Logs:In the Absence of Want
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| RL Date: 20 August, 2015 |
| Who: Dee, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Dee asks N'rov for something only he (so far) can give her. |
| Where: Herb Garden, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 5, Month 8, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Hattie/Mentions |
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>---< Herb Garden, Fort Weyr(#792RJs$) >-------------------------------------<
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.
Warm and pleasant, puffy clouds that get chased by the winds into wispy
brushes against a bright blue sky, the summer weather is a little on the
warm side late in the day but all-around tolerable. Dusk softens and shadows the herb garden; the workers have gone, but from beyond what might as well be a rosemary tree, a breeze carries its sharp fragrance as well as whistling. Quiet whistling, that can't seem to decide whether it wants to be jaunty or melancholy but veers here and there into both. Perhaps its the harmony of the whistle's wandering with Dee's mood that draws the indecisive young goldrider toward it. It's not a direct path, not by a long shot, but rather one that weaves through the twilight-touched garden, the former farmcrafter pausing to look at a plant here and another there before she eventually curves round toward the whistler. "Pretty," is her single word offering of greeting when she comes close enough for polite conversation. The bronzerider ought to be lounging on a bench, as bronzeriders do; instead he's sitting beneath it, like a tailor or a gnome. The branches don't do his hair any favors as he looks up though at least the latter's short. Gray eyes reflect what light there is. "It's an old one." The young goldrider ought to drape herself atop the vacant bench, as young goldriders do; instead she drops down onto the ground to be that much closer to the soil that her fingers instinctively find in a splayed press on either side of her hips. "Teach me? There must still be room between names of Lords, their Ladies, important cousins, first, second, third--" She lifts one hand to wave a hand to indicate the 'and so on, and so forth' that naturally follows, her voice wry but tired. "I could." Though, "It could be awkward if you mix the two up. Drowning in the millstream, and that's just the second verse." The soil must have been soaked in the morning; it's comfortably dry by now without being arid, at least where he sits. "That fulfilling a day, hm?" "Perhaps they'll find it charming and less offensive than whatever other mistakes I'm making," Dee answers ruefully, watching more the ground than the man. "It isn't so much today in particular, but all the days since Taeliyth." She shakes her head. "Weyrwoman Hattie took me to a gather and I could have done better, I think." That must be supplied as the thing that seems to put these particular faux pas into focus. "Everyone can, I'd wager." N'rov shrugs; the rosemary-smell's briefly stronger. With interest, "What was the best part, though? Your favorite, of the day." Or hour, or minute, or however long she was allowed to stay. Dee's fingers stroke idly on the top-most layer of the soil, as if it might be her preferred pet and the act gives her some degree of solace or peace. "Seeing the sea," she answers after some moments. "There are other parts I liked, but I'm not sure my-- enthusiasm," she picks the word carefully, "was fitting of the occasion. Do you go to gathers much?" "I'd like to think they felt complimented," N'rov says, the humor in his voice dry as wine is, not as the sea isn't. "When it's sincere, why not?" So perhaps the dignitaries are missing out. "Gathers don't have the same draw they used to. Sometimes, though, reason or no reason." "I got the distinct impression that I'm not exactly what they would have chosen, not that they really get a choice, or anyone does," other than the one who did. Dee shifts to lean on one hand, letting the other come back to her lap. "Perhaps once Taeliyth can fly farther afield, we could go to some. You can tell me what I ought to be doing or ought not to be doing," she suggests with some hint of humor. "And then if I get in trouble, I can just tell the Weyrwoman it's all your fault." Sounds great, no? "Polite of them, I'm sure," is that much more exaggerated a drawl. As for her suggestion, "Yes, that is my aspiration in life. She might even believe you; I'm quite practiced at taking the fall." And look, he's still around. "Taking a fall is the first thing they teach you in self-defense," Dee replies, her lips curling just slightly into a sad smile. There's a moment of silence as she blinks swiftly, but in the growing twilight it's difficult to see the glimmer of tears. When she speaks again, it's preceded by the clearing of her throat. "You don't happen to be in the market for friends, do you?" It's an obvious change of subject, of course. "I could really use a few just now. And since you already know my future, I'd imagine I won't do anything that will shock you." She gives him a sidelong glance. His chuckle recognizes, or at least alludes to, the truth of that; N'rov doesn't look at her and her tears particularly, not until her next question when he bends a look her way, and then not only has she blinked but it's his turn to do so. Only he doesn't, not entirely: a lowering of lids before they rise and he just looks at her some more. "It's true, I didn't pick up any at the last Gather," he says gravely, not so playful as to dismiss but to come somewhere between her need and his... whatever, wherever, he is. He exhales. "What do your friends do?" "The sort I'm in need of really isn't much more than you already do. It seems like lately everyone wants something of me or from me, bronzeriders in particular," Dee takes a moment to chew her lower lip at that and give him a measuring look. "But you don't. I'd like to be able to be Dee with someone who doesn't want anything from me." The hand she was leaning on comes to link fingers with the one already in her lap and her earnestness is in her expression, all too clearly communicated through her guileless hazel gaze. It's not exactly surprise in those level gray eyes, except perhaps for her saying it in so many words. "Not like that, no." N'rov confirms. "If you sing an egregiously catchy tune in my company, I might want you to," wait for it, "refrain." "I can make you no promises. It happens that I'm given to egregariousness when the world isn't full of tragedies I'm helpless to prevent and even more helpless to help." The look of Dee's sadness is beyond her turns already which might not bode well for future friends. "Do you still remember what it was like to be young and make wishes?" "I'm not that old," N'rov says, acerbic but humorous with it. "I'd like a friend who's willing to go make wishes. You tell fortunes, it doesn't seem like it would be too far a stretch." Dee lifts an eyebrow in silent question. "Not so far," N'rov agrees; he smiles then, brief and briefly wicked, and reaches up to pluck a sprig of rosemary; that he'll seek to slip behind her ear, and then stand. "Done." "Thanks," maybe for the rosemary or the promise made with it. Dee has a small, hopeful sort of smile for him. "I promise I won't let you take the fall for me," seems somehow important to say. "That's not the kind of friend I ever want to have." Again. The word is unsaid but there's something in her tone that implies it. She's swiftly onto her feet and retreating without another word, perhaps because the next word or the next might bring tears and this is a happy moment. Happy moments stay happy because someone knows to end them before they turn sour. Just now, that someone is the retreating teenager heading back toward the barracks. |
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