Logs:Messages
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| RL Date: 28 April, 2013 |
| Who: Dal, Reesa |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Dal provides an escort for Reesa. |
| Where: Fort Hold, Fort Area |
| When: Day 18, Month 8, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: E'ten/Mentions |
| It's a warm summer evening, the peace of nighttime broken only by the chirp and rustling of nocturnal animals - and the brassy rumbling of the watchdragon as he greets a new arrival. Said arrival isn't visible immediately - small, dark form blending into the night air until she backwings into the middle of the courtyard, sharp talons tapping against the slate underfoot. Khiabeth's acknowledgement of the watchdragon comes in a twisting of neck, glowing gaze directed towards the fireheights. Moments later, her rider alights to the ground, the blonde pausing to smooth out her summer dress and adjust blonde hair before she looks expectantly around the courtyard. Maybe Reesa was expecting some sort of greeting, by the way she she's peering around. The courtyard's not empty, not even on a warm summer evening like this one, the kind where most people seek further afield for their enjoyment: by the river, in the orchard. But there's no delegation to greet the greenrider, and most of those out in the courtyard pay her no mind at all. The same can't be said for Dal, who lingers up against one wall with a knife in one hand, and a piece of wood in the other. There's a cloth spread at his feet for gathering wood shavings: long curls and short. /He/ lifts his head as the green arrives, just watching, via the light of the slender moons. One might get the impression the teenage greenrider's rather disgruntled by this whole situation, given there's an impatient tap of her foot, before she reaches for a folded, sealed message from Khiabeth's saddlebag. "You," Reesa spots Dal, and an imperious finger is pointed at him, as if to hold him in place. "Where is- everyone? The important people?" While one might've assumed she was Fortian, her accent doesn't quite match, a little too laconic for that. Dal doesn't move, which is /kind of/ like being held in place by Reesa. Only, another curl of wood slides to the ground, so perhaps not quite so much. "At this hour? Likely home with their families," perhaps, in the dark, it's harder to see the flash of guilt in his expression, "or enjoying the evening, at least. Unless you were expected, ma'am?" /He/ is definitely Fortian, and of the working class variety-- that subtle lack of polish. Said with a sigh, "There was a time when people would rush out to greet dragonriders." Presumably this time was before Reesa was even born, given her age. As if to make a point, the blonde waves her sealed message about, "Well, it's sealed. But I was /told/ it was important, and it had to be delivered /now/, which is terrible because I'm missing out drinks at the Fountain." A careful once-over is given Dal - his clothes, and finally, his handiwork, with a furrow of brow. She seems to like the 'ma'am', anyway, and so she's practically kind when she says, "Perhaps you can fetch someone. The Steward, maybe." Dal's dark eyes shift from the blonde to her dragon, and then back up to the blonde again. Carefully, he stows his knife in his belt, and tucks his carving, wrapped in his cloth full of shavings, into the pocket of his trousers. "Perhaps," he offers, as an alternative, "I could show you into the Hold, to where you might find Steward Hesren. Or one of his assistants. Don't /think/ my boots are too dirty for that. And that way, we mightn't interrupt his evening too much, and that might incline him to let you get back to yours quickly." Moment's pause. "Ma'am." Never mind that he's a good six or seven turns older than she is. A thinning of lips suggests Reesa's not exactly pleased with this solution, but he /does/ continue to ma'am her, and this seems to mollify the greenrider. With a glance over her shoulder at Khiabeth - the green's making herself quite comfortable in the middle of the courtyard she's claimed - the blonde tucks the message under her arm, lips twitched into a smile. "Very well. Khiabeth's rider, Reesa," she introduces herself, then waits expectantly for him to lead her onwards. "Dal," answers the young man, in a way that doesn't make it immediately obvious whether or not that's an introduction - or just some local slang, maybe. "Hold's duties to the Weyr. And her queens, of course." He gives her an up-and-down, then turns on his heel, a surprisingly sharp, almost military, movement, to head up the steps into the Hold. "Khiabeth. Pretty name." There's an awkward pause, like Reesa's waiting for some clarification on his name, but a faint twitch of shoulders follows as she paces alongside him. The shorter greenrider has to lengthen her stride quite a bit to keep up with his sharp movement, his latter words earning a smile. "It /is/ a pretty name. It suits her," because she's a pretty dragon too, presumably. The blonde seems pleased with the compliment- as if she had something to do with the choice of name. "You should meet her." Dal seems to recognise, at least eventually, the need to shorten his stride towards something like a happy medium between them. At least he seems to know his way around the Hold, though he seems almost paranoidly watchful of his boots: no mud, no mud, no mud. "Should I? Does one just... walk up and say hello? Though," hastily, "I'm sure it would be a pleasure to meet her. Guess we met, uh, Adi-- Adiulth? The other seven." Reesa swishes the material of her dress back and forth, with a pleased smile for Dal - if he's looking - when he adjusts his stride. "You could. /She/ likes people. Some dragons don't really care for them, but she likes the attention." Rather like her rider, one might suspect. There's a brief falter of steps when he mentions Adiulth, and a sharp look of interest, now. "E'ten was here? What for?" He's looking. He's not /smiling/, not really, but he somehow manages to seem pleased despite that. He might've said something more about Khiabeth, but Reesa's steps falter, and Dal's brows knit. "He had... sweeps, I think? We met in the orchards, and he gave me a ride home. Isn't that what you do? Deliver messages and ride sweeps and-- important duties like that?" Something a bit more wary is visible in Reesa's expression, though her voice is more thoughtful, "Sweeps, hm? He has the Weyrleader's ear, you know. /Some/ people say N'muir's /grooming/ him." She picks up her pace, now, like nothing happened. She's not really paying much attention to where they're going; more of her attention is on Dal. It's possible his comment makes her bristle, a little, but she hesitates like she's not sure if the latter is meant in sarcasm or not. "We protect holders, like you," she finally settles for, in lieu of a direct answer. "You do," confirms Dal, who seems to have a terrible habit of implying sarcasm when he really does mean it quite seriously. It must be something about how little his expression changes, combined with the uncertainty. "Of course. Grooming him? To be-- his replacement, one day? Or a Wingleader? I'm sorry, I don't know how these things work, not really. He seemed pleasant." /He/ knows where he's going, at least: up the stairs, and down the passage. Reesa precedes him up the stairs; it could just be expectation of gentlemanly deferment, or to show off her dress; who knows. "Just- grooming him. You can't be certain who will be Weyrleader; that's up to the dragons," she says it in a matter-of-fact way, like perhaps he should know already. She smiles, then, abruptly: "He /is/ nice, isn't he? Do you work in the orchards, then?" Dal's quiet, "Of course," could mean a lot of things, and he's evidently not good at (or is it inclined to?) give further explanation on /that/. "They say the Weyr can influence the dragons, though. Is that true? It can't hurt a man to show a preference, just in case. In the orchards, yes. My father and brothers and I all do, and perhaps my son will join us, in time. It's a family occupation. It's apple season, now. And pear." There's a faint frown from Reesa as she gives his question serious thought, and even a serious, sidelong look. Maybe she's not used to such questions from holders? "They say that, but- I doubt entire Weyrs would want bronzeriders just out of weyrlinghood to lead them, and yet it happens now and then. Some queens are influenced by their riders. /I/ hope Khiabeth will be," there's something anticipatory in the brief skip of the greenrider's step. "But it changes from dragon to dragon." Another sidelong look, accompanied by a smile, "That explains the- your stature." Yes, she noticed, and yes, she's looking. Even if he's /old/, from her perspective. Dal stiffens, though he seems less embarrassed and more simply /awkward/, his gaze abruptly turning away from Reesa, and staring off into the distance. Perhaps it's just that they're approaching an ornate door. Perhaps it's rather more than that. He clears his throat. "Perhaps you're right. No doubt if it were a more precise... science, I suppose, there would be none of that confusion and consternation. I don't claim to know much about the subject. Ah - here. This is you." The door, which he indicates with a wave of his hand. It's very gentlemanly of him to offer, "Should I wait, to escort you down again?" Reesa seems almost /pleased/ with the reaction, as awkward as it is. But she doesn't push it, just hums a note or two to fill the brief silence as they approach the door. His offer /is/ very gentlemanly, and it seems to please the rider. "If you would. I'd rather not be wandering the halls all night; the courtyard's far too drafty for Khiabeth," as if that's the most important consideration in getting lost in the Hold's inner depths. "I won't be long." /She/ doesn't bother knocking, (surely there are people for that?), and slips quietly inside the door. "Of course," says Dal, looking rather as though he's about to sweep the greenrider a bow (though he doesn't). It's a look that lasts only as long as she's actually there: as she slips through the door, /he/ looks aghast, and moves hastily to stand along the opposite wall, very carefully not touching it. Or anything. Mostly, he looks more deeply uncomfortable than ever: this is /not/ 'his' part of Fort Hold. Reesa, at least, /appears/ comfortable, or makes a good show of it; the blonde's gone maybe a bit longer than one would take to write a response, presuming there is one. She's tucking something (a coin?) into her dress as she steps out, fingers brushing down over the material when done. At least she doesn't look surprised that he's still there when she emerges. "Done, and just about time- Khiabeth's getting restless, and she says the watchdragon is old and boring," this earns an indulgent laugh. "Shall we?" An expectant look at Dal. As the door opens again, Dal straightens abruptly (which isn't to say that he was slouching before, mind you, but there's a subtle difference). "It can't be a terribly interesting job," he remarks, indicating their way back with a wave of his hand as he steps forward. "Being watchrider. Important, though. We're certainly very glad to have them. Do you enjoy your work?" "You normally have to be old, or in big trouble to get watchrider duty. I mean, stuck out in a Hold without other riders?" Reesa's practically shivering at the thought as she falls into step with Dal. Another darted, sidelong look, and a little smile. "I love being a rider," she says, enthusiastically. "Khiabeth's amazing. And, we can go wherever we want, whenever we want." She might be stretching the truth a little there; but he's a holder, and she probably doesn't expect to be contradicted. Quietly, "I suppose holdfolk /aren't/ the same as other riders." It's another statement that could so easily be read as sarcastic, though Dal's expression shows no indication of it. "I've never seen the appeal of travel, especially, but I'm glad you enjoy it. It's easier to do one's duty when it's a pleasant one, I think. I like the orchards." He's not fervent about it, though, and his words could so-easily be taken as a reminder to himself. "They aren't," Reesa agrees simply, no sarcasm on her side either. "And it's not so much the travel as the ability go somewhere you've never been before, like that," she snaps her fingers. "I could, for example, show up one day at your orchard and whisk you away to a warm Istan beach, sipping brightly colored drinks in a matter of moments." There's definitely a proud tone there, and it makes her steps quicken. Or perhaps it's Khiabeth that makes her do that. "Would you like that?" she wonders, of Dal, though it seems more inquiry than direct offer. From the look on Dal's face, it's all a little beyond his frame of reference, this idea: it has his brows knitting again, and his mouth opening just slightly. "I've no idea," he admits, after several of seconds. At least his steps don't falter in the process. "The idea of simply visiting a place is entirely foreign. I've only ever been as far as Fort Sea, and that was-- different." A tight line forms upon his mouth, and quickly, he turns the corner to head back towards the stairs. "Not an adventurer then? I'd think growing up here," at the hold, presumably, "So close to Harper would've had your head full of their tales." If Reesa sounds dismissive, well- she's aiming for lightness, though whether that's obvious is up for debate. She's quick to descend the stairs, glancing over his shoulder at him as she reaches the bottom, "Perhaps it's one of those things where you won't know until you try it." Harper. Oh look, another twitch in Dal's expression, and that line grows tighter still. So much for lightness. Even so, he hastens to keep up, and says, keeping his tone neutral, "I was always the one with his feet on the ground, I'm afraid. It would never have crossed my mind to leave Fort." But it's past tense, with the faintest amount of emphasis, and as he steps towards the great doors of the Hold, he adds, "I imagine Ista is a pleasant change, come winter." The flicker of Reesa's brow suggests she notes the reaction the mention of Harper has, and there's curiosity in her expression. Mercifully, perhaps, she's distracted by his comment about Ista. "It's pleasant there all Turn," the enthusiasm with which the blonde speaks suggests she knows from personal experience. Khiabeth's waiting /right there/, too, as near as nose-to-the-doors as she can, impatience lining the quiver of her form- if one is good at reading dragon-form, anyway. Otherwise it looks like a looming shadow of a dragon. "Yes, yes. I'm here- we're ready." She's close enough to startle Dal, who takes an involuntary step back before he recovers himself, straightening to his full height. "I'll take your word for it," he says, of Ista, rather belatedly given Reesa has already addressed her dragon. "And it looks as though you no longer need an escort. It was a pleasure to meet you, Reesa. And--" This time, he does bow, but it's to Khiabeth, not her rider. "Khiabeth." Reesa lifts up a hand to Khiabeth's muzzle, as if she can physically push the dragon backwards. Yeah, that's not happening. But the dragon does seem pleased with the bow, a faint whuff of air expelled before she backs away into the wider space of the courtyard. "And you... Dal," a hesitation, like she's not sure if it's his name, but she just goes with it. "Maybe I'll be back... to try one of the applies from your orchard." /His/, not the Lord's. With a grin, she skips quickly towards Khiabeth, climbing on top. The green is apparently impatient enough that she's almost immediately aloft, a dark shape - so that it's hard to tell if she goes between or simply climbs higher for the short flight towards the Weyr. |
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