Logs:Styles, Stalking, and Sorting
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 20 May, 2012 |
| Who: Brieli, Azaylia, NPCs |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Candidates doing what they do best, chores and chatting. And being watched. |
| Where: Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 28, Month 10, Turn 28 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: K'del/Mentions, Lujayn/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: NPCs by M'sar. |
  |
| 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.
"Oh pardon, no excuse me sir, oh I'm ever so-" And it'll continue until Azaylia's made her way in, though it's hard to say whether or not anyone's actually heard those quiet utterings. Board in one hand, writing stick in the other, she's clearly not here to ransack the stores like most. Quite the opposite in fact, and the young woman wordlessly walks over to her fellow candidate. A murmur, something like a greeting is squeaked Brieli's way along with the flash of a small smile. She's already pulling out a box, easing the weighted container down ever so gently. "Excuse you!" a young, peppy voice follows Azaylia, drowning out the apology he even teases her for not giving; W'rell bobs his head at several girls who trail by in Azaylia's wake, chattering softly but with serious faces that belie their youth. He scoffs to accept their sober tone, choosing instead to smile wryly as he strolls--but with purpose--to a shelf containing a small selection of used boots. Clasping the first footwear in front of him, he surreptitiously glides it to the side, finding that he's made a sly little peep-hole that, through a wall of assorted leather, he can spy on a brunette with strong cheekbones and even more strict posture examining fabrics nearby Brieli. Nevermind that he's clutching a pair of slender calve-huggers that wouldn't even fit over his big toe. Both candidate and rider are more interesting than an ugly skirt - Brieli glances up to watch their drastically different approaches with sharp gaze, somewhat amused - though whether it's by squeaking or overly small boots, it's hard to say. Returning Azaylia's smile with an easy one of her own, she swings the plaid skirt on one finger with a 'can you believe this?' arch of brow. "I'm helping the elderly by dressing them poorly, apparently. They'll be warm, but hideous. I suppose I might not care once I became ancient, but I like to think style never dies." She glances over W'rell's way, then back to the other candidate with an entertained eyeroll. "How are you finding it?" Azaylia is extra hunched by the time she reaches Brieli, and W'rell is to thank for that. Head far below her shoulders, trying to shrink as much as possible, it'll be a few moments of steady work before an answer can be coaxed out of the young woman. "I... don't think it's so bad?" She's crouched now, tossing a glance up Brieli's way now and then as she goes about plucking bits of fabric that are beyond help. Function-wise, not fashion. "Dunno much about style." Admitted easily, her gaze wanders to spot W'rell- eyes wide, head ducked and staying as silent as possible. Until, "...well. Finding it well. Uhm. You?" "I think the problem is that style never dies," suggests the brunette with the cheekbones nearby, her hand smoothing over a fabric in front of her as her voice travels from hesitant to inject herself into the conversation to confident, "You know. Never adapting... to the new ones?" It's worth a thought; or at least a shrug; she squints slightly and tries to see where their eyes keep going but, spotting only worn heels, she gets back to what she was examining: an old scrap of yellowed drapery, with odd forms already cut out of it, but perhaps something salvageable inside. If you wanted to make a flag supporting holey cheese. Gaining confidence, and losing line of sight-- like, who are these other people that are not the cheekbones?-- W'rell sidles on his tiptoes, widening his peep-hole. And kind of making it look like he's giving Azaylia the stink-eye. Brieli is fascinated by the way Azaylia shrinks into herself, but tries very hard not to be obvious about it. "Well. Maybe not. If you're an old lady, especially." She drops it into an open bag at her feet, glancing between the lurking-stalker W'rell and the other candidate before telling the now-former herder, "It's more interesting than seamstressing, I have to say. Something different every day. Almost enough to keep one's mind off the end result, yes?" Her tone is casual enough as she concentrates very hard on folding up a print blouse. To the brunette through the shelves; "It's the danger of stores, I think. Things don't go away till they wear out. Though you're right - some people are just set in their ways." Azaylia is the amazing shrinking candidate! She stays crouched low to the ground and balanced flat on both feet as she works. "Oh. You sew?" She asks the pair of socks that she's trying to find matches for, though the words are clearly meant for Brieli. It's easier that way. "I miss working in the stables. But, y-yes, it is nice doing new things." At least for a little bit. Gravity wins out in the end, and the candidate settles on her rump, long legs stretched out with the box between them. It's as if she feels the gaze, head ducking a bit more into the box as she murmurs for both girls, "I don't know anything about styles. I thought that was just something people said." Usually to be mean. By-- the egg. By the egg. You guys. Th-- the point of a peeper is not to look back at the peeper. So says W'rell's aghast incredulous expression when Brieli catches his eye for, like, the third or something time. Faranth. What is this. He begins to crush the boots inside his hand; poor slenders, they never had a chance. The cheekbones of his affection go blithely on, puffing with the force of the girl sticking her tongue thoughtfully into her cheek as she measures the length in front of her with her eyes alone. "They are rather, aren't they?" Set; in their ways. She queries after Brieli, a certain weight infused into the words that implies heavier than the mere matter of clothing choices. Or is that just the concentration she's using in her eyeballing leaking out. "I do. I'm not the best or the most committed seamstress ever, but I do my job. You did some nice work on your dress, by the by." Brieli nods to the amazing shrinking candidate and her dress, noting with sympathy, "I could imagine. Apprenticing is rather the definition of committed, and I suppose you miss the animals." However, with some surprise - and a wry little edge to her tone, "Oh, no. That's all some weavers do - think up new fashions for the Ladies and Weyrwomen to show off at their feasts and gathers." While Azaylia patches her favorite dress. She's no longer looking at W'rell for what it's worth, but she also totally looks like she has no idea why some peepers might be apoplectic right about now. Why on earth would she rat him out? Cheekbones garners an interested glance before she goes back to her box; with the same significance, "Seems that way. In ways, in opinions." There's a long squeak that might resemble words. And then, "Thank you. Uhm, my mama did most of it." Telling of just how ancient the faded dress must be. "But I do alright with sewing." She'll glance Brieli's way to ensure that she's not being impolite for the sake of her steady work ethic. She can't hide the surprise in her voice, "Really?" A whole job where you don't do much? At least that's how the once-apprentice considers it. "Oh, but the Ladies do look so lovely..." Thoughtful words have her coming around, perhaps not a completely pointless task after all. For cheekbones, a whimpered, "Tradition is important, m-maybe that's why?" They're stuck in their ways, whoever they happen to be. "Tradition is important," allows the brunette, not fighting; she even glimpses aside to flash Azaylia a reassuring, but not altogether forgving, smile. With the far-away look in her eye remaining, it's forty-percent clear the disappointment is not for the candidate, but some distant point of interest-- they? "But so is staying relevant." Simultaneously, she tosses the flap of yellowed fabric onto the rest of its riddled bulk, once again making murky her speech's intent when she chooses, instead, a brighter and more attractive color alongside it. Spreading the length-- without seeming to notice the giant star-shaped hole cut out of its middle-- between her hands, she displays it this way across her body for the other two with a quizzing, "Hmmm?" Like? Brieli doesn't look offended, so Azaylia must be all right. Eyeing a shawl that looks particularly moth-eaten, "Oh, they do. And I don't mind having a new dress now and then. But some people like a new dress every party. Never wear the same dress more than once." The shawl gets dropped on the floor with a wrinkled nose; too holey to be bothered with. Digging into the box, she has a nod for the other brunette's speech, she adds idly, "Open-minded is nice too." As she straightens with a brace of skirts in hand, the tall candidate tilts her head to look at the fabric before diplomatically, "It depends what it's for." Azaylia's own smile for the brunette is weak at best, uncertain, though she's not quite sure why. She helps the socks find their mates, placing them next to her on the growing pile of matching pairs. "I only have two." Not for pity, not to brag, just trying to contribute to the conversation in her own way. Head is prompted to turn by that inquisitive hum, tilting to the side as she remarks, "I think the hole will show your bellybutton. ...Unless that's what you want?" Scandalous! So brave. "Uhm. It's a nice color?" Honestly the worst woman to ask for fashion advice. "Just focusing on color right no-- " The brunette's sensical response for Brieli's neutrality is interrupted by Azaylia's voice penetrating (quietly) through. "What? What hole..." Dropping her chin, she nearly bangs it against her chest in the hurry to look. But, in a strange wave of timing, there's a not-quite-distant clatter of shoes and then a more defined //thump//-- as if, perhaps, a jaw ran into a shelf in its owner's sheer enthusiasm at imagining such a priceless phenomenon as Azaylia dares describe-- but as the brunette's attention shoots over, peering curiously those three shelves through their own, there's nothing to see. "Oy," she sighs, scooping up the poor holed fabric into her arms and depositing it onto the shelf with a beleaguered sigh-- there that goes, "Some people will just leave any mess." In about the same tone as the other candidate, "I have one nice dress." Brieli's smile for Azaylia shades towards reassuring, and she steers away from controversial thoughts as she sorts through the skirts one by one. "How do you stand mucking stables, by the way? I keep trying to trade off that job, but no one bites." Her dark gaze slides over to the direction of the shoequake and thump, and she just shakes her head before dropping the rest of the skirts into the sack on the floor. "You don't say. I've been told it's a real problem." "I'll trade!" Excitable squeak is paired with socks being clutched beneath her chin, big doe eyes staring right up at Brieli. "I've missed the runners, and the llamas..." Mucking is worth being able to visit her furry friends. The thump has her back straightening, looking over her shoulder at the shoes as they become still. "Uhmm..." Her eyes are slow to tear away, "I think maybe, i-if you wanted that, that a hole at your belly button could be, uhm... cute?" She would never, of course, but there are bound to be women who can pull it off. Chuckling softly at the excitement happening over the mention of llamas, those delectable cheekbones pushed up by her lips' merriment, the brunette waits them out before passing Azaylia a much better smile than before-- even if she glances at the fabric with a sad hesitance. "Thanks for the advice, at least. I think I'll try my luck in a few days-- but good luck on your chores, and like." Pushing back from the shelf, she takes her leave with a soft nod and a grace in her ways that clearly can't be described-- especially by the ducking form of W'rell, his back pressed to the shelf bottom where he dropped, his chest heaving in great, futile motions to fulfill his needs after the frantic scramble that's left him spread like an insect across several fallen pairs of shoes on the floor, and pressed to the giant box that managed to keep his curly head from view-- just, just barely. At the sound of the brunette stepping out, he sighs with a droop of his shoulders that releases the last balancing pair of slender boots resting behind his head tumbling to the floor and he picks them up to hold to his chest absently. A few days. Till then. "Amazing. Brilliant." Brieli is more than pleased to trade with Azaylia, especially given how big her eyes and how fervent her voice gets. "I'm sure that they miss you and find me lacking as a companion. I don't mind runners; I'm a little nervous about the llamas spitting." She wrinkles her nose - that's just gross. "And it could be cute, but I think it might cause more attention than one might want. It was nice chatting," she tells the other brunette through the shelves, "Have a good day, try to get some sun." She gives a little wave, then gives W'rell the side-eye as he passes. To Azaylia, quietly, "Sometimes, you see why people tell stories about riders." Azaylia is ever so quick to jump to her wooly friend's defense, "Oh, but they only ever really spit at other llamas..." Comes the ever-patient explanation. "Or if they think you're a llama." Which has that head tilting to the side, as if inspecting Brieli for certain characteristics. Ms. Cheekbones seems to be leaving, and the candidate matches her smile, "Good luck. O-on your dress. And all." As for W'rell, the model rider that he is, could there be a bit of ruffling of Azaylia's feathers? "The riders I know are perfect gentlemen." Hmph. Brieli can't help but laugh a little as Azaylia looks her over for llamaesque features, and she quickly wraps a greyish shawl about her shoulders, turning this way and that to show it off. "I'm tallish," she says. "Perhaps if I look wooly, they mistake me for a llama. I'll let you visit - they know you for a herder. Or - sorry. Once herder. Friend." She drops the shawl into the bag, having the grace to look a little embarrassed. "I said sometimes. Many riders I've met are perfectly fine. But if you met him first?" She arches brows the other candidate's way. "What would you think?" Azaylia drops a sock back into the box, fingers splaying over her lips to try and stifle her giggles. Llama!Brieli is still quite a vision, "I wouldn't wear that." She warns, good naturedly. Her hand drops, and there's a bit of effort for that smile to stay, but she manages. "It's alright. I'll always be a Herder." Optimism has her sounding less hopeless about her chances of impression. The hypothetical is considered as she dips her hand back into the box, retrieving the once abandoned sock. "..Mmm. I suppose you're right." Momentary shudders are gone quickly enough, "But it takes all kinds." "Oh, no - that is destined for some hundred turn old auntie who is finding it getting chilly earlier this year. Though I can't say as I blame her; it does get colder quicker here." Brieli shudders a little with an amused smile for Azaylia's stifled giggles. She does sober a little at the girl's last to ask, curiously, "Do you mean that in an 'in-my-heart' sense or a 'this-isn't-going-to-happen' sense?" She's wise enough to go back to her sorting after asking, turning her sharp, dark gaze to other matters. "It does at that," she can agree easily, nodding. "I just don't like when people act all creepy. Or even a little creepy. I feel like I should have said something, to be honest. I feel complicit." Azaylia can at least nod confidently at the talk of weather at High Reaches. There are even tips, "The Greenhouse stays pretty nice, I hear. And the Sands." Hardly a secret to keep to herself, she's more concerned with the other candidate's comfort. "Uhm." She manages to pair up two socks before mustering up an answer for Brieli. "B-both?" Not a lie. And then there's looking for the best in all folk, "Maybe... he was just shy?" Even she doesn't sound completely convinced. A pinch to her brow, simple Keroon girl echoing, "Complicit?" Sounds like one of them scholarly type words. Nodding as she comes to the bottom of the barrel, as it were, Brieli settles into a crouch over the last of the clothing. "I've found that I like sitting in the galleries sometimes, though Ysavaeth makes me nervous when she's awake... She's just so big." Glancing over Azaylia's way questioningly, she seems to silently ask if the herder gets what she means - or if she's going to be in the minority again. Looking a little skeptical for 'both', she admits, "I'd think it a bit difficult either way. And I meant... I feel like I made what he did okay by not saying anything. I should have let her know someone was looking at her, because I'd want to know." "Bigger than Cadejoth, even." Spoken with fear-laced awe, as if the fact that golds are bigger than bronzes are a novel. Though in reality, the Weyrleader's dragon is the only one she's ever been formally introduced to. "She's been asleep the times I've visited." Azaylia sounds very grateful at that fact. She tries to make her neutral opinion less so, "I mean... what dragon is going to want a rider who's afraid of him?" Dragonets certainly can't be that silly, can they? The pile next to her has grown significantly, socks rolled into each other to make it difficult for them to be separated. "Oh, I supposed that make sense." Azaylia admits, as if Brieli's opinion is law. And yet, "I don't think I'd mind, uhm. W-Well if he was only looking. Maybe." With a little twitch - less a shudder than the start of one - Brieli grimaces down into the nearly-empty box before dumping it out to turn it over; perching on the edge to sort through what's left. "I've... thought about that a little, myself. I haven't precisely been very close to many of them, they make me nervous, I thought it unseemly to watch the clutching - I have odd ideas about all of this, yet Lujayn seemed to think it a good idea that I stand. I think... I still should. But it doesn't mean I don't have reservations." There's a moment before, slowly, "I hope that helps." Otherwise, offering it all up was pointless! With a shrug, "Maybe she would or wouldn't have, but still." Azaylia listens without any intention of interrupting her fellow candidate. Instead, she makes a mark or two on the hides she's brought in with her. There's a tilt to her head, eyes cast down but ear aimed at Brieli. "You were asked to Stand." She offers with the intent to soothe. "Either by dragon or Lujayn, that must mean you've got something special." Unlike the cheating once-herder. Lengthy arms gather up most of the sock pile, dumping it back into the box before plucking up the few pairs she missed. "You should ask to meet Cadejoth. He's a good boy." Warmth blossoms into a smile, obvious in her tone as well. It all disappears in an instant as a squirming, squelching growl makes itself known. "Oh my, sorry. I haven't eaten since..." Blink. "I should go have lunch." Box is hoisted up, slid back onto the shelf where it belongs. "I'm given to understand that a lot of people who ask to stand Impress." Nevermind that Brieli can't think of any examples right now or that she just got to the Weyr a little over a month ago - suddenly she's an expert! Not sure what else to offer to Azaylia, she attempts to return the smile, confirming, "The Weyrleader's dragon. Yes, I'll try." There's something odd about her tone, but it passes in the way the brunette waves the other dark-haired girl off with a grin for the growl. "Go, eat. I'll see you later, and I'll let you know when mucking comes up next. Enjoy lunch, Azaylia." Oblivious even on her most suspicious days, Azaylia takes no notice of any odd tones. Though the words have her gathering up those hides and writing stick with a smile, "If you're scared, K-The Weyrleader, is very understanding." There was no K sound, hush. Brieli doesn't have to tell her twice, and hopefully someone's warned the poor cooks that this particular candidate is on her way. Retreat is speady, excited at the prospect of a meal. But then, she returns! "Oh, and... Brieli? Uhm. It was really nice talking to you." Azaylia half-hides behind the entrance, shrinking once gain. "So. Just wanted to say that. Kaybye." Shrinking and disappearing act is complete. |
Leave A Comment