Logs:Spaces
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| RL Date: 28 November, 2012 |
| Who: H'kon, Azaylia |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Azaylia finds H'kon, and isn't sure he wants to be found. Then again, when is she ever sure when it comes to the brownrider? |
| Where: Inner Caverns, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 13, Month 5, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: A spring flurry brings in a little late snowfall, though there is no accumulation as the flakes spiral to the ground on a dizzying breeze. |
| Inner Caverns, High Reaches Weyr Within the labyrinth of interconnected chambers that make up the inner caverns, this large, long cavern serves both as a crossroads and a comfortable place for weyrfolk to sit, talk, and keep a nosy eye out for who's going where. Colorful, seasonal tapestries add warmth to the smooth walls and reduce echoes, while large niches house clusters of chairs, and a waist-high stone shelf along one wall provides a perch for drinks or work for residents on the go. Worn brass hooks often hold jackets or other outerwear with workboots stationed beneath, the transitory nature of the cavern lending itself to being treated as a sort of communal foyer where snowy or muddy gear can be kept outside of living quarters. Smaller, higher niches at regular intervals hold glowbaskets kept fresh during the daytime and allowed to dim somewhat at night. The largest tunnels lead to the main living cavern, to the bowl and to the Weyr entrance, but it's still easy for the uninitiated to get lost within this maze. H'kon has been here a while now. His temporary ownership of the little niche he's taken is clearly shown, in the hook that holds his coat, in the paper turned over, writing hidden, on one of the unoccupied chairs, in the small table holding a closed bottle of good liquor and a currently-mostly-empty glass. But even more than all these things, the duration of his occupation is signalled by the brownrider's posture, not rightly relaxed, but certainly not kept to its usual strictness. He sits at an angle in his chair, half-curled protectively about his work, but with green eyes straight forward on the piece of floor that occasional feet tread upon as people pass. Calf high boots cross over that very spot on the floor, as well as H'kon's field of vision, coming to a sudden stop. The edge of a black cloak flutters into view, fabric given a shake of the clinging, though quickly melting snow. Azaylia's eyes are cast down, watching as she tries not to track spring's deception in any further. Once satisfied, the goldrider gives a glance towards H'kon's direction, dimmed glows not yet revealing to her who is hogging the little niche. "Excuse me?" Careful. She doesn't want to be a bother, "Would you like for me to brighten some of these glows? It can't be good for your eyes..." Not, have someone bring fresh ones down. Why dictate when you can do it yourself? There's a step closer, the feeling of familiarity just beginning to creep up on her senses. The reverie must be a fairly deep one; H'kon actually gives a, "Hm?" in the pit of his throat when he's roused by that 'excuse me', eyes focusing on boots, up legs, up to Azaylia. She, at least, is better lit than he is. Or, could be, his eyes are just the more accustomed to the dark. Whatever vision he has is left on her a few moments, travelling back to her boots, then to the spot of floor between them and himself. H'kon shakes his head. "I'm looking at nothing particular," is soft, words much smoother in coming than his first noise. Azaylia actually gives a little leap when he speaks, either not expecting it or surprised to recognized the angled man. H'kon is never angled. He is symmetry personified. Squeak! Papers, hides, and a book are all clutched to her stomach beneath the fabric of her cloak, hand rising to rest over her rapidly fluttering heart. "H'kon. Hello." A much more proper greeting than her being startled, she braves a few steps closer to the brownrider. She pauses, hand leaving her chest to hover in indecision, before her arm drops. "How are you?" Her tone reveals what she really wants to ask: are you okay? Symmetry - he's supposed to be at least, and he knows it. But knowledge and action are separate things, and the brownrider eyes her a little longer before pushing against the arm of his chair, not without a sigh. It's not symmetrical, not perfectly; he gets closer, gives a nod, and abandons the whole endeavour there. "Well enough," is answered to her hand, before those green eyes have tracked back up to the goldrider's face. Tone is more normally cryptic, voice a bit stronger now. "Yourself," is forced only by convention. Azaylia gives a little shiver, not that it's all that chilly in the caverns. Not compared to outside. "Wouldn't you feel more comfortable in the nighthearth?" Though the chances of having to socialize are higher there, and it's only now that the goldrider seems to realize why he has chosen this spot. "Better." Comes the rehearsed answer, though unlike before she adds on, "Trying not to break the weyr." If only because she knows he won't try to coddle and comfort like others might. She begins to drift over, a glance given to the liquor, the paper, his coat. Not that it's a messy display, exactly, but the young woman sets to tidying up, regardless. The glass and bottle are pushed closer with one hand, the bit of turned over paper is reached for, possibly to place in his lap with the others. "I am well enough here." All the verbal force of repetition comes on the word that last word, the more specific sentiment that's not actually a repeat of his earlier answer. The smile that cracks his face is wry; it looks incrementally more comfortable than his usual attempts. "Now there would be a strange thing to judge." H'kon inhales audibly through his nose when she starts at his things, sitting up, a few degrees closer to the earlier aspired symmetry. The air might have something of a sobering effect; his, "No," is back to usual curtness, followed by, "Please." And he holds a hand out for that paper, looking squarely at it now, the bottle, the glass, almost immaterial in comparison. Azaylia doesn't push for him to move elsewhere, just as he doesn't chase after her own comment with more than a still-unfamiliar smile. At least it's not too terribly uncomfortable to look at. Fingers delicately pluck at the paper, giving it a casual twist to glance at it before the brownrider makes his feelings known. Another, quieter squeak, and she turns to look at him with innocent eyes, "I was... going to." She hands it over promptly as proof of her intentions. What else is there? His coat, though it's hung and out of the way needs a bit of vaguely maternal straightening. "And, Arekoth?" Though she could have Hraedhyth ask, this is the junior's own curiosity. A paper with a name only in greeting, and one line written, might hardly seem the sort of thing to be protective of, but H'kon takes it quite quickly and without any fumbling, for all that little lean forward to accomplish the gesture might bring the smell of the liquor on his breath closer, make it the more obvious. Azaylia's - apology? explanation? excuse? - goes unanswered. H'kon rolls the paper carefully, and keeps it in his hand. "Arekoth has always been impatient. His being so now says little." And his rider is, apparently, not fully up for elaboration. Azaylia's fixing of his coat goes unchecked, at least. "Will you sit?" is ambiguous, invite or frank question. He gives no hints either way. Azaylia keeps fiddling with his coat, even after his question. Or is it an invitation? Only when she's good and ready does the goldrider turn back to him with something like a patient smile. "Sounds like High Reaches breeds impatient browns." As Arekoth is not the first she's heard of recently. She wanders closer to the seat that had been previously claimed by the paper he's so protective of. "If you don't mind?" Even her descent is slow, prepared to spring back up and make a hasty retreat if that is what he wants. Despite her better judgement she clears her throat, "Were you writing a letter?" H'kon doesn't protest her sitting. He does tuck that rolled paper carefully to his side at her question, though, regarding the goldrider with unmasked caution. "I've not been home since Iolene's death," has a note of impatience to it, possibly borrowed from his dragon. It's a rush through to for some sort of finality on the topic. After a moment, that paper is twitched, to make sure it is well-hidden. Only then does H'kon ease forward for his glass, the look given Azaylia not rightly defiant, though certainly not the usual obedience he tries for around those so well outranking him. Azaylia doesn't respond right away. She doesn't slump in her seat, either, but there's a weight to her shoulders at his response. "Oh." It's a fairly guilty sound, and she perhaps tries to understand. "Neither have I. A little before that, even." The pile of work is placed on her lap, doing her best to seem small. Easy to ignore. Not at all threatening, which is probably why her eyes widen at the look H'kon slips her way as he leans in for his drink. "They understand that I've got a lot to deal with here, thankfully." Despite her painfully non-threatening stare, she is making it a point of watching the brownrider. "And why should anyone misunderstand your ties to your Weyr, goldrider?" The question is rhetorical, and that wry smile is back on his face before the glass touches his lips. Eyes are on Azaylia again even as he drinks, and still when he sets the glass down again, giving it a little turn on the table. That letter, such as it is, is still kept out of sight as best he can. Almost conversational, and not nearly so abrupt in sound as the turn it sends him on, "So tell me, did I always make you afraid, or only recently?" Azaylia does her best to smile, though it's shaky and doesn't last very long. It fits his next question, one that has her sitting up just a touch straighter. Eep. "You don't make me afraid." It doesn't sound like a lie, and in fact the young woman might add a sprinkling of insult to her tone. Or is that Hraedhyth's ash? "You just act scary. Uhm. To some people..." She realizes now how bold the words are, and falters. It's as if the momentum of their previous conversation has been saved all this time. With a much softer voice, "Why do you always..." No, too accusatory. "Are you..?" With a frustrated sigh at herself, "Do you like having your space? Alone?" With Arekoth, but that goes without saying. Where under other circumstances H'kon may have offered apology for the edge in Azaylia's response, now, here, he simply lifts his stubbled chin slightly, and carries on watching her. But her question, once it's worked its way out, brings a knot to his brow. It's well after he's lowered his chin once more, and rolled his shoulders in an almost-ruffling motion reminiscent of Arekoth's wing settlings, that H'kon chooses a pointed, "Usually." There's a new sharpness to his gaze, but he's not so broody, not so influenced by the alcohol, as to give voice to the unspoken, You don't, that's present in that look. Azaylia eases back in the chair, not so comfortable as to sink into it. There is some relief at his answer, and she's the first to look away, "Then keep doing what you're doing." From anyone else, it might have seemed flippant. The goldrider honestly means that, means to let sleeping whers lie all stocky and bristled. Or that could just be H'kon. When her eyes drift back over to him, she's startled by the intensity of his gaze. At least there's no squeak, this time. "I just think it's nice to... talk." When she's not terribly shy. "But, I'm probably bothering you. And I'm sorry." She takes his response seriously, already beginning to gather up faded blue skirts so she can stand. It may not be flippant, but it brings a frown to that brownrider's face. Green eyes break their contact with her, drifting first to the glass of liquor, that little layer left at the bottom, then down to the edge of the table he's occupied. Fingers flexing around that tightly-rolled letter make it crinkle. "With many, isn't talking just a louder way of being in the same state?" It's only when the movement of her gathering her skirts catches at his periphery that H'kon looks up, almost startled, though it only shows in the quickness of his motions. He's still in full frown. "I know no other way to be, Azaylia," is too heavy, has too much depth, for simple conversation. Azaylia doesn't have an answer for him. It's possible the young woman doesn't understand what he means, so she focuses on finding her feet. The hand that ends up smoothing her skirts freezes at his heavy admission. "...Nobody said you had to be different, H'kon." And yet she still sounds guilty, whether it's earned or not. "If you're happy, then that's all that should matter." And if he isn't? The gold rider isn't going to presume. For what it's worth, she isn't running off as quickly as before. "I thought you really hated me, the first few times we met. Uhm. Sometimes you're unclear." She nearly blurts it out, but manages to keep her voice soft and even, "And you seem like... you care about being clearly understood." Her hand continues to smooth her skirts, needlessly. "If everyone pursued only their own happiness, then we would have chaos." His voice is quiet, intense, but still having shed some of the weight of the previous remark. This is more solid ground, and H'kon can look back up to her. "One especially in your position must know that." He can't keep the didacticism from the comment, and reaches to finish off what's in that glass as a means of breaking that thread. The empty glass set down, turned, H'kon murmurs, "It would seem understanding is a more and more subjective thing." Azaylia looks down at him with a little tightening of her lips. Whatever's on her mind will stay there, swallowed down so that she's able to murmur, "And if you completely ignore what you want, you might end up missing the things you need." She takes a step towards the table, hand dropping to cradle the neck of that bottle and pull it up. "It always was." She says, surprisingly light. "I thought, anyway." The expensive liquor is added to the cradle of books and papers, as if she didn't just steal from him. "If you're not going to make things clear by, uhm... having expressions..." A bit clumsy, a bit blunt, but it tapers off with a gentle lilt. "Then you could try talking more?" His words may be heavy, but hers are light, easily ignored if he prefers. The slight turn of his eyebrows, the frown that works itself sideways, makes him look almost the lost boy instead of the stoic brownrider. It's short-lived, and if there were a bit more light, the greys of H'kon's beard would surely catch it in the motion. "I hope you are wrong, then," still holds an echo of the hopeless. The bottle is only given a secondary glance, already settled where she's taken it, and he pushes an easy sigh, and sits back in his chair. "I wonder what you would have me speak to." Azaylia offers hope, "I probably am." If only because she's utterly fine with being wrong, especially in this case. She could just walk around the table and out into the caverns, but she makes it a point to linger by passing in front of H'kon first. "No one, I suppose." She's thoughtful about it, "Because you said you usually like to have your space..." The goldrider won't hound on that, not that she's doing much of it in the first place. "You're welcome to visit mine, at least." Her space. It's an offer made to many, with surprisingly few taking complete advantage of it. Most of the time. Bones. "For when you're feeling unusual." Said with a little smile. Did she make a funny? This time, the smile is a bit more natural, maybe a bit easier, certainly inward and tinged with amusement. "I was not asking for who," is more rounded than it could be called gentle. H'kon starts sitting forward as she leaves, pausing partway into a straighter (and more symmetrical) position. An intake of breath is caught halfway, eased out in, "Do you think that would be right?" a question, yes, but not without a note of chiding caution that doesn't quite hit his features. Azaylia takes the first few get-away steps with his liquor, "Oh." Her earlier confusion persists but rather than ask what he was asking for, she's willing to let it go. The goldrider turns with a blink of surprise, confusion causing the faintest crease to her brow. "Why wouldn't it be? I don't know if you'd call us friends..." The young woman wouldn't be so bold as to say, not with such a stoic rider. "But I've opened up my home to strangers." So he's certainly welcome. And before H'kon can chide her for that risky bit of charity, she's making off with his bottle of good liquor. "Have a better night." Is offered over her shoulder, whisper-quiet as always. Strangely enough, the bottle will be returned to his ledge by the morning and as full as it was when kidnapped. "Hm," is accorded to her, and H'kon stays sitting up until Azaylia has taken her leave. By the time that bottle is returned, he'll surely have got his dragon off whatever ledge Arekoth has found company on, and returned home. For the time being, however, when she's gone, the brownrider eases back into his chair, and never unrolls that letter, and lets the liquor wear off, and avoids the empty weyr that waits for him. |
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