is uttered with an understanding smile, or rather the attempt of one. It's easier as she teases, "Weyrlings have even more rules. It's only fair to say," Warn him. "with you being a Candidate and all. Your dragon's egg might be on the sands right now." Pardon her excitement. "I didn't say that." It's not defensively stated, but simply offered, though it doesn't clarify his own beliefs. "If you were just a Weyrwoman, I'd worry. It is, nevertheless, the first thing that I know about you, and it seems reasonable to think that's often the case. Your lifemate is rather distinct around here." His lips pull slightly into an amused smirk, though not a smile. "I didn't say calling you Azaylia made me uncomfortable, either." This, too, like the first is stated matter-of-factly, and doesn't provide more details on what does make him comfortable. "I like rules, as a rule." He does offer though, that amusement in his smirk renewing itself. "If my dragon's egg isn't on the sands, I'm out of luck permanently. Though I hear dragonless life isn't so bad, I've had enough turns of it to taste that for myself." There's a shift beneath her cloak as Azaylia pulls her arms behind her back, holding her wrist there and easing in like a curious youth. Hm! She eventually comes to some sort of solution, offered with a smile, "Then... you can call me Azaylia. And this is Hraedhyth." The gold who has turned back towards the making of snow dragons and snowball fights. As for dragonless life, the Weyrwoman has recovered enough to still joke, "My best friend doesn't have a dragon." As if it's some sort of ailment. Obviously, she's joking. Blue eyes watch as Azaylia shifts, her pose is observed but Gallagher remains silent until she's come to her conclusion. "Well met, both of you." He returns, glancing toward the gold, but his eyes don't linger long before returning to the Weyrwoman. "She doesn't, does she?" The gender's a guess, but females do sometimes flock together. "It's a wonder any of us regular men," as opposed to dragonmen, "-survive without. So, here's hoping my savior'll be on the sands come hatching day." "He doesn't, no." Azaylia corrects with a smile that turns into a soft laugh, "I'll be sure to tell him that you think he's a pretty lady, though." Which is so not what Gallagher said. Her arms relax, hands back at her side as she stands next to the candidate, perhaps taking the time to actually look at him. "From my experience, there isn't much of a different between dragonmen and, uhm, 'regular' men." There must be more, but instead she closes her lips in a suddenly impish smile. "Other than the dragons. Still, I hope you enjoy candidacy." Some emphasis, if only to remind herself. "He." Gallagher takes the correction with grace and the detail is filed. "Now, now, Azaylia," The man lifts a leather-swathed finger and waggles it at her, "I've never laid eyes on this friend of yours to my knowledge to know if he is pretty or not, or a lady for that matter - it's a high calling, you know, and it doesn't do to start rumors without cause." Still, the smirk doesn't become smile, just the same smirk. "Good to know regular men can still compete when it matters." He says it with a straight face, but there might be a ghost of good humor in his eyes, if she's looking closely. "So far so good. Even-" He starts, but his name is called by another white-knotted individual, one waving her arms at him dramatically so she doesn't have to cross the distance to the lake. "If you'll excuse me, Azaylia, it seems my truancy has been found out. Back to the nursery." Only when Gallagher says nursery, it sounds much more like 'dungeon.' With a polite nod to both gold and rider, he's turning smartly and heading toward the other candidate with purposeful but careful stride. The Weyrwoman reigns in her smile with another lip bite, trying to keep it politely closed despite how amusing she finds Gallagher's flat delivery. "Sorry... I should know better." Than to start rumors, being leadership and all. Azaylia behaves, instead only letting out an ambiguous hum when it comes to men competing 'where it matters'. Her dark eyes snap over to the other candidate, not curious for too long as Gallagher excuses himself. A squeak, "Truancy?" And it's a good thing he's already on his way back before she can let out that scold that has her cheeks somewhat puffing. Eventually, they'll deflate with a patient laugh before the goldrider joins her dragon in weyrling-watching. |
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