NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

Logs:Green Seventeen

2015-10-14T03:32:34Z

Cass:

{{Log
|who=Casseny,
|what=She's seventeen.
|where=Resident Quarters, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, Healer Hall
|day=15
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.13
|quote=She spent a lot of time managing her expectations.
|mentions=Ebeny,
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon Casseny gift.gif,
|log=It was a perfectly nice green dress.

She'd laid it out on the end of her cot, and there it stayed, looking appropriately dress-like. Couldn't fault it for that. Casseny traced a nail over the embroidered trim around the neckline. A modest neckline. The kind of neckline a mother gets for her daughter. Her calloused finger rode bumpily over the slightly raised nature of the design. Nothing sensible about it. Just some shapes. She supposed they were fine enough shapes.

Below, the bodice was figure-hugging. Below Casseny, she was still longer than she was curvy.

Her blossoming womanhood had generously granted her another inch-- she'd carefully measured that morning on a hunch-- but none of it in her breasts.

Plucking at the loose skirt beneath a sewn-in waist belt, she wondered if her ma had factored that in. Had guessed, or noticed. She wouldn't expect her to. Want her to? Begrudge her if she didn't. Still, it was something she thought about. She was trying to be more conscious of what others noticed. She spent a lot of time managing her expectations.

Stretching her arms above her head, Casseny let them fall back down onto the top of her head, fooling with the hair there but briefly. It was soon swept into a tight, flawless runner's tail, high, but not too much so. When her hands fell back onto the dress and its cuffed upper sleeves, its lower ones that unbuttoned all the way to above the elbow to allow for more movement if needed-- oh, she liked ''that''--it was to fold it up.

It didn't occur to her to think of wearing the dress to please her mother.

She was already thinking of the day-- of E'den's physical therapy-- inventory, then lessons. She'd been taking on a few more. Here and there, and some other things. Managing their expectations.

The forefinger that had brushed the dress touched now at an actual bit of material on her shoulder. Twisted. Its design infused with meaning far less whimsical than those fashioned on a dress. Still. Someone had used one to make the other. Maybe even had an expectation. Ebeny had spent marks on it-- something everyone had less of now, but that she got, in part, from her own knot. Her position. People's expectations.

It wasn't their fault that Casseny was--- Casseny.

''Oh well''. Smooth, untested, fabric slipped from her hands into the wooden basin of her footlocker. Here, the dress would stay. Safe. It's not like she was throwing it away. It's not like the color reminded her of Laurienth, of shapes that weren't quite, of a design more complicated the less material that made it.

No, she'd had a different knot in mind when she'd woken up that morning. And it didn't involve any mystical formula or feeling; it required work, experience, evidence.

And it ''certainly'' expected her not to be late.

The chest slammed shut and clasped with a satisfying noise.
}}

File:Icon Casseny ehh.png

2015-10-14T03:32:00Z

Cass:

File:Icon Casseny downcast.png

2015-10-14T03:32:00Z

Cass:

File:Icon Casseny gift.gif

2015-10-14T03:32:00Z

Cass:

File:Icon Casseny yay.gif

2015-10-14T03:32:00Z

Cass:

File:Icon Casseny shy.png

2015-10-14T03:31:59Z

Cass:

Logs:Green Seventeen

2015-10-14T03:28:10Z

Cass: Created page with "{{Log |who=Casseny, |what=She's seventeen. |where=Resident Quarters, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr, Healer Hall |day=15 |month=13 |turn=38 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedate=2015...."

{{Log
|who=Casseny,
|what=She's seventeen.
|where=Resident Quarters, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, Healer Hall
|day=15
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.13
|quote=She spent a lot of time managing her expectations.
|mentions=Ebeny,
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon Casseny asleep.png,
|log=It was a perfectly nice green dress.

She'd laid it out on the end of her cot, and there it stayed, looking appropriately dress-like. Couldn't fault it for that. Casseny traced a nail over the embroidered trim around the neckline. A modest neckline. The kind of neckline a mother gets for her daughter. Her calloused finger rode bumpily over the slightly raised nature of the design. Nothing sensible about it. Just some shapes. She supposed they were fine enough shapes.

Below, the bodice was figure-hugging. Below Casseny, she was still longer than she was curvy.

Her blossoming womanhood had generously granted her another inch-- she'd carefully measured that morning on a hunch-- but none of it in her breasts.

Plucking at the loose skirt beneath a sewn-in waist belt, she wondered if her ma had factored that in. Had guessed, or noticed. She wouldn't expect her to. Want her to? Begrudge her if she didn't. Still, it was something she thought about. She was trying to be more conscious of what others noticed. She spent a lot of time managing her expectations.

Stretching her arms above her head, Casseny let them fall back down onto the top of her head, fooling with the hair there but briefly. It was soon swept into a tight, flawless runner's tail, high, but not too much so. When her hands fell back onto the dress and its cuffed upper sleeves, its lower ones that unbuttoned all the way to above the elbow to allow for more movement if needed-- oh, she liked ''that''--it was to fold it up.

It didn't occur to her to think of wearing the dress to please her mother.

She was already thinking of the day-- of E'den's physical therapy-- inventory, then lessons. She'd been taking on a few more. Here and there, and some other things. Managing their expectations.

The forefinger that had brushed the dress touched now at an actual bit of material on her shoulder. Twisted. Its design infused with meaning far less whimsical than those fashioned on a dress. Still. Someone had used one to make the other. Maybe even had an expectation. Ebeny had spent marks on it-- something everyone had less of now, but that she got, in part, from her own knot. Her position. People's expectations.

It wasn't their fault that Casseny was--- Casseny.

''Oh well''. Smooth, untested, fabric slipped from her hands into the wooden basin of her footlocker. Here, the dress would stay. Safe. It's not like she was throwing it away. It's not like the color reminded her of Laurienth, of shapes that weren't quite, of a design more complicated the less material that made it.

No, she'd had a different knot in mind when she'd woken up that morning. And it didn't involve any mystical formula or feeling; it required work, experience, evidence.

And it ''certainly'' expected her not to be late.

The chest slammed shut and clasped with a satisfying noise.
}}

Logs talk:Ignorance

2015-10-14T02:55:48Z

Cass: Comment provided by Cass - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Ignorance]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Alida (19:32, 12 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Alida's been where Keysi is, right now. All she could tell her is that it hurts like hell...but then, Keys already knows that.
==Squishy (21:49, 12 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Ouchies
==Jo (21:56, 12 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

LOVED this. Jo would totally relate. That inner struggle and divided loyalties. ...
==Cass (19:55, 13 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

I'm quite sorry I'm not familiar with all the pieces, but this was beautiful!

Logs talk:Metamorphosis

2015-10-11T17:14:19Z

Cass: Comment provided by Cass - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Metamorphosis]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Aleudre (09:11, 11 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

E'dre is such a rotten bastard ! :(
==Cass (10:14, 11 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

I have a tea for that.

Logs:In Moments

2015-06-28T15:18:17Z

Cass:

{{Log
|who=Casseny,
|what=After Kaelige catches her in the Kitchens, Casseny ponders her path.
|where=Inner Caverns, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=2
|month=2
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.06.28
|quote="In moments of pain, we seek revenge." - Ami Ayalon
|mentions=Kaelige
|type=Vignette
|ooc=Backdated.
|icons-new=Icon Casseny dark.png,
|desc=>---< Inner Caverns, Fort Weyr >-----------------------------------<

The Inner Caverns are a winding system of tunnels and caverns, both
natural and manufactured which shows in the smoothness of their walls.
Every commonly used tunnel and passageway has niches carved at regular
intervals to hold glows that are tended by the Weyr's residents. At the
heart of this labyrinth lies the Commons Cavern, the hub of the Weyr's
housing area for both residents and crafters. A tunnel halfway between
those Commons and the Living Cavern, that feeds the Weyr's population,
leads to the Hot Springs despite its access to the Bowl. A curving
passageway connects the main tunnel with the Infirmary.

The Glass Fountain, Fort's bar and restaurant, is around the corner and
down flight of stairs off of the Living Cavern. The best way to find the
beer is to follow the trail of tipsy folks on their way home, or the
echoes of clinking glass and conversation. Well marked with a bold arrow
carved into the rock, a broad passageway dives nearly straight from the
heart of the caverns and down to the unloading area and beyond to Tunnel
out of the Weyr.
>-----------------------------------<
|log=A singular brown strand, beginning to fray at the ends with the need for a trim, was running free, a feint, aborted loop-de-loop before settling lightly enough to be nuisance across the bridge of her nose. A generous brush of tongue wet her fingers, and she could taste the remnants of mint, cinnamon, almond, coarse hide. Her hand smelled like his. Like outside, and activity, earthiness, and old adrenaline. Two fingers caught the root of the wayward hair, drawing it back to its fellows, smoothing it down until it blended totally into a whole.

Nevermind that the rest of her runner's tail broke in all directions.

Casseny'd made it out into the tunnels, piled with her tote, a bag of experimental tea, Molly's well-wishes, and the heady affair of freshly made bread and rashly made decisions. She'd gotten a good distance before her legs had absolutely turned to cook's pudding. She'd veered into a wall and slid down and now, here she was. Sitting in the tunnels at the crack of the morning with a bushel of bad medicine.

But as she smeared that hair back into place, Casseny knew, in her warbling gut, that this wasn't fear. She wasn't afraid for her life or her livelihood. She thought maybe she ''should'' be, but, lately, that hadn't always lined up with the truth. She had some kind of disease, where, whatever she thought, she felt the opposite-- or didn't feel at all! Or felt, but no one let her. ''You used to be such a happy child''. It didn't mean she wasn't happy now, she just--

Awareness of her clenched fingers had Casseny instinctively loosening them, pulling. Her entire head's worth of runner's tail came with, except one small weft, clinging together by half a tie. Casseny huffed out a big breath, feeling a surge of inappropriate annoyance-- of all things to finally lose it on…

Kaelige, though. She didn't think he'd turn her in. She'd given him more fuel, knowingly-- if she hadn't gotten it done, ''then'', it wouldn't have ever gotten done… but the fire… she didn't think it was ever discovery. Not like that.

Fingers flexed forward, kneading into the material of the heavily laden bag at her side. Without looking, she could trace the individual shapes of sweet bun's wrinkles, muffin's head. All dried, all smelling temptingly. Probably. She'd sort of blown her nose out mixing so much, sticking her face in it, him getting his groddy hands on the kitchen supplies. One wrist twisted, testing its soreness, the soft remaining impression of a much harder grip throughout the knuckles.

She could abort right here.

If nothing ever happened, there was nothing to hold over. He hadn't sussed what she'd specifically been using. She hadn't ''done'' anything…

But, when her eyes drifted briefly closed, the darkness transformed into shifted mud, displaced rocks, and Kaelige's outside smell was now Lux's, and she could see herself, choosing a stranger over her mother. Twin but opposing forces snatched each end of her stomach and twisted, roaring-- warring against each other. A headache sprang instant and oppressive and she dove her hands into her hairline, nearly freed strands cascading throughout her fingers.

It passed after a second. Horrible, and then only a faint memory.

''No''.

She wasn't going to put off her mama again. Not be there for her a second time. She couldn't feel past her gut that she knew this was stupid, that it had nothing to do with the landslide. But it had everything to do with it. And she braced, and scraped, and pushed to her feet without a waver.

She'd waited to let the memory of the prank fade, seem to be put to rest. Taken the herbs amidst these other suspicious stores shortages. Set herself up as having a pattern of reason to be at the Sanctuary at the right time. Taken up tea blending-- in fact, taken to it.

''No, Casseny.''

Her hands pushed back, grasping up the thick of her hair into one palm. The other loosened the tie, keeping it twined around one finger as the rest smoothed back everything on the top of her head, readjusting the first hand's grip several times to accommodate the new lay. When it was flat, and perfect, and no strand would fathom popping out of place, she tied off the tail and let it loose with a soft swing.

A waft of heavy cinnamon and pastry dough hit her as she stood and her tongue licked her lips greedily. She'd brew today. She'd get it done.
}}

Logs:In Moments

2015-06-28T15:17:26Z

Cass: Created page with "{{Log |who=Casseny, |what=After Kaelige catches her in the Kitchens, Casseny ponders her path. |where=Inner Caverns, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=2 |month=2 |turn=38 |IP..."

{{Log
|who=Casseny,
|what=After Kaelige catches her in the Kitchens, Casseny ponders her path.
|where=Inner Caverns, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=2
|month=2
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.06.28
|quote="In moments of pain, we seek revenge." - Ami Ayalon
|mentions=Kaelige
|type=Log
|ooc=Backdated.
|icons-new=Icon Casseny dark.png,
|desc=>---< Inner Caverns, Fort Weyr >-----------------------------------<

The Inner Caverns are a winding system of tunnels and caverns, both
natural and manufactured which shows in the smoothness of their walls.
Every commonly used tunnel and passageway has niches carved at regular
intervals to hold glows that are tended by the Weyr's residents. At the
heart of this labyrinth lies the Commons Cavern, the hub of the Weyr's
housing area for both residents and crafters. A tunnel halfway between
those Commons and the Living Cavern, that feeds the Weyr's population,
leads to the Hot Springs despite its access to the Bowl. A curving
passageway connects the main tunnel with the Infirmary.

The Glass Fountain, Fort's bar and restaurant, is around the corner and
down flight of stairs off of the Living Cavern. The best way to find the
beer is to follow the trail of tipsy folks on their way home, or the
echoes of clinking glass and conversation. Well marked with a bold arrow
carved into the rock, a broad passageway dives nearly straight from the
heart of the caverns and down to the unloading area and beyond to Tunnel
out of the Weyr.
>-----------------------------------<
|log=A singular brown strand, beginning to fray at the ends with the need for a trim, was running free, a feint, aborted loop-de-loop before settling lightly enough to be nuisance across the bridge of her nose. A generous brush of tongue wet her fingers, and she could taste the remnants of mint, cinnamon, almond, coarse hide. Her hand smelled like his. Like outside, and activity, earthiness, and old adrenaline. Two fingers caught the root of the wayward hair, drawing it back to its fellows, smoothing it down until it blended totally into a whole.

Nevermind that the rest of her runner's tail broke in all directions.

Casseny'd made it out into the tunnels, piled with her tote, a bag of experimental tea, Molly's well-wishes, and the heady affair of freshly made bread and rashly made decisions. She'd gotten a good distance before her legs had absolutely turned to cook's pudding. She'd veered into a wall and slid down and now, here she was. Sitting in the tunnels at the crack of the morning with a bushel of bad medicine.

But as she smeared that hair back into place, Casseny knew, in her warbling gut, that this wasn't fear. She wasn't afraid for her life or her livelihood. She thought maybe she ''should'' be, but, lately, that hadn't always lined up with the truth. She had some kind of disease, where, whatever she thought, she felt the opposite-- or didn't feel at all! Or felt, but no one let her. ''You used to be such a happy child''. It didn't mean she wasn't happy now, she just--

Awareness of her clenched fingers had Casseny instinctively loosening them, pulling. Her entire head's worth of runner's tail came with, except one small weft, clinging together by half a tie. Casseny huffed out a big breath, feeling a surge of inappropriate annoyance-- of all things to finally lose it on…

Kaelige, though. She didn't think he'd turn her in. She'd given him more fuel, knowingly-- if she hadn't gotten it done, ''then'', it wouldn't have ever gotten done… but the fire… she didn't think it was ever discovery. Not like that.

Fingers flexed forward, kneading into the material of the heavily laden bag at her side. Without looking, she could trace the individual shapes of sweet bun's wrinkles, muffin's head. All dried, all smelling temptingly. Probably. She'd sort of blown her nose out mixing so much, sticking her face in it, him getting his groddy hands on the kitchen supplies. One wrist twisted, testing its soreness, the soft remaining impression of a much harder grip throughout the knuckles.

She could abort right here.

If nothing ever happened, there was nothing to hold over. He hadn't sussed what she'd specifically been using. She hadn't ''done'' anything…

But, when her eyes drifted briefly closed, the darkness transformed into shifted mud, displaced rocks, and Kaelige's outside smell was now Lux's, and she could see herself, choosing a stranger over her mother. Twin but opposing forces snatched each end of her stomach and twisted, roaring-- warring against each other. A headache sprang instant and oppressive and she dove her hands into her hairline, nearly freed strands cascading throughout her fingers.

It passed after a second. Horrible, and then only a faint memory.

''No''.

She wasn't going to put off her mama again. Not be there for her a second time. She couldn't feel past her gut that she knew this was stupid, that it had nothing to do with the landslide. But it had everything to do with it. And she braced, and scraped, and pushed to her feet without a waver.

She'd waited to let the memory of the prank fade, seem to be put to rest. Taken the herbs amidst these other suspicious stores shortages. Set herself up as having a pattern of reason to be at the Sanctuary at the right time. Taken up tea blending-- in fact, taken to it.

''No, Casseny.''

Her hands pushed back, grasping up the thick of her hair into one palm. The other loosened the tie, keeping it twined around one finger as the rest smoothed back everything on the top of her head, readjusting the first hand's grip several times to accommodate the new lay. When it was flat, and perfect, and no strand would fathom popping out of place, she tied off the tail and let it loose with a soft swing.

A waft of heavy cinnamon and pastry dough hit her as she stood and her tongue licked her lips greedily. She'd brew today. She'd get it done.
}}

File:Icon Casseny tea.png

2015-06-28T15:15:13Z

Cass: Cass moved page File:Icon Cassney tea.png to File:Icon Casseny tea.png

Logs:Between Weyr And Hold

2015-06-27T03:40:42Z

Cass: Created page with "{{Log |who=Celestra, Casseny, |what=Casseny happens by while Celestra is on duty and picks at a point. |where=Records Room, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=8 |month=2 |turn..."

{{Log
|who=Celestra, Casseny,
|what=Casseny happens by while Celestra is on duty and picks at a point.
|where=Records Room, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=8
|month=2
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.06.26
|quote="What would you like to know?"
|weather=Early in the morning and late in the evening, the cold rain falling turns to almost-pleasant snow, but most of the day is mired in a bleak, gray drizzle.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Casseny.png,
|desc=>---< Records Room, Fort Weyr >----------------------------------------------<

Dual entrances provide access to the Weyr's Records Room: the great doors
that open out onto a short tunnel to the Bowl and a twisting set of stairs
that descends from the Weyrleaders' Complex. Within the room itself rows
of stone shelving are carved out of the walls and supplemented by
freestanding shelving of dark, polished wood arranged in neat, well-lit
aisles. Bright tapestries depicting scenes from around the Fort region
decorate the walls, each with a glow basket in a sconce immediately above
to provide light by which to see the details and to leaven the gloom that
would otherwise permeate the chamber. Underfoot, a richly woven carpet in
shades of pale cream to rich klah brown evoke in abstract, the colors of
the Weyr, while a subtle patterning at its center replicates the
fortification that is Fort's hallmark symbol. Even without seeing the
contents of those shelves, one would know the purpose of the room, given
the perpetual aroma of hides, scrolls, paper, books and ink.

A few small alcoves have been carved out of the stone and filled with
desks and chairs, providing relatively quiet places for those using the
records room to work without being disturbed. Immediately before the doors
that lead out to the Bowl, several long tables are arranged to provide
larger, communal workspaces. Scribes can find writing implements, ink,
paper, and other tools of the trade in a couple of discreetly located
cabinets behind the duty desk. This cabinet and the outer doors are
typically kept locked when no recordskeeper is on duty.
>----------------------------------------------<
|log=It's been a quiet day in the Records Room, the hushed voices of those within and soft scritching of pen across paper the only sounds coming from within. For the most part, the room is relatively empty now, save for a few souls that linger to make use of the plentiful books. Celestra currently sits behind the duty desk, hair tied up into a neat bun. A pair of spectacles sit on the bridge of her nose as she leans over, one open book slightly off to the side while she transcribes its contents into the scroll before her.

Some of the soft chatter begins to grow louder and louder, due to sheer proximity. Casseny, with a hide held near to her chest, and an assistant, Jumin, discuss in low voices. The man speaks twice as often, and as much, as the girl, concluding at last with a shrugged, "That's all I know." Casseny delays a second, before nodding him back to work. A haze of distraction grips her as she strides more aimlessly forward, knuckles of the arm keeping the hide to her arrayed lightly against her lips. Still, she catches on the presence of Celestra, pulling to a stop in the duty desk's vicinity. An intent stare marks time, never relaxing, and hanging on the harper's glasses instead of her face.

For the most part, blue eyes are intent on their focus, though a twitch might be seen irritating the corner of one eye at the increase of volume. Celestra pays them no mind, hearing only muffled sounds in place of words as she tunes them out. The pen in her hand continues to dip into the pot before returning to the scroll's surface, it's dark ink flowing across the page to match that contained within the book. Even as the voices quiet, she does not look up. It's another moment before she feels someone's intense gaze and deems it necessary to look up from her work. Sharp eyes regard the young Candidate from above the rim of those spectacles before slender fingers move to push it upwards onto her bridge. The pen is placed leaning on it's pot, and hands fold together, fingers lacing. "May I assist you with something?" she asks, voice slightly hushed but with a musical ring to its tone as it lilts in query.

Casseny's head minutely tilts when she's questioned, leaving that the sole response for another drawn-out second before she voices, "Southern Boll." It's as much statement as explanation, and sparse for both. In an adjustment of her balance, her posture shifts all over. Brilliantly colored eyes shift down to the hide, back up to Celestra. Then, only after another distinct pause, does the girl close the distance between her and the desk. Up to a polite talking distance for the current hush of the room. A long arm reaches out languidly and yet with contained purpose, stopping just to brace a couple fingertips against the angle of the desk's very edge. Branching out from the others, her forefinger lifts and creates a line indicating the hide the harper works upon-- did work upon, before interruption. "Is it quite imperative?"

Perhaps there may have been a time when a young Celestra would have become irked with a slow response. But time and teaching has tempered her patience. What the Candidate finally does say in response receives a slight lift of an arched brow. With nothing else forthcoming, the Harper is left to wonder what exactly was meant by the singular statement, this marked by a quizzical furrow of her brows as Casseny approaches the desk. The Harper's gaze follows the finger as it points to her recently abandoned work before rising back to make eye contact. Laced fingers separate, leaving one hand free to wave dismissively in regards to her question. "Nothing that can't wait." And then the hands come together again. "And what of Southern Boll?"

A single gate opens on Casseny's face; a single weight lifted. Celestra has allowed the thought of conversation. The girl's smile is not quite one, barely making the expression while giving a perfect impression of it on the mind. Except then she continues to, ever so steadily, stare. Which sucks some of the friendly politeness from it. As though realizing, Casseny sucks in and then exhales a low breath and most of her posture relaxes incrementally and her eyelids flutter several times. "I was born at a different Weyr. Grew up here, and in the Hall. Never a hold." Fingers lift off the desk, lightly touching the hide in her grasp. She gently moves it just slightly away from her chest with her fist's weight; just enough to keep her hand there in continuance. "Would you tell me about it. A little?"

Celestra's gaze does not waver, even in the face of evident staring received by the Candidate before her. Observant eyes do catch the slight shift in expression, a minute lift of the corner of the lips in the imitation of a smile, the obvious shift shift in posture. Her head tilts marginally to the side at the request. The Harper relaxes her own posture, straight as a rod it had been, deft hands removing the spectacles to place them on the desk. She leans back in her chair and waves to the seat just off to the side of the desk, especially placed for those with extensive inquiries for the recordkeeper on duty. "What would you like to know? Just Hold life in general?"

Casseny's head shakes just slightly: ''no''. But, since she skirts around the front of the desk to drop into the chair, it must be for the spoken questions, not the offer. How heavily and carelessly she goes onto the seat suggests an impatience for the physical, uncaring. But, right after, each overly long limb on the awkwardly still-growing girl makes itself unavoidable and she brings her hands to her lap and her ankles under the chair-- bumping into its legs-- all angles. Blue eyes drop to the spectacles. Her hide has ended up in her lap, below her almost folded fingers, and the scrawl on it is scratchy, nearly incomprehensible. The kind of thing you curse to see on a healer's note, the morning after, when you can barely remember their instructions from the night before. "What's the first thing that came to your mind when I asked?"

In an effort to become more relaxed, Celestra rests her own arms to either side of her chair, one long leg crossing over the other within the hollow of the desk. Slender fingers lace together once more, resting in her lap as she watches Casseny move in that evident I'm-a-growing-teenager way. The hide is eyed, keen eyes catching the scratchy scrawl, a huge contrast to her own rather neat script that lined the pages of the scroll on the desk. The question is mulled over, gaze thoughtful. "Memories, primarily. Of my time in Southern Boll. The students I taught, the events that occurred." A pause. "I was raised in Fort Hold for most of my life. There are some differences between the two places, though perhaps not as many between a Hold and a Weyr."

Casseny's back straightens, as though better posture were a sign a respect for Fort Hold's current events-- struggles, perhaps. Its ''differences''. Little more than a curl of her lips, indistinctly aimed, shows on her face for it. She has a poker face that'd be bettered if she could infuse a little more charm, a little less absolute diligence; her rosy cheeks would benefit, too. For now, she remains subtle, allowing a vague fondness to crinkle her eyes at the mention of students. It dimmed easily, was overtaken by Fort. As Celestra quiets, Casseny withholds that silence, leaving it be while she formulates her next sentence without an insistence on keeping up constant chatter. "Between a Hold and Weyr." It's almost like she's titling an essay. But she carries on faster than before, "Storms wouldn't have been as bad down south. How did aid go?"

There's only a slight shift in expression as Celestra ceases talking, the silence filled with careful observation of Casseny at her change in posture. A lift of one corner of her lips that might be amusement for the Candidate's own change of expression, the subtleties of which are not lost on the Harper. The following question is followed by a furrowing of brows and a downturn of her lips. "As well as it could have, I suppose." she answers, purposefully vague, before smoothing out her expression. "Better than other places, I'd imagine. The Holds have their own ways of managing."

"That was a lot of words to say nothing." Casseny slowly blinks, tilts her head; it's an allowing gesture, paired with, "Very little." Not that, even previous, her tone harbored any vindictiveness. Nothing critically negative in the way she watches Celestra, head remaining at an angle. With her hands in her lap, she's found a nail to methodically clean. Soft ''tic, tic, tic''. "I'll fold." Decided with a potentially rare warmth mellowing out her tone. "I'd like to know more about those ways. Emergency protocols. And not just what we," ''we'', "do or think as healers."

The Harper knows full well the ambiguity offered with her reply, though Casseny's reaction to it does little to bring forth any other information. At least for the time being. Celestra's lips curl slightly when the Candidate finally voices her desire to know more. Her relaxed position shifts to where she leans forward, raising her interlaced hands to allow her chin to rest there. "There are some records in reference to emergency protocols. Though most are usually archived within the Holds themselves." There's a moment of careful regard for the young Candidate. "Why do you wish to know?" Curiosity gets the better of her, desire to find out why exactly a Candidate wants to know the ways of a Hold.

Existence of records seem to have already been in Casseny's register. As she's regarded, it's turned back around. Carefully. She's regarded for regarding, Casseny taking a measure of that pause. Her finger stops picking at the nail with a last definitive ''tic''. "Cohesion." Her mouth opened as if with another letter-- a harder shape-- but forms this one naturally, it all escaping with a little follow-up sigh of a breath. What more might've been behind that singular word is held onto, tip of the tongue that pushes against the inside of her lower teeth. As Casseny's head lightly turns to the side, shifting her slick runner's tail, she accurately interprets a sudden peripheral movement to be heading towards her. Hands move up her legs, clenching harder into that hide in anticipation of picking it up. ''There you are'' and references to the girl's chore of the day. Casseny slips off the seat, stopping parallel to the desk to turn on a heel to face Celestra. "Excuse me, Celestra. Another time--?" Right at the end, she remembers to make it a question the harper has any wiggle room in.
}}

Logs talk:Out of Hand

2015-06-26T23:39:17Z

Cass: Comment provided by Cass - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Out of Hand]]
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==Cass (17:39, 26 June 2015 (MDT)) said... ==

Dun dun... DUNDUNDUNDUNDUN.

Logs talk:Pink Cupcakes

2015-06-26T22:32:00Z

Cass: Comment provided by Cass - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Pink Cupcakes]]
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==Cass (16:32, 26 June 2015 (MDT)) said... ==

Poor cupcakes. :( I really felt for them in this scene. I hope they find someone right, soon.

Logs:Not Upset

2015-06-26T21:50:06Z

Cass: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ebeny, Casseny, |what=Casseny brings her mother tea, and news of her Standing. |where=Weyrlingmaster's Office, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=2 |month=2 |turn=3..."

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, Casseny,
|what=Casseny brings her mother tea, and news of her Standing.
|where=Weyrlingmaster's Office, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=2
|month=2
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.06.26
|quote=“... Maybe you do get that from me.”
|weather=Early in the morning and late in the evening, the cold rain falling turns to almost-pleasant snow, but most of the day is mired in a bleak, gray drizzle.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Ebeny.png, Icon Casseny vivid.png,
|desc=>---< Weyrlingmaster's Office, Fort Weyr >------------------------<

This small cavern opens off the Complex and serves as a more private
meeting space for small groups of the weyrlings and an office space for
the Weyrlingmaster. Just within the door, an oval table set about with six
chairs is kept stocked with mugs and a fresh pitcher of water and carafe
of klah. A blackboard hangs on the wall to the left of the table, often
marked with notes or diagrams from lessons. Past the blackboard, a
broad-topped desk is arranged with two comfortable chairs in front to
welcome guests, while a sturdy, straight-backed and only lightly-padded
chair sits behind the desk for the Weyrlingmaster's use. The desk boasts
many drawers and a blotter top. A shelf hangs from the wall above and to
one side of the desk, extra storage space for stacks of vellum, ink and
pens, sealing wax and other odds and ends. Against the back wall a subtly
set door leads the way into the Weyrlingmaster's personal weyr.
|log=When a learned routine abruptly changes, it can be very disconcerting. Which is how Casseny appears, when she does: disconcerted. Lux’s Ledge led to an involuntary outpatient regime for Ebeny, crusaded by her healer daughter and a regularly schedule apprentice lunch break. The usual midday hour come and gone might seem as though the Weyrlingmaster is finally off the hook. But for Casseny’s late arrival, stepping inside after a soft knock that never asks for a reply, and smelling of nut but also a heavier, herb-y, perfume. In her hand, a mug of cold tea. Despite inviting herself in, as common, she halts just in the door, assessing even the familiar surroundings like new.

It can't be helped that much of Ebeny's work, of late, has involved giving guidance and instructions from behind her desk, her mending body too fragile to stand up to much more than basic exercise. If she's not out watching the weyrlings, she's in her office or the barracks, even if she can't really /run/ around after anyone yet. Today, she's waited beyond the time she's come to expect Casseny to appear, weyrling files on the desk before her, though in the process of being gathered together, like she might soon make her escape. When her daughter finally does make an appearance, she watches her and waits, easily on edge thanks to the simple matter of her stopping in the door. "Cassie?"

Seeing her mother’s condition brings a sprig of liveliness back to Casseny. “I’ve kept you,” she admonishes, turning her effective observations in on herself as she steps out of the doorway’s framing. After that wash of purpose, it’s hard to say she looks particularly ‘’upset’’. Her mood: a dangling question mark at the corner of her mouth where she always appears just about to speak. Coming close to the desk, Casseny leans one hip into and slides the mug down-- conspicuously less full than usual. Though, “The tea’s cold,” is admitted, she still seems quite certain Ebeny will-- must-- drink it. “New blend from this morning.” And while her mother’s doing that, the daughter braces a couple fingers on the weyrling files, eyeing down at them.

Ben looks Casseny up and down, then somewhat reluctant slides her gaze to that mug and reaches out to claim it within the curl of her right hand. The news that it’s cold doesn’t help her to appear any more enthusiastic about it than she otherwise might be, though she attempts to school her too expressive features to an even acceptance, shuts her muddy-green eyes and lifts the mug to drink. And drink. Until it’s gone and over and she can settle the receptacle back on the desk and inch it back towards Casseny like a good patient. A moment later, she remembers to keep breathing, and a soft sigh precedes a deep breath in, just as she follows the line of her daughter’s fingers to the files. “Well?” she presses, knowing better than to deliver a more specific enquiry.

Casseny’s side-eye as Ebeny drinks assures that the weyrlingmaster plays no tricks and downs her “medicine”. She the mother in this instance. Lips press in practical satisfaction, though she can’t be entirely unaware of her mother’s forced expression, or lackthereof. At least someone else has mysteriously emptied the mug partially for Ebeny already. “It’s more frivolous,” she does admit, though with something of an overeager lick of her lips. “I’ll make a better to-morrow.” Little recalculation mid-word, her eyes hopping to the ceiling and back. ‘’Better’’ being rather relative. ‘’It’s better for you than klah’’, has been a mantra. Ebeny’s inquiry falls as if on deaf ears-- not that Ebeny would ever mistake it as such. She can only ride out Casseny’s quiet, all the while tilting her head ‘’just so’’ as she stares down upon the weyrling’s write-ups in judgment on-high. “I’m not upset,” she reports, deliberately letting out a long breath.

“It’s nowhere near as tasteless or yucky as some of the things the rest of the healers have had me down in my time,” Ben answers easily, though she does remain terribly still for a moment or so, as if expecting the tea to start having some sort of immediate, noticeable effect. “Or some of the things you’ve tested on me before,” she adds a touch more dryly, or what serves for dryness from her, her voice gentled to tease, if lightly. “You’re a step ahead of your Uncle Tasessin, anyway. He’s never cared what any of it tastes like, as long as he can collect data.” She even shivers, some distant memory brought forth. The words, nearly all of them, are unnecessary, her rambling habitual, and they buy her time before she can claim and accuse, “But you are /something/.” If not /upset/.

“You’re my mother.” A judicial sentence condemning Ebeny to a lifetime of being tested. An accusation questioning her impartiality. A commendation celebrating her unique ability to recognize her daughter’s mood. In three, or so, words. Casseny’s command of her tone sometimes a miracle belying her age. And other times: she waffles about, chewing on every possible phrase and swallowing it bitterly before it comes out. “I’m upset,” she levels, pausing to shift agitatedly against the desk so that, at first, that seems to be all. But then, “That I’m not upset.” Her mouth frowns, recognizing the childishness of it all yet feeling everything all the stronger as a teenager. Even wallowing in her own head, the girl spares a second to put two fingers in the mug and slide it her way, tipping it slightly to eye from her height at the insides. Empty but for a few, inevitable speckles. Good.

“And you’re my daughter.” Whether Ben speaks on one matter or the other - whether she’s submitting or carefully needling - is not so obvious, yet her focus narrows completely to the girl before her when she props her elbows on the desk and rests her chin on her hands. “But I’m not, however I might wish to be, a mind reader,” she confesses, deliberately making much of that being a source of /woe/. “I think you’re going to have to start at the beginning, because I feel like you’ve given me a book with only the last few lines written.” Her shrug is overplayed; too dramatic. “You know that if it’s /someone/ who’s upset-not-upset you, Laurie will eat them.”

“Ah, yes,” Casseny deadpans effortlessly, “Laurie. My avenger. I should like to see that. I will be on her shoulders when it happens.” Yes. Good. Amusement that never quite made it to her face visibly falls anyhow. Her shoulders droop minisculely. She lifts her chin at a tiny, defiant angle. “Unfortunately, it’s not so easy as gulping someone.” Catching her hands wanting to be fidgety, Casseny drops them to her legs, pressing out the creases of her pants along the thighs. “I knew I wanted to be a healer most of all,” her head drops, “And I’m so glad somebody showed me what I could be good at,” lifts again, angled to a high corner of the room, “So I felt certain I would defend it. To anybody.” Her fingers had started to fish into a breast tunic pocket and now, from it, she produces the re-straightened white knot. “But I took the knot to Stand. Like it was nothing.” Not nothing for poor Hattie who had to suffer through all that silence. “Now I’m that girl who only goes back to healing because she didn’t Impress.” Her shoulders rise and fall, taking her hands with them, so that they drop back onto her legs, boneless, with a resounding thump. “And I’m not even mad.”

Ben is not prone to long silences, yet she allows herself /some/ small measure of time to processes the news she’s presented with before galloping on ahead. Her glance down at the weyrling files betrays something instinctive, but then her shoulders straighten and she sits back in her chair, affectedly lazy, though she has always been good at artificial distance and a casual air. “Would it mean anything to you if I told you that Laurie has wanted you on the Sands since you were thirteen or so?” she puts to her child. “Would you ever have really believed me if she Searched you?” Genuine questions, yet it sounds like she has her own answers for them too. “You’re the girl the Hall wanted. You’re the girl who has a Craft, no matter what happens. You can love and want more than one thing, Cassie. If you /don’t/ feel bad, then don’t question it. It’s a luxury. If you can /be/ more than one thing, what’s the harm?”

Casseny lets Ebeny’s original questions fall rhetorically, choosing a deliberately close-mouthed expression that robs her smile over Laurie all of its mirth but none of its affection. Oh, ‘’Laurie’’. A clear emotional wrestle keeps her from answering anything else after that. She straightens her back, neck tensing equally in a quiet revolt to her mother’s sentiments yet the grim way she keeps her mouth pulled is ruefully aware. Aware of the logic, but powerless to stop herself from feeling against it. Her posture doesn’t relent. She rattles a couple fingers against the tea mug, yanks it an inch towards her, then abandons it, pushing off from the desk. The Candidate knot is smoothed and then disappeared inside her pocket. All tucked away; or loaded. Picking up the tea mug, one side is caressed as she eyes, again, the weyrlings between them. Her usual tone prevails from that bundle of teenager-ness, “Was it? Trouble?”

Ebeny presses finger and thumb to the bridge of her nose, perhaps trying to ward off one of her not uncommon (since the landslide) headaches, though it’s entirely possible that she seems uncomfortable for more than solely that. “...I don’t know,” she has to admit, her voice nearly not there. “I only briefly saw the Sands. I’d have guessed a green from its size... Maybe it’s just a matter of whether you want to believe a life that goes on sprang from it... or a life that ended too soon.” Her shrug is too light this time, too theatrical, rather than merely overplayed. “There’s nothing any of us could’ve done. Don’t upset yourself with the thought of it.” Whether she will or not, it’s a mother’s instinct to try and stop all sorts of things before they happen. Moving swiftly on: “Are you going to go and live in the barracks?”

Casseny’s eyelids lower, gaze following, as Ebeny speaks on the green and then a moment of emotionless reflection after. No trace shows at least; an opposite to her mother’s overacting. Fingers’ ‘’tap, tap, tap’’ partially for Ebeny’s benefit. Absolute stillness tends to unnerve others. Mother’s instinct also knows that there’s no absence of thought behind unmoving eyes. Even so, quiet prevails; Casseny stands very tall, watchful, interpreting Ebeny’s body language and with as much concern. She accepts the change seamlessly, only sniffing softly once she’s answered, “No.”

Ben has nothing but patience for the girl before her, time given in the wake of even so brief an answer, a single syllable presented to her in return. “Why?” For or against, agreement or otherwise, she doesn’t offer her own thoughts on the matter, not even after so many turns of seeing Candidates become weyrlings, and weyrlings become riders. She waits, idly - or not so - smoothing back her hair as she levels a faintly curious look across at Casseny. Her fingers linger too long at some pressure point at the curve of her skull, or she’s just determined to smooth back that lock of hair.

Her stare burrows in at that favored point. A mulish look overcomes Casseny, and is banished quickly like a bad idea. She’s relatively at her own pensive ease when she, sliding her hands into her tunic pockets, half shrugs, “A feeling I have.” Negative or positive, there is no hint. As easily meaning the mere nearness of the Hatching time, as her voice on the outcome. She leaves no trace to follow into the rabbit hole of her mind. It’s with calmness that she steps back, bunching up with mere intention, not agitation. “But I should see the Headwoman. The Infirmary. The back of your head. In that order.”

“...Maybe you do get that from me.” The comment, so soft as it is, seems more to herself than to Casseny, and Ebeny in turn adopts the silence of her daughter and offers no explanation as to what one, precise interpretation she might wish for her words. She settles for inclining her head a little in a tiny gesture that’s as much acknowledgement as it is acceptance of what must be done, potentially of any one of those things on that list, or all of them. “Yes, Ma’am,” is full of easy, wry humour. She’s submitted to Casseny’s care so far, and it seems that that will not change in the immediate future. “Go on.” Encouragement, quiet as it is. She’ll both let her go and wait for the moment of her return.
}}

Logs talk:A Tipping Point

2015-06-26T21:13:07Z

Cass: Comment provided by Cass - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:A Tipping Point]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Cass (15:13, 26 June 2015 (MDT)) said... ==

Yooouuuuuuuuu! (<3)

Logs:Range

2015-06-26T04:20:41Z

Cass: Created page with "{{Log |who=Casseny, C'stian, |what=When in a Weyr. Casseny wants to broaden her knowledge, C'stian suspects more. |where=Inner Caverns, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=26 |..."

{{Log
|who=Casseny, C'stian,
|what=When in a Weyr. Casseny wants to broaden her knowledge, C'stian suspects more.
|where=Inner Caverns, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=26
|month=1
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.06.25
|quote="There’s things I can learn here, better than elsewhere."
|weather=From morning straight through until well into the night, large, soft-looking snow falls steadily.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Casseny hiding.png,
|desc=>---< Inner Caverns, Fort Weyr(#524RJs$) >-----------------------------------<

The Inner Caverns are a winding system of tunnels and caverns, both
natural and manufactured which shows in the smoothness of their walls.
Every commonly used tunnel and passageway has niches carved at regular
intervals to hold glows that are tended by the Weyr's residents. At the
heart of this labyrinth lies the Commons Cavern, the hub of the Weyr's
housing area for both residents and crafters. A tunnel halfway between
those Commons and the Living Cavern, that feeds the Weyr's population,
leads to the Hot Springs despite its access to the Bowl. A curving
passageway connects the main tunnel with the Infirmary.

The Glass Fountain, Fort's bar and restaurant, is around the corner and
down flight of stairs off of the Living Cavern. The best way to find the
beer is to follow the trail of tipsy folks on their way home, or the
echoes of clinking glass and conversation. Well marked with a bold arrow
carved into the rock, a broad passageway dives nearly straight from the
heart of the caverns and down to the unloading area and beyond to Tunnel
out of the Weyr.

>-----------------------------------<
|log=Clinking of glasses, laughter; it all reaches Casseny peripherally. Around the corner from the main caverns, the healer waits outside the steps that lead into the proper of The Glass Fountain. It’s early enough that most who clamber up the stairs back to business in the Weyr are not doing so drunkenly. Still, each is afforded a quick jab from Casseny’s gaze before, quite instantly, she loses all interest. She’s patient through time, yet a war maintains within her; certain moments, she pushes off as if to leave, chiding, only to return, clicking her heels together as she resettles against the stone wall. Palms to its coldness, overly long legs extended slightly in front of her. She braces; she waits.

The Hematite wingsecond never used to be that frequent of a visitor to the Glass Fountain; he tended to prefer smaller and quieter venues. Still, C'stian has been seen here often enough of late. Perhaps Lilah is driving him to drink, or perhaps he finds it easier to forget their quarrels when socializing with others. Either way, he emerges like a man with nowhere in particular to be—or rather, someone who wants to be anywhere but one particular place. As if he were looking for a distraction, or an excuse to avoid the junior weyrwoman.

Sight of C’stian lights in Casseny’s eyes, a solid purpose shaped like a person. She thrusts off her wall position, messenger bag thumping against her leg, and strides in a direct line towards the wingsecond with a rallying toss of her head. Previous encounters may’ve seen her staring at the Hematite rider with unsettling dedication from afar, but she draws near him now, having arrowed in on his aimlessness-- rather than determination to be somewhere, on time. In she sidles, filling the role of distraction with a soft pull of her lips short of a smile yet suggestive of one. “C’stian. A moment.” As in: you seem to have one, and now it is mine, but thank you.

"Hm?" The Hematite wingsecond turns, clearly shifted from whatever thoughts had been clinging to him. "Oh. Casseny, hello." He moves slightly to one side, drawing the pair out of the line of traffic, almost habitually. Even as a bronzerider, old 'keep the hallways clear' habits from Healer Hall are hard to shake. "What can I do for you?"

Fresher to the Healer Hall, Casseny follows his lead without a blink. The same old noise filters out from the Fountain stairs, causing her to drop her gaze slightly, chin barely starting to turn to the spot before she aborts the action. Eyes are quick to find C’stian. She’s less quick to talk; he’s used to it, at least. A couple fingernails scratch along the strap of her heavy hanging bag. “You’re a dragonhealer. I’ve been thinking.” A little backwards phrasing; perhaps the cause of Casseny’s mouth tugging unhappily, delaying her from her eventual follow-up. “Range is important.” Even though she’s sighing a bit as she says so.

"Range?" C'stian asks, taking a moment to parse the out-of-order statements. "You mean, range of knowledge for a Healer—people, herbs, dragons—or range that a dragon can fly?" Clearly, he's assuming the former; it's the longer topic, and the bronzerider has settled in leaning against the wall, regarding Casseny with his arms folded in front of him.

A soft squeeze of Casseny’s lips, jump of the eyebrows, suggests she’s potentially considering his latter interpretation. But: no. She tosses her head, no, and then sweeps her hand across her hair to settle any wayward strand. There are a few. “I’m back home, at a Weyr. There’s things I can learn here, better than elsewhere.” Abandoning what is now a neatly arranged runner’s tail, her hands flight to her pockets, settling in. She rocks a little onto her toes. A bad habit for a tall girl. “Do you mind?”

"No, I'm happy to talk." After all, he doesn't get to discuss his former calling much, outside of the dragonhealing shifts. And this certainly provides a convenient excuse for C'stian not to have to face yet another argument with Lilah again, at least not just yet. Time enough for that later. "If you have more than just a question or two, though, I'm not sure the middle of the hallway is the place for any lengthy lessons."

“No,” Casseny agrees, quickly, and her mouth remains in that ‘’o’’ for a couple seconds after, distractedly holding onto her last thought. “I’ve,” and she shifts the weighty bag on her shoulder, like it’s full of answers. Perhaps something that requires her attention, soon enough. Fingers drop, fanning out against her thigh. “But I’d like to call on you later. A couple times. As my schedule permits, and.” Eyes drop, wondering, and when they lift, they’re following her body’s slight curve towards the Fountain stairs. Laughter. Perhaps C’stian’s wingmates. Whether or not, they make adequate stand-ins for Casseny’s prompting, “Yours.”

The seemingly evasive nature of Casseny's answer causes the bronzerider's eyebrows to raise slightly. "Oh?" he prompts. Still, after a moment, he adds, "Alright. But if you have a few questions ahead of time, I can prepare better answers." This, no doubt, is what comes of C'stian having been raised by a Healer Hall instructor; impromptu lessons are good, but prepared materials are always superior.

While C’stian’s talking, Casseny begins to dig in her tunic pocket. As he finishes, she presents him with an overly neatly folded note; its inside is taken with a list of basic topics scrawled in Casseny’s unkempt healer’s lettering. Good thing C’stian is used to such kind of writing. Anatomy, warning signs, questions on reading body language if the rider isn’t there to translate, and on: as she said, a range. Though it’s lacking in any real procedures and involves mostly rudimentary knowledge and diagnoses. Casseny stares intently at him as she hands it over. Though revealing no flare of passion for the topic, or enthusiastic anticipation, she’s certainly poised on the edge of one feeling or another.

The bronzerider peruses the list thoughtfully, pausing here and there to puzzle through a particularly illegible bit of handwriting with an air of long practice. "All useful topics," C'stian allows finally, "if you're posted to a Weyr. Are you planning to try to work yourself a posting here, or just figure it can't hurt to know?"

“It can be good to know.” Not precisely allowing that it can’t hurt. There’s a second thought there, trapped within the press of Casseny’s lips as she tilts her head at him as if to wordlessly convey this addendum. Soon enough: “I’m posted to a Weyr right now. I should learn. If I’m posted to a Weyr later, I know the base. I move ahead.” Several soft nods accompany the rhythmic drumming of her short, staccato sentiments. A breath out lowers her shoulders. She takes a new one in, and her chest is buoyed. Fingers patter along the messenger bag strap. Her stare at him now feels expectant.

"Mm." C'stian can't really argue with that. The bronzerider stuffs the list into the pocket of his jacket, then regards Casseny more closely. Not that he knows her that well, but she still seems a bit out-of-sorts. "Everything all right, otherwise?"

Casseny’s right hand pops up and she scratches somewhat obsessively at her left inner elbow for a few seconds. “Just a lot to do,” is sighed following a similarly long pause. One eye half-squints. She shrugs. It could be her quiet nature, or the fickle one of a teenager; she seems to be done talking and antsy to leave. Perhaps it’s time to visit Ebeny. She’s been seen in and out of the Weyrlingmaster’s office like clockwork since the landslide.

"Well, that's true enough, lately." Still, C'stian looks slightly unconvinced. But after a moment, he tilts his head to indicate the path down the hallway, letting her go without further query for the moment. Maybe it's because he doesn't really have anything to put to the vague sense that she's concealing something, maybe it's out of respect for Ebeny. Maybe he's just resigned to the fact that he needs to go have another shouting match with Lilah. "I imagine we'll speak again soon."

Casseny crisply nods. No extraneous assurances follow, nor reiterations; she’s said what needs to be said and conveys a trust that C’stian is up to scratch. Tightening her grip on the messenger bag, she skirts around him to exit down the long, curving tunnels of Fort. Apparently, goodbyes are also superfluous.
}}

Logs:Thinking Will Not Overcome Fear

2015-06-24T03:23:27Z

Cass:

{{Log
|who=Casseny,
|what=Immediately after the landslide, Casseny loses herself for a moment.
|where=Lux's Ledge Hold, Fort Area
|involves=Fort Area
|day=19
|month=11
|turn=37
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.05.23
|quote="Thinking will not overcome fear, but action will." - W. Clement Stone
|weather=Grey, cloudy.
|mentions=Ebeny,
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon Casseny messy.png,
|log=A haze had descended over Lux's Ledge.

A gentle buzz. following the earth's noisy upheaval. It started getting faster, more oppressive, creating higher and higher pressure in Casseny's ear until it was so painful that-- POP. Noise rushed in like the ground had a second ago. Bursts of movement everywhere she could see; dirt on people; shouting, crying; the scrape of shovels, shoes, a child wailing. Her journeyman was yelling something-- she could listen without hearing it-- a tug on her unresponsive arm. There was the old man whose head wound was barely stitched. She could see the threads hanging off of him, serenely waving; she could focus in on that tiny, minute detail but yet none of the rest would settle down. Filter out. She couldn't focus.

It took too long to realize she was crouching instead of standing. She couldn't ''really'' remember going over, but her hands were now dirty and she stared disinterestedly at them. She couldn't heal with these hands. They weren't clean, healer's hands.

She thought briefly like she might go insane, right then and there, able to tell everything that was happening but utterly unable to respond-- because ''what'' was she supposed to respond to ''first''?

Laurienth made it easy.

Laurienth could be heard, breaking into Casseny's overwhelmed consciousness with a clarity like the dragon was immediately in front of her, bellowing hot breath onto Casseny's face, burning away all other sensations.

She knew that noise. Not like she'd ever been familiar with its like, but, in her gut, she felt it; she'd been punched.

''Mama''.

"Laurie-- "

The old man's fingers lost the edge of Casseny's sleeve as she moved backwards, finding her heel, her balance, her motivation. "''Laurie''." She wanted to ask the green, reassure her, know immediately what she knew of her rider's-- Casseny mother's--- condition. ''Condition''. It sounded hideously clinical but, at the same time, she knew it was right.

What good a dragon's bond if it couldn't be where needed for the rider's good? Casseny had never wanted anything more than she wanted to be able to be in Laurienth's head in that moment. Not to Impress with the green. To be together with the one other consciousness that felt exactly what she felt right then. What her mother felt.

She found herself at the edge of the healers' triage tables when the rest of the world began to stream back in to color. Laurienth's ash left a chalky taste in her mouth, but it was the queasiness of embarrassment that reached her stomach first. There were other people. She was here for a reason. And it wasn't to stand around like a staggered wherry.

A man came stumbling towards her from the animals' twice-destroyed pens-- from where Ebeny had gone-- bleeding profusely from a facial cut. Casseny reached out a hand and caught his groping one, steadying, guiding him towards the tables. His wavering on his feet helped to disguise her lesser quiver. Her hands were dirty, and beneath the dirt was knowledge, relief.

She'd make it to Ebeny. Even if every step not immediately taken was a razor blade in the bottom of her foot.

Laurienth would say everything she couldn't. And where the green could not act, Casseny would.

And then, later-- only later-- she would think about what she'd done.
}}

Logs:Thinking Will Not Overcome Fear

2015-06-24T03:21:43Z

Cass: Created page with "{{Log |who=Casseny, |what=Immediately after the landslide, Casseny loses herself for a moment. |where=Lux's Ledge Hold, Fort Area |involves=Fort Area |day=19 |month=11 |turn=3..."

{{Log
|who=Casseny,
|what=Immediately after the landslide, Casseny loses herself for a moment.
|where=Lux's Ledge Hold, Fort Area
|involves=Fort Area
|day=19
|month=11
|turn=37
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.05.23
|quote="Thinking will not overcome fear, but action will." - W. Clement Stone
|weather=Grey, cloudy.
|mentions=Ebeny,
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon Casseny messy.png,
|log=A haze had descended over Lux's Ledge.

A gentle buzz. following the earth's noisy upheaval. It started getting faster, more oppressive, creating higher and higher pressure in Casseny's ear until it was so painful that-- POP. Noise rushed in like the ground had a second ago. Bursts of movement everywhere she could see; dirt on people; shouting, crying; the scrape of shovels, shoes, a child wailing. Her journeyman was yelling something-- she could listen without hearing it-- a tug on her unresponsive arm. There was the old man whose head wound was barely stitched. She could see the threads hanging off of him, serenely waving; she could focus in on that tiny, minute detail but yet none of the rest would settle down. Filter out. She couldn't focus.

It took too long to realize she was crouching instead of standing. She couldn't ''really'' remember going over, but her hands were now dirty and she stared disinterestedly at them. She couldn't heal with these hands. They weren't clean, healer's hands.

She thought briefly like she might go insane, right then and there, able to tell everything that was happening but utterly unable to respond-- because ''what'' was she supposed to respond to ''first''?

Laurienth made it easy.

Laurienth could be heard, breaking into Casseny's overwhelmed consciousness with a clarity like the dragon was immediately in front of her, bellowing hot breath onto Casseny's face, burning away all other sensations.

She knew that noise. Not like she'd ever been familiar with its like, but, in her gut, she felt it; she'd been punched.

''Mama''.

"Laurie-- "

The old man's fingers lost the edge of Casseny's sleeve as she moved backwards, finding her heel, her balance, her motivation. "''Laurie''." She wanted to ask the green, reassure her, know immediately what she knew of her rider's-- Casseny mother's--- condition. ''Condition''. It sounded hideously clinical but, at the same time, she knew it was right.

What good a dragon's bond if it couldn't be where needed for the rider's good? Casseny had never wanted anything more than she wanted to be able to be in Laurienth's head in that moment. Not to Impress with the green. To be together with the one other consciousness that felt exactly what she felt right then. What her mother felt.

She found herself at the edge of the healers' triage tables when the rest of the world began to stream back in to color. Laurienth's ash left a chalky taste in her mouth, but it was the queasiness of embarrassment that reached her stomach first. There were other people. She was here for a reason.

A man came stumbling towards her from the animals' twice-destroyed pens-- from where Ebeny had gone-- bleeding profusely from a facial cut. Casseny reached out a hand and caught his groping one, steadying, guiding him towards the tables. His wavering on his feet helped to disguise her lesser quiver. Her hands were dirty, and beneath the dirt was knowledge, relief.

She'd make it to Ebeny. Even if every step not immediately taken was a razor blade in the bottom of her foot.

Laurienth would say everything she couldn't. And where the green could not act, Casseny would.

And then, later-- only later-- she would think about what she'd done.
}}

Logs:Feeding For Two

2015-06-24T02:43:12Z

Cass:

{{Log
|who=Casseny, Isidro,
|what=Casseny and Isidro's cravings are, so far, only their own. It's very medical.
|where=Sanctuary, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=24
|month=1
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
| gamedate = 2015.06.22
| quote = "If that suddenly became possible, that would be absolutely terrifying."
|weather=Early in the morning and late in the evening, the cold rain falling turns to almost-pleasant snow, but most of the day is mired in a bleak, gray drizzle.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Casseny pretty.png, Icon Isidro teeth-like-a-military-cemetery.png
|desc=>---< Sanctuary, Fort Weyr >-------------------------------------------------<

Once a complete weyr, buried beneath the mudslide, this awkwardly-shaped
chamber has now been cleaned up and protected from the elements by a set
of proper doors where the ledge might have been. It's a cozy little spot,
all funny little shelves and nooks in the warmly-painted walls, various
ornaments sat in each space in the wall, from collections of tealights to
elaborate carvings.

A third of the cavern is occupied by a large, rectangular storage unit
fronted by glass to make a counter-top, behind which lie a series of
wooden shelves stacked with crockery and various bottles, a proper yet
small built-in oven and a short, stocky cupboard. A selection of cakes,
biscuits and pastries are usually available throughout the day, set out on
the countertop alongside a board detailing the variety of warm drinks
available. Small groupings of mismatching furniture sit scattered
throughout the remaining free space, lending the place a quaint, homely
air. Usually on-duty is Molly or Joy, kitchen girls known for their baking
skills.
|log=Patchy: the weather, and the selection left at Sanctuary. It's turned to bouts of snow-- a relief from dreary rain-- outside the doors, and the refreshingly warmed spiced drinks and stuffed pastries have been popular. The counter's looking pretty picked clean, except for a couple of buns here, a cinnamon something there. Casseny's the hovering bird, picking at the remains, while Molly tends to stacking furniture to clean, taking out trash. She slides out the double doors briefly-- Casseny's alone. For a couple seconds she restrains herself, holding onto her little bag of Sanctuary leftovers and waiting. Then, teeth pinning her lower lip, and with furtive glances, a hand darts out-- pauses-- then snags another sticky bun. In the bag. Wait. She grabs another. This one is held a bit more personally close to her chest as she contemplates; contemplates and sidles a step towards that cinnamon thing. It doesn't seem to matter its actual name, or, really, anything at all.

Candidacy is not known for leaving anybody great swaths of free time, which probably explains why it is that Isidro wanders in now. His hair is all wet curls, just barely dried enough not to be plastered to his forehead, but it appears to be more after the fashion of a recent bathing than from the snow, mostly because he's not a shivery miserable mess on arrival. No, fresh clothes, wet hair, predator's sharp eyes. "Just how many of those do you need?"

Casseny's abruptly stiffened shoulders read her as startled-- though, rather than look perturbed, when she turns, it's almost surprise that it happened. A new phenomenon! Not that it's easy to tell, with the half of sticky bun still mostly in her mouth. Trying to hide that she was indulging in a bite by shoving the entire thing in her mouth at once perhaps didn't work out for her. A hard gnaw breaks off what she can successfully chew; the rest led guiltily down towards an inescapably full bag. "Enough," she declares, mysteriously succinct, when the coast is clear between her teeth. A second later, she clears her throat and thinks to add, "It's not for me." Ignore her sticky fingers. "Infirmary, rather."

"Infirmary," Isidro repeats, with that uh-huh-yeah-right kind of tone. But the worst penalty that will be involved in this is her having to relinquish the cinnamon thing. Look at his waistline, surely he needs the calories as much as any sickly old person does, right? Have to keep those Candidates going? Something like that. But he does insist on also obtaining a fork to go with it. "I feel like I could eat at least three quarters of a herdbeast, right now, but this will have to do. Deserve something nice, after all this. Candidate chores are more frequently revolting than I expected."

Isidro is not her patient; she's not obliged to listen to him. Casseny and her guilty sweet-tooth seem of a mind to leave before he can cement her sins to memory, but she holds back, eying his claimed cinnamon ''something'' with more intensity than it deserves. "Revolting." It is prompt, question-- though it is not uncertainty-- and almost disbelieving, without precisely critiquing. A lot of ingredients for one word. Probably too many for someone so hungry for actual foodstuffs.

Hungry enough for the devouring of all sorts of things, but even so, Isidro manages to actually get his cinnamon something on a plate, with a fork, and Faranth... he even sits down at a table. He does, however, require at least one forkful to be chewed before saying anything. Why have that much in the way of teeth if you aren't going to use them? They're not just for being pretty. Chewing, swallowing, then: "Seems like we get all the most distasteful tasks. It feels like some sort of test. Prove yourself willing to crawl through the mud, and you can marry the Lord Holder's daughter, that sort of thing."

Again Casseny hovers, with a particular meticulousness indistinct between an intelligent pensiveness and a mere disinclination towards socialization. Again, she chooses to bend, walking carefully towards Isidro's chosen table, left alone where Molly had only half finished her Sanctuary closing practice of stacking chairs for sweeping. Hugging the little bag of illicit goodies to her chest with one hand, Cass subtly rubs the palm of her hand against the back of her thigh, excising stickiness left over from the bun. "Necessary tasks." She half-squints at him. "There's not exactly rest and riches after you Impress. I'm sure you've heard that from others by now." She softens her voice a modicum, perhaps hoping to tease herself for repeating some kind of mantra. But she hasn't mastered the art of not sounding overly dry.

"I believe rest and riches only comes with marrying Blood, and that's never been something that seemed a likely course for my life." Not that this stops Isidro from sounding a little bit regretful about this, all wistful sighs between bites. Big bites. That cinnamon whatever is becoming a smaller whatever by the moment. "Might feel differently if there was a Pass, but I'll take it, if it comes with a place to myself and..." And a look at the girl, vaguely furrowed brow, like he's only just recalled who he's talking to. "...and freedom to do what I like the rest of the time."

"You'll take it," she continues to measure his words, feeding them back with a soft, assessing nod. Casseny's eyes flit left-ward as she considers the matter, briefly distant and distracted before she rounds back to the meeting of-- whoever. With the cinnamon whatever. Her feet scuff softly against the floor, betraying a slight restless she can keep off of her fully invested face. Her fingers knead into the cloth bag; she ''looks'' like she could sit there all night. Perhaps make him some tea to help him do the same. "And..." Her prompt for him to rewind to before he stuttered to look at her's followed momentarily by the contrarily idle purposefulness with which she finds and pulls a plump sticky bun from the bag. Sets it on the table. Turning it with a few fingers as if to find its good side.

"And," a bit more firmly this time, "there are some things you'll understand more when you're older." Is she really young enough to warrant that? Not necessarily. But he's old enough to feel like she does, which is a different sort of a thing, maybe. He emphasizes this bit of the wisdom of the ages with his fork, then stabs the last piece of his pastry and stuffs it into his mouth.

A mood grips the corner of Casseny's mouth, torn between possible insult and just as likely amusement. She weighs what he says for the time it takes him to chew his last, however, indulging no knee-jerk sentiment. "I hope I am tasked with it in time," is what she chooses to say, at last. With Isidro's plate woefully empty, she plucks up the sticky bun and sets it experimentally on that blank space. And watches. Not unlike a mama bird. Which is extremely age-appropriate.

Is Isidro going to question age-appropriateness now? No. No, he isn't. Where food is involved, no questions are asked. Well, one question: "You're sure? I mean--I can probably make it to breakfast without expiring. Are all the people in the infirmary going to be able to make it through the night without the sugar infusion?" Yes, there's a smile, there, and not one that bothers trying to hide itself.

Casseny's last little finger poke leaves the bun in the exact middle of Isidro's plate before she folds back into her own space, even rather similarly lanky-limbed as the yet older boy. She might even still be growing: the horror. "We'll make it better if you're not brought in there later, uncomfortably expiring." Her utter seriousness resolved, she waits a second and then-- a smile. It brings out the rosiness in her cheeks; it's ushered out quickly, as though her assiduity were embarrassed by such. "Besides, soon you might be feeding for two."

"Feeding for two," Isidro echoes, his dark brows climbing so far they might crawl all the way up his forehead and hide in his hairline. "Pretty sure that's traditionally something else. I don't think my going round about the middle is going to help a dragon any--anyway, who am I if I don't have my girlish figure?" This does not, actually, stop him from finishing off the sticky bun immediately thereafter. His is apparently not a low-carb diet.

"That's eating for two," suggests Casseny amiably, her own eyebrows flirting with making a skeptically amused ''v''. "Feeding for two is when you have to stop a ravenous little dragon from getting overly round about ''its'' middle though you're putting food in its face while, somehow, against all odds, remembering to eat, yourself." An awful lot of words from her, even a short impression of her suggests. She aims to balance it with a bout of silence, but breaks that vow when, after a short, aborted breath, she adds quite sincerely, "I don't know. Who you are."

"Feeding, eating. Close enough! Anyway, maybe it'll all pan out to nothing." Another bite, more chewing, fork set down. After Isidro swallows, he adds, "But I guess I'll take what I can get, now." Then a beat after that, he blinks at her. "Right. Sorry. Sid. So many people, it seems like either I have to default to saying it to everybody or I forget entirely. And I can't keep track of even the Candidates, much less everyone else." Judiciously, "Not that I won't try to remember."

"Too late for it to be nothing," Casseny opines amidst Isidro's chewing-- or Sid, as it were. "Casseny. You don't have to remember." An inkling of understanding as to the labors of how many faces pass by the Candidates. The scuffing of her feet, stilled through conversation before, begins once more; she's reminded herself of something, whatever made her subtly antsy. Her gaze darkens, eyelids drifting slightly closed to take her momentarily far away from there. Though she's all earnest, speaking, "But please do let your closest healer know if you start going round about the middle in the traditional way."

There's just a slight delay, but then Isidro grins at her, big smile, showing teeth. "If that suddenly became possible, that would be absolutely terrifying. I'd have to seriously adjust my social calendar, for one thing." Wasn't she supposed to be Too Young For That Sort Of Talk? Apparently he's just not safe to be around young people. "Casseny. I'm not keeping you, am I? Were you supposed to be sneaking out of here with your prizes by now?" Not completely oblivious to antsy.

Casseny blinks languidly at Isidro's smile several times, perhaps blinded by all the teeth. Her own lips do not reciprocate now, only daring a tiny notion, unclear. ''Amusement'' might be an able guess, if only because of her following look up and down Isidro: slow, studious, her head slightly tilted, to be quite entirely sure of his state. Reminder of her own agenda stops her feet. She taps a couple of fingers. "You are," she allows, "But I chose to let you." Her next seconds are contemplative, weighing. Double doors swinging interrupts any notion she might've had to speak again. Molly reenters the Sanctuary, double-taking at Isidro's presence, and then nodding to the healer apprentice. "Y'get all the surviving remnants, Cass? My regards to 'em manning the night desk." Molly's tone reveals this as a routine for them, and she just as soon goes about her business again. Obligingly, Casseny pulls out of her seat.

This seems to be Isidro's cue, too, doesn't it? He's not oblivious. "Long day," he says to Molly, by way of explanation, a flick of fingertips to the white cord at his shoulder. He offers up plate and fork. "Best be getting back to trying to use what's left of my waking time productively. Morning will be here too soon. You both have a good night." Whatever it is can be wedged into what's left of the evening, at this rate, seems not to require him to take off at speed, he just heads back into the caverns at a relaxed pace that is going to do nothing to burn off those two pastries.

"Good night, Sid," returns Casseny-- and when they're, briefly, aligned because there's only one exit, she uses the proximity to add seriously, "Watch your cravings." With a last spy at his belly, he can be sure she's taken his shape to memory; she'll know if he starts ''showing''. Even if it's only pastries.
}}

Logs:Feeding For Two

2015-06-24T02:40:37Z

Cass:

{{Log
|who=Casseny, Isidro,
|what=Casseny and Isidro's cravings are, so far, only their own. It's very medical.
|where=Sanctuary, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=24
|month=1
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
| gamedate = 2015.06.22
|weather=Early in the morning and late in the evening, the cold rain falling turns to almost-pleasant snow, but most of the day is mired in a bleak, gray drizzle.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Casseny pretty.png, Icon Isidro teeth-like-a-military-cemetery.png
|desc=>---< Sanctuary, Fort Weyr >-------------------------------------------------<

Once a complete weyr, buried beneath the mudslide, this awkwardly-shaped
chamber has now been cleaned up and protected from the elements by a set
of proper doors where the ledge might have been. It's a cozy little spot,
all funny little shelves and nooks in the warmly-painted walls, various
ornaments sat in each space in the wall, from collections of tealights to
elaborate carvings.

A third of the cavern is occupied by a large, rectangular storage unit
fronted by glass to make a counter-top, behind which lie a series of
wooden shelves stacked with crockery and various bottles, a proper yet
small built-in oven and a short, stocky cupboard. A selection of cakes,
biscuits and pastries are usually available throughout the day, set out on
the countertop alongside a board detailing the variety of warm drinks
available. Small groupings of mismatching furniture sit scattered
throughout the remaining free space, lending the place a quaint, homely
air. Usually on-duty is Molly or Joy, kitchen girls known for their baking
skills.
|log=Patchy: the weather, and the selection left at Sanctuary. It's turned to bouts of snow-- a relief from dreary rain-- outside the doors, and the refreshingly warmed spiced drinks and stuffed pastries have been popular. The counter's looking pretty picked clean, except for a couple of buns here, a cinnamon something there. Casseny's the hovering bird, picking at the remains, while Molly tends to stacking furniture to clean, taking out trash. She slides out the double doors briefly-- Casseny's alone. For a couple seconds she restrains herself, holding onto her little bag of Sanctuary leftovers and waiting. Then, teeth pinning her lower lip, and with furtive glances, a hand darts out-- pauses-- then snags another sticky bun. In the bag. Wait. She grabs another. This one is held a bit more personally close to her chest as she contemplates; contemplates and sidles a step towards that cinnamon thing. It doesn't seem to matter its actual name, or, really, anything at all.

Candidacy is not known for leaving anybody great swaths of free time, which probably explains why it is that Isidro wanders in now. His hair is all wet curls, just barely dried enough not to be plastered to his forehead, but it appears to be more after the fashion of a recent bathing than from the snow, mostly because he's not a shivery miserable mess on arrival. No, fresh clothes, wet hair, predator's sharp eyes. "Just how many of those do you need?"

Casseny's abruptly stiffened shoulders read her as startled-- though, rather than look perturbed, when she turns, it's almost surprise that it happened. A new phenomenon! Not that it's easy to tell, with the half of sticky bun still mostly in her mouth. Trying to hide that she was indulging in a bite by shoving the entire thing in her mouth at once perhaps didn't work out for her. A hard gnaw breaks off what she can successfully chew; the rest led guiltily down towards an inescapably full bag. "Enough," she declares, mysteriously succinct, when the coast is clear between her teeth. A second later, she clears her throat and thinks to add, "It's not for me." Ignore her sticky fingers. "Infirmary, rather."

"Infirmary," Isidro repeats, with that uh-huh-yeah-right kind of tone. But the worst penalty that will be involved in this is her having to relinquish the cinnamon thing. Look at his waistline, surely he needs the calories as much as any sickly old person does, right? Have to keep those Candidates going? Something like that. But he does insist on also obtaining a fork to go with it. "I feel like I could eat at least three quarters of a herdbeast, right now, but this will have to do. Deserve something nice, after all this. Candidate chores are more frequently revolting than I expected."

Isidro is not her patient; she's not obliged to listen to him. Casseny and her guilty sweet-tooth seem of a mind to leave before he can cement her sins to memory, but she holds back, eying his claimed cinnamon ''something'' with more intensity than it deserves. "Revolting." It is prompt, question-- though it is not uncertainty-- and almost disbelieving, without precisely critiquing. A lot of ingredients for one word. Probably too many for someone so hungry for actual foodstuffs.

Hungry enough for the devouring of all sorts of things, but even so, Isidro manages to actually get his cinnamon something on a plate, with a fork, and Faranth... he even sits down at a table. He does, however, require at least one forkful to be chewed before saying anything. Why have that much in the way of teeth if you aren't going to use them? They're not just for being pretty. Chewing, swallowing, then: "Seems like we get all the most distasteful tasks. It feels like some sort of test. Prove yourself willing to crawl through the mud, and you can marry the Lord Holder's daughter, that sort of thing."

Again Casseny hovers, with a particular meticulousness indistinct between an intelligent pensiveness and a mere disinclination towards socialization. Again, she chooses to bend, walking carefully towards Isidro's chosen table, left alone where Molly had only half finished her Sanctuary closing practice of stacking chairs for sweeping. Hugging the little bag of illicit goodies to her chest with one hand, Cass subtly rubs the palm of her hand against the back of her thigh, excising stickiness left over from the bun. "Necessary tasks." She half-squints at him. "There's not exactly rest and riches after you Impress. I'm sure you've heard that from others by now." She softens her voice a modicum, perhaps hoping to tease herself for repeating some kind of mantra. But she hasn't mastered the art of not sounding overly dry.

"I believe rest and riches only comes with marrying Blood, and that's never been something that seemed a likely course for my life." Not that this stops Isidro from sounding a little bit regretful about this, all wistful sighs between bites. Big bites. That cinnamon whatever is becoming a smaller whatever by the moment. "Might feel differently if there was a Pass, but I'll take it, if it comes with a place to myself and..." And a look at the girl, vaguely furrowed brow, like he's only just recalled who he's talking to. "...and freedom to do what I like the rest of the time."

"You'll take it," she continues to measure his words, feeding them back with a soft, assessing nod. Casseny's eyes flit left-ward as she considers the matter, briefly distant and distracted before she rounds back to the meeting of-- whoever. With the cinnamon whatever. Her feet scuff softly against the floor, betraying a slight restless she can keep off of her fully invested face. Her fingers knead into the cloth bag; she ''looks'' like she could sit there all night. Perhaps make him some tea to help him do the same. "And..." Her prompt for him to rewind to before he stuttered to look at her's followed momentarily by the contrarily idle purposefulness with which she finds and pulls a plump sticky bun from the bag. Sets it on the table. Turning it with a few fingers as if to find its good side.

"And," a bit more firmly this time, "there are some things you'll understand more when you're older." Is she really young enough to warrant that? Not necessarily. But he's old enough to feel like she does, which is a different sort of a thing, maybe. He emphasizes this bit of the wisdom of the ages with his fork, then stabs the last piece of his pastry and stuffs it into his mouth.

A mood grips the corner of Casseny's mouth, torn between possible insult and just as likely amusement. She weighs what he says for the time it takes him to chew his last, however, indulging no knee-jerk sentiment. "I hope I am tasked with it in time," is what she chooses to say, at last. With Isidro's plate woefully empty, she plucks up the sticky bun and sets it experimentally on that blank space. And watches. Not unlike a mama bird. Which is extremely age-appropriate.

Is Isidro going to question age-appropriateness now? No. No, he isn't. Where food is involved, no questions are asked. Well, one question: "You're sure? I mean--I can probably make it to breakfast without expiring. Are all the people in the infirmary going to be able to make it through the night without the sugar infusion?" Yes, there's a smile, there, and not one that bothers trying to hide itself.

Casseny's last little finger poke leaves the bun in the exact middle of Isidro's plate before she folds back into her own space, even rather similarly lanky-limbed as the yet older boy. She might even still be growing: the horror. "We'll make it better if you're not brought in there later, uncomfortably expiring." Her utter seriousness resolved, she waits a second and then-- a smile. It brings out the rosiness in her cheeks; it's ushered out quickly, as though her assiduity were embarrassed by such. "Besides, soon you might be feeding for two."

"Feeding for two," Isidro echoes, his dark brows climbing so far they might crawl all the way up his forehead and hide in his hairline. "Pretty sure that's traditionally something else. I don't think my going round about the middle is going to help a dragon any--anyway, who am I if I don't have my girlish figure?" This does not, actually, stop him from finishing off the sticky bun immediately thereafter. His is apparently not a low-carb diet.

"That's eating for two," suggests Casseny amiably, her own eyebrows flirting with making a skeptically amused ''v''. "Feeding for two is when you have to stop a ravenous little dragon from getting overly round about ''its'' middle though you're putting food in its face while, somehow, against all odds, remembering to eat, yourself." An awful lot of words from her, even a short impression of her suggests. She aims to balance it with a bout of silence, but breaks that vow when, after a short, aborted breath, she adds quite sincerely, "I don't know. Who you are."

"Feeding, eating. Close enough! Anyway, maybe it'll all pan out to nothing." Another bite, more chewing, fork set down. After Isidro swallows, he adds, "But I guess I'll take what I can get, now." Then a beat after that, he blinks at her. "Right. Sorry. Sid. So many people, it seems like either I have to default to saying it to everybody or I forget entirely. And I can't keep track of even the Candidates, much less everyone else." Judiciously, "Not that I won't try to remember."

"Too late for it to be nothing," Casseny opines amidst Isidro's chewing-- or Sid, as it were. "Casseny. You don't have to remember." An inkling of understanding as to the labors of how many faces pass by the Candidates. The scuffing of her feet, stilled through conversation before, begins once more; she's reminded herself of something, whatever made her subtly antsy. Her gaze darkens, eyelids drifting slightly closed to take her momentarily far away from there. Though she's all earnest, speaking, "But please do let your closest healer know if you start going round about the middle in the traditional way."

There's just a slight delay, but then Isidro grins at her, big smile, showing teeth. "If that suddenly became possible, that would be absolutely terrifying. I'd have to seriously adjust my social calendar, for one thing." Wasn't she supposed to be Too Young For That Sort Of Talk? Apparently he's just not safe to be around young people. "Casseny. I'm not keeping you, am I? Were you supposed to be sneaking out of here with your prizes by now?" Not completely oblivious to antsy.

Casseny blinks languidly at Isidro's smile several times, perhaps blinded by all the teeth. Her own lips do not reciprocate now, only daring a tiny notion, unclear. ''Amusement'' might be an able guess, if only because of her following look up and down Isidro: slow, studious, her head slightly tilted, to be quite entirely sure of his state. Reminder of her own agenda stops her feet. She taps a couple of fingers. "You are," she allows, "But I chose to let you." Her next seconds are contemplative, weighing. Double doors swinging interrupts any notion she might've had to speak again. Molly reenters the Sanctuary, double-taking at Isidro's presence, and then nodding to the healer apprentice. "Y'get all the surviving remnants, Cass? My regards to 'em manning the night desk." Molly's tone reveals this as a routine for them, and she just as soon goes about her business again. Obligingly, Casseny pulls out of her seat.

This seems to be Isidro's cue, too, doesn't it? He's not oblivious. "Long day," he says to Molly, by way of explanation, a flick of fingertips to the white cord at his shoulder. He offers up plate and fork. "Best be getting back to trying to use what's left of my waking time productively. Morning will be here too soon. You both have a good night." Whatever it is can be wedged into what's left of the evening, at this rate, seems not to require him to take off at speed, he just heads back into the caverns at a relaxed pace that is going to do nothing to burn off those two pastries.

"Good night, Sid," returns Casseny-- and when they're, briefly, aligned because there's only one exit, she uses the proximity to add seriously, "Watch your cravings." With a last spy at his belly, he can be sure she's taken his shape to memory; she'll know if he starts ''showing''. Even if it's only pastries.
}}

Logs:Feeding For Two

2015-06-24T02:38:41Z

Cass: Created page with "{{Log |who=Casseny, Isidro, |what=Casseny and Isidro's cravings are, so far, only their own. It's very medical. |where=Sanctuary, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=24 |month=..."

{{Log
|who=Casseny, Isidro,
|what=Casseny and Isidro's cravings are, so far, only their own. It's very medical.
|where=Sanctuary, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=24
|month=1
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|weather=Early in the morning and late in the evening, the cold rain falling turns to almost-pleasant snow, but most of the day is mired in a bleak, gray drizzle.
|type=Log
|icons-new=icon casseny pretty.png, Icon Isidro teeth-like-a-military-cemetery.png
|desc=>---< Sanctuary, Fort Weyr >-------------------------------------------------<

Once a complete weyr, buried beneath the mudslide, this awkwardly-shaped
chamber has now been cleaned up and protected from the elements by a set
of proper doors where the ledge might have been. It's a cozy little spot,
all funny little shelves and nooks in the warmly-painted walls, various
ornaments sat in each space in the wall, from collections of tealights to
elaborate carvings.

A third of the cavern is occupied by a large, rectangular storage unit
fronted by glass to make a counter-top, behind which lie a series of
wooden shelves stacked with crockery and various bottles, a proper yet
small built-in oven and a short, stocky cupboard. A selection of cakes,
biscuits and pastries are usually available throughout the day, set out on
the countertop alongside a board detailing the variety of warm drinks
available. Small groupings of mismatching furniture sit scattered
throughout the remaining free space, lending the place a quaint, homely
air. Usually on-duty is Molly or Joy, kitchen girls known for their baking
skills.
|log=Patchy: the weather, and the selection left at Sanctuary. It's turned to bouts of snow-- a relief from dreary rain-- outside the doors, and the refreshingly warmed spiced drinks and stuffed pastries have been popular. The counter's looking pretty picked clean, except for a couple of buns here, a cinnamon something there. Casseny's the hovering bird, picking at the remains, while Molly tends to stacking furniture to clean, taking out trash. She slides out the double doors briefly-- Casseny's alone. For a couple seconds she restrains herself, holding onto her little bag of Sanctuary leftovers and waiting. Then, teeth pinning her lower lip, and with furtive glances, a hand darts out-- pauses-- then snags another sticky bun. In the bag. Wait. She grabs another. This one is held a bit more personally close to her chest as she contemplates; contemplates and sidles a step towards that cinnamon thing. It doesn't seem to matter its actual name, or, really, anything at all.

Candidacy is not known for leaving anybody great swaths of free time, which probably explains why it is that Isidro wanders in now. His hair is all wet curls, just barely dried enough not to be plastered to his forehead, but it appears to be more after the fashion of a recent bathing than from the snow, mostly because he's not a shivery miserable mess on arrival. No, fresh clothes, wet hair, predator's sharp eyes. "Just how many of those do you need?"

Casseny's abruptly stiffened shoulders read her as startled-- though, rather than look perturbed, when she turns, it's almost surprise that it happened. A new phenomenon! Not that it's easy to tell, with the half of sticky bun still mostly in her mouth. Trying to hide that she was indulging in a bite by shoving the entire thing in her mouth at once perhaps didn't work out for her. A hard gnaw breaks off what she can successfully chew; the rest led guiltily down towards an inescapably full bag. "Enough," she declares, mysteriously succinct, when the coast is clear between her teeth. A second later, she clears her throat and thinks to add, "It's not for me." Ignore her sticky fingers. "Infirmary, rather."

"Infirmary," Isidro repeats, with that uh-huh-yeah-right kind of tone. But the worst penalty that will be involved in this is her having to relinquish the cinnamon thing. Look at his waistline, surely he needs the calories as much as any sickly old person does, right? Have to keep those Candidates going? Something like that. But he does insist on also obtaining a fork to go with it. "I feel like I could eat at least three quarters of a herdbeast, right now, but this will have to do. Deserve something nice, after all this. Candidate chores are more frequently revolting than I expected."

Isidro is not her patient; she's not obliged to listen to him. Casseny and her guilty sweet-tooth seem of a mind to leave before he can cement her sins to memory, but she holds back, eying his claimed cinnamon ''something'' with more intensity than it deserves. "Revolting." It is prompt, question-- though it is not uncertainty-- and almost disbelieving, without precisely critiquing. A lot of ingredients for one word. Probably too many for someone so hungry for actual foodstuffs.

Hungry enough for the devouring of all sorts of things, but even so, Isidro manages to actually get his cinnamon something on a plate, with a fork, and Faranth... he even sits down at a table. He does, however, require at least one forkful to be chewed before saying anything. Why have that much in the way of teeth if you aren't going to use them? They're not just for being pretty. Chewing, swallowing, then: "Seems like we get all the most distasteful tasks. It feels like some sort of test. Prove yourself willing to crawl through the mud, and you can marry the Lord Holder's daughter, that sort of thing."

Again Casseny hovers, with a particular meticulousness indistinct between an intelligent pensiveness and a mere disinclination towards socialization. Again, she chooses to bend, walking carefully towards Isidro's chosen table, left alone where Molly had only half finished her Sanctuary closing practice of stacking chairs for sweeping. Hugging the little bag of illicit goodies to her chest with one hand, Cass subtly rubs the palm of her hand against the back of her thigh, excising stickiness left over from the bun. "Necessary tasks." She half-squints at him. "There's not exactly rest and riches after you Impress. I'm sure you've heard that from others by now." She softens her voice a modicum, perhaps hoping to tease herself for repeating some kind of mantra. But she hasn't mastered the art of not sounding overly dry.

"I believe rest and riches only comes with marrying Blood, and that's never been something that seemed a likely course for my life." Not that this stops Isidro from sounding a little bit regretful about this, all wistful sighs between bites. Big bites. That cinnamon whatever is becoming a smaller whatever by the moment. "Might feel differently if there was a Pass, but I'll take it, if it comes with a place to myself and..." And a look at the girl, vaguely furrowed brow, like he's only just recalled who he's talking to. "...and freedom to do what I like the rest of the time."

"You'll take it," she continues to measure his words, feeding them back with a soft, assessing nod. Casseny's eyes flit left-ward as she considers the matter, briefly distant and distracted before she rounds back to the meeting of-- whoever. With the cinnamon whatever. Her feet scuff softly against the floor, betraying a slight restless she can keep off of her fully invested face. Her fingers knead into the cloth bag; she ''looks'' like she could sit there all night. Perhaps make him some tea to help him do the same. "And..." Her prompt for him to rewind to before he stuttered to look at her's followed momentarily by the contrarily idle purposefulness with which she finds and pulls a plump sticky bun from the bag. Sets it on the table. Turning it with a few fingers as if to find its good side.

"And," a bit more firmly this time, "there are some things you'll understand more when you're older." Is she really young enough to warrant that? Not necessarily. But he's old enough to feel like she does, which is a different sort of a thing, maybe. He emphasizes this bit of the wisdom of the ages with his fork, then stabs the last piece of his pastry and stuffs it into his mouth.

A mood grips the corner of Casseny's mouth, torn between possible insult and just as likely amusement. She weighs what he says for the time it takes him to chew his last, however, indulging no knee-jerk sentiment. "I hope I am tasked with it in time," is what she chooses to say, at last. With Isidro's plate woefully empty, she plucks up the sticky bun and sets it experimentally on that blank space. And watches. Not unlike a mama bird. Which is extremely age-appropriate.

Is Isidro going to question age-appropriateness now? No. No, he isn't. Where food is involved, no questions are asked. Well, one question: "You're sure? I mean--I can probably make it to breakfast without expiring. Are all the people in the infirmary going to be able to make it through the night without the sugar infusion?" Yes, there's a smile, there, and not one that bothers trying to hide itself.

Casseny's last little finger poke leaves the bun in the exact middle of Isidro's plate before she folds back into her own space, even rather similarly lanky-limbed as the yet older boy. She might even still be growing: the horror. "We'll make it better if you're not brought in there later, uncomfortably expiring." Her utter seriousness resolved, she waits a second and then-- a smile. It brings out the rosiness in her cheeks; it's ushered out quickly, as though her assiduity were embarrassed by such. "Besides, soon you might be feeding for two."

"Feeding for two," Isidro echoes, his dark brows climbing so far they might crawl all the way up his forehead and hide in his hairline. "Pretty sure that's traditionally something else. I don't think my going round about the middle is going to help a dragon any--anyway, who am I if I don't have my girlish figure?" This does not, actually, stop him from finishing off the sticky bun immediately thereafter. His is apparently not a low-carb diet.

"That's eating for two," suggests Casseny amiably, her own eyebrows flirting with making a skeptically amused ''v''. "Feeding for two is when you have to stop a ravenous little dragon from getting overly round about ''its'' middle though you're putting food in its face while, somehow, against all odds, remembering to eat, yourself." An awful lot of words from her, even a short impression of her suggests. She aims to balance it with a bout of silence, but breaks that vow when, after a short, aborted breath, she adds quite sincerely, "I don't know. Who you are."

"Feeding, eating. Close enough! Anyway, maybe it'll all pan out to nothing." Another bite, more chewing, fork set down. After Isidro swallows, he adds, "But I guess I'll take what I can get, now." Then a beat after that, he blinks at her. "Right. Sorry. Sid. So many people, it seems like either I have to default to saying it to everybody or I forget entirely. And I can't keep track of even the Candidates, much less everyone else." Judiciously, "Not that I won't try to remember."

"Too late for it to be nothing," Casseny opines amidst Isidro's chewing-- or Sid, as it were. "Casseny. You don't have to remember." An inkling of understanding as to the labors of how many faces pass by the Candidates. The scuffing of her feet, stilled through conversation before, begins once more; she's reminded herself of something, whatever made her subtly antsy. Her gaze darkens, eyelids drifting slightly closed to take her momentarily far away from there. Though she's all earnest, speaking, "But please do let your closest healer know if you start going round about the middle in the traditional way."

There's just a slight delay, but then Isidro grins at her, big smile, showing teeth. "If that suddenly became possible, that would be absolutely terrifying. I'd have to seriously adjust my social calendar, for one thing." Wasn't she supposed to be Too Young For That Sort Of Talk? Apparently he's just not safe to be around young people. "Casseny. I'm not keeping you, am I? Were you supposed to be sneaking out of here with your prizes by now?" Not completely oblivious to antsy.

Casseny blinks languidly at Isidro's smile several times, perhaps blinded by all the teeth. Her own lips do not reciprocate now, only daring a tiny notion, unclear. ''Amusement'' might be an able guess, if only because of her following look up and down Isidro: slow, studious, her head slightly tilted, to be quite entirely sure of his state. Reminder of her own agenda stops her feet. She taps a couple of fingers. "You are," she allows, "But I chose to let you." Her next seconds are contemplative, weighing. Double doors swinging interrupts any notion she might've had to speak again. Molly reenters the Sanctuary, double-taking at Isidro's presence, and then nodding to the healer apprentice. "Y'get all the surviving remnants, Cass? My regards to 'em manning the night desk." Molly's tone reveals this as a routine for them, and she just as soon goes about her business again. Obligingly, Casseny pulls out of her seat.

This seems to be Isidro's cue, too, doesn't it? He's not oblivious. "Long day," he says to Molly, by way of explanation, a flick of fingertips to the white cord at his shoulder. He offers up plate and fork. "Best be getting back to trying to use what's left of my waking time productively. Morning will be here too soon. You both have a good night." Whatever it is can be wedged into what's left of the evening, at this rate, seems not to require him to take off at speed, he just heads back into the caverns at a relaxed pace that is going to do nothing to burn off those two pastries.

"Good night, Sid," returns Casseny-- and when they're, briefly, aligned because there's only one exit, she uses the proximity to add seriously, "Watch your cravings." With a last spy at his belly, he can be sure she's taken his shape to memory; she'll know if he starts ''showing''. Even if it's only pastries.
}}

Logs talk:How Are You, Hattie?

2015-06-24T01:45:37Z

Cass: Comment provided by Cass - via ArticleComments extension

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==Cass (19:45, 23 June 2015 (MDT)) said... ==

This whole thing fills me with the greatest anticipation. XD I'm worried, but it's exciting! What's the third shoe?!

Logs talk:Heart's Desire

2015-06-24T01:36:38Z

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==Edyis (23:31, 22 June 2015 (MDT)) said... ==

I loved this so much. To see the heart of Farideh's struggles and how she feels about them, her failings and successes. I also can't help but love Roszadyth's sweetness and acceptance of all of it.
==Cass (19:36, 23 June 2015 (MDT)) said... ==

Really enjoyed that, even though she is frustrated with everyone, all of her issues and opinions of what she wants to come out of it are colored so differently. An assault on all fronts! Sounds so tiring.

You can really feel that she has these expectations (of herself, others, how things will go) and yet everything just seems to snowball so horribly in practice. She never seems to come off the way she wants-- and now I am babbling.

The point is: do like. Felt real.

Logs talk:Lost Light

2015-06-18T03:20:24Z

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==Cass (23:20, 17 June 2015 (EDT)) said... ==

Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no. :( I have nothing more intelligent than that to say right now.

Logs talk:Negotiation

2015-06-15T16:50:02Z

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==Cass (12:50, 15 June 2015 (EDT)) said... ==

I enjoy that Nala could've gotten out of it, but she chose to sic Rasaid on other people instead.

Logs talk:Turn's End and Search

2015-06-15T16:26:37Z

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==Cass (12:26, 15 June 2015 (EDT)) said... ==

Weyrwoman double-teamed!

I like that N'jem would just basically set Jem on the Sands, himself. That line reminded me of people getting grandfathered in at colleges and the like. But then he could "lose" them both to another Weyr now!

Logs talk:The Blade and the Blossom

2015-06-15T16:20:21Z

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==Cass (12:20, 15 June 2015 (EDT)) said... ==

Oh, Deee! You never throw in a favor without establishing perimeters! To do one thing "right", she may've sacrificed another. DUN DUN.

Logs:Landslides

2015-05-24T15:26:52Z

Cass:

{{Log
|who=Lilah, Ebeny, Dee, Casseny, G'vri, Isidro
|what=The Weyrlingmaster and junior weyrwoman take a contingent to help a nearby hold with hands.
|where=Lux's Ledge Hold, Fort Area
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=19
|month=11
|turn=37
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.05.23
|quote="It just means the work will be lighter since there are more hands now to do it."
|weather=Grey, cloudy.
|type=Log
|st=Lilah
|icons-new=Icon lilah shock.png, Icon Ebeny Absent.png, Icon dee observant.jpg, Icon Casseny moody.png, Icon g'vri.jpg,
|desc=True to it's name, Lux's Ledge Hold sits on a ledge in Fort's mountains, a
hold carved out through stubborn insistence along the length of a ledge
that wraps around the mountain it sits on. The hold is built with piled
rocks in a single long front, the back of it provided by the mountain
itself. There is very little greenery, except those seemingly meager
gardens that they have managed to carve out along the outer wall of the
hold. Instead, most of their room is left to mountainous herdbeasts, and
even those are kept mostly for their wool.
|log=It is only four dragons that bring out the Candidates and other volunteers to Lux's Ledge, one being Lilah's own Eliyaveith despite her reticence to leave the Weyr. As soon as her passengers are unloaded, the queen retreats to find a high spot to settle on the mountain above, leaving her rider to only direct a bit snappily to the nearest young man, "Go, find someone who knows what they need done. I don't know any more than you do." The residents of the hold are already hard at work. A number of them are trying to right the gardens, while others seem to be trying to erect a fence in a place where a landslide has obviously already taken it out, clearing the debris as they put in posts.

Laurienth has never been the most suitable dragon for providing transport, yet that some of those she ferries are young enough to be classed as 'charges' and not just 'boring' means that she's behaved thus far, even if her landing is a little sudden, the shock from the heavy /thud/ of paws meeting ground one that ripples through her whole body. "Don't even think about it," Ben mutters to her, as she begins to swing herself down and assist the others, more those unused to riding than the rest, and thus the dark, angular green remains still for that long, her tail lashing from side to side. Eventually free of passengers and necessary supplies, she launches away, though not so far as to not keep her nose in everything that she possibly can.

Dee's dismount is the efficient one of a youth spent climbing on and off and all around dragons. She's patient enough to wait her turn and helpful enough to lend hands back up to any of the others that want it. The breeze is quick to tug at a curl of dark hair that's escaped her messy plait and give her reason to move a hand to tuck it back over her ear once her hands are done with other tasks, squinting at her new surroundings with open curiosity.

Easily the only one as comfortable with Laurienth's transport particulars as her rider is the rider's daughter. Though Casseny soothes a hand over her forehead after the landing, it's only to calm flyaway hairs. Her other fingers squeeze the green hide as she skillfully disembarks. She leans close. "Good one, Laurie," is murmured close enough to that hide to be vibrations rather than words. Then, it's business-- Casseny catches a healers' bag being unloaded and moves into the shadow of her superiors with a careful, vibrant look for the hold's goings-on. Fingers clench around the bag strap. She wants to be released as badly as the dragon.

"I am sure that they can use your help over there," Lilah points out to Dee even as she takes that second to take in her surroundings, the goldrider's gesture over to the gardens enough to prove that she at least remembers the Candidate's skills. But then she's turning away, moving towards where Ebeny is to murmur lowly to the greenrider, low enough to not be caught by prying young folk as she tells the Weyrlingmaster, "One of mine looked sick on the way over."

Someone of Ebeny's build, were they not to be /Ebeny/, might look threatening when they swing a pickaxe and a shovel over their shoulder with the ease that she does, but being as she is, and rarely able to hide her disposition, she's all earnest focus and open concern until Lilah steals her attention. She slants the tools she's supporting with her left shoulder a touch more to ensure that there's no chance of striking anyone with them, despite her height doing most of that for her already, and lowly remarks, "Put that one on a dragon more often between now and them being on the sands. If they keep turning too green... Well, I guess I'll send them elsewhere if they Impress and have to learn to fly." She must be joking, small as her smile is. "Where d'you suppose they want me? Figure I'm better digging, building or with the runners."

"Yes, ma'am," comes Dee crisp and easy response to the redhead, stepping away with a satchel of gardening supplies to the indicated area. Her smile is tempered for those already hard at work. Dee is many things, idiot might even be among them at times, but now she's aware enough from the glimpse of the mudslide that this Hold and the people here have probably seen better days. Her approach is to the nearest to the fence. "Extra hands if you point me in the direction of what needs doing," she offers without more than the added simple formality of, "and Fort Weyr's duties to Lux's Ledge."

Casseny's listening to her Journeyman discuss the area but a stray hair that she grabs to contain leads her vision to her periphery-- and from there, to Lilah and Ebeny. Their words vanishing into the hold's noise don't mean she can't stare earnestly at their lips with an intensive wondering. A hint of Ebeny's smile. Casseny's released from staring like a turned lock; back to the Journeyman, to the supplies burning a brand across her shoulder as she holds them without immediate use. She's asked a question and she only nods, but it's enough, between the two. They've worked together before, and they're ready.

"Their herdbeasts are down the hill," Lilah answers to Ebeny with a tip of her chin and the hint of a smile on the goldrider's lips. "No runners, from what I have gathered. Sorry. But if you need me, I will be in the hold talking to their holder." With that, the redhead turns on a heel and moves away, disappearing into the hold beyond.

It is a young woman that responds to Dee's approach, who can't be more than a handful of turns older than Dee but who is certainly old enough to have a young toddler running around nearby, playing happily in the dirt. The woman wipes her own dirty hands on her skirts, already torn and muddy, and holds out one to Dee. "Nasci. Lux's duties and-- Sorry, I'm no good at this," she says with a tentative smile. It is the question that gets a drawn out sigh, a glance over the empty, destroyed beds. "Everything. We need to rebuild and replant, but we don't have the seed and with winter--." She cuts herself off, shaking her head apologetically.

The journeyman healer has obviously been prepped by Lilah before this, seeing as they have had a professional relationship for some turns. (If professional relationships count as a weyrwoman invading your space and bugging you several times a week.) He walks towards a table that has been set up for this purpose, where their injured are waiting. None of them are so badly injured, anymore, to be on the brink of death, but it is obvious that bones have not been set right, wounds not properly cared for, and things of that nature. It's an older gentleman with a gash across his forehead that the journeyman directs Casseny to, and he introduces himself as, "Pakonder. But you can call me Pak, young lady."

Ben lingers as a moment or so to process Lilah's response, then turns without comment to head in the opposite direction, down the hill and towards the herdbeasts milling about while holders try to deal with fencing and shelter and all manner of things. She spares a look - and it is only a look - for Casseny as she passes, checking on her without prying or waiting for her to acknowledge it, and then she continues advancing towards her intended destination. It's Laurienth who sticks around, likely told /not/ to get near the beasts, and though she's never truly still, she is at least... better behaved than she might be, more help than hindrance when addressed correctly.

Dee doesn't hesitate to clasp (with both her hands) the dirty one offered her, her smile warming as naturally as the dirt underfoot would be if there were any sun to speak of. "Nasci, I'm Dee. I'm only an apprentice-- was, anyway-- but I know some, enough to help, I think. Are you in charge of this?" She gestures to the gardens reconstruction on the whole. "If you can get your squash in ground now, before the ground freezes, you'll have an early winter harvest that will help," she offers the tidbit as she shifts her satchel down to the ground and crouches to rummage. Unfortunately, it's only her work gloves she produces and none such seed.

"Hello, Pak." A professionally close-lipped smile greets the older man. But even as Casseny tosses her satchel against a hip to slip a hand in, her gaze suffers from hyperactivity. The table's not a larger arena than the infirmary; it's just open. Really open. No privacy curtains means Casseny can see each injury like a bloody beacon, each poorly set arm is an arrow. Scrapes and speaking of those working the earth. Footsteps. Children. Commands. Dirt. It's so-- completely not clinical. Three of Casseny's left-handed fingers have been lingering on Pakonder's arm, for how long she can't say. But, with a quiet tuck of breath and a rapid flutter of eyelashes, she begins to move again, succinct and skilled. She remembers to give her own name. Her long fingers guide the man where she can get a proper eye on the wound. Good thing the Weyr sent a partial contingent of tall women. "Debris?"

Nasci offers a faltering smile to Dee, the smile of a woman who is attempting to appear much more in control of the situation than she certainly is. "I am," she tells Dee. "I was the one who worked them the most, before-- Natlie, put that down!" Her young daughter grabbing at a piece of splintered wood from one of the broken beds is enough to interrupt Nasci, who is quick to walk over those few feet and scoop her up before returning to Dee to watch what she pulls from that bag. "We don't have-- The stores filled with dirt during the landslide. The holder is going to ask your weyrwoman to trade for something, so we just need to rebuild the beds."

Pak's face crumples in a way at that question, and he repeats louder back to her, "Debris, darling? What do you mean debris." He gestures wildly with a hand. "Look around you. We have nothing but debris. We're only still standing out of stubbornness. Lived on the side of this mountain since the first Pass," may be an exaggeration, "and nothing's going to knock us off now."

Dee's mouth opens to speak to the woman, but her words are curtailed by Nasci's distraction in the form of her daughter. The candidate's wide hazel eyes hook onto the child as her mother scoops her up, and she has a small smile as the pair return. "Okay, Nasci," the young woman's tone is accepting of everything. "We'll hope that the holder and Weyrwoman Lilah are able to work something out about the seeds. In the meantime, we have to even out the beds and re-till the soil to get them ready to receive any kind of seed," she advises, looking down to the work the woman was already engaged in. "Looks like you're on the right track," is complimented. Normally, Dee might yield to the woman by grace of older age, but here she has some measure of expertise, this much an apprentice knows and can do.

Casseny soft, listening ''mmhm'' sounds appreciative for Pak's sentiment. Used to those familiar with her cadence, she missed a beat. Caught up now, the apprentice amply uses the older man's occupation with talking to deftly clean the wound. Now working, she's a cool rhythm that belies her age. The clear intelligence in her eyes lends to the facade, even as she and her patient stagger over a misunderstanding. "Is that what caused this?" she queries, posing it as a follow-up rather than a more offensive correction. Serious enough-- enough so it's difficult to distinguish, at first, when she's switched to likely humor: "Or would that be the self-diagnosed stubbornness?"

Tovriath and G'vri might be late to the party, but they come bearing gifts in the form of a few more warm bodies to help with the clean up efforts. G'vri's younger brother is among the boys dismounting the large bronze, but he sets off to do his duty rather than bothering with his brother. Once his passengers are well clear, Tovriath takes his leave to settle elsewhere, leaving G'vri to look less certain about what ''he'' ought to be doing now.

"Thank you," breathes Nasci in genuine acceptance of the younger woman's compliment, readjusting Natlie on her hip as the young toddler wiggles about trying to escape from her mother's grip. "We only just were able to get started. Everything was unstable, for a while, and we weren't sure if there'd be more landslides. So-- That is why I haven't gotten so far." Since we're going to assume G'vri is nearby, once the young holder woman has finally set Natlie down to free her own hands, the toddler takes off on a sprint, practically, in the rider's direction, causing Nasci to flush and shoot an apologetic look to Dee.

The rhythm is likely not so smooth as the old man bats at hands as soon as she applies the first thing, telling her, "Ack, warn a man, won't you. I'm not a young thing anymore. You could give me a heart attack." But, he'll continue to explain to her question, "Got a rock, I think. Was trying to get the herdbeasts sheltered."

Body, check. Warm, check. Isidro's dismount from Tovriath is uncertain, but graceful enough not to wind up planting himself face-first in the dirt. Or rocks, as the case may be. Get up, dust off, pretend it never happened--check. Isidro has arrived. Next step: off to the closest people who look like they have any idea what's going on, here. He doesn't sidestep the little girl barrelling past, though--might as well reach to snag her as he goes.

Dee's brow is crinkling bit by bit more and more into an expression that belies her sunny smile. "It just means the work will be lighter since there are more hands now to do it," she offers as though it were easy. "The stores... is it ''just'' the seed you're needing?" Perhaps that's even something she could personally help. ''Perhaps''. Then she's whirling as the toddler takes off, blinking. It's obvious she's unused to time spent with the very young for she's still some moments before looking to the mother as if to say 'do I need to-?' and a slight flutter of a hand at her side must mean follow. If the toddler's sprint isn't enough, perhaps her call of, "G'vri!" and then almost awkwardly, "Sir!" with a hand gesturing to the child - a little help? Even as she calls, Isidro is on it and she only looks back to Nasci.

Casseny levels her eyes briefly at Pak without a singular emotion betrayed in the look; as it is, she loses little to no time dressing the cleaned gash. Finicky patients were not invented in Lux's Ledge. "Okay," is the professionally warm acknowledgment to his explanation. Keen blue eyes have narrowed thoughtfully in listening, and she's quiet for a second of good work before picking the line back up, "And now. Any dizziness? Nausea?" Right hand stays at the wound, finishing up, as her left drifts a little around Pak's head, massaging with gentle--careful-- purpose for less obvious afflictions, any misshapenness in the head by bruise or bump. Her eyes jump away momentarily as names are shouted and, another, closer, barks in less words and more pain.

G'vri lifts a hand to acknowledge the girl calling his name, his typical grin as much for Dee as for the even smaller girl that Isidro is trying to snag. The bronzerider moves toward the latter with a playful, "Hey, there, little darling." This is probably meant for the girl and not Isidro. At least until he adds, "Want me to take her? Looks like they can use some help over there," he says with a nod in the direction of Nasci and Dee. "Suppose playing nanny could be helpful, too," is teased just a touch more privately to the slighter man.

Natlie squeals with delight as she's snagged by the young man, no fear of the stranger or of the bronzerider as he comes close. She does remain oblivious to the way her mother cracks even as the daughter laughs, tears spilling over at Dee's innocent question. "No, it's-- everything. Everything was in the stores and it all got buried. We'll have to dig out what we can, but we won't have any heat for winter or clothes, even our winter blankets and--," Nasci answers, her fingers rubbing over the paths of tears without energy to go get her daughter. Surely this is enticing for the men to join.

"I'm fine. Just don't heal as fast, anymore," Pak answers of the questions easily, shaking his head. His gaze is drawn to the running Natlie, too, but he only huffs out a breath of a laugh for the girl's antics who must be related to him in some way. But his attention returns to the apprentice to ask, "Is the journeyman going to sew me up, now? I have work to do."

Isidro gives the little girl a broad smile and a boop on the nose, but he has no problem whatsoever passing her off to G'vri. "Good," cheerily, "then you obviously won't mind doing it." And let's be honest, G'vri will probably have an easier time with an armful of toddler than Isidro will. He does this while headed over in the direction of the girl's mother, though, and Dee. His face sobers, once he gets a better look at Nasci. "Where can we help?"

It's an instinctive move that has Dee distracted from G'vri, Isidro and the wee Natlie. It's her instinct to reach for this woman who she's never met before but who weeps now, to seek to put a comforting arm around her shoulders as if they might be friends (if not particularly old or good ones). Shared joy is twice joy, shared sorrow is half sorrow. "I'm sure--" Dee starts, whether the arm has been permitted or not, only she comes up short, chewing her lower lip, "It will come right somehow," somehow, she ''hopes''. Her swallow is hard and an unconscious look of concern goes to where the redheaded goldrider disappeared, her hazel gaze sliding with growing worry over the work Casseny and her journeyman do before coming back to Nasci and then to Isidro as he approaches. "We have to flatten the beds, remove the excess dirt, and then re-till them to make them hospitable for seed." She bites her lip again suddenly, "Seed that they don't have," is quieter, a hushed exhale, but there to be heard by keen ears.

Casseny's absorbing gaze digs out each detail of Pak's answer, not in what he says but inflection and his easy headshake-- the aftermath. Lack of sluggishness. Her staring lingers afterward without losing confidence. The third second is devoted solely to her periphery and the body language projected by Nasci, made more attractive to an eye seeking interest by Isidro's approach. Pak's question sufficiently puts his healer's focus squarely back on him. Sliding her weight back, a slight rest on the table they work at, Cass retrieves from its protective packaging the curved needle and holder for stitching flesh. "Even better," she expresses with utmost confidence, preparing the tool not entirely within Pak's sight. "I can do that for you now. Save you some time." If she expects resistance from the gentleman, she's prepared to handle it as skillfully as the warm jiggle that is stitching into the living. This time, she gives him a short warning before promptly quizzing him on Natlie's behaviors-- and so it will go.

G'vri takes the girl, lifting her up over his head with a grin before settling her against his side like he's done this a hundred times before. He makes his way toward the girl's mother in Isidro's wake, only catching some of what Dee says to the other man. "We'll do whatever we can, ma'am," he says to Nasci. "Do you want this little thing back? I'm happy to watch her for awhile if you need it." He might regret that in ten minutes, but for now he's more concerned with making the woman who was crying feel better.

"Somehow," Nasci will agree with a shaky smile, an attempt made to reassure ''Dee'' even as the younger woman attempts to reassure her. But the young mother has certainly drawn herself up with as much of a will as she can as the bronzerider approaches, only coincidentally as Isidro does, flushing slightly. "No, I can-- Thank you, so much. She has been locked up indoors for too many days. It won't be long." At that, she looks to Dee for her opinion, and then Isidro, with a thankful look to the young man's offer.

It's almost the sort of seeding of spirit that Dee might hope will happen with actual seeds in the garden here, soon. Nasci's reassurance is met with a strengthening of her own and her arm drops away. She considers the garden. "I'm no expert, really," an apprentice only, "but I expect with some hands it'll only take the afternoon." There's a pause and she looks toward G'vri, "Mayhaps you'd like to play with your daughter, Nasci? I bet between Bronzerider G'vri and --" she gestures to Isidro for lack of a name, "and myself and--" She squints to where other volunteers are not yet organized, raising her voice to summon them with an encouraging wave of her hand (though her success is varied). She looks back to the woman, "I bet we can have it done today for you." It might be Dee's not entirely subtle way of saying Nasci has probably earned a few hours off from the hard work of the day.

"Somehow," an echo, only not quite. "Thought I was done with this sort of thing. Though I'd always thought of it as spring work." And, Isidro being all soft hands and all, one could probably insert "for someone else" at the end of that sentence, but he has the grace to not say it aloud. "Isidro," he inserts by way of introduction, for both Dee's benefit and Nasci's. "I've never paid much attention to how long such things take, but--there does seem to be plenty of help and my grandmother used to say something about many hands making short work."

It's almost the sort of seeding of spirit that Dee might hope will happen with actual seeds in the garden here, soon. Nasci's reassurance is met with a strengthening of her own and her arm drops away. She considers the garden. "I'm no expert, really," an apprentice only, "but I expect with some hands it'll only take the afternoon." She turns her head to Isidro and flashes him an echo of a smile, softer and smaller than the usual of her full force one. "There are heartier squashes that grow in winter. A few other things that might help them," she offers as explanation. "Dee," is added quickly before she looks toward G'vri, "Mayhaps you'd like to play with your daughter, Nasci? I bet between Bronzerider G'vri and --" she gestures to Isidro for lack of a name, "and myself and--" She squints to where other volunteers are not yet organized, raising her voice to summon them with an encouraging wave of her hand (though her success is varied). She looks back to the woman, "I bet we can have it done today for you." It might be Dee's not entirely subtle way of saying Nasci has probably earned a few hours off from the hard work of the day.

If nothing else, G'vri can yell for his brother to get over here and offer a hand, too. As is appropriate, he lets Nasci decide whether she'd rather work or play with her daughter and he's eager to get to work on whichever one she doesn't choose. "We've got lots of hands," he agrees with the other two. "And you'll have witnesses to say you got your hands dirty once, Sid. If that's not a good reason to help, I don't know what is."

Whatever Nasci's decision is is lost in the rumble of the mountain, felt throughout the tremors that are enough to throw people off their feet. And not so far away from them, where those holders are clearing and trying to rebuild their herdbeast pens, a wave of mud and rocks slides so quickly down over that side of the mountain with little warning.

}}

[[Category:Hoods_Logs]]

Logs:Not For Nothing

2015-05-23T15:48:37Z

Cass:

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, Casseny,
|what=While Ebeny prepares for her duties, Casseny suggests one of her own.
|where=Hatching Galleries, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=19
|month=10
|turn=37
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.05.14
|quote="And you're mine and I love you."
|weather=Clouds make the skies leaden and gray, but no rain falls. A cool breeze often blows.
|mentions=Lilah,
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Ebeny.png, Icon Casseny.png,
|desc=>---< Galleries, Fort Weyr(#745RIJMas$) >------------------------------------<

The entrance to the Sands and Galleries alike is little more than an
archway and a section of flat stone that curves into a broad pathway in
front of the Galleries that are carved into the right-hand side of the
Hatching Cavern. This pathway is set with three flights of stairs that
lead all the way up to the upper tiers of the Galleries; one set near the
entrance of the cavern, one set at the northernmost end, and one set
between both. Beyond the pathway, that flat stone dissolves into the Sands
proper, a golden expanse that sits before the large, odd engraving that
lines the far wall -- an etching that details the rotation of the Red
Star.

The Galleries themselves are rows of flat seats carved from the stone wall
and stacked backward to allow observers the best view possible of the
golden sands. Those at the bottom are protected from wayward dragonets by
a railing, while dignitaries from outside the Weyr -- Lord Holders, other
Weyrleaders, Craftmasters and their ilk -- have a specially designated
spectator's box at the topmost row.
|log=Often, the galleries clear out around midday, when those with the time or inclination to observe queen and eggs go in search of lunch, and today it leaves Ebeny as one of the few still lingering in the tiers of seating, her chosen perch quite a way up, where a decent view of Sands and occupants is afforded. She's abandoned her jacket and cast it down at her feet, a clipboard balanced on her knees, the hide secured to the board beginning to fill with notes formed of half-sentences and occasional egg-shaped doodles.

Freshly arriving at the stone seating, Casseny's free of any evidence of lunch; no plate in her hand, no crumbs hiding in her sleeves. Her palms rub against the sides of her legs like she's working off nerves, but her face is clear of trouble. Despite her gangly age, she makes it to her mother's place as quiet as a thought, all the while studying the back of Ebeny's head like, if she were to stare /hard/ enough, she might be able to see straight through to the Weyrlingmaster's point-of-view. She's there for a couple of seconds, just behind Ebeny's shoulder. Then, toes flexing against her shoes, she points straight ahead and declares, "That one." It could be the greenish looking lump sticking out of the sand, or it could be-- anything. Accuracy from this distance isn't discriminative.

Ben is that still, the only motion the twitch of her fingers as she inks in the curve of an egg in the top left corner of her page, that it's difficult to tell whether she plays along and simply doesn't address her daughter as soon as she arrives, or if she truly doesn't notice that she's there until she speaks. When she does, her pen stops, a half-moment's worth of ink bleeding into hide to create a shadow across her sketched shell, and then lifts safely away from the page as the greenrider tilts her head and follows her daughter's gesture as best she can, without quite looking back at her. "Your favourite?" she asks in a murmur. "Or one you hope is for you?" Or neither.

A soft sigh from Casseny, but it's not much more than her deciding to close her mouth instead of speak. Her eyes narrow slightly, lips pouting just as subtly; she seems to contemplate the eggs for the first time. The shrug that first answers Ebeny isn't much help, whether she's being looked at or not. Maybe the questions knocked her off-course. She drops a little bonelessly down one step. Finally: "Seems like it's going to be trouble." For Ebeny. Which hopefully makes the previous answers 'neither'. Or this whole thing an extremely even-toned joke. "You should write that down." Sitting next to her mother's seat, the teenager invites herself to read the notes so far taken, finding them much more interesting.

Ben arches a brow, but she obediently notes down a brief description of the egg and 'trouble?' before looping a ring of ink around the little jumble of words, the whole thing done with a steady acceptance that lacks any indulgent, patronising edge. Perhaps she's leant to just trust some things. She has nothing to hide, and even obligingly tilts the clipboard in Casseny's direction for her to get a better look, though the doodles and thoughts are more guesses as to colour and size, and notes concerning which eggs Elaruth has paid the most attention to during her visit, than proper evaluations. "If Eliyaveith is going to rise... I don't know if it's bad luck to sort out the second chamber of the barracks for her clutch," she admits. "When it could be for nothing."

Tilting the clipboard was enough. So maybe, just maybe, Casseny leaning her head nearer Ebeny's shoulder has ulterior motives than just reading better. Not that it's obvious looking at the girl's rapt attention to the scribbles. Her hands are back on her upper legs, thumbs pressing in slightly. Something's on her mind. "It's not for nothing," she corrects without ego, late, only after she's read every prediction. Her head lifts away from Ebeny to look her in the eye with understanding, not argument. "It's for weyrwoman Lilah."

"...And worse for her if I have to clear it all away again and put it back into storage," Ben says softly, conflict clear in her muddy-green eyes before she meets Casseny's gaze and seems to let that settle and dim her concern to something more distant and easier to manage. "It's better to believe it'll happen. There'll be months yet. Signs." She reaches out as though to curl a gentle arm around her daughter and tuck her in against her, perhaps more confident in the lack of audience that she won't embarrass her, though nor does she push if she finds reluctance. Moments pass in silence, then: "Cassie?" It's more invitation than prompt, quiet and simple.

Casseny sucks in a huge breath with her nostrils as Ebeny bats the issue back. But she gets it. And it's obvious that Ebeny gets what her daughter was getting at, too; not the greatest ammunition for a teenage push-back. Distracted enough, she lets her mother's arm steer her in with just a little tensing of the shoulders. She's reluctant to let her hands leave her legs. Palms scrape her thighs, fall off into the gap between. Her fingers mingle together, unconsciously finding all the tiny pinpricks of her craft and imperfections of her youth. She doesn't startle, or move rapidly on the invitation, and the impression is that she was kind of expecting it. Conveniently, she's both conceded to her mother's snugging and doesn't have to look at her. The Sands probably look like somewhere else as she says, "Lux's Ledge Hold. I found a note in the infirmary. They got hit really hard but no one's gone to relieve them yet. It's unstable but they don't have enough hands to /make/ it stable."

Ben doesn't seek to smother, the drape of her arm light, though she does lean a little while she has her daughter there, both offering and seeking what comfort she can. She waits as if it's the most natural thing in the world - something she's accustomed to doing - and lets the quiet stretch on for as long as is necessary, no nudges delivered of the verbal or physical variety. "...You mean there are people at risk?" she questions, her distant focus on Elaruth as the gold oh so carefully adjusts the position of one of the eggs near the centre of the clutch. "They need the Weyr's assistance? Or you'd like the Weyr's assistance for them?"

"The note came by firelizard. It sounds like they might've lost the runners in the mudslide." Casseny's not prone to assumptions, guessing; it sounds like it tastes bitter to her. One hand leaves her lap, bringing up a finger and thumb to pick at her lower lip. It's a little chapped. She finds something to tug. "Everyone's cautious because it could happen again. Another mudslide." Though there's a tinge of anxiety, and Casseny's shoulder flexes as if in discomfort against Ebeny, she manages not to inject a lot of disapproval-- or really much judgment at all-- into this 'everyone's policies. "They could be sending more people to be trapped, or hurt, and I want to go." The last comes out in a kind of jumble, like she got impatient with her own well-thought-out nature.

The Weyrlingmaster's lips part as though she'll speak, but they close again just as quickly, pressing together into a thin line that forms a more severe expression than is the norm for Ebeny. "... I get that you want to help," she says slowly, when she manages to get her words all in the proper order. "And I think it's a brave and kind thing to want to do, but... as much as I might agree they need support, your safety is more important to me." She bites down on her bottom lip, considering, before she offers, "If you need to know what's happening out there, Laurie and I could take you to have a look? It wouldn't be anything official, though it could... maybe give you the information you need to make a... well-reasoned request?" It sounds like as much as she can give by way of encouragement.

Casseny's neck tenses discreetly when Ebeny's only two words in, having picked up the gist pretty quickly. Waiting patiently throughout, even her previously fidgety fingers stilled, she narrows in on Elaruth. The golden mother delicately nudging her eggs. Appropriate enough to be both mocking and sobering. "Everybody there is somebody's me," she mutters, in volume moreso than lack of enunciation. A gentle denunciation of a mother's priorities before, with a calm and collected demeanor, she pushes up, extricating herself from Ebeny's arm. "Okay." There's a certain warmth-- for Laurie, for not having been utterly shot down-- but not enough to stop her from sounding quite so practical. Like she's Lux's Ledge's representative and this has been some kind of proper negotiation. "Or it could be someone else since you have that second chamber to see to." Making it hard to tell if this is teenage justice, a jab at the Weyrlingmaster knot-- or nothing.

"And you're mine and I love you." Ben aims for matter of fact, soft as her voice is, yet she's, as ever, not able to leech much affection or adjacent emotions from her tone. "But I can respect what you need to do." Arm and hand go back to supporting the clipboard, though she's unable to settle to study of it, or adding more notes, and tips it forward to hug against her chest, pen held in such a manner as to avoid inadvertently staining clothing. She glances between queen and daughter and back again (and again), until she can maintain a certain steadiness and not blurt out her first thoughts; any regret or chastening snipe back for what there could be of a perceived swipe. "I've months for that," the greenrider declares. "Laurie will be upset if it's someone else, besides." It's a good excuse to hide maternal pride behind - the potential anger of her green. "We can go now if you want."

Instantaneous: "I do." In the spirit of one-upping each other-- unless Casseny's been planning this all along. Not that there's anything smug in the contemplative tug of her mouth. The young healer looks more like she's planning ahead; her thoughts have bounded up the stone steps and rushed out into the midday air the way the girl herself never would. Once did; doesn't now. Rather, sitting up stick-straight, she waits. Gnaws her lips just enough so that, when she looks over somewhat abruptly at Ebeny, there's an illusion like she's biting back a half-smile. Her eyes say something else. Her chin's almost coy. "You know, for Laurie." She thinks openly about saying something else. Instead, turns ahead and pushes herself easily to her feet. Palms wipe off against her legs. /All ready/, is all her next gaze at Ebeny proclaims.

If she's been had, there's nothing about Ebeny to suggest that she realises it, though her easy acceptance is a little akin to the same variety of blankness she's so good at adopting. When she stands to follow after - no attempt made to /lead/ - her left hand frees itself from the clipboard and reaches like she might deliver a gentle shove in answer to whatever it is that she sees in her daughter, but she settles for ghosting her fingers across Casseny's nearest shoulder, like she'd pretend to guide her on ahead. "Move it, my girl, or she'll eat you," she murmurs wryly. Someone else - anyone else - might find it a believable threat. Dedicated as she is to this new course of action, as they leave the cavern, she can't help but glance back at that egg; at her notes and 'trouble?'. Worries for another day.
}}

Logs:Patient Preparation

2015-05-19T23:05:18Z

Cass: Created page with "{{Log |who=Casseny, Jemizen, |what=Jemizen plays patient while Casseny patiently demonstrates for a couple weyrbrats. |where=Infirmary, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=5 |m..."

{{Log
|who=Casseny, Jemizen,
|what=Jemizen plays patient while Casseny patiently demonstrates for a couple weyrbrats.
|where=Infirmary, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=5
|month=11
|turn=37
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.05.19
|quote="You've messed it up."
|weather=Clouds make the skies leaden and gray, but no rain falls. A cool breeze often blows.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Casseny.png, Icon jemizen silly.jpg,
|desc=>---< Infirmary, Fort Weyr >-------------------------------------------------<

The walls of this oval cavern have been smoothed and white-washed, which
reflect their regular cleaning in the way they gleam subtly on any given
day. Cots line the walls and stand in aisles towards the back of the
cavern, simple curtains of white cotton hung to provide some measure of
privacy to any human patients that they sit ready to serve. At the far end
of the cavern, a short passageway is blocked off by a heavier curtain that
leads into the central hub for the dragon infirmary.

Supplies are stored in various drawers and glass-fronted cabinets that
display a myriad of the most commonly used items. A discreet door off to
the side provides access to the stillroom where more sensitive items are
also kept. A large sink with functional plumbing -- including hot and cold
taps -- is located toward the southernmost corner.
|log=Three healers crowded around one person bodes unwell in an infirmary-- but the dire illusion this afternoon is broken by details. Two of the company are not actually healers; a boy and a girl, they're pre-adolescent Weyr residents, and they're huddled in front of a cot not occupied by a beleaguered patient but a Southern volunteer. Between them, Casseny uses two fingers to steady the bottom of Jemizen's right arm while her other deftly demonstrates wrapping him to the elbow with a stiff gauze that restricts movement but breathes. Her long fingers are quick but maintain a gentleness despite a matter-of-fact bustle. Once in a while, she brushes him with the back of a hand as she secures the wrapping. The two children watch the demonstration raptly, as it will soon be their turns. Off to the side, on a little rolling shelf on Jem's left side, is a plate of food, barely touched in a blatant disregard for the lunch hour.

Jemizen was hard at work--honest!--in the lower caverns when approached to volunteer for healer demonstrations. He was quick to agree, since it sounded like he would be able to sit around without getting yelled at. So sit around Jem does, plopped down on the cot in the infirmy, with his legs stretched out to the side of the young demonstration-watchers. Jem leans back on his left arm with lackadaisical ease as he watches the gauze wrap 'round and 'round his other arm. He half-turns to flash a smile at the children, noting brightly, "I thought about being a healer when I was your age." And then he found out how much work was actually involved. Being a test subject is much easier. For now.

Casseny's eyes lift to Jemizen without a hitch in her work along his arm. They're cramming their short lesson in between others' studies and her apprentice duties, but a lingering impression suggests she'd be this quiet and efficient nonetheless. Killian curls an eager hand into the cot's tucked sheets, blinking one eye a little too heavily as he listens to Jemizen as if blinded by that smile. He's been oddly jumpy, a flush to his young cheeks, since picking the Southern volunteer out of the crowd. "But-- but you changed your mind," he points out, fighting disappointment with a lilting question note at the end. His feminine peer, Astea, rolls her eyes, barking loudly, "Not me. ''I'm'' gonna be a dragonrider. But you have to know this stuff if you're going to rescue holders." Killian shoots her a look, but it's Casseny that drops one hand from Jemizen to tap the girl under the chin: "Watch." The apprentice's overly blue eyes jump to catch Jemizen's with a yet unavailable instruction.

Jemizen sits up straighter and waves his free hand at little Killian with practiced nonchalance. "I wanted to be a lot of things when I was your age. None of them suited me." He finishes the statement with a one-shouldered shrug. This is as self-aware as he gets, apparently. Astea's announcement is answered with raised eyebrows and a low, impressed whistle. "A fine aspiration, that. You'd make ''my'' da' proud, certainly." He catches Casseny's gaze and quickly schools the levity out of his expression. "This is an important skill for dragonriders ''and'' healers to learn." He announces to the little ones with a comical amount of gravitas.

Killian struggles to know how to process that answer with enough satisfaction, especially in the wake of Astea receiving such praise. To Jemizen's newfound weight, Casseny's eyes shift to a highly difficult to find but present amusement. "And those in-between," she remarks coolly. Astea nods, lets it go a second, then remembers to fill Jemizen in: "Ully got hurt in the storm," ''stupid Ully'' her voice clearly enunciates without the words. "We're gonna know what to do if it happens again," adds Killian, somewhat recovered. It's a proactivity charmingly clashing with Jemizen's-- whatever it is Jemizen does. Finishing up, Casseny shows a neat way to tuck in the remaining gauze, lifts Jem's arm to show all sides, with a few other comments before it's all diligently undone and the gauze handed to Killian. With awkward, stuttering movements, Killian disguises what would otherwise be a fine enough skill for the task. He's ''quite'' distracted by something ''else''. A couple seconds of this and Casseny interjects softly, prompting their volunteer, "Your father's a rider."

Jemizen nods sagely along with Casseny's words. "Yes, everyone should be able to do this." Not that Jem has been paying attention and would be able to practice the skill being taught. Brows furrow as he frowns in confusion at Astea. "Who's Ully?" His gaze flickers over to Casseny as he follows the question up with another one: "Is Ully okay?" But his concern is short-lived thanks to Killian's admirable proactivity. He smiles at the boy, amused by the enthusiasm Killian shows that Jem rather notably lacks. "There's a good lad." That recently-ungauzed arm is offered cheerily enough, and Jem grins at the healer, nodding. "Aye. You have the honor of treating the wounds of the only son of N'jem of Souther Weyr." He gives his arm a little wiggle in an effort to spur Killian on.

"Ully's-- " both children glance at each other, unable to comprehend how to describe something that's been natural to them all their lives, "... Ully." ''Duh''. Come on, Jem. Focus up! Casseny's eyes narrow but soften, lightly upturned lips as she delivers a discreet nod letting Jem know that the matter of Ully is not one deserving of dramatic concern; yeah, he's fine. He was always going to be fine. Being complimented along with the interest in Jemizen's answer help Killian stop focusing on his physical troubles. His hands become less shaky. Casseny's lips open for a soft ''ahh'' at the reveal of the reportedly respectable lineage. Something she might've said gets interrupted when Killian finds the confidence to hold Jem's arm down to try and stop the shaking, "Please, sir," he puts on a voice, and airs to match, "You will exas-ba-bate the problem." Astea flexes impatiently, too graceless to hide it: "Why is it an honor?" She lays her chest against the cot and stretches her legs out behind her, "I don't know a N'jem. He's not in my ''books''." A look at Casseny would reveal that she's piqued, watchfully interested in hearing an answer.

Jemizen quirks one eyebrow at the children's explanation. He catches Casseny's nod and returns it with a half-grin. "Well, I'm sure Ully will be fine with you lot to take care of..." Him? Her? It? "...Ully." Killian's reprimand gets another grin, and Jem nods slowly. "Yes, sir." He holds his arm out stiffly, holding it as still as he can, until Astea's remark elicits a sharp bark of laughter that causes him to dissolve into giggles that make is arm shake harder yet. "Don't let him hear that." He warns Astea, trying to sound grave but it's difficult to do in the midst of giggles. He stops shaking with laughter after a minute, releasing a heavy breath and wiping a tear out of one eye. "I don't suppose northerners write much about blueriders." One last giggle escapes before he points out, "Not that southerners ''do.''" A throat-clearing announces that he's ready to get back to work, though, re-offering his arm to little Killian. "Sorry about that, sir. I will endeavor to be a better patient in the future."

Laughter's not so common in an infirmary and the kids shoot a look at Casseny to be sure it's allowed. Astea's face struggles, wondering if she should be offended even as she snorts with glee at Jemizen's behavior-- and how much it messes up Killian's nice tuck. All of a serious fifteen turns, Casseny's lips straighten into a stern line; what thoughtfulness falls upon her looks also severe as she measures the seated patient. "You've messed it up," she sighs sharply. With a swift drop, she crouches, swiping up a basket from beneath the cot. Rising with it, quick fingers pull out a second roll of gauze. It's offered to Astea with a lightly deliberate, "The other arm. He's gone and wrenched it, too, hasn't he." Astea snatches up the gauze and Jem's arm with equal fervor, yanking him towards her. Evident from the very first lay of bandage: she's far too heavy-handed. Yet Casseny, hands folded gently in front of her, seems unmotivated to correct her. Instead, she inquires blithely, "And do southern blueriders endeavor to be written about?"

Jemizen works hard at remaining still, but he's grinning even as he apologizes to Casseny and her two little students. "Sorry." Jem is easily yanked about my Astea--clearly he has underestimated the little girl's strength. He makes a face that isn't quite a wince as he is manhandled and gauzed, but what sort of teenage boy could possibly admit aloud to being harmed by the overeager ministrations of a small child? Despite looking vaguely uncomfortable, Jem grins again as he notes to Casseny, "N'jem probably does."

Even though her ruse of mischief has been revealed behind the sternness, Casseny's face maintains a certain cool distance-- always, she seems partially in her own perceptions. One of them has her reaching out a hand before too long, laying a couple of soothing fingers on Astea's. The girl looks up; a wordless exchange: Casseny's mouth tucks out and in, Astea's pouts out. But the ministrations ease, and she becomes so careful as to nearly be mocking the process. Complacent, Casseny eases her weight to her left to check on Killian's progress fixing what Jemizen set to ruins. She reaches out and corrects a couple of the lines. Her touch, tracing Jemizen again for the first time since her demonstration, is gentle and confident in contrast. "I see," is what is heard, but there seem to be so many other words there.
}}

Logs talk:Old Habits, New Outcomes

2015-05-18T20:20:26Z

Cass: Comment provided by Cass - via ArticleComments extension

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==Jo (00:08, 17 May 2015 (EDT)) said... ==

Mmm, I'm curious to find out what it was that he saw...
==Edyis (00:44, 17 May 2015 (EDT)) said... ==

Same here, though it also reminds me of occipital migraines... We may never know. (shakes fist!)
==Alida (05:55, 17 May 2015 (EDT)) said... ==

Perhaps a ghostly sighting of one of many dead 'Reachian' golds? WooooOOOOOOOOo!
==Cass (16:20, 18 May 2015 (EDT)) said... ==

Uh oh. Mysterious?!

Logs talk:Not One Hundred Percent Sure

2015-05-18T20:16:03Z

Cass: Comment provided by Cass - via ArticleComments extension

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==Cass (16:16, 18 May 2015 (EDT)) said... ==

Both of these guys come across so clearly from the writing.

Love all the details: Isidro's avian mannerisms and smiles, how differently they handle the table, that G'vri decided to take the desk before really thinking about what would have to go into it! <3

More, please.

Logs talk:Resentment

2015-05-18T20:05:09Z

Cass: Comment provided by Cass - via ArticleComments extension

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==Cass (16:05, 18 May 2015 (EDT)) said... ==

Ohgosh. Poor Hattie. The struggle you present is so real and powerful and unnerving. And now I almost feel responsible. XD

Logs talk:Better Options

2015-05-15T00:28:20Z

Cass: Comment provided by Cass - via ArticleComments extension

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==Cass (20:28, 14 May 2015 (EDT)) said... ==

Sharp conversation, both of you! It had a great pace.

Casseny

2015-05-14T23:20:48Z

Cass:

{{Profile
|picture=Casseny.jpg
|mother=[[Ebeny]]
|father=[[C'sel]]
|siblings=Caleb, Elayne (half), Eden and Eryn (half)
|children=
|friends=[[E'dre]] (stepfather), Taessin (uncle), Eirlys (aunt), Eva (aunt), Brynna (aunt), Fion and Tarran
|body=

== Description ==
Transitional limbs dangle between slim and gangly; she was doing well until she sprang to 5'7". Her oval face, and sweet, proportionally lovely, features - sharply blue eyes, smooth nose and pert lips - seem out of line with all that arm and leg. Neck's too long for her chin, shoulders are bony, knees are bumpy. Maybe her long legs would be nice, if her feet weren't so big. She's got a lovely dark shade of brown hair, almost black at times - which make her thick eyebrows stick out even more. She's, to sum, a teenager.

Her off-white sweater's gently oversized, with long sleeves, but in a loose, breathable, fabric. Beneath shines the slight grey of an undershirt. Her pants are dark, her shoes practical. When it's not this, it's something else in vaguely muted tones - and the occasional light blue or yellow.

== WYSK ==

* Eldest child of riders Ebeny and C'sel, born at High Reaches but long-time resident of Fort Weyr.

* Gifted healer, she apprenticed somewhat young.

* Generally known as astute and somewhat disquieting but not unpleasant.

== History ==

Coming soon!

== RP Logs ==

{{NewLogs |name={{BASEPAGENAME}}}}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments| {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}

{{Icons}}
}}

{{Character-Categories}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Crafters]]
[[Category:Healers]]
[[Category:Fort_Area]]
[[Category:Fort_Weyr]]
[[Category:Healer_Hall]]

Logs:Not For Nothing

2015-05-14T23:15:47Z

Cass: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ebeny, Casseny, |what=While Ebeny prepares for her duties, Casseny suggests one of her own. |where=Hatching Galleries, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=19 |month=..."

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, Casseny,
|what=While Ebeny prepares for her duties, Casseny suggests one of her own.
|where=Hatching Galleries, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=19
|month=10
|turn=37
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.05.14
|quote="And you're mine and I love you."
|weather=Clouds make the skies leaden and gray, but no rain falls. A cool breeze often blows.
|mentions=Lilah,
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Ebeny.png, Icon Casseny.png,
|desc=>---< Galleries, Fort Weyr(#745RIJMas$) >------------------------------------<

The entrance to the Sands and Galleries alike is little more than an
archway and a section of flat stone that curves into a broad pathway in
front of the Galleries that are carved into the right-hand side of the
Hatching Cavern. This pathway is set with three flights of stairs that
lead all the way up to the upper tiers of the Galleries; one set near the
entrance of the cavern, one set at the northernmost end, and one set
between both. Beyond the pathway, that flat stone dissolves into the Sands
proper, a golden expanse that sits before the large, odd engraving that
lines the far wall -- an etching that details the rotation of the Red
Star.

The Galleries themselves are rows of flat seats carved from the stone wall
and stacked backward to allow observers the best view possible of the
golden sands. Those at the bottom are protected from wayward dragonets by
a railing, while dignitaries from outside the Weyr -- Lord Holders, other
Weyrleaders, Craftmasters and their ilk -- have a specially designated
spectator's box at the topmost row.
|log=Often, the galleries clear out around midday, when those with the time or inclination to observe queen and eggs go in search of lunch, and today it leaves Ebeny as one of the few still lingering in the tiers of seating, her chosen perch quite a way up, where a decent view of Sands and occupants is afforded. She's abandoned her jacket and cast it down at her feet, a clipboard balanced on her knees, the hide secured to the board beginning to fill with notes formed of half-sentences and occasional egg-shaped doodles.

Freshly arriving at the stone seating, Casseny's free of any evidence of lunch; no plate in her hand, no crumbs hiding in her sleeves. Her palms rub against the sides of her legs like she's working off nerves, but her face is clear of trouble. Despite her gangly age, she makes it to her mother's place as quiet as a thought, all the while studying the back of Ebeny's head like, if she were to stare /hard/ enough, she might be able to see straight through to the Weyrlingmaster's point-of-view. She's there for a couple of seconds, just behind Ebeny's shoulder. Then, toes flexing against her shoes, she points straight ahead and declares, "That one." It could be the greenish looking lump sticking out of the sand, or it could be-- anything. Accuracy from this distance isn't discriminative.

Ben is that still, the only motion the twitch of her fingers as she inks in the curve of an egg in the top left corner of her page, that it's difficult to tell whether she plays along and simply doesn't address her daughter as soon as she arrives, or if she truly doesn't notice that she's there until she speaks. When she does, her pen stops, a half-moment's worth of ink bleeding into hide to create a shadow across her sketched shell, and then lifts safely away from the page as the greenrider tilts her head and follows her daughter's gesture as best she can, without quite looking back at her. "Your favourite?" she asks in a murmur. "Or one you hope is for you?" Or neither.

A soft sigh from Casseny, but it's not much more than her deciding to close her mouth instead of speak. Her eyes narrow slightly, lips pouting just as subtly; she seems to contemplate the eggs for the first time. The shrug that first answers Ebeny isn't much help, whether she's being looked at or not. Maybe the questions knocked her off-course. She drops a little bonelessly down one step. Finally: "Seems like it's going to be trouble." For Ebeny. Which hopefully makes the previous answers 'neither'. Or this whole thing an extremely even-toned joke. "You should write that down." Sitting next to her mother's seat, the teenager invites herself to read the notes so far taken, finding them much more interesting.

Ben arches a brow, but she obediently notes down a brief description of the egg and 'trouble?' before looping a ring of ink around the little jumble of words, the whole thing done with a steady acceptance that lacks any indulgent, patronising edge. Perhaps she's leant to just trust some things. She has nothing to hide, and even obligingly tilts the clipboard in Casseny's direction for her to get a better look, though the doodles and thoughts are more guesses as to colour and size, and notes concerning which eggs Elaruth has paid the most attention to during her visit, than proper evaluations. "If Eliyaveith is going to rise... I don't know if it's bad luck to sort out the second chamber of the barracks for her clutch," she admits. "When it could be for nothing."

Tilting the clipboard was enough. So maybe, just maybe, Casseny leaning her head nearer Ebeny's shoulder has ulterior motives than just reading better. Not that it's obvious looking at the girl's rapt attention to the scribbles. Her hands are back on her upper legs, thumbs pressing in slightly. Something's on her mind. "It's not for nothing," she corrects without ego, late, only after she's read every prediction. Her head lifts away from Ebeny to look her in the eye with understanding, not argument. "It's for weyrwoman Lilah."

"...And worse for her if I have to clear it all away again and put it back into storage," Ben says softly, conflict clear in her muddy-green eyes before she meets Casseny's gaze and seems to let that settle and dim her concern to something more distant and easier to manage. "It's better to believe it'll happen. There'll be months yet. Signs." She reaches out as though to curl a gentle arm around her daughter and tuck her in against her, perhaps more confident in the lack of audience that she won't embarrass her, though nor does she push if she finds reluctance. Moments pass in silence, then: "Cassie?" It's more invitation than prompt, quiet and simple.

Casseny sucks in a huge breath with her nostrils as Ebeny bats the issue back. But she gets it. And it's obvious that Ebeny gets what her daughter was getting at, too; not the greatest ammunition for a teenage push-back. Distracted enough, she lets her mother's arm steer her in with just a little tensing of the shoulders. She's reluctant to let her hands leave her legs. Palms scrape her thighs, fall off into the gap between. Her fingers mingle together, unconsciously finding all the tiny pinpricks of her craft and imperfections of her youth. She doesn't startle, or move rapidly on the invitation, and the impression is that she was kind of expecting it. Conveniently, she's both conceded to her mother's snugging and doesn't have to look at her. The Sands probably look like somewhere else as she says, "High Hill Hold. I found a note in the infirmary. They got hit really hard but no one's gone to relieve them yet. It's unstable but they don't have enough hands to /make/ it stable."

Ben doesn't seek to smother, the drape of her arm light, though she does lean a little while she has her daughter there, both offering and seeking what comfort she can. She waits as if it's the most natural thing in the world - something she's accustomed to doing - and lets the quiet stretch on for as long as is necessary, no nudges delivered of the verbal or physical variety. "...You mean there are people at risk?" she questions, her distant focus on Elaruth as the gold oh so carefully adjusts the position of one of the eggs near the centre of the clutch. "They need the Weyr's assistance? Or you'd like the Weyr's assistance for them?"

"The note came by firelizard. It sounds like they might've lost the runners in the mudslide." Casseny's not prone to assumptions, guessing; it sounds like it tastes bitter to her. One hand leaves her lap, bringing up a finger and thumb to pick at her lower lip. It's a little chapped. She finds something to tug. "Everyone's cautious because it could happen again. Another mudslide." Though there's a tinge of anxiety, and Casseny's shoulder flexes as if in discomfort against Ebeny, she manages not to inject a lot of disapproval-- or really much judgment at all-- into this 'everyone's policies. "They could be sending more people to be trapped, or hurt, and I want to go." The last comes out in a kind of jumble, like she got impatient with her own well-thought-out nature.

The Weyrlingmaster's lips part as though she'll speak, but they close again just as quickly, pressing together into a thin line that forms a more severe expression than is the norm for Ebeny. "... I get that you want to help," she says slowly, when she manages to get her words all in the proper order. "And I think it's a brave and kind thing to want to do, but... as much as I might agree they need support, your safety is more important to me." She bites down on her bottom lip, considering, before she offers, "If you need to know what's happening out there, Laurie and I could take you to have a look? It wouldn't be anything official, though it could... maybe give you the information you need to make a... well-reasoned request?" It sounds like as much as she can give by way of encouragement.

Casseny's neck tenses discreetly when Ebeny's only two words in, having picked up the gist pretty quickly. Waiting patiently throughout, even her previously fidgety fingers stilled, she narrows in on Elaruth. The golden mother delicately nudging her eggs. Appropriate enough to be both mocking and sobering. "Everybody there is somebody's me," she mutters, in volume moreso than lack of enunciation. A gentle denunciation of a mother's priorities before, with a calm and collected demeanor, she pushes up, extricating herself from Ebeny's arm. "Okay." There's a certain warmth-- for Laurie, for not having been utterly shot down-- but not enough to stop her from sounding quite so practical. Like she's High Hill's representative and this has been some kind of proper negotiation. "Or it could be someone else since you have that second chamber to see to." Making it hard to tell if this is teenage justice, a jab at the Weyrlingmaster knot-- or nothing.

"And you're mine and I love you." Ben aims for matter of fact, soft as her voice is, yet she's, as ever, not able to leech much affection or adjacent emotions from her tone. "But I can respect what you need to do." Arm and hand go back to supporting the clipboard, though she's unable to settle to study of it, or adding more notes, and tips it forward to hug against her chest, pen held in such a manner as to avoid inadvertently staining clothing. She glances between queen and daughter and back again (and again), until she can maintain a certain steadiness and not blurt out her first thoughts; any regret or chastening snipe back for what there could be of a perceived swipe. "I've months for that," the greenrider declares. "Laurie will be upset if it's someone else, besides." It's a good excuse to hide maternal pride behind - the potential anger of her green. "We can go now if you want."

Instantaneous: "I do." In the spirit of one-upping each other-- unless Casseny's been planning this all along. Not that there's anything smug in the contemplative tug of her mouth. The young healer looks more like she's planning ahead; her thoughts have bounded up the stone steps and rushed out into the midday air the way the girl herself never would. Once did; doesn't now. Rather, sitting up stick-straight, she waits. Gnaws her lips just enough so that, when she looks over somewhat abruptly at Ebeny, there's an illusion like she's biting back a half-smile. Her eyes say something else. Her chin's almost coy. "You know, for Laurie." She thinks openly about saying something else. Instead, turns ahead and pushes herself easily to her feet. Palms wipe off against her legs. /All ready/, is all her next gaze at Ebeny proclaims.

If she's been had, there's nothing about Ebeny to suggest that she realises it, though her easy acceptance is a little akin to the same variety of blankness she's so good at adopting. When she stands to follow after - no attempt made to /lead/ - her left hand frees itself from the clipboard and reaches like she might deliver a gentle shove in answer to whatever it is that she sees in her daughter, but she settles for ghosting her fingers across Casseny's nearest shoulder, like she'd pretend to guide her on ahead. "Move it, my girl, or she'll eat you," she murmurs wryly. Someone else - anyone else - might find it a believable threat. Dedicated as she is to this new course of action, as they leave the cavern, she can't help but glance back at that egg; at her notes and 'trouble?'. Worries for another day.
}}

Logs talk:An Acceptable Candidate

2015-05-14T03:02:28Z

Cass: Comment provided by Cass - via ArticleComments extension

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==Cass (23:02, 13 May 2015 (EDT)) said... ==

She got you to work and then sign up for more? This feels like a slippery slope, indeed, Kaelige.

Logs talk:Can We Not?

2015-05-14T02:59:08Z

Cass: Comment provided by Cass - via ArticleComments extension

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==Edyis (20:12, 11 May 2015 (EDT)) said... ==

Heartbreaking the way Elaruth hides her clutch.
==Cass (22:59, 13 May 2015 (EDT)) said... ==

Elaruth speaking to the eggs is such a lovingly sweet image! Though, yowch, terribly sad in the topic broached!

File:Icon Casseny.png

2015-04-28T03:52:32Z

Cass:

File:Icon Casseny messy.png

2015-04-28T03:41:12Z

Cass:

File:Icon Casseny ohhey.png

2015-04-28T03:41:11Z

Cass:

File:Icon Casseny dreamy.png

2015-04-28T03:41:11Z

Cass:

File:Icon Casseny tea.png

2015-04-28T03:41:11Z

Cass:

File:Icon Casseny moody.png

2015-04-28T03:41:11Z

Cass:

File:Icon Casseny asleep.png

2015-04-28T03:41:11Z

Cass:

File:Icon Casseny dark.png

2015-04-28T03:41:11Z

Cass:

File:Icon Casseny pretty.png

2015-04-28T03:41:11Z

Cass:

File:Icon Casseny hiding.png

2015-04-28T03:41:11Z

Cass: