Logs:Scars and Stories
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| RL Date: 29 March, 2015 |
| Who: Edyis, Zadkiel |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Edyis gets caught staring, Zadkiel tells a few stories. They get along as well as can be expected. |
| Where: Bathing Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 21, Month 5, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: E'nest/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Feel free to edit, correct, and alter away! |
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>---< Bathing Pools, High Reaches Weyr >-------------------------------------<
Omnipresent clouds of steam slink across the tops of three naturally warm
pools, set into the floor of this kidney-shaped cavern. Near the entrance
the ceiling is high and polished, gleaming with little mineral specks as
it sweeps downward into increasingly ragged, uneven steps. The foremost of
the pools is squared off with wide steps leading down into the water and
has faucets for bringing in cooler water from a rain-catching cistern.
Primarily used for laundry, there's an almost constant film of suds along
its surface until the circulating current clears it at the end of the day.
Four sinks line the nearest wall and various tubs stored beneath allow for
the washing of delicates. Laundry bags can be dropped off in the bins near
the door and clean, folded laundry is stacked in rows of tall cubbies for
easy pickup.
The bend in the cavern leads to a rougher-hewn part of the chamber where
the two circular bathing pools welcome those in need of a wash. Towels and
washcloths are kept in neat stacks on shelves along the wall, along with
sacks of sweetsand and a few bars of precious soap. Stone benches provide
a place for sitting to remove shoes and clothing, while a row of gleaming
brass hooks stand above, ready to hold clothes and robes.
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Edyis F 20 5'4" athletic, brown hair, brown eyes 0s
Zadkiel M 20 6'3" lean, black hair, green eyes 1m
>------------------------------------------< 21D 5M 37T I10, spring dusk >---< It's been a fine day of cleaning stables - and dealing with mud and rain and a whole slew of other foul messes that need no further description. For Zadkiel, the work is nothing new - but the conditions certainly are. Thus, it's a muddy and mucked up Igenite that eventually finds his way to the bathing pools with a small bag slung over his shoulder. Once he's around the bend, his boots are kicked off, the bag is dropped, and the process of stripping down to his natural state begins. He's an efficient fellow, at least - and shameless in the way that the Weyrbred are. His skin is marred and scarred, stretched over a muscular physique that's stripped of body fat. Long and lean; a predator by design. The longest part of the process isn't the stripping, though; it's the undoing of his braid, which requires him to sit on a bench while he handles that particular detail with the utmost of meticulousness. Edyis watches from the water where she soaks, dark curls fanned about in the water. Her towel close at hand the water stays comfortably at her shoulders for modesty stake. Still she doesn't even realize she is staring for several moments before she sinks a little deeper in the water averting her gaze. Ears faintly red. The question probably isn't does he notice? but, rather does he care? Regardless, Zadkiel finishes the process of unbraiding his hair and gives the wavy mass a firm shake to break up the pattern before he stands. A sidelong look is angled to Edyis and one eyebrow quirks skyward. He says nothing - instead, he dips briefly to collect a smaller pouch from the larger bag. A towel is caught as an afterthought on his way to where the woman is presently bathing. Without preamble, he drops his belongings at the edge of the pool and sinks into the water just out of arm's reach of Edyis. He muses blandly, "Something interesting in the water?" Those ears of hers probably go from faintly pink to a deeper shade. Sinking so that her chin is touching the surface now, "Sorry, I didn't mean to stare." She answers sheepishly. "You have quite a few scars." It isn't the question it was intended to be, and yet it is. Her arms are folding across her chest, not looking in the hunter's direction. So awkward. "No harm in looking." One shoulder rises and falls. "You aren't close enough to bite," is probably not the reassurance it should be, either. Doubly so when Zadkiel briefly dunks under the water to soak his hair through and dampen his skin. The scrubby sand is put to work on his neck while he continues, "It happens. The scars, I mean. You get the wrong tunnelsnake angry or you aren't paying attention to the right runner... and that's what you get." He eyes her askance. "Pick one. Ask me about it." And there are plenty to choose from, though he oh-so-helpfully twists a bit to give her an oblique view of his back along with his side and one arm. He'll even shift his hair to the other side to give her the full view. Plenty of the marks appear to be animal-made - but there are a few that are a little too clean to be hewn by claws and teeth and hooves. There is no hope, at the word bite, dark eyes lift sharply and she just stares at him in suspicion. "Is E'nest still telling that story?" She grumbles now grabbing her bag of soap sand and scrubbing at her arms in irritation. "One time you get caught off guard by a gold flight and..." She grumbles, but it's alleviated some by the invitation to ask questions. It's an almost clinical study of the view, before saying "The one over your right shoulder, not the hoofprint, the other one. It's clean." She waits, then to see if he follows up on his offer. Of course, the former hunter's response is singularly unhelpful; he clicks his tongue against his teeth and makes that curiously melodic hum-grunt sound instead of a proper reply. Maybe E'nest said something; maybe not. Zadkiel, for one, isn't speaking. But, there is a slight, sly contortion at the corner of his mouth at her further words - perhaps a smile, though it's suppressed swiftly enough. "Which? Ah. That one." He pauses in the washing of his left shoulder to switch to the right. He sketches out the shape of it with a thumbnail, following the line almost perfectly. "That one," he intones, "was my first lesson in why it is a bad idea to turn your back to a man with a knife." It is also not the only one, gauging from the two or three others scattered across his back. He snorts. "Probably a better lesson in why it's best not to ask questions sometimes." "Do you still ask questions?" It's almost wry; something undefinable glittering in her expression as dark eyes lift to examine the angles of his face more closely, waiting for the faintest hint of expression. Before lifting a single finger to trace the path of another through the air, parallel lines with ragged and puckered edges. "And that one?" There's a not-so-melodic snort for that and Zak turns further, showing a bit more of his other side. There, a long scar tears its jagged way from just below the armpit to his hip. "I do not learn quickly," is his equally wry response. "This. And this one," the hair is shifted again, this time to expose another scar, one that sits below his shoulder blade on that side. But he's not forgotten about the one she'd pointed out, not at all. "That one, ah." He snorts again, nose wrinkled. "You bit someone to get away during a goldflight," he says after a long moment. The rest of his words come slowly, as if pulled from a great distance. "That was what I got when I helped someone else get away. Similar circumstances. Different situation. It would have healed easier if he'd used a knife." "To be fair to E'nest, well it wasn't all his fault. I almost didn't realize what was going on, never... wanted to do anything like that before that moment. When I realized it was the gold flight, I bit him, and it seemed to snap us both out of it rather quickly." The story though earns another strange expression. "Who were they to you, the person trying to get away? What made you decide to help in that moment, you must have been overwhelmed yourself." "It usually isn't their fault. I've seen my share. Helped a few work out their frustrations." One shoulder lifts and drops in another of those lopsided shrugs. Zadkiel turns to better face her, which takes away the view of his history - if only for now. He studies her for a long moment in the wake of that questioning, his expression all but impassive for the most part. Only toward the end does his brow furrow and genuine confusion emerges: "Does it matter who? He was terrified and full of fight, but not enough to handle a flight-lost rider. I was there. I was angry. And, I was clawed for my troubles. He got a broken nose. Neither of us got the relief we wanted. Small price to pay." At least on his end. He sniffs, mouth pulling a little to one side. "Didn't notice until later, once it all wore off." "Depends on who you ask." She responds softly, on whether the whys mattered. She focuses her attention on removing ink stains from those fingertips, under that scrutiny, scrubbing furiously at those fingertips. Her questions halted for the moment. He grunts and settles back into scrubbing his scarred self. "Probably," is his concession. "But, that's past." And, like as not, Zak would do it again. Another fistful of sand is applied, but it's his turn to observe - and the weight of his regard might well be palpable. Eventually: "Those will fade soon enough on their own. No sense in skinning yourself to get rid of them." "Maybe." She relents, as the ink comes away slowly. She gets under the nails until those too are clean working her way over her palms next and forearms. "But then will I be as satisfied with being only partly clean?" Her mouth quirks; dark eyes moving askance, perhaps unsettled by that regard but not quite willing to admit discomfort. "Have you hunted here? the way you did when you lived in Igen." "Is anyone ever truly clean?" Zadkiel's regard is a relentless thing; it pursues her even when she looks away. He sucks his teeth and shifts his attention to his hair and scalp. More sand; more scrubbing. He'll leave her to scrub and be uncomfortable - at least until she questions again. Even then, his gaze is unmoving; seemingly unblinking, though his eyes narrow just a little. "Some. But the hunting is different. Different game. Different weather. Different methods. Even the tunnelsnakes are different. Haven't eaten one yet, so it's hard to say how different." "Perhaps not, but what is the harm in embracing at least that illusion? The idea that something can be pure, or clean or good." She shakes her head, frowning at the thought. "You don't like it here then; I take it?" Arms, shoulders, neck, then she submerges pulling the long dark curls over her shoulders to begin scrubbing at them. Feeling less exposed for it. "I've never been to your weyr, but I've seen the desert; it seems a desolate place." It isn't an insult, but not a judgment or observation either. "If you enjoy lying to yourself," he replies, "then there is no harm." Zadkiel works his fingers through his hair with practiced efficiency, silent while she continues to speak. His answer waits until she emerges again and starts on her curls. Only then does he reply with a flat - but achingly honest - "This is not home. I will not be comfortable until I feel sand shifting under my feet and hear the cries of the desert birds." His mouth pulls slightly to one side as she continues. His reply follows, less flat than before - but not precisely flooded with emotion either. "Appearances are deceiving. That's what they say, anyway. It is a harsh place. Unforgiving. But it is full of life and treasure if you are mindful. Too many focus on what they can't see. What they don't want to see." "Truth is a mutable concept. As is home." There is something vulnerable in those words, "I suppose seen through someone else's eyes even the most desolate places seem beautiful. Is that what you think of all of this? The resistance some have to being sent there. We just choose not to see because we do not want to?" Her gaze shifting again over to the scarred predator whom she seems to be sharing the baths with. "No." The vehemence in his tone is unmistakable. "Truth is not mutable. Perception is." Zadkiel makes a final pass over his scalp and down the length of his hair. "And how others perceive the truth, that is where the trouble lies." It's his turn to sink under the water for a quick but vigorous rinsing. When he rises, he passes his palms over his person to wipe the water off. "This is not home. For some, their home is in flux. Perhaps they do not have one. Perhaps they do not want one." The line of his mouth twists. "I have one. I will return there when this is done. That is the only reason I accepted to Stand here in the first place." But then the others are brought up and he wrings his hair out slowly - methodically. "The difference," he muses, "is that they know when they accept that they may be sent there. If they are reluctant to go, to learn, to explore a place that they are unfamiliar with... they should not answer the call. And those that are desperate to Stand do not seem too particular about where their lifemate is from - by blood or Weyr of birth." "Perception wins over truth each time I'm afraid." Softer in her conviction, but no less solid. "Fortunate for you that you have no doubts about where you belong." A quick rinse, and then long nimble fingers rebraid the mass of dark curls, before she is climbing out and pulling her towel firmly around herself. "You see the world in an interesting light Zadkiel of Igen." Quickly drying herself off and moving over to where her clean clothes wait, and she begins the process of dressing to leave. "That is an unfortunate truth," Zadkiel confirms with a snort aimed to one side, the desire to spit circumvented by the desire to keep the water clean. "But, yes. I am grateful. My family awaits my return - on borrowed wings or otherwise." Another quick rinse ensues and then he's pulling himself fluidly out of the water to dry off. The process is much slower - and as achingly meticulous as most things he does. "Is it?" He tilts his head to eye her askance. "Or is it because everyone around you sees the world the same way you do?" From the looks of things, he's in no hurry to be done; the pouch from before is opened and a jar of some kind of congealed vegetable oil is withdrawn. The hair, see; that does require some work to keep it from going completely awry. "I can count on one hand the number of people who think the way that I do." She answers distantly, slowly working her way up the buttons on the tunic she pulls on. "But then, I am curious," She turns dark eyes resting on him. "How you could presume to know anything about the way I think and why?" She tugs on the breeches next, boots and socks in hand as she steps back to crouch near the water's edge studying him. The oil is worked with deliberate slowness into his hair, starting from the scalp and sweeping down. "Many feel the same way," Zadkiel replies with a glance askance. "That they think differently than others. That they are different. Better. Unique. However they perceive it." Hair is split into neatly portioned thirds. The braiding begins. "I can presume because I have met many like you. Perhaps you will surprise me." There's a savage flash of teeth in a fierce smile that's small and dangerous in its own right; there and gone in an instant. "But, I will not hold my breath." Edyis smiles almost too sweetly back, more subtle than that fierce smile but equally poisonous. "It has very little to do with uniqueness or betterment I am sorry to say, and a great deal more to do with an insatiable curiosity and a growing sense of restlessness." Dark eyes flick over him one last time. "Enjoy your bath." And then she's up and gone. "Then, perhaps," Zadkiel muses while he ties off the braid, "you should look at counting on your other hand. Perhaps toes as well. How strange that you would presume that few others are so hungry for knowledge - or that they are any less restless than you." There's a click of tongue against teeth, a final slicking down of his hair - and then she's gone and the process of dressing in those damnable Northern garments begins. |
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