Logs:Womanly Advice from a Man
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 30 October, 2015 |
| Who: Jocelyn, Lys, Odrick |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Two sleep-deprived weyrlings aren't very nice to the newest Harper. |
| Where: Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 22, Month 2, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Heavy rain in the middle of winter only means that the temperature is only a few degrees above freezing; it's more miserable for the soaking torrents. |
| Mentions: Gamil/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions |
  |
>---< Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr(#350RIJMas) >-------------------------<
Stalactites hang high above this enormous cavern like a jagged chandelier
or an inversion of the Spires themselves, but shadows cling to them
instead of light. Below lie great tables arranged in rows, each large
enough to serve a fighting wing, while in the nooks and alcoves around the
cavern's edge sit more sensibly-sized tables, from six- and eight-seaters
down to intimate spots for just a couple of diners. The only really open
space is around the kitchen entrance, smelling of food and rarely quiet,
and by the nearby serving tables with their long buffet of the day's
offerings.
Tapestries on the smooth walls -- some faded and others newly woven --
only slightly mute the sea of sound when a meal is in full swing, but they
add cheerfulness augmented by the glowlight from wall sconces and the
centerpieces of each table. Still, shadows always creep along the ceiling
and into the mouths of the exits -- the myriad small hallways at one end
of the cavern and, at the other, the twisting tunnel to the bowl near an
array of coathooks and and hatracks -- and late at night, when the glows
are allowed to dim, the chamber can seem very dark indeed. On a night like tonight, it might be tempting for the weyrlings to stay sequestered in the barracks, nibbling on the limited food made available for those whose lifemates can't spare them yet. Indeed, Lys looks little better than a drowned feline, doffing wet coat and hat onto the pegs by the door before heading straight for the food. The post-dinner occupants, of which there are several, of the cavern probably don't even register to the weyrling until she has food in hand, a biscuit already in her mouth, and her eyes are searching for somewhere to sit - for the familiar faces of her classmates, even if it's not the designated 'try to be social' dinner timeframe. "You could always try one of the smaller spots." That's Jocelyn's alto from behind Lys, plate not quite filled with a second helping and free hand gesturing toward the tables tucked away into the cavern's alcoves. She's headed in that direction without waiting to see if the other plans to follow, stride steady if not quite her usual, brisk pace as she gets resettled at her table, jacket still dark with moisture and slung over the back of her seat. It's a place built for six, although currently only occupied by two at opposite ends. The brownriding weyrling on the end farthest from the wall has his nose buried in a stack of sheets, studying silently while the former headwoman digs her fork back into vegetables and tubers. "Small, big, if it has a seat--" Lys' answer lacks in enthusiasm but not fervor for the sentiment that sustenance is the priority. She slides her plate down across from the former assistant, sighing with some measure of relief when she gets off her feet. "And I didn't think anyone could work me harder than Gamil when he got his wooden spoon out for motivation," is the commentary she offers her peer before she falls on her food as if she were the newly hatched, barely remembering to chew, it might seem. There's a wry, if understanding look for her fellow weyrling between slower bites of her own. "Four hours of sleep here and there haven't done wonders for my physical stamina, either. I'd say that I don't know where all of those feedings go, " except that they do, thanks to mucking their areas, "but they all seem longer and taller than they were just a few days previous." And during a lull in moving her fork to and from her plate, Jocelyn works to stifle a yawn, pressing dry knuckles briefly to her mouth. Dubiously, after: "Don't make yourself ill." The alcove will soon be occupied by one more person; a tall, young black man with a long-strapped bag slung across his body. He's carrying a plate in one hand, a cup in the other, dark eyes searching for something. But they must not find it. He moves around the larger table, glancing down at the brown weyrling as he passes before moving up along the other side and eventually settling at a smaller two-seater close to where the girls have claimed space for themselves. Purely by coincidence, of course. The bag comes off, placed near his feet, and then he's eating with his gaze turned toward the caverns at large beyond the alcove. "Me neither," agrees Lys between bites of the sleep. The rest gets the sort of sigh a mother might make when she sees her child too far grown too quickly for her tastes. She might be about to say something to the matter of becoming ill, but her eyes draw to the man joining them instead and with a subtle flutter of lashes that indicates the demeanor of one being put upon she greets, "Journeyman," politely. Quinlys would be proud, wouldn't she? To Jocelyn, she adds, "I feel a little like I change between happy and exhaustedly annoyed so fast that I can't track how I got from one feeling to another. Like the worst period ever." After another bite, "Actually, being on the rag is probably the only thing that could make the mood swings more ridiculous." Eyes more gray than blue follow Lya's attention to the man who's settled at their table, studying the newcomer while his attention is directed elsewhere. Jocelyn's lips purse briefly; perhaps the greeting from across the table pulls her from her thoughts enough to prompt a neutral, "Sir." Her expression softens a little for the other weyrling's descriptions of the up-and-down mood swings, a little noise of agreement escaping her. "I'm afraid we'll be able to top that. They are, after all, also female." Grimace. What do you get when you mix draconic and human hormonal cycles? The harper looks at the green weyrling first, an easy smile already breaking across his lips despite the fact that she goes right on into talking about... that stuff. His smile does an admirable job of not faltering. "Weyrlings," Odrick greets them both at once, sounding only slightly uncertain with the acceptability of it. "I've read that there are herbs that can help alleviate the hormonal symptoms of menstruation. Have either of you tried them before? Do they work?" This must be acceptable. There isn't any uncertainty in his asking of the questions, except for the uncertainty of not knowing the answers. "Ugh, don't remind me," Lys' expression reflects Jocelyn's grimace before she turns her attention to a calculatedly scandalized expression as she looks to the Journeyman. "You mean you've never tried them, sir?" Quinlys would not be proud. Probably. Jocelyn's eyebrows lift, first for Odrick's ease of contributing to the topic at hand, then for Lys's subsequent inquiry. A brief squint is given down toward her plate before her expression smooths neatly. "The infirmary is that way, " she says dryly after a moment, waving her fork in the appropriate direction for the man's benefit. "I'm sure there's someone there who can better assist you with your, " another appraising glance travels over the journeyman, "curiosity." Odrick seems mildly taken aback by the greenrider's question. "Why would I have tried them?" It's a sincere question, enough so that he looks between one woman and the other with his fork held mid way to his mouth, a piece of wherry stuck to the end of it. His eyes settle on Jocelyn as he says, "Thank you. I may just do that. Perhaps I can suggest they make sure to have some delivered to the both of you if they do." Though why they wouldn't be using them if they worked is anyone's guess. Lys should stop; instead, she answers with a curious look, "Well, it just struck me as strange that you would recommend their use without having tried them yourself, sir." At least the tone and the sir remain respectful if the whole topic and direction is woefully not. "Would you recommend something you didn't know much about?" is directed to the weyrling across from her with casual curiosity. "Perhaps, " Jocelyn deadpans to Odrick, setting down her fork, "you would be best off leaving the suggestions to the healers. Your knot is too blue." There's a small crease that appears in her brow, a distracted frown that's likely meaningful to Lya before the redhead stands, shrugging back into her jacket, hat and gloves. Sotto voce, without looking at the greenrider-in-training: "Think happy thoughts." It might be a reminder that's meant for both women as she abruptly heads for the bowl, scowling. "I didn't recommend their use. I asked if you'd ever used them and whether or not they'd worked. I was trying to be supportive and helpful. I certainly haven't suggested anything to warrant such rudeness." The last may very well be for both of them, but since Jocelyn is making herself scarce, the brunt, as much as brunt describes Odrick's mild defense, is left to Lys. "If you'll excuse me," he says, as civilly as he can manage as he pushes his plate down the table and then reaches for his back so he can scoot down to follow it. Then he does it again. He will sit over here. It's no sooner that Lys' eyes have shifted away from the departing Jocelyn, a smirk slight on her face, that she evidently finds herself in similar straits, the smirk wiped away. Things with her lifemate must not be so urgent that she needs to hurry though, because she sighs loud enough to be heard from the Harper's new position. "Well, I suppose you could report us to the Weyrlingmaster, sir," a glance goes to the brown weyrling down the table, "If that one doesn't," who knows who the tattletales are yet? It's early in this weyrling class to know such things. Now Lys flashes a smile that's at least partly real, and amused, and dimples showing. "And if you do, I'm sure she'll send us to you for reeducating in the finer points of good manners." Wouldn't that be delightful? Her tone implies so. It's not really a threat, just a fair assessment. "Welcome to the Weyr, sir," actually seems genuine for all the rest of the conversation, standing out for it's difference to the rest of her demeanor thusfar. Then she follows her fellow back toward the waiting wee one. The Harper has decided to focus on his meal in earnest now, so it's only one glance over to Lys when she continues talking before he's focusing on his plate again. But since Odrick is a well-mannered individual, he must think it's his duty to assure the weyrling that, "Children require an education in manners, dragonrider. You, however, are disregarding them of your own accord. I can't imagine any educator worth their rank would waste their time teaching you something you already know perfectly when they could simply make your existence uncomfortable through physical activity." He may be newly posted, but Odrick seems well aware that her position is a particularly physical one. "Have a pleasant evening, ma'am." That is, perhaps, overly polite. |
Leave A Comment