Logs:Pregnant Pauses
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| RL Date: 22 May, 2016 |
| Who: Jocelyn, Leova |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Pregnancy and offspring, winged and not, are hot topics in the lunch line. |
| Where: Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 21, Month 11, Turn 40 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Pleasant, sunny and breezy. |
| Mentions: Irianke/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions |
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| While it's the sort of day that's good for picnicking, or at least eating out of doors, the line for the midday meal in the living cavern remains about its usual length, if moving a bit more slowly than some of its occupants might prefer. Near the front of the line, someone solicitously permits a very pregnant woman (who looks as if she should skip lunch and just start heading to the infirmary) behind him to take his place if it means getting her that much closer to obtaining her lunch. Amid the grumbling that this causes for those further back, Jocelyn's waiting impatiently with crossed arms and a tapping foot, visibly rolling her eyes in the direction of those voicing their complaints. Despite the fact that she certainly has the option to leave the queue and order a meal brought to her, she remains where she is - hardly an unpredictable choice for High Reaches' very native goldrider - who, gossip has it, still prefers to use the same grade of linens available to lower caverns staff rather than what her salary could afford to requisition. As the line (slowly) progresses, the redhead pulls a thrice-folded sheet from a pocket, one hand absently patting behind an ear while reading where a pencil doesn't await her; a little huff gets expelled afterward in annoyance as she leans to the side to try to see around the next few clusters of shoulders. Some of those shoulders are mountainous. Leova's, not so. The greenrider glances back from her Glacier bookends and then falls back: not a step back so much as letting the men shuffle forward without her. Her smile tips up at a corner, at Jocelyn. "Second thoughts?" "There might, on occasion, be merits to skipping lunch, " Jocelyn replies once she realizes that Leova's right there, pale gaze briefly tracking the woman who's waddling off to find a table now that she's put together a tray. "Especially if that one doesn't make it through the meal." That observation gets a lower delivery, expression less than comfortable. "Having a productive morning?" Up until this point, goes unspoken. "Efficient, no. Productive," comes with Leova's glance slanted towards those now ahead of her. "Well. Day like today, all the more reason to undergo a very thorough sweep. Most excitement there was, confirming a trader group cutting through a holder's fields, last I saw was them galloping out to intercept." While she's at it, the next glance marks the woman who's managing to ease onto a bench. "Remember the twins," carries empathy. "There are times, " Jocelyn says wryly, "that I wish sweeps were included in my list of duties. Aidavanth also enjoyed the few we went on as weyrlings before our training completely diverged." For her part, there's a shudder as she follows the greenrider's glance momentarily, an arm curling defensively across her midsection. "That's one contribution I won't be making to the weyr's wellbeing any time soon." Her throat clears, then: "I'm sure I'll get some semblance of the experience sooner than I wish, anyway. I won't complain if the others' cycles push her timing back, however." Leova has that one-cornered smile again, fine creases about the amber eyes that now remark on other others, the Glacier riders before them in line: three former Weyrleaders in their wing, if one counts its leader. Her voice is low, not loud. "I'll wish you well, there, and none complaining about the delay." A step forward later, "Wonder about an extra line. 'The slow line,' if you will." "It seems to me as if we're already in it." Jocelyn, at least somewhat amused. Would a second, just-as-slow line speed things up? It's possible that the people now at the head of the line for the serving tables are simply taking their time because it's such a nice day, or perhaps it might have more to do with the fact that they're more interested in chatting with each other while putting their plates together than paying attention to the looks being tossed in their direction. "At the rate this is going, I'll be late for my after-lunch meeting - or very early and ready for it to be over before it begins." Hangry. "Slow, slower, slowest." Leova presses her lips together, but it's still a smile escaping. "Reckon I should warn them. Put you one notch closer, to boot." That parade rest she maintains between steps isn't so much a fidget as its absence. "At this rate, could find your," mother? "father before dessert." Jocelyn's eyebrows arch. While the line of her posture projects at least some irritation to those who may or may not be looking on behind her, her expression tells a different story, lips twitching visibly at Leova. "And sacrifice your own place in line? Leova, lunchtime hero. Has quite a ring to it, doesn't it." A glance tips down toward her pocket while one hand rummages in there to check (re-check?) for the thrice-folded paper of earlier. It's a lengthier-than-usual pause before she responds: "The dessert should be excellent after such a long, " long, "waiting period." The dragonhealer gives her a symmetrical smile, as posed as the further squaring of her shoulders: valiant Leova, "'Tis true." Her gaze flicks at that pocket, no more, even with no more steps to take. "That too. Fruitcake might keep, but don't know about excellent. Depends on what brandy it's soaked in, I reckon. And how much." "Fruitcake, " repeats Jocelyn with the driest of sighs. "If I'm to go on a wild wherry chase, surely there's something more rewarding on offer. Imported Istan delights, perhaps." Her tone lightens by the time she's finished, likely deliberately so, and it's almost gladly that she nods toward the very pregnant lady at the end of communal table three, who has paused midway through her meal with a panicked expression. "I wonder how many marks are being made on that look." The (very soon) mother-to-be, with some difficulty, pushes up from her seat and accepts the arm of a concerned tablemate as she waddles toward the exit post-haste. Whether due to the human need for gawking at others' fortunes or something else entirely, the lunch line noticeably picks up speed afterward. "Not roasted wherry? Steeped in its own juices?" Leova can't help but chuckle, herself. "Made versus lost. I like it." A few steps later, not long at all, "Vrianth tells me she's shared that image. Just in case." One more, even closer, "Not that I am. Betting." A glance over her shoulder checks: is there a world in which Jocelyn would? Jocelyn, who looks very glad to not be the incipient mother, composes her features into something quite unremarkable by the time she's able to reach out and grab a napkin, a plate. "It was easier to occasionally enter a pool for something like that before I Impressed, " she says at some length, nodding a silent 'hello' to the kitchen staff member who replenishes one of the pans of well-seasoned, breadcrumb-crusted meat. "With the prospect of being the subject of a bet in the future, it no longer holds the same appeal." A grimace is quick to follow, or perhaps it's for the sad-looking clump of green beans left in the next pan awaiting replacement. Leova holds off for a sweeprider-substantial helping of that meat, her nod rueful. "They'll bet on anything, those greens there," not dragons but the poor beans which, in her forties now, she bypasses. "But I know it's upped and then some." Rolls: one, just one of those, the braided kind for her. With the seeds. "Has it." Jocelyn hardly sounds interested; in fact, her tone is almost bored. The glance she gives the greenrider as she takes a modest helping of the meat behind her, however, tells a different tale. "Three-for-one doesn't seem terribly probable, but it isn't impossible, either, I suppose, given everyone's timing." Contemplatively, after also bypassing the beans in favor of a roll (except that hers is round and crusty in the manner of sourdough): "That's probably one of Quinlys's worst nightmares." Leova's quick to say, "Upped compared to the greens, Joce. Not 'in the past sevens' or months," or days, "or whatever." Not that it hasn't ticked up some. Not that she doesn't agree, "Probably so. And then lay a new one, each of you." A pat of butter later, that teasing smile's still in her eyes despite her equally dry tone. "I'd bet that our weyrwoman would like that, " says Irianke's likely-least-favorite junior, but there's an answering, wry curve of a smile that twitches at the corners of the redhead's mouth even as she skips the butter in favor of collecting her silverware. "It's almost too nice of a day to eat indoors." Almost, but not so much so that she doesn't eye a table that isn't quite so in the thick of things across the room, a considering look sweeping the other options. "Would she," is more amusement than real question. Leova's got her own silverware, then, and bypasses Glacier without a second glance. Plenty of other meals to have with them. Following Jocelyn's gaze, "Steal something, and I'll grab drinks," before someone else does. "Water." Unless it's a juice day. "Alcove, " Jocelyn's predictably quick to suggest with a little nod toward the one she means; large tables, after all, are usually best left for large parties of diners. And hardly appealing for someone who prefers being inconspicuous - as much as a public figure can be. Still, she's clearly pleased that Leova intends to join her, given the warmth in her answer of, "Thanks, " while extending her free hand expectantly in a silent offer to go on ahead with the older rider's plate. Leova hands it over with a quick smile, one-cornered this time: teamwork. They'll get it done. |
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