Logs:Meeting Leova Over Weaverly Things
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| RL Date: 20 April, 2009 |
| Who: Leova, Mievne |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Leova visits Mievne on a hot summer day and the two talk of weaverly things. |
| When: Day 10, Month 7, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
| When the weaver is in in a professional capacity, the door is usually open. This isn't to say that when the door is closed, Mievne is not present. All confusing conundrums of present or not-present aside, Mievne's door is open, for summer air circulation if anyone's counting, curled into the corner on the bed pushed into the far corner. The curtain that usually separates workroom from personal 'chamber' (if it can even be called as such) is pushed aside so that she is very visible in a sleeveless light green summer shift that comes to her knees with it's cream and lightly cotton over-vest. Tucked into the crook of her bent arm is a sketching pad that she's intent on, the left-handed pencil quickly working its way across the sheet. There's a knock on the doorframe, the sort of matter-of-fact rap that hasn't been practiced any other way for half a decade. A moment later enters, "Weaver?" and the gaze of the remarkably clean greenrider who stays just on the hallway side of the threshold. Her clothing is substantially less interesting: plain brown short-sleeved shirt, equally plain trousers, and boots. Even her boots are clean. She's only slightly startled, as opposed to very startled, the sudden knocking standing out from the other hall noises as people go past. It shows in that twitch about her shoulders and the doe-caught-in-dragon-lights look she fixes up to the doorway and the clean greenrider standing in it. At least she didn't shriek or knock over an entire basket of pincushion pins. For all that she has a visitor, with such a matter-of-fact knock at that, Mievne doesn't quite get out of bed. She does scoot herself to the edge so her legs with its knee-length dress might dangle off. Large eyes, a little less deer-like and now more curious, look to Leova and a small smile starts to fashion politely. "Can I help you?" Could be worse: could be doe-caught-in-dragon-flights, but surely that isn't in the cards today. "Hope so," says the rider. "Leova. Green Vrianth's. You'd be our new weaver?" As opposed to someone else dallying in her bed? The greenrider remembers to add, "If you have time. I /can/ come back late." With the sexual proclivities of the new weaver unestablished, sure, Mievne could be not-weaver's sex kitten; she's amply endowed to play that part and dally in the weaver's bed. But alas. She is the weaver and proclaims herself as such with a distinct little bobble of her head at Leova's question. "No. No, please." There's instant apology for the state of her room, as neat as a bedroom-turned-workroom could be, and the fact that she's /still/ in bed. This is remedied by a glance down that flicks up and with pinkened cheeks, Mievne hops the rest of the way down and makes quick steps over. "I'm sorry," is the verbalized apology of her really sorry eyes and really sorry (and pink) cheeks. "It was just stuffy in here without the door open and I wasn't expecting anyone after hours," as after as eight'o clock can be. "But no, please, sit. Would you like anything to drink? I have... water." Deflated. Hostessing failure. Then, brightening with, "With cucumbers sliced into them." All that really-sorry gets Leova very quiet, and very... obedient, almost. No sudden moves! She eases on in, goes hunting for a place to actually sit: one of those arm chairs, perhaps? Or the low table if both are full and it, for some reason, is free. Not that the greenrider doesn't peek at the rest of the quarters, but only from the corners of her eyes. More directly to Mievne herself, "If you are having something anyway, would be pleased to join you, ma'am." Ma'am, for someone barely older than she. But then, the journeyman's earned it. The ma'am does little to ease Mievne's flustered state, but Leova's given her something to focus on other than trying to school the red of her cheeks. A calming breath later, ever so slowly exhaled, the voluptuous woman is making her way back to a small table in the back and comes back with two glasses filled with lukewarm cucumber water. Such are the joys of summer and having a not so spectacular room. Lucky for Leova, the armchairs are free, though the coffee table is not. Upon Mievne's return, she looks a little more put together, certainly less apologetic all over the place, and even smiling hesitantly shy to boot. "Mievne. I mean, that's what my name is." One of those two glasses is held out. Lucky Leova, to only need one armchair to sit upon, from which to politely accept the glass. "Weaver Mievne," the greenrider gladly repeats, half as though she might have mispronounced if left to her own devices, and seeing as how Mievne's being all hostess-y, she waits for the woman to drink before she sips. "Nice space you have here," she offers meanwhile. "Colorful, and all," with a nod to artwork rather than to bedding. Unused to /being/ the hostess and not just tending to one, Mievne looks at Leova not drinking and also not drinks. The cup in her hand passes from hand to hand, with no place to set it down on that cluttered table. "It's... agreeable. I've never really had my own room and I didn't know whether the Weyr would want to give me my own workroom and so I just set it up here and it works and I think... oh, is it wrong you think?" Those luminous eyes round on Leova, the weaver's earnest explanations of how her space became her space coming to an abrupt halt. "I'm sorry. I tend to babble when I'm nervous and..." Stop. Reassess. "Did you have anything in mind, ma'am?" Two sets of ma'ams, yet not nearly enough getting drunk, even if it is cucumber water. Tepid cucumber water. Leova keeps hanging onto her glass. "Why'd it be wrong? Said it was nice, meant it's nice," this with an increasingly bemused look for she-of-the-luminous-eyes, and here's hoping that doesn't mean the greenrider's already brought her to anything like tears. "Was wondering, mostly, how this works. With the Weyr and all. Don't reckon it's like going off and seeing a weaver at your Hall, what with your working here and all, or is it? And what sorts of things you can do for people without much in the way of marks." And maybe the weaver will enlighten her? Sheepishly, "I never did figure out whether there was an actual workroom to work in." The weaver, finding it awkward to continue standing makes one pitstop to tuck a slate beneath her arm and take that other armchair. Business! Business makes the world all better and more focused and with this focus at hand, the blonde woman sinks a little more at ease into her chair. "It's almost the same. Most of your everyday mending goes to the Weyr's seamstresses. Basically, it's the same as going to the Hall, but at the Hall, if you'd like and can afford it, you can see weavers of any caliber. My specialities tend to be gather fashions, though...," from Mievne's mouth a smile finally blossoms in full, a little shy about the edges, "We're all trained to do everyday clothing items." She also has the add the standard disclaimer of, "As I was recently promoted, my rates aren't so high." "Headwoman business," Leova says wryly, not to confuse it with the business they might engage in, and then her eyes lower to study the slice of half-subsided cucumber as the weaver goes on. There are slight listening-nods from the greenrider, here and there. An upward look, for her specialties, lingers upon rates. "Is it more Weyr work that you do, then, for your keep? Sorry about not knowing this all better, by the by. Haven't had occasion to visit one of our weavers before. It's sounding like what I should ask you for is less a particular thing than... consulting? Or a name." The admission of her skills and the costs of her services has caused her eyes to drop to her lap, briefly, where her hands play about the bottom of her glass. Suddenly, the water looks all too appealing, despite the tepidness and the floating slices of cucumber, and it comes up to barely wet her lips before falling again to rest atop her legs. When Mievne does look up with those big blue eyes, her lower lip's disappeared behind her teeth, gnawed as she listens to what Leova says and when the greenrider seems to be done speaking (what with the question and all), there's the slightest pause to make sure she is, in fact done, before a very small smile is pushed forth once more. "I can consult, design, or offer you a name that might be best suited to your needs. You have," a beat hesitates her response, but weaverly instinct takes over in the end to critically compliment Leova with, "A beautiful line to your figure and such hair and complexion." She sips! Which means Leova gets to sip too, more deeply, though any messing with the cucumber slice wouldn't quite show at that angle. Bite it? Poke it away with her tongue? Eat it whole? Try to convince it to sink? The greenrider avoids all that by just balancing the glass between her hands on /her/ lap and leaving it there. Her rusty, shaggy head does tip toward it at the weaver's last comment, and she says after a moment, "Perhaps begin with consulting, then? And let me know if I'm about to cost marks. Unless there are other things you would like to compensate you... trips to some of those gathers, for instance." It's to Leova's shoes that Mievne's gaze slips, a poignantly curious tilt of her head and lowered lashes finding something of her boots interesting. The deep blue of her eyes then lifts to travel up those plain brown pants to the plain brown shirt and then to the woman's hair. Leova's face, long after the cucumber debacle of Turn 19, is the last place her appraising look goes to in this second (or maybe even third) once over; whichever, as this is the least discreet of any of Mievne's studies thus far. Her consultation continues, as it's likely already started in her head the moment the greenrider sat down: "You prefer easy movement and neutral colors, but you care for your belongings very... meticulously." A shy smile curls about her mouth and wrapped around her glass, her fingers twitch. Never mind the messy table, her glass is set atop some fabric samples, precariously at that, but it does leave her hands free to pull the slate out from under her arm to rest atop her legs now. Not that any drawing gets done. "You like... blending in. But oh, you shouldn't." There's an earnestness in the dreamy naivety of her voice. "Brighter colors would offset your complexion beautifully, with accents of amber to make your eyes..." And then any kind of descriptive just fails Mievne, so one hand lifts, as if holding an orb that explodes. Pop. Her boots shift at that initial studying, and then go still as the rest of her, the greenrider less frozen than... placid: as though Mievne could look her over for more minutes, maybe even hours, and she'd sit there and take it. If she chose. "Yes," she agrees early on. And then there's another tip of her head, for the colors, for what Mievne so readily sees. It's just the /pop/ that gains a narrower look, one that after a moment becomes a careful, very careful smile. Not that the weaver looks /likely/ to be popping her eyes more literally with pins, but who knows what's to be found on that table? "Thing is," she says. "In my line of work... easier. To blend in." Mievne considers this within the narrow scope of the world she's lived and seen thus far. The blonde hair that frames her face tips to one side with another of her (quicker) appraising head tilts. Her question, however hesitant it might start off, concludes with a look that's touched with just a hint of bafflement. "And... what is it you do that some color would make it harder?" Please, /please/, she really doesn't get it. "I'm a rider," Leova says with more of that carefulness. Edit: "Dragonrider." Edit again: "Ride in the fighting wings," only then she gives the weaver another look and takes a deep breath to clarify with: "We're in one of the wings that would fight Thread, directly. If we had any. To fight. And if I look too girly-girl, people are going to treat me differently than... this way. With the bindings. And brown and... well, boring. And all." The cucumber, it survives for now. The sum of what Leova says makes an impression on Mievne, the word bindings dropping her gaze, instinctively, to Leova's chest and then diverted with a flush to her cheeks. She was /not/ ogling her client's wares, no. So instead of protesting and pointing out how she's an awesome example of just how women in the work place could be treated, her more decisive hands do the talking for her. Quick lines of chalk against her slate bring together a rider's outfit with its fitted pants and a fitted shirt hung on a woman about Leova's height and figure. The woman in the picture has a riding jacket slung over her shoulders so it drapes down her back. Rather than just plain, however, two cords are drawn from hip to hem along the sides of the pant legs, the cording reemerging on the rider's jacket, thinner, to accentuate the collar and trim bottom. She's apparently not good at multi-tasking, working while talking or talking while working, and it's not until she's done that she turns the slate to Leova with a quizzical lift of her brow. The last sketch, drawn by the figure and larger, is that simple blouse opened, so that the triple band of cloth sewed into the chest area and a little smaller than the fit of the shirt itself can be seen. All she says of color is, "Brown, when paired with red and hints of gold, is still fairly neutral." Flush? Blush? Leova doesn't seem to remark on it, possibly due to how the weaver's appeared to have been flustered so much already. Why, she might get the same reaction if she brought up the cucum... belay that, could be a bad example. So instead the greenrider watches the weaver's hands at work, silently enough, minus the cucumber slice's getting crunched in half along the way. She even sits up near the end there, to see better, and leans forward that much further when the sketch is finally turned her way. "It looks good," she says plainly. "Even all simple like that. And the last part, it looks more comfortable than what I got. I... It just..." she has to stop. "Reckon maybe it wasn't fair to come by before I still knew for certain how I wanted to come off." Those amber eyes lift, made a darker brown by the lighting here: it's complicated. Does Mievne understand those unspoken cues? The shifts in which Leova looks to her and how the light darkens her eyes? Her tongue pokes out to wet her lips, and suddenly remembering her own glass of cucumber water so precariously set, drops the chalk onto the slate to roll until it hits the wooden frame. A reach for her glass turns into the draining of said glass, her own cucumber slice falling into the bottom of the cup. "Thirsty," she explains with one-word simplicity, though that doesn't quite cut it entirely, and after a measured moment of silence, she starts, then stops, then starts and stops again--jaw working a little fish-like. Her third attempt, begins with, "I," and then ends after a breathy pause with, "Don't mind. I... it's what I'm here for, to help you figure out what you might want? And give you ideas you might not otherwise have thought of." Mindhealer, she is not, however much a weaver's appraisal might be able to suss out what the client might want and not know s/he wants. "Do... I should've asked you what you wanted first." Thirsty: Leova nods for it, eyes still rapt on the weaver. Perhaps those ramblings, those fits-and-starts, were tailor-made to keep the greenrider more settled. So to speak. She can be calm, and patient, and give Mievne whatever time she needs. Or, mostly: it can't be easy to sit there through each of those attempts and not try to intercede, which means she bobs forward a couple times before she catches herself. In the end, staying with slow-and-calm, the better to try and hide both the gleam in her eye and the reserve that pulls her back: "Would really like that. Helping me figure it out. Especially since," and here her eyes slide towards the slate, "What you just did there? Makes me think that you know what you're doing. More than the journeyman's knot, even, if you don't mind my saying so. Seems like some of those, they'd stick a body in whatever's the fanciest fashion, as soon as look as her." "I...," the possibility of a false start is very high with Mievne, but subsides when she takes in a shallow breath and starts up again with an earnest, "If I pushed you into the latest fashions, you wouldn't be happy, and then you wouldn't want to buy more clothes and that'd be a very upsetting thing. Not because of the marks, but because...," the blonde woman pauses, lips pursed and failing to come up with something suitably not lame, sinks back into her little armchair. A weak smile emerges and she blows a blonde curl out of her face before reaching up with a chalky hand to pull it back behind her ear. "You'll think I'm superficial. But nice clothes are... nice." Lame. "And nice clothes don't have to be the latest Gather fashion or most uncomfortable corset to keep your tummy tucked." Leova waits for it, waits with the help of her water, what's left with it. Tepid or no. She still can sip sometimes, with a nod for the other woman's earnestness, her logic, her... "They are," she admits, and then gives Mievne another look. A sideways one. And the hospitality of the drink speaks of some formality, at least, but... but she gives in anyway. Pulls up a knee. Slouches lower in the armchair, a little twisted so she can lean her cheek on its back. Very softly, very slowly, with pauses here and there so all those words mightn't run Mievne right over, "Really, really miss clothes that don't bind anywhere, but not because they're baggy. Or they do bind, but only for a Gather and just the right way. Where the fabric's sturdy but soft too, where it holds its color, where it isn't so /plain/." |
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