Logs:Wondering
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| RL Date: 24 September, 2014 |
| Who: D'shal, Ulyana |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Ulyana meets D'shal. Questions - and answers - are exchanged. |
| Where: Living Cavern, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 20, Month 11, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
| As if swept along by the winds that have been tugging at the clouds all day, the autumn evening has advanced to that point where the main cavern of Fort is begining to grow quieter as those with early mornings filter off to bed. The coalesced conversation has died down to a low murmur that washes cozily about the stony space. It's cold enough that the hearths have become popular. The gathering chairs by the Weyr's elders is thick tonight. It leaves seating a little tight at the small tables that are in that intermediate ground of just benefiting from the popping fire. It's at one of these that D'shal sits. Perhaps his newness has kept him a full three chairs -- he makes semi claim of two of them himself, sitting hunched with his jacket crumpled over his knees and a booted foot proped on the lower rungs of the seat across. His focus is squinted down as he fusses with the knot that's not quite fixed to its shoulder. The kitchen door swings slightly open to permit the passage of one who might seem - at first glance - to be but a ghostly shadow of a person. Ulyana moves with an unnerving silence that comes in stark contrast to her efficient - if not particularly graceful - movement. The not-Candidate carries with her a plate with ginger crisps, a saucer with a cup steaming tea - and a satchel slung cross-wise over her person. She pauses just within the cavern and surveys the space with unblinking impassivity. There are plenty of places to sit within the belly of the space - but terribly few near the warmth. It's toward the table occupied with the rider fussing at his knot that the girl goes. But where a request to sit or some kind of greeting should go, there is nothing; she just stands there, mute and waiting. Slight phantom that she is, it takes a good moment for D'shal to slant the edge of his gaze towards the waiting figure. Maybe it's the scent of cookies that finally does it. There's a persistent knit that remains on his brow as hazel eyes give Ulyana a quick scan up and down. Then he's looking back to his jacket, features twisting as the poke of a thick needle comes through the stitching of the comfortably broken-in leather. "Have a seat." The offer is as blunt as the scrape of wood on stone as he shoves his footrest out and lets his boot fall with a thunk beneath the table. The line of his shoulders lists as he leans to grab a bottle up from his chair's leg. It swings from heavy knuckles as it lifts to his lips, his guzzle slowed by the way he watches the girl. Acknowledgment would have sufficed; the invitation spares her from a further request. Ulyana doesn't speak right away, nor does she sit; rather, she goes through the meticulous motions of setting her tea and crisps on the table before unslinging the bag to retrieve its contents. It's only after she's seated, with the thick tome opened on her lap, that she intones a dull, inflectionless - and somehow terribly awkward, "Thank you." Still, despite the entertainment awaiting her, the girl's attention is far more keenly fixed on the rider. Her gaze is cool and inscrutable, intense in its own, odd way. This study continues for some time before, at long last, she inquires with her typically flat affect: "Where are you from?" The oddity, the awkwardness, ensures a slanted furrow stays on the rider's brow as he observes the... ritual. His posture remains easily slung, the one hand lowering to rest with the beer upon the table as his other props over one knee as he keeps the knot, needle, and leather pinched in place. Her lengthy study leaves him plenty of time for his own pause before answering her thanks with a bland: "You're welcome." His features are drifting back to neutral, his fingers slipping from the bottle. Her question doesn't keep him from the drop of eyes that helps him pluck the tip of the needle to start drawing the loop of thread snug. "From Benden." A glance flickers briefly back up. "Where're /you/ from?" "I see," says she, and there's a peculiar lapse between his question and her eventual answer. Ulyana's response is an ambivalent, "Crom Hold." Her head slowly tilts to one side with a particularly mechanical motion, with her attention fixing on the stitching of his knot. Something about it elicits a slight pull of her mouth to one side, momentarily cracking the indifference with something akin to contemplation. It passes quickly. "Why are you here?" is the next question. It's inevitable, really. The plate of ginger crisps is moved with the tips of her fingers; it's scooted just a little closer to the center of the table. Purposeful, that. It's not a very exciting knot. Just brown, black and bronze with no extra frills. The callouses of his fingertips hold it in place well enough as the fixing stitch pulls tight. If she is ambivalent abotu Crom, D'shal won't bother with a reaction. He's busy making sure he doesn't sew himself into his jacket as he shoves the heavy needle in for another pass. "Family." His dispassion is all scuff and grit to her mechanical unworldliness. It worked so well before -- "Why are you here?" Capture of the shoved-through needle gives him opportunity to pause and stretch a little straighter in his seat. A cookie is gathered into his paw without preamble. "Crom's a bit far off." The slight curve of his smile is rather perfunctory. He's just going to stuff the cookie into his cheek, anyhow. The answer is an answer, if not necessarily satisfactory. Ulyana straightens and grants a singular up-down-center nod of acknowledgment, but only while her mental gears grind away on the one word answer. She reaches for one of the crisps shortly after he does, leaving a significant gap between question and answer. The cookie is broken in half with a brittle *snap* and then again, leaving her with quarters to deal with. "I was asked to Stand when Eliyaveith rose," she explains. "I accepted. I remain to fulfill my obligation." One shoulder rises and falls in a lopsided shrug. "I will leave when it is done." One of the cookie quarters is dipped into her tea for a spare second, only to be consumed. "Why would family result in you being here?" D'shal dusts crisp crumbs off on his far knee while he's still chewing. His brows have perhaps tugged a little closer together as he considers the strange girl with a more fixed, if slightly askew, look. "S'a sunrise thing," is his throw-away answer. A bit of ginger dough is stuck in a molar and his tongue fishes at it while his free wrist comes up to rest at the table's edge. His fingertips brush together with short, absent swipes. Hazel eyes are a twitch narrower. Disbelieving like. "You're a candidate? How old're you?" "I will ask at sunrise," is her interpretation of that answer. Ulyana works on another quarter of the cookie, taking her time with it with the same level of methodical care that she applies to everything. Of course, his questioning elicits a mild reaction in the girl - little more than a tensing of her jaw that temporarily pulls the cords out in her neck. It also re-centers her attention on him as a whole, with but a slow blink to break up what might be considered 'staring'. "I am not fully a Candidate. I am required to speak to a rider before they will permit me to Stand." The correction is blandly made, much like the answer to his second query: "Fifteen turns and nine months." A quick re-calculation finds her adding: "And three days." A breath's pause may be found where D'shal contemplates the prospect of resumed inquisition at daybreak. He lets that pass, however. The requirement is of more interest. Or maybe her age. A slant of bemusement pulls onto his features, in any case. "Huh." The taste of ginger is still drawing his tongue. The bronzerider shakes it off after a moment, his chair creaking under the eased shift of his weight as he grabs up another swig of his beer. The bottle clunks down swiftly so his fingers can return to finish the last stitch. "I see. You're the procrastinating type." There's a tight curl at his mouth. "What's the book?" "If that is how you will interpret my desire to make sure I am prepared before speaking to a rider, then so be it." Shoulders rise. Fall. Indifference reigns on the planes of her face once more. Ulyana finishes the last two quarters of her cookie before touching on the tea. The cup is clasped in both hands, drawn to her mouth, and blown on. He'll have to wait until she's had a decently long pull at the still-steaming cup before: "Hatching histories. The records detailing only numbers and colors are of little use to me now." A pity, really; she might even carry a note of mourning for that admission. "It is difficult to find histories that detail hatchings with any more detail than that, however. It is disappointing." Yeah, D'shal is perfectly content to enjoy the mild smirk of his amusement all on his lonesome. Given the slow deliberation of her movements, it's convienient that he has that loop of thread to tug and squint at. He gets it tied off while Ulyana is undergoing the lengthy process of tea cooling and consuming. A rip of his teeth will free the needle, and from there he shakes out the jacket into a low snap of leather pulled between his hands. Nothing goes flying off. This seems to pass his threshold for good. Drop it goes into his lap and sweep a palm goes for his beer. The girl, in contrast, gets a rather dubious return of the bronzerider's attention. "I didn't hear about candidates needing all that." "The requirement to speak with a rider is only for those of us Searched after Eliyaveith's flight." Ulyana takes another long drink, which drains the small cup and signals the moment for it to be replaced on its saucer. She observes his handling of the knot and thread with silent scrutiny - though there is no judgment, despite the weight of her regard. Objective interest, perhaps. No matter. She continues - if some moments later - with a dull, "I am reading for my own curiosity." Or, rather, would be. The conversation is either compelling or distracting; in either case, the book is closed and tucked back into the satchel. "But, there is nothing to answer my questions." No surprise there - and she knows it. "I will find it eventually." The slow of a half-nod marks accord with the girl's first statement, and though there's still a knit of dissatisfaction, it's unmade when Ulyana clarifies her pleasure reading. The gritting shift of his feet and adjusting gather of the jacket over his thigh might speak to the rider's growing restlessness. For the moment, it's still balanced by the leisurely sucks of beer D'shal takes from his bottle. If not exactly patient, the blinks of his eyes are slow as he follows the stowing of the book and the tale of the as-of-yet fruitless search. Maybe he's just not sure he wants to ask. "What are your questions?" "A sufficient reason to Stand." She proceeds to do the lesser version of the same. "If duty and obligation are not sufficient - then I do not know what is." The crisps are left - if he'll not eat them, the Aunties and Uncles certainly will. "Not good. Not bad. Those are subjective." Ulyana gathers up the rest of the things she brought with her - bag first, then saucer and cup - before gently pushing the chair under the table. "Sufficient enough to satisfy the Weyrleader that my choice to Stand is not 'just because'." Those two words reflect a strange edge; her mouth contorts just a little to utter them, distaste made manifest. "Asking yields two hundred answers that are no less legitimate - and, yet." She leaves it there, impassively considering the rider even as he considers her in kind. D'shal is comfortable making audience from his chair. Knees spread beneath his jacket, a finger curling to crack idly against the bottle he holds, he listens with a slouched slant of attention. A little together-tug of his brows comes first, and later another quirking twitch of his mouth, but these small shifts aren't intended as either interruption or overt comment on the philosophical hunt Ulyana details. Maybe he's giving her time to complete that left sentence, at the end. But with just a well of mute regard, he'll eventually pull himself out with a long breath and a roll of his gaze away. The jacket is hiked up into the nook of one elbow as he assembles himself onto his feet, snagging one more crisp from the plate "Don't really know the Weyrleader." Accordingly, all he'll contribute is, "good luck with that." The shallow curve of his smile doesn't last any longer this time before he snaps off a bite between his teeth, turning to amble out into the night. Even if those subtle, physical cues -were- meant to convey something, it's just as likely Ulyana would miss their meaning. For all that she sees and devours, there are just some things she has no sense for. His response is likely anticipated in some way; his newness and manner conspire to betray that much. So it comes to pass that he's preparing to leave and she is likewise. It's not a 'good bye' she offers in her passing. Rather, the girl intones a flat, "Thank you." She pivots just so and departs for the inner caverns without another word. |
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