Logs:Sorting It All Out
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| RL Date: 19 May, 2012 |
| Who: Madilla, Azaylia |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Once again, Madilla is a fountain of wisdom from which Azaylia drinks. Can someone say hero worship? |
| Where: Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 25, Month 10, Turn 28 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Brieli/Mentions, Hypatia/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Lilabet/Mentions |
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| Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr Massive in scale, the Weyr's main storage passage connects to the kitchen on one end and the outbound tunnel on the other. Large enough to admit a wagon laden with goods, the tunnel easily permits the unloading and organization of supplies into the various storerooms. Branching off from this corridor are multiple caverns, the nearer two being 'open' stores from which residents can readily help themselves, while the deeper stores are kept locked up tight with a posted sign and inventory hung on a hook outside of each. An alcove next to the public stores serves as a catch-all area for reshelving items whose destination is uncertain; two sets of stone shelving and several bins hold these items neatly until a stores assistant has a moment to deal with them. Though the storage caverns vary in size, shape, and the smoothness of their walls, all belong to the same system: whitewashed walls, swept floors, and most importantly, neatly labeled and inventoried shelves providing ample space to stow all the supplies a busy Weyr needs. Though there's no direct internal lighting, a glowbasket may be brought in from the niche outsde each cavern, the better to ward off pests and the inky dark of deep caves.
Oversized coat has been abandoned while indoors as Azaylia steps into the storeroom with a board and various hides and paper balanced on them. She halts at the state of things, brows wrinkling as she looks at the daunting task in front of her. But then, Madilla! "Oh, Afternoon." Smile replaces her earlier shock, stepping further into cavern and towards the familiar Healer. "What're you looking for?" Even as she asks, the candidate is stepping to the side to inspect the labeled box at eye-level. With a soft exhale her bandaged hand slips the writing stick into her mouth, freeing both to pull the box out and sort out the mess someone's made. Madilla's dark head shoots up at the sound of footsteps, and turns so that she can meet Azaylia's eye a moment later; she, too, is smiling. "Hello, Azaylia. I hope you haven't been tasked to clean all of this up. I don't know what gets in to people, sometimes." She indicates the box in front of her with one hand - it's clearly marked with 'sweaters' and a size indication that matches small girls of approximately Lilabet's size. "Lily grew another couple of inches, and her clothes are all too tight. How are you, anyway? I hear congratulations are in order?" And that bandaged hand, which gets a glance, but is otherwise not referred to directly. Azaylia offers a contemplative hum, all she can do until the stick is plucked from her lips. "Maybe not all of it?" Hopeful, but also amused by the idea of such a monumental task being placed squarely on her shoulders. The box is placed on the ground, the young woman quickly following it as she sits and begins to pull out pairs of trousers. Fold, fold, place to the side. "Oh, I should visit. Or maybe I could knit her a sweater? I know kids get so big so fast." Spoken like someone with siblings. The next pair of pants are held up a bit longer, perhaps hiding behind them as she gives a bashful laugh. "Uhm... if you want. Or think it's worth congratulating." She folds the garment and sets it atop the previous pair. "But some," concludes Madilla, sympathetically, as she adds another tidily folded sweater to one of her piles. "Half of these really need to be unwound and remade - I hope they're planning to start looking at these things." The healer doesn't sound disapproving, as such, but perhaps there's a note of disappointment at the state of things, nonetheless. Turning a thoughtful glance upon Azaylia, she adds, "She'd love to see you. I wish I could knit; I never managed to learn it properly. Sewing, fine. Knitting - " She shakes her head. "I do think it's something worth congratulating. I know--" Word goes around the craft complex, and has obviously been enough that she hesitates. "How are you feeling?" Azaylia can't be made to see the tedious task for what it is, smiling over at the Journeyman even as she continues to sort things out. "Maybe nobody's mentioned how... frayed things are getting?" A wayward sock makes an appearance, set to the side with a wary stare. She's going to spend the whole day looking for it's partner, isn't she? "I can sew, I just prefer to knit. I think it's because I'm worse at it." There's a soft hum, not quite having enough behind it to make it a full chuckle. She reaches for the board, making a note about a pair of trousers that have far too many holes in important places. "I'm... scared." Azaylia answers honestly, smile persisting. "It's kind of silly, a girl who's afraid of dragons asking to Stand. It'll upset people." Writing hand is lifted, bandages clean but wound tight as she jots at nothing in the air. As if the Healer hasn't already noticed. Madilla fingers a particularly lovely sweater in sage green thoughtfully, giving it serious consideration before reluctantly setting it aside - there's a hole at the collar. "Probably," she confirms. "I'll mention it to the Headwoman. No doubt she'll have half a dozen of you down here sorting things after that." At least the smile she aims at Azaylia, then, is ruefully amused. 'Scared', though, that twists her expression all over again. "Why are you afraid of them? Do you think it's something that can be fixed, before the hatching? Prolonged exposure, something?" She's looking at that bandage again; it's obviously making her wary, even if she still isn't asking about it. Bringing attention to it hasn't prompted any questions, and so Azaylia leaves it as, "It already has upset some." But there's no tears, no true dramatic delivery. Much like before, she's simply accepting of her fate- of her new role as a candidate at the weyr. "Oh, that'd be nice." Even her own words seem to surprise her, and she finds the reason for looking forward to such a mundane chore. "I mean, I'll get a chance to maybe meet some of the others. We... uhm. Don't talk much." More like she doesn't, surprise surprise. The why to her fears is an entirely new concept, and it shows. "Uhm." Even her hands still, gathering the trousers up into her lap. "They're huge, giant, sharp-claw having, could-eat-someone-totally-in-one-bite, /gigantic/ animals. That.. that can think. And can decide they don't like you." Her sorting is a bit faster now, sounding even more out of breath than usual. "...except Cadejoth. He's a dearheart." "What do you mean?" Because now, Madilla really is eyeing that bandage. "Azaylia, tell me." She's even put aside her clothes sorting to eye the Candidate directly. More quietly is what she adds, then, not intending it to take away from the real question at hand: "They won't hurt you. Not the other Candidates, and not the dragons. I think you'll find most of them are as sweet as Cadejoth is. Many of them, at any rate. What will you do if you actually Impress? It's - you do need to get used to them. If you can." Azaylia stays quiet, not that it's unusual for the young woman. What is odd is that she's refusing to answer Madilla, focusing on reaching the bottom of her box. Not even close. "It's nothing." Pained expression may hint otherwise, but her voice is serious. "Nobody /did/ anything to me. I didn't... think of how that would sound." Embarrassment persists, even as she finally explains. "My Journeyman wasn't happy when I told him I got Searched. That I asked to Stand. And he, uhm. Said something. And..." Head is bowed, unable to look the other woman in the eye. "I only meant to slap him! No-not that that's any better. Nobody ever said punching someone hurt back." Novice that she is. Not to ignore the rest of the healer's words, "I'm trying to get used to them. I don't think I'll-" Words shift suddenly, "I should still actually try." Rather than hide from them and hope it never comes up, what with living in the Weyr and all. Madilla's "Don't be silly," is gently said, and, as Azaylia's hand squeezes hers, she squeezes back, just for a moment, before it withdraws altogether. "It's not easy. I do hear the rumours going around. The Apprentices, being sent home. The awfulness. At any rate, as long as your hand is nearly better; that's what matters. I'm sure Journeyman Mack will get over his frustration. Everything will be /fine/." She sounds convinced of it, and has a smile to go with it, though there's still some ruefulness around the corners of her mouth. "That's the plan." Azaylia admits easily enough. There's a moment of startled realization, as if she's said to much. But how could such a simple phrase be anything but what it is? "I mean, I know everything will turn out fine." Gaze drops down to the box in front of her, "It has to." She plucks up a pair of yellowed (once white?) trousers and hesitant to write them off as suitable. Brown eyes will return to Madilla's face all too soon, paired with a smile, "A lot of people have it worse than I do. I'm just trying to be a good candidate. It's hard work... I like it." Her words ring true, and the yellowed pants are placed with the holy pair, marked off as unsatisfactory. Madilla is not a deep thinker, not a political mind. Azaylia's startled realisation only serves to confuse the healer, momentarily, before she pushes aside that thought and focuses in on matters she does understand. She returns to her own pile, sorting through another few sweaters with less focused attention, this time - plenty of mental space for her to remark, "I'm glad to hear it. I do understand. Hard work - there's a satisfaction in it. I'm sure you're doing the best you can. How do the group seem, thus far? Nice people?" Azaylia continues to sort with the same mindful ethic as before. Not rushing, but not slowing just because she's talking to someone. "They seem... nice." Voice is pensive, trying to stay accurate with only observations as a resource. "I haven't really talked to them much. Hellos, goodbyes." Another sock. And a mitten. Both placed aside for later. A nod, "I like working hard... especially when I'm so tired I can hardly move." Masochistic tendencies brought to light, she can't help but giggle about how odd that must sound. "Sometimes," remarks Madilla, cautiously, "hard work feels like an escape. It's easier to keep working, and get tireder and tireder, than to stop and worry about things." She's got a concerned glance aimed at Azaylia again, though she doesn't seem determined to make sure the other woman sees it. "Most of our candidates come from within the weyr," she adds, then, quietly. "But not all. Sometimes, the ones from outside need a listening ear. Someone who knows the ropes and understands how strange everything must feel." The headtilt isn't subtle at all, and Azaylia has no shame in looking the part of a confused canine. "I... guess?" Not arguing, never. But it's clear that the candidate hasn't thought of her habits that light. She straightens a bit, hands working at a slower pace as she's distracted by the Journeyman's words. "I remember how scared I was when I first got here." Gentle tone is even more so at the memory. "And you, and Hypatia and K'del were so nice. Do you think maybe... I could do that for someone else?" She sounds almost in awe at the possibility of actually being able to help someone just by being herself. Madilla can only shrug: maybe that's just the way it is for her. She's certainly not going to force that particular possibility on Azaylia. "I do," is what she says, addressing the other remark, instead. "I remember how I felt, too, and how hard everything seemed, and overwhelming. It seems like a wonderful thing to be able to help other people with, doesn't it?" Her smile is encouraging, hands stilling briefly so that she can turn all her attention on the candidate. "It's a small thing, but important. And sometimes... people who are used to weyrs, who grew up here, they don't really understand how hard it can be. It's an advantage we have." "It's strange. Weyrfolk are so used to all this, and holdbred act like being here is..." There are no words, Azaylia shrugging as she inspects a pair of white, stretchy leggings. With bright purple spots of dye. Still, it's all in tact, so she folds it, "So when you actually get here, you don't know what to do." There's a smile for Madilla, once the candidate realizes that there's one being aimed her way. "I think there's a girl from Crom who got Searched. New when she was. I could maybe try talking to her?" Not one to force her company on others, however. "If she wants me to." "Mmm," agrees Madilla, digging out the last few items from her box and laying them out across the floor, one after another. "I remember. I think that sounds like an excellent idea. Talk to her, at least. See how she's doing. Even if she doesn't feel like she needs a lot of help, she might appreciate having a friend." Her encouragement is quiet, but fond. "You don't have to tackle them on mass, to get to know them. One at a time. It gets easier." Azaylia can't keep the smile from growing on her face, excited and scared but in the best ways. "I know." Confidence is a rarity, but she has it in spades when agreeing with the healer. "I know because of how I can talk to you, now." Along with a few other souls, but it's a vast improvement that even she can't ignore. Those busy hands still, and a shy look is cast towards Madilla, "I hope... I can be like you. If I get better." Hands grip a bit of fabric a little too tight, forced to correct herself. "When. When I get better at this." The whole socializing thing. That shy look only makes Madilla look pleased - and encouraging. "You will be," she promises. "Because you will get better. It just takes practice. it's hard to describe how shy I was, when I arrived at the Hall. How difficult I found everything. And then the weyr--" She breaks off. "It's been over ten turns, now, since I arrived at the weyr. Eleven turns. It's hard to imagine." And then turns have, so obviously, changed her enormously. "You're doing beautifully. You know that, I hope." "I do now." Squeak. "Thankyou." But Azaylia's not retreating, suffering through the ripples of embarrassment from recieving a compliment from Madilla. She's clearly pleased herself, smile so wide that her cheeks force her eyes to squint with happiness. "Ten turns." It's repeated with unashamed longing, "I never thought a weyr could feel more like home than... well, home." Lip juts out thoughtfully, "I felt this way about the Crafthall, but not as much." A shrug, happy rather than concerned at the shift in her preferences. Madilla sets down the sweater she's been folding, ignoring it in lieu of concentrating her attention on Azaylia, who earns another warm smile. "I understand," she tells her, simply. "I remember when I discovered the same thing. I miss my family, sometimes, and the places I used to know, but - even when I had the opportunity to return to the Hall, I didn't want it. I could never return to the home of my childhood." She inclines her head forward, not quite approving so much as acknowledging. "Home is a funny thing. As a concept, I mean. But it matters." Reluctantly, she glances down at her sweaters, putting her hands back to work so she can finish off the last few. "I ought to pack these things up and get back." As Madilla ignores the fabric in her hand, Azaylia is reminded of her duties and rapidly folds several to make up for lost time. She'll slow to a more natural pace eventually, still hanging on the healer's words. Eyes widen, "I understand, not wanting to go back to the Hall." Already soft expression melts into one of quiet relief, perhaps not as awful as she once thought. Not if the Journeyman has had similar sentiments. "Uhm? Oh! Yes, you shouldn't be stuck with me in here all afternoon." The candidate teases, more than happy to see someone manage to escape the storerooms. "Have a good day." Madilla watches Azaylia, silent, for several more seconds before she actually begins to gather her things up and put the box back - at least it's tidier, now, with those articles definitely in need of repair removed. "Sometimes, we have less control than anyone over our lives," she remarks. "As crafters." She sweeps dust out of her skirt as she stands, reaching to gather up the items of clothing she has found amidst the rest. "I'd rather stay here, almost. It's peaceful here. Have a good day, Azaylia. Look after yourself." And thus, she'll go - but not without aiming another thoughtful glance back at the apprentice before she's gone. |
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