Logs:Talk
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| RL Date: 5 October, 2014 |
| Who: D'shal, Ulyana |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: D'shal and Ulyana talk. |
| Where: Star Stones, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 28, Month 12, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
| It's morning and most of the Candidates are off to do their chores, regardless of whatever weather's flung their way. The few with time off, however, are in various states of sleeping in or trying to sleep in. And then there's Ulyana, who's at her cot, with a book opened in front of her and a closed one on her lap serving as a table of sorts. She's writing something or another, head bowed and with an expression that's strangely somber. Whatever she's writing is of some importance gauging by that - and the meticulous marks made by her pen. Over the quiet of sleepy candidates a rider's bootfalls can't help but stand out, but at least these ones are giving some care not to rap quite so loudly against aincient stone. No authoratiative swagger, this, and in fact even his flight jacket is folded over a sweater-thick arm in a way that must knowingly tuck in the knot. It's a more targeted invasiveness that D'shal has in mind, and the relative high of a dark head bowed over writing makes his path to the foot of Ulyana's bed an efficient one. "Morning." Gruffness is pleasant for him. Hazel eyes do drop to notice her writing and books, but it seems to make little impact. "Put on something warm. We're going up on watch." The sound of footfalls is enough to still Ulyana's hand. The girl's mouth twitches just a little to one side, as if the ascent from the depths of her inner world was a little too quick for her liking. Her head tips just so to one side, allowing her to cant a look up at D'shal from the corner of an eye. The writing, if he takes the time to skim it, appears to be a report of some sort. No title - but perhaps this is purposeful. "Morning," is echoed and, as the rest of his words are offered, she proceeds to methodically put everything away. She pauses after putting the pen kit away and looks back up at him. Though she looks just a touch paler than she did mere moments before, she still manages to intone: "Should I bring something to write with?" There is some time given to skim, between the faint crinkle of his smile given to the sliver of gaze and the methodical neatening of the pages away. D'shal waits patiently through her organized transition, adjusting his weight back on his heels and turning an idle scan along the stretched line of cots within the barracks. Some caught gaze of a not-quite sleeper prompts a small curve at an edge of his mouth. The question returns his regard to serious gray eyes. A second's pause considers what he sees there. "Yeah, you probably should." Slight emphasis may suggest he'd not answer the same for someone else. "You're not tight on supplies?" he thinks to check. Also, bland: "Y'feeling alright?" "I see." And though he poses more questions, Ulyana doesn't answer them right away. The girl is efficient and quick when the situation suits - and this is one such situation. There's no need to rummage through her personal things; what she needs is on top, neatly folded. Unnecessary things are put away in their appointed places and others withdrawn. In the end, she's neatly bundled up with a heavy jacket, gloves, and a thick scarf that's wrapped over her head and around her neck - and with a slim satchel with a strap running crosswise over her person. The bed is given a cursory neatening and, only then, does she reply, "I have what I need." One shoulder rises and falls. On matters of wellness: "And I am alive. That should be sufficient." And if that utterance is just a bit grim, so be it. Does she see? D'shal will ripple an eyebrow. Then again, maybe its just sign that there are some borders to his patience. He doesn't watch the girl throughout her entire assembly, though there's not much else to entertain himself with. A plucked pill from his sweater. The upward tip of an instep to check on that new scuff in the leather that still has a raw fuzzy edge. Some boy from the tip of Boll who goes flopping out of bed in a further corner of the long and skinny room. Enough distraction that hazel eyes make a final scan of her person once Ulyana is proclaimed ready. And alive. The bronzerider blinks, a hollow smile pressing deeper upon his mouth. "After you," he'll then bid. The brief indicating lift of his palm is no gentleman's gesture, but it gets the job done. His broad stride is slowed to fall in with her diminutive dimensions. "You haven't liked the flying," he remembers. "How can we not make it worse?" There's a final, sidelong look to the bronzerider - and then Ulyana's in full compliance, moving forward at as brisk a pace as she can manage. There is no looking back when he speaks, nor when she issues a response several steps later. "I get sick," she explains. "The first time I rode on a dragon was when I was Searched." A thin shudder crawls down her spine at the memory. "I did not get sick in the air. When we landed- it was not a pleasant experience. I do not know if that is something that can be remedied." The statement is poised as a potential question, curved just so and laid out. "And then there is *between*." Which needs no further elaboration beyond the deeper shudder that seizes her by the shoulders. Then: "Do you like flying?" D'shal is a quiet bulk beside her, much like a tree might be, or a bank of snow. Not completely unaffected, though it may be hard to find sign of it. There is passive receptiveness in his sidecast observation of her shuddering recollections. "We're not going *between*," is perhaps one worry that can be put aside, at least for the morning. It'll still be colder outside, so as they near the door the bronzerider lets his jacket shake loose so he can start to fit it on over the already-layered bulk of his cableknit sweater. "Sure, I like flying. Being out on the wind. Feeling the work of it. I like /doing/," in general. "But you're a thinker," he makes comparative assumption. "Was it motion sickness added up, or just that dragon's sloppy landing technique?" There's a shallow, up-down-center, nod for his reassurances. Ulyana adjusts the hang of her scarf as they venture closer to the world outside, drawing it up to cover her nose and mouth. Her voice is muffled, but she's mindful to speak loudly enough to be heard. His answer is processed and filed away for future reference - but it's the question that gives her a bit more to work over. Eventually: "I am a thinker out of necessity." Her head finally tilts enough to allow her to look at him, if just barely from the corner of an eye. "My stomach is not strong - and I do not know the difference between a poor landing or a good one. It could have been both, but it seems safer to say it was my stomach and nothing more." Her attention fixes itself, once more, on where they're going, even if her questioning takes a different angle: "What did you do before you were a rider?" The upward tilt of gray eyes is met with slack placidity, only after a moment the suggestion of a curve twitching vaguely to the worn line of his mouth. "Uh huh." Safer. "S'smart." Such an absent comment, so briefly made, is hard to pin to any intention -- but in this, too, perhaps D'shal is setting them at spectrum's ends. The donning of his jacket caught his loose-slung scarf askew. He yanks it out from beneath his collar and tosses the longer end into a wind over his shoulder before they face the autumn chill of mountain air. "Lumber," is what he did before. "No craft. No knot, before him." The rangey broze who waits in a loose-kneed crouch just outside the exit. A lopsided shrug is granted and Ulyana lapses into silence for a short time after the bronzerider answers. Of course, as soon as they're outside and properly in the figurative shadow of the beast, the girl hesitates. It's not an outright balk, but the pallor from before returns - and is mostly masked by the drape of her scarf. That scarf does plenty to hide her discomfort; only the barest edge of a quaver catches at the edge of her words to betray her. "Why did you choose to Stand?" It's possible she could presume based on his earlier answer, but she is not that person. She continues her approach slowly and with a distinct note of trepidation. Kuquuth does, unfortunately, have plenty of the hideously large and beastly about him. There's a lively sweep of his short tail that skitters far away over the cold earth, the herald of hunter's-potential motion all bound up into the neatening crouch of legs that brings the high of his sinewy shoulder into symbollically closer reach. No avoiding a climb when the height is so much greater than his rider's, never mind the girl's. At least he's not staring? The algaed green of his lake-calm gaze settles on Ulyana with polite berevity before shifting on to D'shal and then further to the rim where they'll presumably travel. The man's attention doesn't stray so far, turned between Ulyana and the straps that will serve ladder across the splashed mottle of bronze hide. "Duty I guess." It's no large thing, but now the truth of his smile suedes the edges of his blunt delivery. "You okay going up first?" He'll offer a hand, still free of the gloves that are making a bulge of the caro pocket by his knee. Behind the scarf, the girl sucks her teeth. The creature might not be staring, but she certainly is - at least for the span of a heartbeat or two before she's inexorably drawn back into the here and now. She releases a breath that must have been held since her query, a thin stream of condensation speaking to the control of its dismissal. "Of course," because what other answer should there be, if only to her mind? She knows that notion all too well. And her answer serves double duty - both as an expression of understanding and confirmation that she will go. It takes her a moment to steel herself for the deed, but she takes up to the straps with all the clumsiness of one who's had a but a scant handful of dragon rides under her belt. His hand might be offered, but she doesn't accept it - of course, given just how terribly she shook the last time dragons were involved, there might be something else to it. No words now. Not a one. Unused, that palm will set to the subtle warmth of hide as D'shal again waits for Ulyana to proceed with her silent self-sufficiency. His hover is a more live-wired thing, arms a coil of muscle ready to shift for assistance in a way that he did not impose upon the neat order of her cotspace. Once he's satisfied the candidate is not in immediate danger of tumbling back down to the bowl, he tugs open his pocket for the knitted cap to jam over his head and the fleece lined gloves that work over a wiggle of thick fingers. "Be right up." And he is, the reach and swing a motion made of deep-set habit. "Pardon me," is also a habituated sort of grunt as he fits to his space amid the straps and reaches, businesslike, to fix the lashings that've already been adjusted into approximately appropriate length for a strange, small teenager. "Slow spiral better," he wants her opinion, "or just get it over with?" Below, claws are already scraping against the ground as Kuquuth starts to unfold. At the very least, she knows where to sit; that's the one thing she's mastered in all of this madness. Though Ulyana starts the strap adjustments before D'shal mounts up, she's quick to divest herself of the duty when he makes a move to do so. It may help that she's extremely still throughout the process and, while he tends to it, her eyes slide shut. Once it's all said and done, her gloved hands drop to the straps and latch on, white-knuckled and with a fine quiver threading up her arms for that tension. Her head is bowed and each slow, deep breath is puncutated with a ribbon of faint condensation courtesy of the chill in the air. The shift and slide of the beast below only seems to lock her down further - and it might well seem that she's not heard the question at all until her answer finally comes, thin and strained: "Make it quick." With her eyes shut, Ulyana won't be able to see the additional cock of head D'shal uselessly makes in waiting for her answer. Well? But by now he surely expects things to come in their time instead of with haste, when it comes to the odd girl. His answer, in contrast, is prompt. "Aye aye." There's no sign of him being overly worried over her tight-knuckled latching. Leather creaks soft as his weight skews to the side, a palm dropping behind his knee in a firm slap that's a tender caress to such a beast as the bronze. Dustcloud wings spill out with deep sighs. Below, the dragon's supple spine curves as Kuquuth steps free of the cliff with leggy athleticism. The coil of his musculature has an absent air, as if the spring he makes into the sky is no great effort. Indeed, it is more smooth than quick, but the slow start is remedied when his great sails catch air and the rhythmic shove of wingarms push into a steep climb from bowl's shadow to the iconinc stones standing on Fort's rim. No detour is made, and just the one rumble along the bronze's thick throat as he makes exchange with the previous watch's brown. The catch of rock he makes with his claws is buffered by the wind still captured in his backwinging, a gradual easing of weight from one set of limbs to the others. With the turn's dwindling, sunlight is still cracking thick and golden over the rugged peaks of the great western range. There's naught for the girl to do but hold on and remain holding, even if it does little in the end. Ulyana braces for the ascent and that's all there is for what feels like forever. Because it's all up and up and up for an eternity and nevermind the rest of the flying needed to carry them to the bowl's rim. Everything is absorbed in some way or another; the lack of sight just makes her other senses work harder. The girl's sucking of air is practically inaudible against the comparable thunder of beating wings and, by the time they do land, she's struggling to catch one good breath of air while she fumbles at the straps. The jostle of the landing might be slight, but it's enough; or maybe it's just the trigger her gut's attuned to. In either case, she manages to keep herself together for the moment - save for the desperate working of buckles and the catch of her breath. "Shards," grumbles under his breath. D'shal might have hoped, vain as it was. There's a moment where his palm sets to his own buckle, but then that's left fastened in favor of helping hasten the freeing snake of leather from Ulyana. "Hold on." To his arm, wrapping a thick hand about the padded slender of her wrist so he can help nudge her off and danglingly guide her down. To the leather, presumably, lashed across the smooth of a bronze shoulder that's tilting into a gentler slope. Maybe to the reach of draconic knuckles, the back of Kuquuth's paw offered like a a child breathlessly hoping to catch a delicate vtol. Certainly to her stomach -- at least until she's down, maybe? He can't say he wasn't warned. The moment Ulyana's released and nudged over, she's doing her best to make her way down out of a blind need for solid ground. There are few things that can drive a person with that kind of instinctive focus - and roiling innards are certainly one of them. She's momentarily oblivious to the fact that the creature below is assisting; she'll reach those knuckles and complete the slide down, only to tear the scarf back from her mouth. One hand rests unknowingly against the bronze's forelimb as she sinks into a crouch, head ducked as far down between her knees as she can manage. Ungainly as the posture is, it seems to help; there is no sicking up of anything, but there is a bit of spitting and several deep breaths along the way. "Sorry. I'm sorry," is uttered, mantra-like, in a voice gone threadbare. Give her a minute - maybe two - and all will be set back to rights. No telling when that moment will end and leave him less than reassuring, but for the moment Kuquuth's got this. His knuckles, horribly large as they are, hover in gentle guard behind the crouching girl. His forearm is steady beneath her balance and a wing, coming out of its stretch, curves against the worst of the gusts snagging across the caldera's rim. With his dragon's slow-whirling gaze in attendence, D'shal seems content to take his own time coming down. "It's fine," he comments distractedly while still astride. Methodical, he, in the loosening ring of buckles and the gathering of supplies from a pouch fastened aft on the harness. "Not your fault." There's both a cylindrical thermos and a circular canteen that fit over his shoulder by the sling of straps. A scrap of towel is theoretically clean, though it smells vaguely of glycerine leathersoap. These things all bundle down with the bronzerider as he makes his careful way to a landing clear of Ulyana. "How're ya doing?" is his skeptical question as he hunches into his own crouch to squint at her, balanced on the balls of booted feet. "I am alive." But she certainly doesn't sound like it. All the same, once Ulyana's steady enough, she pushes slowly to her feet with the unexpected - if only to her - aid of Kuquuth. She keeps her hand on his foreleg despite the rapidly burgeoning awareness of her surroundings and the curiously protective sweep of the very thing that terrifies her. A glance is stolen at the bronze before her attention fully centers on D'shal. A hand comes up to tug the scarf back into place, while a few rapid blinks and a quick pass of the hand does well to clear her eyes up. "But, I am still sorry." The scarf twitches, betraying a movement of her mouth, and she tips her head back and up, in search of the beast's great head - and, if she can manage it, one of his eyes. "Thank you," is offered directly to the bronze, just before she starts to pull away. Back to D'shal again: "What did you bring?" A beat. "What do we do?" Her continued existence prompts a single dry chuck of breath. "Sufficiently." Alive, even if barely. D'shal is content to stay in his crouch for the moment. The backward bend of his layer-thickened elbow neatens the balance of slung metal containers upon the small of his back. "Alright," he'll accept her insisted apology. Squinty eyes follow briefly to the algal swirl of Kuquuth's faceted regard. "You're welcome," is a translation for the splashed-paint bronze who angles into Ulyana's search. A cheerier current of blue ripples across his gaze as the two inner sets of his lids partially lower into a greater appearance of passivity. "Klah. Water. If you need it." But maybe she'll be fine, his study is seeming to conclude. "We sit," still balanced over the uplift of heels, he points to the wind-sheltered nook of rock favored by the endless rotation of riders. "At the Weyr, mostly the dragons report coming and going. Don't have the drums and run messages like out in the Holdlands. Watch the east for silver." It's a touch grim, the brief bounce of his smirk, but surely that's just the formality of tradition in these Interval days. It's something, anyway. There's a singular up-down-center nod for the accepted thanks - and a momentary squint upward at the shift of eye color. Ulyana's jaw works under the scarf, but nothing is immediately offered up. At the mention of klah and water, his assessment proves correct; she gives a left-right-center shake of her head, coupled with a flat, "I do not think I will." She settles into position to follow D'shal when the appointed time of sitting arrives. Until then, she listens, gaze tracking after his motions and a periodic nod given here and there to acknowledge his words. "I see," says she and her attention re-centers on him. Her bag is shifted up so she can pull things from it - a stick of pencil-clad graphite, a leather-bound book, and a small parcel of something or another. A curious piece of off-white something - candied ginger by the looks of it - is withdrawn and popped into her briefly exposed mouth. The rest is put away and the treat is tucked into a cheek to allow her to say, "Who keeps the records for arrivals and departures?" The track of hazel eyes watches all of these little motions. Perhaps his crow's feet gain a little depth for the book and the candy. A moment more the rider's gaze holds on her before a curt little nod of his own precedes the smooth stretch back to his relaxed-shoulder height. "The log book stays at the Star Stone post," D'shal answers as he starts for it. He doesn't really need to reach a hand up to ease a dusty spar out of the way like clearing a branch from their path, the moment merely an unthinking choreography of connection before the bronze folds himself to his perch and the rider leads to the place where a bigger book is sheltered from the weather that's bleached color from a tumbled assortment of hardy cushions. "It goes down to the Headwoman's staff to be entered, checked against meetings, that sort of thing." Its rather nebulous to him, these latter inky fates. The information is, as with everything, noted and neatly filed away. Ulyana tracks after him easily enough, picking her way along with efficient grace. Of course, the answer, once paired with the sight of the book, is no doubt going to yield some further exploration. She reaches out to place the tips of her gloved fingers at the edge of the book's pages, with a brief lean in to take a glance at the contents. Once satisfied, she withdraws and finds a suitable place to stand for the time being. Shoulders up against any lingering trace of wind - real or imagined - she might well seem to blend perfectly into this sort of thing. Silence unspools, hangs, and is eventually clipped when she asks, "Why did family bring you here?" Because, see, she doesn't forget promises - least of all the ones she makes to herself. D'shal keeps the slant of an eye upon the candidates explorations while he fishes in the pile of cushions. Maybe it's the faded stripes that makes him partial to the third one. He shakes it free and flips it towards a worn-flat bit of rock. The heavily woven thing lands with a solid flop. His bootheels skitter a bounce of grit free as D'shal eases himself to a seat where he can see book and bronze and the view falling away from the ridge of the rim. Another check of his eyes finds Ulyana, blended, and seems to be satisfied. His expression is left free to scrunch as he leverages the straps from his shoulder and fits containers into clunking rest atop the towel. The thermos won't rest long -- he plucks it up to unscrew the top. "My son lives with his mother, and she gets posted by the Vintnercreaft." He frowns a sniff over the opened mouth, finding it too cooled to emit more than the faintest cloud of condensation into chilly air. "There's *between* either way, but s'nice to be hungry for dinner at the same time. Yeah?" He hasn't forgotten promises, either, but the look he lifts across at the candidate leaves space instead of immediately calling upon the second of them. Her book is flipped open after a fashion and she writes with sharp, short strokes. It's utilitarian, that writing; quick and brutally efficient. D'shal's process of settling in is observed from the corner of one of the Candidate's eyes, but her expression has resumed impassivity and her thoughts are kept to heself. Ulyana continues to jot notes up until the moment that he speaks; perhaps to reassure that what he says will not be written. Perhaps because her mind only works well with one thing at a time. No matter, in the end. Her scarf contorts and her brow furrows just a little while she considers what he's said. Then the notes resume, a scattering of observations and topics that are connected only by the graphite. "You are a good father," she decides - and there is a rare weight to her words, distorting the typical lifelessness to lend it some sense of feeling. "Most riders do not seem to be quite as dedicated." Observation only; flatly intoned. The expectation of a follow-up question culminates in a curious canting of her head toward him. That look is caught - but it seems to confuse more that comfort and she lapses into silence shortly thereafter. "Hmm." The sound rides a low chuckle that echoes deep in his chest. There's more room between the folded hem of his cap and the wind of his scarf for a vague smile to be seen fitted to overly weathered and worn features. So little of Ulyana is to be seen, even though the rare distortion of her tone lends more intent to the look already casting towards her. "S'kinda a low threshold," is his likewise-flat observation in reply. But despite the pauses given, maybe this was all D'shal was expecting, some comment recieved to signal his answer... sufficient. Despite the wait. And so he takes a swig of cold klah and bats a gloved finger at the corner of his eye, and settles his elbows over his knees. "Now you." Hazel eyes swing back upon the slip of a girl. "Your thoughts on sharing your thoughts?" Cute, right? It curls a little at mouth's edge. A glance is angled toward him and the notes slow again. "No lower than Holders," Ulyana replies. One shoulder rises and falls. "I have experienced the absence of both kinds. You are a good person. That is rare - in Hold, Hall or Weyr." So, it doesn't quite rhyme, but it's close. More things are added to paper until the page is full and she, rather than flip to a new one, settles on closing the whole thing up for the time being. Anticipation is a devil of a thing, even for one who seems unaffected; the book ends up in front of her, both hands folded over it, and her posture - already stiff - straightens just a little further. Her head tips back as if that might help her swallow the question easier - or, perhaps, it's to keep something else in check. Eventually: "That thought is more terrifying than the dragons themselves. Their physicality is imposing and they are still... shadows and shapes in a distant window to me. But their minds, their thoughts- they're too alien. Too strange." Which, she knows, is not sufficient as it stands, but elaboration is slow. Calculated. It's a slow unplugging of a Pernese Pandora's urn and, once opened, perhaps it can't be closed. "More than fearing them, I fear for them. I fear what they might find - and what they might not. I fear that if one were to choose me, they would be doing themselves a disservice. There are many who want them, many more who are open to them." Her head drops and her gray gaze tracks slowly back to D'shal - in part to study with her typical inscrutability; in part to confirm his presence and reassure of her awareness. "I am a Candidate out of duty alone - not because of a dream or a fantasy or a need. I understand the idea is generally an ugly one for most riders, but that is the shape of it. The nature of it." It bears some consideration, Ulyana's explained point of view for those early comments of hers. Perhaps this distracts him from greater answer, but D'shal will smile for his proclaimed goodness -- the worn thing only the smallest trace brittle with discomfort over compliments. The expression doesn't last long, not with his attention shifting over to more intent reception as the strange girl braces herself so firmly to make reply. Her midstream study will find him with his mouth buried into the warmth of scarf folds, the held-closed thermos hanging idle between his propped knees while hazel eyes make steady audience to the spilling of the urn. In the end, the well-practiced knit of his brow could be construed as attributable to the typical verdict of ugliness. The bronzerider has no quick reply, spending a moment nuzzling into the warmth of breath caught within wound woolen knit. "Lotta fears," is the first observation made when his mouth lifts, free of any trace of a frown's censure. "But y'still keep that knot on your shoulder." This is a highlight of /choice/. Perhaps anticipation of argument fuels his subsequent question: "What does duty mean to you?" And as he studies her, she studies him. There's a slow, slow blink at one point, a distortion of her scarf suggestive of the pull of her mouth. Ultimately, Ulyana responds, "I made a promise - and I always keep promises." Silence again, filled with the indescribable weight of mutual examination and the expansion of a silence that's all-too-comfortable for her. "I do not know the same fears of most," she notes, responding out of turn to his observations and questions. "I am not afraid of death or sickness. I am not afraid of suffering." One narrow shoulder lifts and drops with obvious ambivalence toward those ideas. "Consider this," her knot-bearing shoulder is indicated, "a way of conquering it - or trying to." Her fingers tighten a little on the book in front of her. "It is, also, a symbol of duty. Duty is a responsibility. An obligation. It is something that I am expected to do. It is a self-imposed duty and I am aware of that." Her brow furrows just a little as she adds after a moment, "I wonder if the other Candidates truly understand what duty is. So many of them want to Impress or need to or have dreamt about it. Many will be disappointed. The rest..." she trails off with a singular shake of her head. "I cannot pretend to understand what it is to be a rider, but sometimes I think I have a better understanding of the gravity of it, of the responsibilities, than the others do." Short as it is, D'shal may start to assume what the candidate first says is full answer as the silence stretches. His gloved fingers shift in the small movement of easing the thermos's cap from the single thread he'd closed it. Metal squeaks softly in the cold. His drink will be stalled, however, as all those many fears are pulled back on the table and submit to dissection. A little twitch tugs at his mouth before the klah finally lifts briefly to help lubricate his consideration. It lingers in his cheeks while he listens to Ulyana work through duty's defenition. Her brow may furrow, but his has grown a little lighter. "A duty and a promise are about the same thing," he'll first link up the things she's said, making it sound more a question than assertion. These are her conceptions, and the bronzerider doesn't mean to take them from her. He lifts a rub of his thumb's glove seam to his nose, brows lifting to better keep the girl in sight over the floating curl of his fingers. "You think, maybe, responsibility might not be so disservicing a thing t'have in mind?" "They are alike in the same way firelizards and dragons are," Ulyana points out blandly. "They share the same shape, but one is larger than the other." This time, both shoulders rise and fall in a remarkably even shrug. "The question is which one is bigger to you - or to me." She watches the process of drinking with apparent indifference; the whole of her is writ in lines of pure impassivity despite the seeming weight of the conversation. It's a matter of definition, translation, and understanding; words and more words, which fit almost as neatly into her narrow world as ledgers do. There's an eventual tip of her head to one side at his question, with a familiar span of silence spreading out between query and response. "I am aware of the responsibilities," is a reiteration of earlier fact, "and it would be a disservice to the others to not try to educate them more." Her head slowly straightens up. "I do not imagine they would think so lightly of things if they knew how badly things could go. Or if they knew what they were responsible for." A beat. "I have read the dragonhealer manuals and the records." So she knows - or has as much of a sense of things as her teenaged mind will allow, in either case. D'shal nods for the landscape mapped in dragons and firelizards, though he offers no flag to pinpoint where he comes down on the question posed. Her latter conclusions, when they come, are perhaps not entirely what he expected. There's a narrowing flicker of hazel eyes and a pause of thought betrayed by the way the chill autumn air holds a moment in his chest. "S'good to have an idea of what sort of risks you're setting yourself up for," the bronzerider sort of agrees. His study flicks over the straightened, slight length of the bundled girl. "There's more t'caring than knowing pots of numbweed to handspans of hide. Things'll get into your head that don't just subtract out by running the numbers. That knot means accepting responsibility to those things, too, if they come." His squint has softened from silent nitpick into a skew of more careful questioning as it slants upon Ulyana. "There's more to it, to life, than bracing for every bad thing." The edge of his mouth twitches. Maybe the dreamers amongst the candidates aren't entirely without virtue? "Gotta be ready for the ginger crisps, too." "I am braced for reality. Nothing more." Ulyana shifts her weight just slightly; barely perceptible, but enough to suggest that even she can get a little stiff despite her tendency toward rigid postures. "I did not say anything about caring." Matter-of-fact. "And someone has to maintain the details - all of those details are important. Perhaps not to you or to others, but they are to me. I would not presume to treat a dragon as a ledger book, but I do not feel it is incorrect to plan for possibilities." The book is drawn up, only to be tucked under one arm; her head cocks a bit to the other side, queer and mechanical in motion. "I do not presume to understand the minds of dragons. If one chooses me, I can only theorize that it sees something that it wants or needs - or else it was so desperate that it would consign itself to a mind full of numbers and ledgers and neat lines of organization." Deadpan, that. "I cannot think any would be so desperate." And there is more, surely, but those are not the questions he's asking - and her answers are simply a reflection of that. Too vague a sound to be properly a laugh, a scuffed grunt puffs a billow of breath into the cold morning. For the simple clear-cut the teen makes of preparing for reality, she'll get a lean of hazel eye. Perhaps D'shal /is/ too careless of the details. He spins the cap back on the thermos while the candidate outlines them, depositing it to rest against one booted instep. That lets him draw his elbows into a closer tuck, palms minorly rubbing together for warmth. This is stopped by one word -- desperate. It draws a point of gloved finger to Ulyana which is only reinforced by the repetition. "That. Planning has it's place, and I have little doubt of your sense of responsibility. But that, I have a problem with." His voice may be frank, but apart from the content it's not particularly harsh. Also: "D'you wanna sit down?" Yeah, he noticed the little shift. That tilted look is met with a steady one of Ulyana's own. She doesn't flinch back from his consideration - nor from that finger pointed so sharply at her. Rather, her head lifts just a little, her scarf-wrapped chin pointing back as much as it's able. "Elaborate," is her immediate response. "Is the theory distasteful or is it just my suspicion?" Because the details are there to be picked apart, analyzed - and perhaps put together in new ways. Or not at all. She is, for all of the severe constructs of her thoughts, strangely malleable; it just might take a while to properly see it in action. As to the other, a roll of shoulders. "I do not want to." But she will. Utility overrides stated preference; the question is answered as asked, but the peculiarities of her habits are underscored by this apparent incongruity. The spot chosen is well-suited for conversation; the better to face him after all. It doesn't hurt that her lap now exists as a makeshift desk, though it's not used as such. Rather, the book finds a home there and her hands fold atop it, gloved digits lacing meticulously together. D'shal's breath is a long one, audible without quite being a sigh and visible in it's quick escape from the warm depths of his lungs. Elaborate. His eyes twitch towards narrow again, and he'll wait to watch the choice she makes in picking a seat. The corner of shallow smile is just visible over the edge of his scarf as he watches her settle across from him. The bronzerider could at least be grateful for the prevention of a kink in his neck. Instead he just rebuts: "You don't /have/ to." But here she is, with that book of notes he might be more discomforted by then the slight glances given to it may suggest. Then again, he did tell her to bring it. "It's an excuse," is his brusque offer in interest of elaboration. "It's a way t'avoid a responsibility you don't want. It's saying that you can't instead of finding what you can." He's less comfortable with all the words, the analysis, and it leaves him creased with mild disgruntlement as he squints across at Ulyana. "I chose to," say she, though the fact that she's sitting is evidence enough of that choice. Ulyana intones, "It is easier to talk this way, even if I do not particularly want to sit." That seeming discomfort of his is noted, but ultimately not heeded. Chalk it up to her natural state of relative indifference to things; in this, it's more important to have that peculiar device. She flips it open after a fashion, finds a blank page, and begins to jot again. Her writing is cramped, but neat, as before; precise lines forming a structure for whatever thoughts are spilling forth. "How is it an excuse?" That's what she wants to know. "Impression is not something I can control. It is not avoiding responsibility to consider the idea that a dragon's choices might be made in desperation rather than out of preference." The deadpan delivery is marked with the the solemn weight of her gray gaze. She does not blink. "They are forced to pick from what is offered. It is no different than being forced to pick from what the kitchens provide." "Saying a desperate situation, s'like you do your duty just showing up. More than. If things aren't so great..." D'shal moues over his scarf and jerks a shrug as his arms fold against the cold. "At least you were /there/. An excuse for not putting in more work." It's a cool look that cuts briefly to the cramped script springing into place across the blank page. "An' it's just a... pessimistic outlook." It's a common enough word, but one with the kind of syllables that trip him into slower annunciation. Maybe it's an odd thing to say with an expression so close to a scowl. Anyway, while that end of the spectrum may be rejected, the bronzerider doesn't seem to be inclined to echo the even more common optimistic quip of dragons' inherent knowing. His eyes flick over the eerie girl. "That you'd be a desperate choice." There probably should be some pause before a dry: "S'a little different than thin stew or dry tubermash." "Do I appear to be avoiding my duties or doing them poorly?" This seems to be of utmost importance to her, so much so that the graphite is abruptly lifted lest it stutter into illegibility. "Am I failing to do the work or doing more than I am expected to?" The edge to her words is a new thing - and every bit as cold as her eyes have become. The set of her jaw is hinted at in the folds of her scarf - and her measured breath emerges as controlled plumes of condensation. "Because, if I am, I will remedy the situation. I am taking all of this seriously, despite my obligation." The edge lingers, her words clipped and keen. She leaves it there, at least for a long moment - long enough for her to resume the ritual of writing and for her breathing to even out into impassive placidity. "Those are not desperate choices, not for me," she eventually adds, deadpan flatness returned. Food is the topic determined, but the underpinnings of that other notion are still there. "For some, the most desperate choice is the one that will make them suffer the most." The new bite is met with a slim smile from the bronzerider. The level of hazel eyes makes unmoving watch of chilly gray. "You are taking all of this seriously." D'shal will blandly agree to at least that much. Her resumed writing is heard but not watched. His hand lifts, the leatherclad back rolling a scratch along his wool-tickled jaw. "Thought suffering didn't worry you." Ulyana did say /for some/, but even still. It may be beside his point. "There's a mama fretting down there." He makes vague gesture, not that the hatching caverns can be seen from their angle by the stones. "She wants her babies t'be loved." Maybe it's a funny thing to make matter of fact. "Don't know you'll have to. Don't know you won't. Just." His mouth twitches to a brief curl. "Maybe write that down. You are very thorough," is largely intoned as concession to the candidate's earlier demand to have her efforts validated. "I do not fear suffering," she intones. "But I would rather not invite it into my life again if it can be avoided." Ulyana continues to write - and a page is flipped, yielding a moment's reprieve from the scratch of graphite on paper. She lifts her gaze anew. "Then they will find the one that loves them," is her final determination. Whether it's her or not - it's not her call. The paper beckons again, though whether at his suggestion or some other bidding is impossible to say. It's ultimately immaterial and the girl will continue her writing for quite some time after. The rest of the day will surely be filled with intermittent visits from out-Weyr visitors - and the need for proper recordskeeping, of course - but conversation will be a rare and fleeting beast that the Candidate will not attempt to pursue. |
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