Logs:Uncomfortable
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| RL Date: 21 February, 2013 |
| Who: H'kon, Azaylia |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Azaylia tries to apologize. It goes very, very poorly. |
| Where: Deliciously Shadowed Nooks and Crannies Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 19, Month 1, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Brieli/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Super dramatic scene. Like whoa. Major character breakage. XD You have been warned. |
| Deliciously Shadowed Nooks and Crannies Weyr, High Reaches Weyr The entrance to the weyr is straight and narrow, a dragon couch taking up most of the space there. Once past the couch, the room opens up incredibly to reveal a truly odd bit of artistry. This part of the weyr is a nearly perfect circle and actually quite small. The cathedral ceiling is domed and appears twice as high as the ones found in most rooms at High Reaches. The unusual stonecutter that designed this weyr certainly had his own sense of style. A gigantic glow basket has been hung in the center of the doomed ceiling, though the light it spreads downward are like gloomy fingers grasping from above. A rope runs from the basket through a series of loops along the side of the wall, tied off where it can be easily reached to lower the glows for changing. The dim light of the weyr washes over the walls, revealing tiny glints and sparkles here and there. All over the wall of the cavern from about five feet off the ground to about twelve feet overhead, hewn nooks have been left. The lower ones contain odd bits, mostly hides filed away in accordance to some system known by the weyr's inhabitant, some pens, some small trinkets, a bottle or two of good whisky. The higher nooks are more eye-catching, each containing a glass bottle or dish of some sort which causes the eerie glittering. What little floor space there is is taken up by carefully placed furniture. A loft frame, once a bed, now serves as storage space for several trunks and few dishes, the mattress laid out on simple wooden risers below. Opposite the bed, a small, round table sits surrounded by three chairs - one small, two large, all without cushioning and armless. Kept to the side is a folding wooden stepladder, rungs smoothed and lightened by regular use. This night, H'kon did not dine with his wing. It was no choice of his; Arekoth was being adamant, and the brownrider, too fatigued, or broody perhaps, to fight the brown so far. And so, with a plate of cold food, it's only the dancing flame of a lit tallow candle, and a disregarded hide, on his table to keep him company, his dragon already retreating to the sands. The weyr is quiet, but for humming, a tune sometimes able to be distinguished, sometimes obscured by the lower register. And it's also a bit smoky, at the vault of the ceiling. And cold all through. Hraedhyth's mind is as alert as it has been since her and Iesaryth's ovoid treasures hit the sands. Too suddenly, too harshly, does jeweled gaze find the brown that has become increasingly familiar, sudden mental snap matching her unintended ferocity. The request is more of a growl, that Arekoth take Azaylia up to his ledge. Nevermind the state of her, or the light cargo. Perhaps it's in order to keep Szadath's own vigilance undisturbed. More likely is that flicker of something considerate, the feral-minded gold quite keen on territory and the trespassing thereof. Arkoth answers Hraedhyth's press with an, « Ho there! » conveying both shock and a vague, secondary amusement. He stretches languidly, gets to his feet, shuffles his feathers, and thereafter, with a sharp look to Hraedhyth and an only halfway tongue-in-cheek, « As you'd have it, » awaits her rider. And he will bring Azaylia, promptly, to his own ledge, and will even wait to inform Szadath of his doings until he's arrived there safely. Until H'kon has risen from his table, and come to the entrance with, "So you've come home after all," before realising whom Arektoh is carrying. « Thank you. » Hraedhyth's fire burns floral incense, a hint that the gratitude, while genuine, might have been overlooked without outside influence. H'kon's greeting may not be entirely misplaced, but it does halt Azaylia's swinging down from the brown. Frozen in place, the young woman's got a grip on one of Arekoth's ridges while boots press into his shoulder, her other arm hanging with the weight of something squat and wooden. The rare demonstration of her athleticism ends once she's scrambling the rest of the way down, giving Arekoth a grateful pat and weak smile. With dual buns dusty, some strands have escaped while others are in the process. The weyrwoman hardly looks the part, especially given her work clothes, visibly stained over time by oil and grime. She probably smells none too fresh, either. Look at what the brown dragged in. "H'kon." The light in the weyr is pretty dim, and it doesn't take H'kon's eyes long to adjust to being near-candle to being fully without. In what bit of reflection of moons' shine the snow on the ledge can offer to assist with lighting, he does indeed see Azaylia, hanging there from Arekoth. "Hmm," is a guttural sort of grunt. Maybe she can't see the flush of blood to his face. "Weyrwoman," is given stiffly as Azaylia dismounts, overtop of the brown's quick churring noise of farewell - or is that self-satisfaction? The 'what are you doing here' part goes unsaid, but for the crease-brow'd look he gives her. There's a faint effort to smooth down some of those fly-aways, something to do as H'kon's noise steals away what frail confidence Azaylia had. All too quickly her hand catches the second leg of three with a hearty thunk, long limbs making short work of the distance between them. Quick and 'painless', the stool is thrust out towards him, her arm's length ensuring she's not invading most of his bubble. The stool carries most of its heft in thickly carved legs, twisting like mighty branches that make it's rounded top look particularly plain by comparison. A swallow, whisper carrying some of that dust, "'membered you don't have many chairs." There's no reason a squat, sturdy seat could remind one of the brownrider. Nope. H'kon has somehow managed to get what was a leisurely stance into one of strict, military attention. His head dips mechanically to inspect that stool when Azaylia holds it out to him. And he... stares at it, while Arekoth gives a final almost-chirp, and heads for his couch. Where it is warmer, and where he will wait until Azaylia needs transport back down. Which must be why he keeps his head in some sort of angle to be able to see that goldrider. H'kon's head... finally lifts, when he speaks, "Indeed," to the girl. "Oh Arekoth, no..." Naturally light voice truly lacks strength, even if the goldrider finds it far easier to address the dragon. "I didn't mean to steal you from your eggs. You can go back." Though that might leave her stranded with his rider, which doesn't sound ideal. Only when the strain of holding such a heavy burden hits her does Azaylia look back to H'kon, giving a start at unexpectedly finding his gaze. Hers darts away, "I'm..." Lips fluctuate, struggling against a frown as trembling arms begin to give up and lower. "I should have asked. You don't like it." Voice almost frail enough to be stolen by the weakest wind, her apology carries too much weight for an unwanted stool. "I'm sorry." "No, I-" and so a hand extends for the stool. He even steps forward. "It's very nice." Words caught up in a dragon-initiated flurry, Arekoth's wings stirring up snow as he heaves from his couch and lifts off, making H'kon's one eye close slightly, and his head drop, against the whirling flakes. And then, standing awkwardly. Yup, the brown's departure leaves Azaylia stranded there. And sure, he gets to go back to staring at the eggs, but man, that other part? HILARIOUS. Jump, squeak, curl. It's Azaylia's defense against the chilly cloud, stool held near her face as she hunches behind it. She's matching his height, now. With a tremble that might not be just from the cold she's eager to relinquish the stool, fatigued arms wrapping around herself and rubbing some warmth in. She's content to stay on the ledge, having already inconvenienced him enough, "You, ah." No, on to a much easier topic and perhaps an explanation for her current state, "I was reorganizing the stores. The deep parts. It's been forgotten." Or so she meekly offers as her own thought to the bit of furniture. And so the weight of that stool falls to H'kon's arm - strong, despite being short - and it sets him a bit off-centre as he supports it, and himself. If not making that posture more approachable, well... it's less militaristic at least. He peers after the departed Arekoth, who helpfully flew upwards, so his actual location might not be entirely known. And then, back to the hunched goldrider. "I see." With a heft to that stool, he gestures toward the weyr. And holds his arm there, waiting for her to take shelter from the wind first. Azaylia doesn't look at H'kon, or after his dragon. The disturbed snow by her feet holds her interest, even as nervous adrenaline begins to fade and she begins to feel the cold. "I-It's alright." She murmurs, long after he's motioned towards his weyr. "I don't... I know I..." Arms squeeze each other, hugging tense, unmoving muscle, "I understand. About Brieli. Why you would... why you feel the way you do. I just wanted you to know that. I don't want to... bother you." Words come out as a breathless rush, still not looking at him. And H'kon waits stoically. It's only when Azaylia speaks that he lets that stool drop to his side, and thereafter, rolls his shoulder back. Still, he has yet to change arms; just adjusts his grip. The end of those words brings a sigh. This time, it's the free arm that gestures to his weyr, a bit more pointedly. "There is little sense in waiting here until Arekoth agrees to come back. He is being..." grimace, "difficult tonight." Apparently, some people need to be told twice before they begin to take paltry steps towards warmth. Azaylia doesn't do her stride justice, indecision making her shuffle stop and go until she finds herself inside. How did that happen? Distracted, "He's proud. He should be." She understands the brown's stubborn streak, or so she thinks. Hands rub at her upper arms, giving a sudden start at two new additions, "O-oh. You already have, uhm." Now her stool must seem silly. "Shortly after your... visit," H'kon offers up without much sympathy in his voice from behind the goldrider, having followed her in. When he steps around her, he has that stool in both hands. He even gives it a bit of twirl, its seat going from facing him, to facing forward. Looking back to the girl, there's a slightly conciliatory, "They do not fit me well." It lacks warmth it might've had a few months ago. Isolation will do that. Still, with a final glance to the stool, he decides to take it and set it alongside his bed. Even gives it a turn, as if to set it at a better angle. Weakly, "That was... fun?" Subjectively so. Azaylia is making a point not to look at him, surprise surprise. "Would have been more if... I still feel bad, thinking about it. I don't know if it was Hraedhyth wanting every chaser riled or..." Does he want to talk about flights? H'kon? "Uhmn." She plants herself in one of the taller chairs, noticeably harsh in doing so. Self discipline aside, "I... don't know. They suit you." Perhaps not physically. With Azaylia now seated, it's a question of where he should sit. There's a look over to that stool - but in the end, it's his chair - the original chair - to which he goes. That lone candle, still going, is an easier thing to watch than the goldrider, as she speaks. "Indeed," is gruff, this time maybe as some sort of defense. H'kon shifts in his seat, grips the edge of the table. "Fun." Forcing a look to her, then back to the flame, "There is little chance of that now." Maybe it has deeper meaning. Even if it doesn't, he's ready to move on to the topic of chairs again. "They were sturdy." Azaylia fidgets, and in doing so might not notice the brownrider and his own shifting. There's a flinch for his gruff tone, "I wasn't trying to be mean. You know that, right?" It's something of a whimper. Despite the sound, she's keeping it together fairly well, hands gripping her knees as she decides to settle on the edge of the hard seat. The weyrwoman's gaze is drawn to the candle as well, since H'kon finds it so interesting. While the flame does its best to burn through the tension, help comes in the way of an exhale that carries an ounce of humor, "Like I said. Suits you. Sturdy." Squirm. "And uncomfortable." Not that she's looking any less glued to the seat. Not after last time. H'kon quick-glances at her again, but by the time he's giving that one, solid nod, is staring at the candle. "I know." The slightest softening - which is to say, his words are less hard around the edges, but still solid and mostly without expression - is maybe due to the hypnotic effect of flickering flame. "It was... an unfortunately timed frustration." Being called uncomfortable makes him grimace once more. The grip on the edge of the table intensifies. "Then perhaps, when all this is over, I will consider cushions," has a sharp bitterness to it. More silence from Azaylia's end. There's no way to tell if it's a thoughtful pause, either. Her eyes close and she gives a faint wince, sound leaving her throat, "Mm.". Not suddenly struck, but similar to one remembering a moment in which they were. She's sinking lower, hands lifting to hold her head, curling in on herself so that elbows can replace palms atop her knees. Fingers slide into loosened locks, making things worse as one leather strap abandons a bun all together during her slow wilting. "This isn't how it's supposed to be." Though voice is muffled, it isn't choked or particularly pitched. Instead, it carries the calm of defeat. t might be easier, with the goldrider curling up, hiding, for H'kon to look at her. Green eyes are weary, not quite sad, and yet... "No," is agreement, soft in volume, if his tone remains elusive. The man sits forward a little in his chair, even ducks his head as if to get some view of Azaylia's face - as if, though he doesn't get to such an angle where it would actually be possible. "How is it supposed to be?" Azaylia might disappoint, but what else is new? She's not thinking in the grand scheme of things, but in a sturdy, uncomfortably small picture. "I say sorry. Give you the stool. And leave." She recites, clearly not the first time. "I can't. I can't just... I'm doing it now. Where I talk too much. I want to just... talk. A lot. At you." Airy monotone hitches, "With you." A correction, no sign of tears or upset beyond what she's saying. "I know it's broken." Everything. "I wanted to fix one thing..." By now, she's resigned to failure, still bowed and staring down at the space between her boots. "With me," H'kon repeats, nodding, slowly this time, his mouth even staying a bit open, so distracted as he is by trying to piece together what the goldrider is saying. There is something, at least, to be said for a desperate isolation. When there's nothing more to lose... the censorship falls away. "Why do you want to speak with me?" 'At me' is only mouthed, a pull at the edge of his mouth most likely lost on Azaylia, if she's still looking at the floor. Most likely lost on H'kon, too. He's still looking at Azaylia. "Because I was wrong." There's no hesitation in admitting that, though there's a note of sadness. Slight though it may be, it's a great contrast to how she has been speaking up until now. "Not about everything. Maybe. I don't... know anymore." Leather and wood creek, stiff fabric ruffleing as she rolls up even tighter before forcing herself to relax. "I don't know anything." She catches herself, his question left unanswered. Her head finally shifts as hands stay stationary, gathering black waves closer to her brow, "It shouldn't matter how you feel about... certain people. I should have understood. I was a bad friend." There's just enough tilt so that only her eyes are really visible, candelight's reflection faintly wet. "I was... am, a bad weyrwoman." Not fishing, no. The goldrider is owning up to it. H'kon waits. Waits for her words to run their course, for her to be finished. The beginnings of the forward lean are completed when he releases the table, resting his elbows instead on his knees, hands clasping before him. The look that goes to the young weyrwoman is not patient, though there is -something- to it, beyond the usual, flat frown. "Azaylia," is said all too reasonably, too evenly, "if you know - or have learned - what is wrong, then you must know what is right. One cannot exist without the other." There's visible strain as Azaylia swallows, eyes closing at the effort and opening only when she finds her voice, "Can so." There may have been humor, once. "I thought I knew what was right. I tried..." Another muted wince, pressing past it, "I hurt the Weyr. By being me. Being selfish. I need to..." It's here that she's at a total loss, lips attempting to form words, silently shifting while no solution comes to mind. She gives up, mouth pressing tight as her dark eyes flick back up to the leaning brownrider. "Azaylia," and the repetition of name brings something didactic to him, if still not entirely sympathetic nor gentle, "it is not you that has hurt the Weyr." And when his eyes catch her, he tightens each hand's grip around the other, a club now before him, rather than a clasp, for all it remains still. "Your intentions are good. Your inaction now stands to do the most damage." The exhalation isn't quite long enough to be a sigh, so much as a frustrated puff. "You ride gold. Your place is at the Weyr's head." Where her eyes have dodged his before, Azaylia is now staring at H'kon with a focus far more naive, but no less intense than her lifemate's. There's a hunger there, desperate that his next words will inspire sudden wisdom within herself. "Other people ride gold, H'kon." His name is carried on a sigh, fingers sliding away as her half freed hair comes tumbling down one side of her face. She doesn't straighten yet, keeping that low, open stare on him, "I'm trying. It isn't pretty. I might look stupid." As she does now, dusty and unkempt, "If I can't do my regular duties..." Not won't. "I don't want everyone thinking I don't care." Rapid blinking frees a few tears, banished quickly by the back of her hand. "Babysteps." The now-mantra is whispered. "Yes," H'kon agrees, "and most recently, they have been a woman who has prompted division and been killed, a woman who has abandoned the Weyr entirely, and a woman who feels the Weyr owes her something, and not the other way around." The club dissolves into two fists, and those bring their knuckles against one another, a slow, methodical knocking as H'kon stares right back at her. "You choose not to do your regular duties. And perhaps while you are taking your 'baby' steps, that last woman will decide to exact whatever payment she feels is her due." Knuckles stop, pressed hard together. He still stares. "And your care will amount to much of nothing. Clean sheets." He snorts, bitterness back in him. "There are a great many others can do that, none of them chosen by a gold." Hurt may be the switch, as H'kon is one of the few to witness to the shift in the weyrwoman's visage. In an instant, her gaze becomes simultaneously stifling and unfocused, "I don't choose." Despite that already dimming fire, her words are quiet. "I'm not getting as much work. I think-- The Headwoman, the workers, want Brieli." Surety cuts her off, no longer mere suspicions after so long. "I'm not going to force myself on them. I have no right." She's still listening to him. Still watching. "If she feels that way... I don't know. Who would help protect a place they thought owed them? If that changes, though..." With lifemate placated, there is nothing but her very self in the stare paired with a barely audible murmur, "...I don't know what I'd do." Grave words prove that she does, indeed. "No right?" It might be his weyr, but that doesn't stop H'kon from spitting - not much more than a gesture, and limited moisture, but still - off to the side. "You do your lifemate so great a disrespect as that? Fine then." The sarcasm isn't lagging. "Let us, from here on, ask the headwoman and caverns workers who should lead the Weyr. I'm certain all the dragons would bow easily to that. Perhaps in time we would tire of our need for golds and bronzes entirely, and let the entire Weyr system die out." He's glaring now. "It is no wonder you're so eager to become a laundress. Perhaps you, as well, are only looking to your own needs. And I am as wrong as that idiot gold who picked you from the sands." Fists unclasp, and he gestures broadly, this time to the ledge. He's on a roll, and if Azaylia has answer, he'll certainly speak over her. "Please leave. Though I may have less right to it than you, I at least understand that I must work for my home as circumstance has forced me. And for that I will need rest." Azaylia is on her feet, though she doesn't remember standing. Her head pounds with drums Arekoth, and perhaps even H'kon can hear, vision blurry and hand stinging. The fire that burns her inside and out is felt most sharply in her palm, the sting bringing her back in an instant. Horror drains her face of color as realization sets in, robbing her legs of any stability as she crumples. "OhFaranth. OhFaranth. I'm sorry. Please. I'm sorry. I didn't mean..! You called her stupid and I- Please." From aggressor to helpless groveling heap in a matter of moments, she can't touch him but desperately wants to. Her hands hover in front of the brownrider, trembling as visibly as the rest of her. H'kon's head turns, and that's it. He does reach for her hands - but it's only once they've started shaking, only to grab them and push them out of the way, the better to glare right on at that goldrider. If there's any residual sting on him, he doesn't seem to feel it. "Did you not? Do you lie to my face now? Do not ask my forgiveness for your one show of strength since your dragon was caught." The disgust is in his voice now, and if his eyes have gone wider, have taken on a gleam, it's surely not on account of that palm of hers. It's something much deeper. But the full release doesn't come. He releases her arms, in a shove in the direction of the ledge. "Arekoth will come for you." Stammering, Azaylia can barely hear his words let alone answer, flinching when he grabs for her hands. When he doesn't retaliate, not fully, there's even more anguish in her eyes, "I can't. I c-can't. I'm supposed to f-fix things. Not bre-break them." H'kon, for all that he should be able to, can't get rid of her that easily. The unsteady weyrwoman is pushed and pushes back, if only to make an attempt to gather the brownrider up for a squeeze. A hug, but too desperate and rough to be called such. "Please don't hate me. Please." Not a lie, but a sob buried in his hair until full realization grips her and she yanks herself away. Not to Arekoth, but to be sick on his ledge- specifically off the side of it. "And yet you won't." It's the last words with any sort of feeling in them, what little was left. H'kon doesn't fight off the hug, nor does he participate. Getting to his feet, he tries simply to hold her still, to stop her, to stop himself. He succeeds, at least, in that last. "I do not hate you," flat. When the goldrider runs to the ledge, he is left standing; it's a terribly slow motion to sit back in his chair. It's a long, slow push of breath to blow out the candle, making it sputter, fight, finally lean, gutter, and give in. In smoke, in darkness, he sits. And if Azaylia comes back, he'll still be there. And if she doesn't, he'll still be there. Until duty calls him back out. Azaylia doesn't come back. She can barely touch Arekoth when she's managed to wipe the horror and guilt from her lips, taking three tries before climbing up. The brown might not be able to hear the apologies that spill from her lips, cheek pressed against his hide as he takes her down. The young woman can't hop down fast enough, stumbling into a run to find Hraedhyth, mindful of the eggs even in the state she's in. Safety is found in her dragon, and because of it Azaylia will put up with the direct heat of the sands far longer than is healthy. And with his weyrwoman safely deposited with his queen, Arekoth gives a dull yellow glow to his mate and eggs... and returns to his ledge, and his rider. |
Comments
K'del (K'del (talk)) left a comment on Fri, 22 Feb 2013 10:58:12 GMT.
< Oh, Azaylia. ._.
I just want to squeeze her until she breaks. Only... gets put back together! Because this is awful.
And H'kon, speaking truth but such unvarnished truth. It' hurts.
<3 to you both.
Zian (Zian (talk)) left a comment on Fri, 22 Feb 2013 17:02:49 GMT.
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Awww, poor Azaylia. And H'kon, I love him.
Jolie (Jolie (talk)) left a comment on Fri, 22 Feb 2013 17:38:50 GMT.
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H'kon doesn't soften blows, do he! D:
Loved this scene though! Loved the both of them. <3
Ainslee (Castandcrew (talk)) left a comment on Sat, 23 Feb 2013 13:51:05 GMT.
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Fantastic scene, man. They are such stark opposites in so very many ways.
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