NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

Mave

2013-05-01T19:19:46Z

Mave:

{{HrwProfile
|picture=Mave_profile.jpg
|position=Caverns Worker
|dragon=
|craft=
|birthplace=Keroon Area
|mother=Ratha (deceased)
|father=Deceased
|siblings=
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Hayley McFarland
|livejournal=}}

== Description ==

With all the definition of a stick, except for a couple of knobby knees, the wealth of Mave's appearance lies in her face: oval, but plump in her cheeks when she smiles, and her round chin sticks out from the angle of her jaw. Almond is her eyes' color and form, with a matching set of eyebrows, and tangled waves of reddish-brown hair, parting at the top of her head and riding down to her chest. Good days and bad days plague her hair; it's an easy assumption that, if its pulled up and out of the way, it's a particularly frizzy day, allowing her big ears to stick out. Her nose starts well enough but widens not very girlishly at the tip. She's got a wide, easily animated, mouth with some perfectly normal teeth. Light brown freckles spatter her cheeks, shoulders, and a few sneak onto her legs -- near her hips, then a couple on her feet.

Clothes tend to be simple, most days composed of slacks -- always slacks -- a basically functional looser tunic, of varying sleeve-lengths, and a rougher olive jacket, wrinkled and well-worn. She wears footwear appropriate to the weather, and occasionally is seen with a bandana or hat to tame her hair.

== WYSK ==

+ Mave and her, currently ailing, mother have been at the Weyr for 8 Turns now, having originated in the Keroon area. She's blended well and comfortably into the weyrbrat culture since then, and knows her way around.

+ Her mother is infamously tight-lipped amongst the chattier cavern women.

+ She once gave a bully (named [[Wakizian]]) a bloody nose. And hurt her own knuckles just as bad. They haven't talked much since.

+ Doesn't appear to have any specialty, but is a hard-working hand at usual lower caverns chores. As such, she answers primarily to the Headwoman and [[Azaylia]] now, after the shake-up in the lower caverns with [[Aishani]].

== History ==

A hearty prairie-born woman, Ratha proved capable of raising her rough-and-tumble daughter while a father figure remained frequently absent at sea. When Ratha's young brother, and Mave's uncle, was lured into the lifestyle as well, the two women handled themselves in the sailor-dominate fishing hold south and a little west of the main Keroon Hold. Ships often passed through on the way to Igen or Ista, and there was plenty to do, and imagine doing while running around in the neighboring marsh-lands or prairies. But when Mave was 5 Turns, a terrible sea storm struck, and Ratha sat her daughter down and stoically explained that both father and uncle had been lost at sea during the strong winds. It seemed impossible at first -- Mave had never known them to be anything but incredibly capable sailors, from what her young mind ''could'' remember -- but she gradually adapted.

It was only two Turns later, when Mave was 7, that Ratha would disrupt their familiar life, claiming it was time for a change, now that they were truly alone. She packed up their humble things and, after some travel by wagon up north, eventually hitched a ride to the mountainous High Reaches Weyr -- as change as change could be. There, Mave reinvented herself as a weyrbrat, quickly integrating into the life as simply as she had the fishing one.

When she was around 11, a boy named [[Wakizian]] started to bully her, picking her out of groups and just unfathomably harassing her (and her pigtails, the horror!). Fed up, Mave clocked him one in the nose, bruising both it, and her knuckles, and that was generally the last they heard of one another, though both continued to live at the Weyr. Other than that, she's been fairly peaceable in her role, showing no preference or talent for any particular job, but willing to work at any of them. The shake-up by [[Iolene]] was dizzying, but she kept her head down, and reported to [[Brieli]] while the kinda-kinda not Senior Weyrwoman took a controlling hand in the caverns' affairs.

Since [[Aishani]]'s announcement, things in the lower caverns have shifted again, but Mave's been busy trying to figure out her own business, including burgeoning confusing relationships with both [[K'zin]] and his best friend [[N'ky]]. Since they Impressed, she began to wonder what her own role would be, as she comes up on an adult age. Some of this wondering brought about an attempt to illuminate the talents of her friends by recruiting them to put on a play. After months, the production became an actual success. Mave celebrated a wonderful evening, before returning to her and Ratha's dorm to find her mother had died during the performance.

==Nutshell==

[[File:Mave1.gif|right]]
 
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/PintsizedPowerhouse Pint-sized Powerhouse]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/CuteBruiser Cute Bruiser]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/PluckyGirl Plucky Girl]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TellMeAboutMyFather Tell Me About My Father]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/GirlNextDoor Girl Next Door]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/YouthfulFreckles Youthful Freckles]
 

{| style="padding:10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"
! [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LO0nJX7eCE4 "A Kiss Is A Terrible Thing To Waste"]
Whistle Down The Wind
! [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PHzOOQfhPFg "Just A Girl"]
Pink
! [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G_g3kkGH8Mo "Don't Rain On My Parade"]
Barbra Streisand
|-
| align="left" style="padding:10px 50px 10px 50px;" | The loneliest words you'll ever know 
If only, if only, it were so 
The emptiest words that there'll ever be 
It coulda been me, it coulda been me
| align="left" style="padding:10px 50px 10px 50px;" | Cause I'm just a girl, little ol' me 
Don't let me out of your sight 
I'm just a girl, all pretty and petite 
So don't let me have any rights
| align="left" style="padding:10px 50px 10px 50px;" | I gotta fly once, I gotta try once 
Only can die once, right, sir? 
Ooh, life is juicy, juicy 
And you'll see I'm gonna have my bite, sir
|-
! [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ppotuhZjIkA "Little People"]
Les Miserables
|-
| align="left" style="padding:10px 50px 10px 50px;" | And little people know 
When little people fight 
We may look easy pickings 
But we've got some bite

|}

== Relationships ==

[[File:mave-relationship-status.jpg|center]]

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

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

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

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[category:Characters]]
[[category:High Reaches Weyr]]
[[category:High Reaches Area]]
[[category:Greater Pern]]
[[category:Residents]]

Mave

2013-05-01T19:17:48Z

Mave: /* History */

{{HrwProfile
|picture=Mave_profile.jpg
|position=Caverns Worker
|dragon=
|craft=
|birthplace=Keroon Area
|mother=Ratha
|father=Deceased
|siblings=
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Hayley McFarland
|livejournal=}}

== Description ==

With all the definition of a stick, except for a couple of knobby knees, the wealth of Mave's appearance lies in her face: oval, but plump in her cheeks when she smiles, and her round chin sticks out from the angle of her jaw. Almond is her eyes' color and form, with a matching set of eyebrows, and tangled waves of reddish-brown hair, parting at the top of her head and riding down to her chest. Good days and bad days plague her hair; it's an easy assumption that, if its pulled up and out of the way, it's a particularly frizzy day, allowing her big ears to stick out. Her nose starts well enough but widens not very girlishly at the tip. She's got a wide, easily animated, mouth with some perfectly normal teeth. Light brown freckles spatter her cheeks, shoulders, and a few sneak onto her legs -- near her hips, then a couple on her feet.

Clothes tend to be simple, most days composed of slacks -- always slacks -- a basically functional looser tunic, of varying sleeve-lengths, and a rougher olive jacket, wrinkled and well-worn. She wears footwear appropriate to the weather, and occasionally is seen with a bandana or hat to tame her hair.

== WYSK ==

+ Mave and her, currently ailing, mother have been at the Weyr for 8 Turns now, having originated in the Keroon area. She's blended well and comfortably into the weyrbrat culture since then, and knows her way around.

+ Her mother is infamously tight-lipped amongst the chattier cavern women.

+ She once gave a bully (named [[Wakizian]]) a bloody nose. And hurt her own knuckles just as bad. They haven't talked much since.

+ Doesn't appear to have any specialty, but is a hard-working hand at usual lower caverns chores. As such, she answers primarily to the Headwoman and [[Azaylia]] now, after the shake-up in the lower caverns with [[Aishani]].

== History ==

A hearty prairie-born woman, Ratha proved capable of raising her rough-and-tumble daughter while a father figure remained frequently absent at sea. When Ratha's young brother, and Mave's uncle, was lured into the lifestyle as well, the two women handled themselves in the sailor-dominate fishing hold south and a little west of the main Keroon Hold. Ships often passed through on the way to Igen or Ista, and there was plenty to do, and imagine doing while running around in the neighboring marsh-lands or prairies. But when Mave was 5 Turns, a terrible sea storm struck, and Ratha sat her daughter down and stoically explained that both father and uncle had been lost at sea during the strong winds. It seemed impossible at first -- Mave had never known them to be anything but incredibly capable sailors, from what her young mind ''could'' remember -- but she gradually adapted.

It was only two Turns later, when Mave was 7, that Ratha would disrupt their familiar life, claiming it was time for a change, now that they were truly alone. She packed up their humble things and, after some travel by wagon up north, eventually hitched a ride to the mountainous High Reaches Weyr -- as change as change could be. There, Mave reinvented herself as a weyrbrat, quickly integrating into the life as simply as she had the fishing one.

When she was around 11, a boy named [[Wakizian]] started to bully her, picking her out of groups and just unfathomably harassing her (and her pigtails, the horror!). Fed up, Mave clocked him one in the nose, bruising both it, and her knuckles, and that was generally the last they heard of one another, though both continued to live at the Weyr. Other than that, she's been fairly peaceable in her role, showing no preference or talent for any particular job, but willing to work at any of them. The shake-up by [[Iolene]] was dizzying, but she kept her head down, and reported to [[Brieli]] while the kinda-kinda not Senior Weyrwoman took a controlling hand in the caverns' affairs.

Since [[Aishani]]'s announcement, things in the lower caverns have shifted again, but Mave's been busy trying to figure out her own business, including burgeoning confusing relationships with both [[K'zin]] and his best friend [[N'ky]]. Since they Impressed, she began to wonder what her own role would be, as she comes up on an adult age. Some of this wondering brought about an attempt to illuminate the talents of her friends by recruiting them to put on a play. After months, the production became an actual success. Mave celebrated a wonderful evening, before returning to her and Ratha's dorm to find her mother had died during the performance.

==Nutshell==

[[File:Mave1.gif|right]]
 
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/PintsizedPowerhouse Pint-sized Powerhouse]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/CuteBruiser Cute Bruiser]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/PluckyGirl Plucky Girl]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TellMeAboutMyFather Tell Me About My Father]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/GirlNextDoor Girl Next Door]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/YouthfulFreckles Youthful Freckles]
 

{| style="padding:10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"
! [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LO0nJX7eCE4 "A Kiss Is A Terrible Thing To Waste"]
Whistle Down The Wind
! [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PHzOOQfhPFg "Just A Girl"]
Pink
! [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G_g3kkGH8Mo "Don't Rain On My Parade"]
Barbra Streisand
|-
| align="left" style="padding:10px 50px 10px 50px;" | The loneliest words you'll ever know 
If only, if only, it were so 
The emptiest words that there'll ever be 
It coulda been me, it coulda been me
| align="left" style="padding:10px 50px 10px 50px;" | Cause I'm just a girl, little ol' me 
Don't let me out of your sight 
I'm just a girl, all pretty and petite 
So don't let me have any rights
| align="left" style="padding:10px 50px 10px 50px;" | I gotta fly once, I gotta try once 
Only can die once, right, sir? 
Ooh, life is juicy, juicy 
And you'll see I'm gonna have my bite, sir
|-
! [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ppotuhZjIkA "Little People"]
Les Miserables
|-
| align="left" style="padding:10px 50px 10px 50px;" | And little people know 
When little people fight 
We may look easy pickings 
But we've got some bite

|}

== Relationships ==

[[File:mave-relationship-status.jpg|center]]

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

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

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

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[category:Characters]]
[[category:High Reaches Weyr]]
[[category:High Reaches Area]]
[[category:Greater Pern]]
[[category:Residents]]

Logs:Curtain Call

2013-05-01T07:04:18Z

Mave: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Mave | where = Resident's Quarters, High Reaches Weyr | what = Mave runs home to collect her winnings. | when = It is summer evening, 22:20 of day 27, month 8, ..."

{{ Log
| who = Mave
| where = Resident's Quarters, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Mave runs home to collect her winnings.
| when = It is summer evening, 22:20 of day 27, month 8, turn 31 of Interval 10.
| gamedate = 2013.04.30
| quote =
| weather =
| categories = Vignette
| mentions =
| ooc =
| icons = mave bright.jpg
| log = Flower petals rush to the floor in the flurry of Mave's entrance, scattering from the few flowers left to her, clutched to her chest as she whips inside, catching a minuscule glimpse of Ratha in her sitting chair before she's rushing up to the trunk against the front wall. "I didn't even see you down there!" With a clink and clank, the ale bottle's dropped carelessly nearby, kicked by her eager foot as she yanks the chest open, "I'm only a moment-- " she gushes on a slippery breath, so quick to fly back out as if showing her the way to the door, "-- grabbing money and then back out with the crew! Just tell me if you ''liked'' it or not?" Cheeks flushed with an ego fit to stretch her thin bones, she whirls up too fast; flowers tumble down, spreading around her feet in a misguided and incomplete wreath.

"Whoops," she gasps, but a jerk towards the lost petals is averted by seeing Ratha in full, across the room, slouched in her chair, halfway out of the robe Mave left her in that morning, slippers askew and an arm crooked uncomfortably against the chair arm. Mave would think she was napping, except her eyes are open.

Mave's breathless as she stares, her chest seeming to haul in and out five times as fast as her mother's in her giddy excitement, constantly expelled then rushing in again. But as she considers her mother's state of undress, her nostrils flare like brakes, reining in the thunderstorm of applause rattling around in her chest for a flare of disappointment, stinging: an injury without relief. "Did you… did you even go?"

Silence. It's a weird silence, tugging at Mave's consciousness, almost as strong as a physical grip, taking her, slowing her as she straightens, as she pours a study on the old wooden chair-- it usually squeaks-- and the unhappy state of her mother's arm, clutching air. Bundling it. As if she might need it later.

"Mum?" Something crunches strangely beneath her foot as she sways forward, pulling her gaze downward. She turns her foot out, further crimping the tender wing membrane under her sole, twisting as she does. With a distant curiosity, she stares clinically at the blue firelizard cast on the floor like a child's toy, abandoned for something more interesting in a second, limbs and wings coiled unnaturally. ''Huh'', she thinks with a detached calm. He must've panicked. Maybe between'd too fast, running his thin neck into the hard shelf corner. Her lower lip pushes up studiously. He always ''was'' such a ''stupid'' creature.

She looks up. Nothing's moved. Where she is, Ratha sits, the sling of her arm so inappropriate. Why doesn't she shift it? The ''crunch'' echoes between Mave's ears like a language she can't decipher yet because her heartbeat's booming too loudly its own code.

"Mum?"

Why would she just leave her firelizard here like this? It seems so wrong.

"''Mom?''"

Why wouldn't she just move her ''stupid arm''?

"… mom?"

{{#ifexist: Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}} | <hr><hr> <h2>Comments</h2>{{Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}}}} |<hr><hr>}}

}}

<comments />

Logs:The Play's The Thing

2013-05-01T05:34:38Z

Mave: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Mave, K'zin, E'sren, Seamus, Wheatley, N'hax, Hana, Barnabas, Jo | where = West Bowl, High Reaches Weyr | what = By the grace of several generous High Reachians..."

{{ Log
| who = Mave, K'zin, E'sren, Seamus, Wheatley, N'hax, Hana, Barnabas, Jo
| where = West Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
| what = By the grace of several generous High Reachians, the random desire to hold a play does not crash and burn. Labor comes to fruition.
| when = It is summer evening, 22:20 of day 27, month 8, turn 31 of Interval 10.
| gamedate = 2013.04.30
| quote =
| weather = Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air.
| categories = Vignette
| mentions =
| ooc = This vignette was contributed to by several parties, all of whom--everyone!-- I'd like to thank for letting me harass them, and turning this little thing into a wonderful moment. (And ''because'' it was written by several people, they should feel free to edit if I messed something up.)
| icons = mave party.jpg, k'zin worry.png, e'sren 8.jpg, wheatley tellmemore.jpg, n'hax silly.png, barnabas blackandwhite.jpg, jo amused.jpg
| log =

As the evening took over on the day of, there could finally be no mistaking it: a misheard encouragement had managed to turn into an entire affair, rolling downhill and collecting Weyrfolk along the way with its tumultuous thundering. Rising spectacularly early, lingering only long enough to harry Ratha to be there, Mave's a-buzz when the natural light dims and the glows are being temporarily erected around the audience space. The combined efforts of High Reachian talents have brought them here. And now it's far too late to turn back.

K'zin's were some of the many hands on deck when the final preparations for the play were underway. His primary concern was seeing that the backdrops looked right once they were mounted. There were a few touchups to do here and there, some that required a draconic elevator, but they more or less looked as he'd intended them to. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach, as no amount of reassuring from others familiar with what a Hold looks like and a ship and so on could convince him they were realistic and ''right''. Not much to do about it now though, he told himself. The show must go on, whether or not the backdrops are up to par. He lent hands to whomever needed after that, but found mostly that he just needed to stay out of the way.

Somehow, someway, Wheatley had heard about Mave's play. It can't be said if the production was purposefully kept from him, but upon ''throwing'' himself at the 'gal in charge', some could see one might be tempted. He was perfect for the lead! Holder turned sea renegade, why, the play may as well be about ''him''! Three days before the performance, Lee had an understandably tough time convincing Mave or E'sren to drop Seamus as the star. But oh, didn't they have a place for him ''somewhere''!? He'd do anything!

Final look-overs by N'hax have assured that the sets will switch smoothly while a harried Hana insists on double-checking all hairstyles and clothing looks herself despite her schedule: a quality assurance that runs like a backbone through all of the play's many interwoven pieces. She works magic with the borrowed wardrobes from stores, or pieces of mostly relevant clothes from personal closets, letting stylistic make-up and the-- by varying degrees-- ease of the actors explain the character when the supplies are more lacking.

In an inspired flare, the play's setting moves from morning to always at night-time as the day itself wanes to evening's darker approach. And here at the beginning -- Bones' renegade ship: in fact, painted cheekily as the vessel's name on the side: 'Bones'. It's referred to quite more elaborately than the play's nature requires, leaving a few faces confused, but such is the price of accuracy.

Bones watches from the back with a nervous smile, arms crossed over his chest with booted toes tapping. His part in this is small, and yet he continues to fidget as if he's the lead role. Bones helped Mave by getting as much accurate nautical jargon into the play as he could. It wasn't just a knot, it was a Midshipman's Hitch. A sailor isn't just up in the sails, he's aloft in the rigging. And it's not just a line connecting the pointy front part to "That sail in the middle." It's the Foretopgallant-stay connecting the Flying Jib-Boom to the fore-uppper topsail yard. Alright, she probably didn't need things ''that'' technical, but working with the kid was fun, and he can't help but hope for success.

When the first fighting breaks out, it almost feels like a true argument-- the natural movements of the actors a tribute to Jo's patience. Fast-paced, and ruthless, but with a flare true to the comedy beats of the play, they're a definite prize and the reason a few of the younger eyes allowed to sit in stay glued open whereas they'd been drifting for some of the wordier sections.

Intermission brings a variety of entertainment choices. Many adjourn to the Snowasis to freshen up, while the kids are expected to stay behind-- and many are quite eager to, as E'sren rewards them with a spectacular magic show. Sitting cross-legged amongst the children, Mave's applause is no less than theirs, the shine of her eyes as bright. Early returnees from the drinks survey some themed wares brought out by the Renais, hanging on a nearby wagon: hats and perfumes, a scarf of two, and costume pieces, for those inspired to engage in their own productions after this.

The second half holds a few nervously flubbed lines from a less natural performer from the caverns, and the ship set doesn't roll out as smoothly as practiced because of a fumbled hand-- but all in all, things happen as they should-- and end happily, both fictionally and physically.

... Anything, it turns out, means changing out the background between each scene. There's plenty of quiet grumbling back stage, but when the time calls for him to help, Wheatley is all smiles. It's what he signed up for, as unglamorous as it is. He's even angry at himself when things go awry during the second half, though it isn't clear if he's directly at fault or not. It doesn't matter. Throughout the play, Seamus is the target of some muttered critiques: does he really need to ham it up so much? Wasn't that line delivery a ''little'' cheesy? But by the end of the performance, even Wheatley's cheering his name and whistling through his fingers above the roaring applause. Still, if you ask ''him'', what does a trader know about life on the sea?

It takes a set of palms pushing from behind and a grip on her wrist from the front to get Mave onto the stage after the cast takes its bow, unprofessionally with her mouth agape as Seamus guides her forward with a hand on her shoulder till she can see the people clapping-- till the Renais start clapping. From freckle to freckle, Mave's cheeks light up, but her spine absorbs the attention like electricity. She bounces with abundant energy straight into the bouquet of flowers being handed her. Petals bump into her nose and she's awash in fragrance and pride. Spinning on a heel, she grabs a skulking nearby E'sren, hauling him and his giant grin forward to separate one flower from the others to give him. "Our illustrious director!" she chirps for the benefit of the audience, hopping several times on her toes to plant a kiss to his cheek as he laughs, waving it off with chuckles.

Fumbling off the stage by the side stairs, Mave picks the bouquet apart, attempting to thrust single flowers upon every cast and crew member she can pass by until the feeling of something cold being thrust back at her interrupts the flow. Her head jerks up: it's Jo, proudly pressing a modestly sized bottle of ale into her palm. Grinning boldly at her instructor, Mave murmurs a few quickly grateful words, a one-armed hug, before she's skittering off: she's got something to do, guys! Something to do. Words are passed along: everyone to the Snowasis, for Mave's collecting old winnings banked a long time in her room to treat them all.

By the third person, it's all become exaggerated, but no one much cares in the mood of things.

{{#ifexist: Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}} | <hr><hr> <h2>Comments</h2>{{Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}}}} |<hr><hr>}}

}}

<comments />

Logs:Lead By Example

2013-04-29T03:28:16Z

Mave:

{{ Log
| who = Mave, Azaylia
| where = Kitchens, High Reaches Weyr
| what = While stepping in for a downed kitchens worker, Azaylia teaches Mave proper work ethic. Yes. That's what happens.
| when = It is a summer afternoon, 19:30 of day 19, month 8, turn 31 of Interval 10.
| gamedate = 2013.04.28
| quote = "Shouldn't you be ''drying''?"
| weather = Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air.
| categories =
| mentions = Barnabas
| ooc =
| icons = mave silly.jpg, azaylia laugh.jpg
| log = '''Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr'''

'''Polished marble and granite surfaces, gleaming metalwork and pale woods characterize the vaulted fastness of the kitchen. Several large hearths gape red-mouthed against the outer wall of the cavern, their fires almost always stoked for the constant cooking the Weyr requires to feed its denizens. Sinks line the wall to one side of the hearths, providing ample space to wash large quantities of dishes, while to the other, cabinetry and a deep pantry provide storage space for items commonly needed on a day-to-day basis.'''

'''The remaining wall space is taken up by passageways and extra seating: swinging doors that lead variously to the main living cavern, the inner caverns and the storage rooms, a counter-height pass-through for food service to the Snowasis, and a series of nooks equipped with tables and benches for quick, out-of-the-way meals any time of day.'''

------

“The sharding dish was chipped-- “

“It’s broken ''now''...”

“Anea, go on to the healers, then.”

From the dish-washing station near back, Mave rests her chin against her shoulder, watching as her washing-mate’s stolen away by a nasty slice between her thumb and forefinger. The plate in question’s been detained, marked to be sent off; the girl morbidly contemplates if it were aware of its fate, sitting there wondering to itself if it feels fixable or not-- whose right is it to determine?-- before a splash of water brings her ‘round to her new double-duty. No one can be pulled off of clean-up in the caverns for the time being, leaving her to whip the drying towel over her shoulder and manage both wet and dry. As she drives her hand into the soapy water, she wonders, far too late, if there are any other dishes of the broken kind waiting to snap from the depths.

“Amfia?” The injured's name does it's best to be heard from around a mouthful of meatroll, Azaylia following the progress of one who’s only vaguely familiar. The rushed chewing slows, chugging along as her thoughts pace as she tries to place the wounded teen's face. With her mind and mouth occupied, her feet are able to weave a non-intrusive path closer to dish washing station. "Mave." It's not as certain as she'd like, willing to take a gamble in not asking beforehand. "Are you sure they got all of it? Here, you want me to..." The weyrwoman falters, fingers dusting themselves free of crumbs before plunging both hands into the water. It's more of an apology when paired with that small smile, "Just until they're able to get someone else?" Does the girl mind? It may be why she's just feeling at the bottom of the basin, at first.

Three arms extended in causes the washing water to jump up with rising splashes, lapping at the sink’s boundaries. Mave yanks her own out, flicking excess soap suds passively at both females. “Azaylia,” she greets with proper respect for the goldrider’s position, bobbing her head and a smile as she wraps her hand in a towel. No more sharp edges come out to bite anyone; it’s just for drying in preparation for the dishes handed to her. “She dropped it on the floor just after getting cut, so you’re more likely to step on something.” No problem for the girl’s thick soled sandals, but she sways back to glance down; she gets about halfway before deciding, if anyone, the weyrwoman has it under control so sets her sights on the sinks.

Igen inspired slippers offer minimal defense against plate shards, prompting Azaylia to glance down as Mave does. Her attention lifts, synchronized and worth a soft laugh, "Thank you for the warning." The first inching of her hand beneath the surface is slow. Only when her fingers are greeted by smooth ceramic edge does she begin to move with careless efficiency. There's little worry for wetting the pale sundress she wears, "So..." Small talk isn't terribly agonizing, at least not in the way Mave might expect, "I hear you've been getting beaten up by big hairy men." That much quiet cheer is intentional, made all the more obvious by her pinched lips, losing the battle against a smile. Given who her weyrfriend is, the goldrider's knowledge of such things shouldn't be too much of a surprise.

“Oh, just the one,” sing-songs Mave matter-of-factly in return, though her cheeks brighten sheepishly a moment first to have potentially been spoken about, “I like to start things off slow.” Cutting the side of her hand through the air to demonstrate the bottom level on which she’s begun; it’s joking, and soon discarded for the easy-going promptness of her work. A sneaky glance out of the corner of her eye marks the smile on the goldrider, letting the last of the girl’s already fading self-consciousness vanish as if it never existed. “Although, maybe I ''should'' step it up. He says he’s gonna grow a man out of me, but I tell ya,” reaching back from the dish she’s been drying, she smacks herself on the breast, leaving a trace of water there, “I’m just not feelin’ it.”

"He would." is fond enough, gentle exhale one of casual resignation without any of the annoyance one might expect. That ran out long ago. Azaylia is in no rush, though there's an effort to keep Mave's towel in motion as busy as the teen's mouth. "I don't think that's very fair of him. Taking a cute little girl and turning her into a smelly man. Doesn't the Weyr have enough of those?" It would sound so much more empowering-- worthy of their Acting Weyrleader, if spoken with any sort of conviction. Really, the few bubbles floating to freedom likely have more weight to them than her playful words.

“Maybe it’s an infiltration thing,” remarks Mave with as much carelessness; idle chatter while work carries on briskly throughout, “If I’m still me inside, I can sneak amongst them and find out what they really think.” A wrinkle of her nose rings truer as to the male of the species being somewhat beyond her grasp, but she clings not long to worry of that. Between dishes, she watches one of those bubbles, reaches out a hand and, with two fingers, flicks at one. It pops.

Azaylia does her best to stifle a laugh, the first quiet hiccup kept at bay behind tightly pursed lips. It halts her hands for only a moment, damning enough as that is before the scrubbed dish is offered to dry. "You," Voice only slightly strained, "Make it sound like it's hard to figure out what they really think." Victory is granted in the light clearing of her throat, smile aimed at the bubble that isn't there seconds later. Only after she's thought about it does she concede, "Well. ''After'' they grow up a little." She's a bastion of maturity, dipping into the pile of bubbles nearby and flicking them into the air. She aims to give Mave more to pop, but the weighty, white pile may not be so accommodating.

There’d almost be admiration in Mave’s eyes if not for the general understanding that, naturally, Azaylia knows better. Her glance to the weyrwoman’s merely a polite bit of eye-contact between dishes, as she hums in the back of her throat. “Older men,” she considers soberly, “That’s a tho-- “ a clump of soapy discharge makes a break for it, jumping over the side of the tub from Azaylia’s flick, and dropping with a heavy ''plop'' on Mave’s reaching hand. “-- ught...” Without quite thinking at all, not even a small glimmer of teenager’s vengeance, Mave jerks her hand to free the suds, whipping them off of her and straight at Azaylia’s upper shoulder and chest.

"Oh!" It's not so terrible, and still Azaylia feels the need to apologize for bubbling up Mave's hand. "Sorr--" Another sharp inhale, this time with a tell-tale squeak of shock as the low ruffle of her sundress is covered in suds. Surprise isn't worn for long, the weyrwoman's face already dropping into something far more mischievous. And then back up, scrunched in mock annoyance as fingers are flicked of excess water in order to try and dust... wipe? However one gets rid of bubbles, she attempts to save her dress. In one of those clearing strokes she reaches too far, intentionally grabbing up a pile and lobbing them at Mave! "Oh." A caricature of her earlier, genuine gasp, "''Sorry''!" Hands are back in the water, as if to wash away the crime as well as the girl's short term memory. Who dunnit?

With a wet ''slop'', soap suds smack Mave in the cheek, quickly dripping down her shirt collar as she stands there, lightly dazed. Sliding the back of her hand across the spot, she surrenders to Azaylia’s purported industry, smoothing out a towel in preparation for the next dish. So eager is she to return to business that she extends a hand for the plate too soon, finding fingers over the sudsy water so that, as she goes to retreat to rectify the enthusiastic mistake, some heavy bubbles are batted straight back onto the weyrwoman. “Oh,” chimes in the younger voice, carrying much of Azaylia’s tone, “It’s nothing!” All’s ''quite'' forgiven.

There's a hurry to busy those hands before Mave gets a chance to retaliate, not that it does Azaylia any good. A dish is still half submerged when her fingers spread in a jolt of shock, plate harmlessly drifting back to the bottom of the basin. The weyrwoman traps a shriek behind tight lips, face scrunched as bubbles cling to the damp fabric at her chest and her nearest arm. Lips are set to rolling, landing on a pursed battle against a grin, "Assaulting a weyrwoman." She accuses for absurdities sake, doing nothing to hide her intent as another handful is aimed to leave a sudsy print on Mave's cheek. "Shouldn't you be ''drying''?" The hypocrisy finally does her in, scolding words littered with guilty laughter.

The giggle that the shriek elicits is swallowed quickly by Mave’s hastily reticent teeth at Azaylia’s accusation. But the slap and bubble of fingers leaving soapy streak-marks on her face drops Mave’s jaw with a budding of disbelieving enthusiasm. “My face or the dishes?” She retorts, a flicker of hesitance laid waste by the laughter she’s hearing. A spying glance gives her the weyrwoman, as well as lets her pointedly lift the back of her hand to cautiously touch her cheek, as though expecting a bitter wound. “And here I was only following the weyrwoman’s example.” Drifting her weight to her further foot, she settles into a few seconds of dedicated work pattern, leaving a fair bit of the smear still dribbling down her jawline and onto her higher shoulder.

“Both, probably.” Not as flippant as she'd like, Azaylia has gone and given in to genuine delight at their sudsy mischief. Hearing her title twice in a row proves to have some effect, the ''weyrwoman'' turning towards their shared chore just as Mave does. Only in the din of their unspoken truce does the goldrider notice that drip-drip-drip out of the corner of her eye, a curious squint given to the teen. Her nearest hand lifts and gives a few slow, deliberate shakes, an effort to get dry that she'd rather not have mistaken for another assault. When it's only damp and not dripping, she reaches for one of the topmost, sheer layers of her sundress in order to give Mave's cheek a quick swipe. Damage undone, there’s little evidence of their shenanigans... other than a few soapy splashes by their feet and the impish skew to Azaylia’s smile.

{{#ifexist: Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}} | <hr><hr> <h2>Comments</h2>{{Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}}}} |<hr><hr>}}

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Logs:Lead By Example

2013-04-29T03:26:32Z

Mave: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Mave, Azaylia | where = Kitchens, High Reaches Weyr | what = While stepping in for a downed kitchens worker, Azaylia teaches Mave proper work ethic. Yes. That's..."

{{ Log
| who = Mave, Azaylia
| where = Kitchens, High Reaches Weyr
| what = While stepping in for a downed kitchens worker, Azaylia teaches Mave proper work ethic. Yes. That's what happens.
| when = It is a summer afternoon, 19:30 of day 19, month 8, turn 31 of Interval 10.
| gamedate = 2013.04.28
| quote = "Shouldn't you be ''drying''?"
| weather = Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air.
| categories =
| mentions =
| ooc =
| icons = mave silly.jpg, azaylia laugh.jpg
| log = '''Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr'''

'''Polished marble and granite surfaces, gleaming metalwork and pale woods characterize the vaulted fastness of the kitchen. Several large hearths gape red-mouthed against the outer wall of the cavern, their fires almost always stoked for the constant cooking the Weyr requires to feed its denizens. Sinks line the wall to one side of the hearths, providing ample space to wash large quantities of dishes, while to the other, cabinetry and a deep pantry provide storage space for items commonly needed on a day-to-day basis.'''

'''The remaining wall space is taken up by passageways and extra seating: swinging doors that lead variously to the main living cavern, the inner caverns and the storage rooms, a counter-height pass-through for food service to the Snowasis, and a series of nooks equipped with tables and benches for quick, out-of-the-way meals any time of day.'''

------

“The sharding dish was chipped-- “

“It’s broken ‘’now’’...”

“Anea, go on to the healers, then.”

From the dish-washing station near back, Mave rests her chin against her shoulder, watching as her washing-mate’s stolen away by a nasty slice between her thumb and forefinger. The plate in question’s been detained, marked to be sent off; the girl morbidly contemplates if it were aware of its fate, sitting there wondering to itself if it feels fixable or not-- whose right is it to determine?-- before a splash of water brings her ‘round to her new double-duty. No one can be pulled off of clean-up in the caverns for the time being, leaving her to whip the drying towel over her shoulder and manage both wet and dry. As she drives her hand into the soapy water, she wonders, far too late, if there are any other dishes of the broken kind waiting to snap from the depths.

“Amfia?” The injured's name does it's best to be heard from around a mouthful of meatroll, Azaylia following the progress of one who’s only vaguely familiar. The rushed chewing slows, chugging along as her thoughts pace as she tries to place the wounded teen's face. With her mind and mouth occupied, her feet are able to weave a non-intrusive path closer to dish washing station. "Mave." It's not as certain as she'd like, willing to take a gamble in not asking beforehand. "Are you sure they got all of it? Here, you want me to..." The weyrwoman falters, fingers dusting themselves free of crumbs before plunging both hands into the water. It's more of an apology when paired with that small smile, "Just until they're able to get someone else?" Does the girl mind? It may be why she's just feeling at the bottom of the basin, at first.

Three arms extended in causes the washing water to jump up with rising splashes, lapping at the sink’s boundaries. Mave yanks her own out, flicking excess soap suds passively at both females. “Azaylia,” she greets with proper respect for the goldrider’s position, bobbing her head and a smile as she wraps her hand in a towel. No more sharp edges come out to bite anyone; it’s just for drying in preparation for the dishes handed to her. “She dropped it on the floor just after getting cut, so you’re more likely to step on something.” No problem for the girl’s thick soled sandals, but she sways back to glance down; she gets about halfway before deciding, if anyone, the weyrwoman has it under control so sets her sights on the sinks.

Igen inspired slippers offer minimal defense against plate shards, prompting Azaylia to glance down as Mave does. Her attention lifts, synchronized and worth a soft laugh, "Thank you for the warning." The first inching of her hand beneath the surface is slow. Only when her fingers are greeted by smooth ceramic edge does she begin to move with careless efficiency. There's little worry for wetting the pale sundress she wears, "So..." Small talk isn't terribly agonizing, at least not in the way Mave might expect, "I hear you've been getting beaten up by big hairy men." That much quiet cheer is intentional, made all the more obvious by her pinched lips, losing the battle against a smile. Given who her weyrfriend is, the goldrider's knowledge of such things shouldn't be too much of a surprise.

“Oh, just the one,” sing-songs Mave matter-of-factly in return, though her cheeks brighten sheepishly a moment first to have potentially been spoken about, “I like to start things off slow.” Cutting the side of her hand through the air to demonstrate the bottom level on which she’s begun; it’s joking, and soon discarded for the easy-going promptness of her work. A sneaky glance out of the corner of her eye marks the smile on the goldrider, letting the last of the girl’s already fading self-consciousness vanish as if it never existed. “Although, maybe I ''should'' step it up. He says he’s gonna grow a man out of me, but I tell ya,” reaching back from the dish she’s been drying, she smacks herself on the breast, leaving a trace of water there, “I’m just not feelin’ it.”

"He would." is fond enough, gentle exhale one of casual resignation without any of the annoyance one might expect. That ran out long ago. Azaylia is in no rush, though there's an effort to keep Mave's towel in motion as busy as the teen's mouth. "I don't think that's very fair of him. Taking a cute little girl and turning her into a smelly man. Doesn't the Weyr have enough of those?" It would sound so much more empowering-- worthy of their Acting Weyrleader, if spoken with any sort of conviction. Really, the few bubbles floating to freedom likely have more weight to them than her playful words.

“Maybe it’s an infiltration thing,” remarks Mave with as much carelessness; idle chatter while work carries on briskly throughout, “If I’m still me inside, I can sneak amongst them and find out what they really think.” A wrinkle of her nose rings truer as to the male of the species being somewhat beyond her grasp, but she clings not long to worry of that. Between dishes, she watches one of those bubbles, reaches out a hand and, with two fingers, flicks at one. It pops.

Azaylia does her best to stifle a laugh, the first quiet hiccup kept at bay behind tightly pursed lips. It halts her hands for only a moment, damning enough as that is before the scrubbed dish is offered to dry. "You," Voice only slightly strained, "Make it sound like it's hard to figure out what they really think." Victory is granted in the light clearing of her throat, smile aimed at the bubble that isn't there seconds later. Only after she's thought about it does she concede, "Well. ''After'' they grow up a little." She's a bastion of maturity, dipping into the pile of bubbles nearby and flicking them into the air. She aims to give Mave more to pop, but the weighty, white pile may not be so accommodating.

There’d almost be admiration in Mave’s eyes if not for the general understanding that, naturally, Azaylia knows better. Her glance to the weyrwoman’s merely a polite bit of eye-contact between dishes, as she hums in the back of her throat. “Older men,” she considers soberly, “That’s a tho-- “ a clump of soapy discharge makes a break for it, jumping over the side of the tub from Azaylia’s flick, and dropping with a heavy ''plop'' on Mave’s reaching hand. “-- ught...” Without quite thinking at all, not even a small glimmer of teenager’s vengeance, Mave jerks her hand to free the suds, whipping them off of her and straight at Azaylia’s upper shoulder and chest.

"Oh!" It's not so terrible, and still Azaylia feels the need to apologize for bubbling up Mave's hand. "Sorr--" Another sharp inhale, this time with a tell-tale squeak of shock as the low ruffle of her sundress is covered in suds. Surprise isn't worn for long, the weyrwoman's face already dropping into something far more mischievous. And then back up, scrunched in mock annoyance as fingers are flicked of excess water in order to try and dust... wipe? However one gets rid of bubbles, she attempts to save her dress. In one of those clearing strokes she reaches too far, intentionally grabbing up a pile and lobbing them at Mave! "Oh." A caricature of her earlier, genuine gasp, "''Sorry''!" Hands are back in the water, as if to wash away the crime as well as the girl's short term memory. Who dunnit?

With a wet ''slop'', soap suds smack Mave in the cheek, quickly dripping down her shirt collar as she stands there, lightly dazed. Sliding the back of her hand across the spot, she surrenders to Azaylia’s purported industry, smoothing out a towel in preparation for the next dish. So eager is she to return to business that she extends a hand for the plate too soon, finding fingers over the sudsy water so that, as she goes to retreat to rectify the enthusiastic mistake, some heavy bubbles are batted straight back onto the weyrwoman. “Oh,” chimes in the younger voice, carrying much of Azaylia’s tone, “It’s nothing!” All’s ''quite'' forgiven.

There's a hurry to busy those hands before Mave gets a chance to retaliate, not that it does Azaylia any good. A dish is still half submerged when her fingers spread in a jolt of shock, plate harmlessly drifting back to the bottom of the basin. The weyrwoman traps a shriek behind tight lips, face scrunched as bubbles cling to the damp fabric at her chest and her nearest arm. Lips are set to rolling, landing on a pursed battle against a grin, "Assaulting a weyrwoman." She accuses for absurdities sake, doing nothing to hide her intent as another handful is aimed to leave a sudsy print on Mave's cheek. "Shouldn't you be ''drying''?" The hypocrisy finally does her in, scolding words littered with guilty laughter.

The giggle that the shriek elicits is swallowed quickly by Mave’s hastily reticent teeth at Azaylia’s accusation. But the slap and bubble of fingers leaving soapy streak-marks on her face drops Mave’s jaw with a budding of disbelieving enthusiasm. “My face or the dishes?” She retorts, a flicker of hesitance laid waste by the laughter she’s hearing. A spying glance gives her the weyrwoman, as well as lets her pointedly lift the back of her hand to cautiously touch her cheek, as though expecting a bitter wound. “And here I was only following the weyrwoman’s example.” Drifting her weight to her further foot, she settles into a few seconds of dedicated work pattern, leaving a fair bit of the smear still dribbling down her jawline and onto her higher shoulder.

“Both, probably.” Not as flippant as she'd like, Azaylia has gone and given in to genuine delight at their sudsy mischief. Hearing her title twice in a row proves to have some effect, the ''weyrwoman'' turning towards their shared chore just as Mave does. Only in the din of their unspoken truce does the goldrider notice that drip-drip-drip out of the corner of her eye, a curious squint given to the teen. Her nearest hand lifts and gives a few slow, deliberate shakes, an effort to get dry that she'd rather not have mistaken for another assault. When it's only damp and not dripping, she reaches for one of the topmost, sheer layers of her sundress in order to give Mave's cheek a quick swipe. Damage undone, there’s little evidence of their shenanigans... other than a few soapy splashes by their feet and the impish skew to Azaylia’s smile.

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}}

<comments />

Logs talk:AU - They Had To Be Perfect

2013-04-12T21:27:24Z

Mave: Comment provided by Mave - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on "[[Logs:AU - They Had To Be Perfect]]"
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

[[Eliv/Comments|Eliv]] ([[User:Eliv|Eliv]] ([[User talk:Eliv|talk]])) left a comment on Fri, 12 Apr 2013 16:25:52 GMT.

<comment date="2013-04-12T16:25:53Z" name="Eliv" signature="[[User:Eliv|Eliv]] ([[User talk:Eliv|talk]])">
Oh my god this just made me cry at work. Thanks!
</comment>
[[K'del/Comments|K'del]] ([[User:K'del|K'del]] ([[User talk:K'del|talk]])) left a comment on Fri, 12 Apr 2013 20:33:47 GMT.

<comment date="2013-04-12T20:33:47Z" name="K'del" signature="[[User:K&#39;del|K&#39;del]] ([[User talk:K&#39;del|talk]])">
<3
</comment>
[[Mave/Comments|Mave]] ([[User:Mave|Mave]] ([[User talk:Mave|talk]])) left a comment on Fri, 12 Apr 2013 21:27:24 GMT.

<comment date="2013-04-12T21:27:24Z" name="Mave" signature="[[User:Mave|Mave]] ([[User talk:Mave|talk]])">
Ouch ouch ouch ouch. I love this. And I'm not sure why I don't remember reading it before!
</comment>

Logs:Technically

2013-04-12T03:05:27Z

Mave: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Mave, N'hax, Jhorinth | where = Feeding Grounds, High Reaches Weyr | what = Mave needs advice related to N'hax's old smithing grounds. | when = It is a summer a..."

{{ Log
| who = Mave, N'hax, Jhorinth
| where = Feeding Grounds, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Mave needs advice related to N'hax's old smithing grounds.
| when = It is a summer afternoon, 18:20 of day 26, month 6, turn 31 of Interval 10.
| gamedate = 2013.04.11
| quote = "I remembered your beautiful drawings..."
| weather = Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air.
| categories =
| mentions = E'sren
| ooc =
| icons = mave curious.jpg, n'hax ooooh.png
| log =
'''Feeding Grounds, High Reaches Weyr'''

'''Wedged between the lake and the rest of the vast bowl are the dusty feeding grounds. Here, the well-trampled ground is contained by a sturdy wooden fence, cutting right through one end of the lake to section it off into a muddy watering hole for the animals. Several gates allow people in and out, while at the back, large overhangs of rock provide the herd -- a mixed bag of herdbeasts, wing-clipped wherries, and fat porcines -- shelter from storms or the hot sun. What grass survives is usually bloodstained, but feeding troughs are stationed around the edges of the pen.'''

------

Nothing says 'on a mission' quite like clutching a packet of hides to your chest while being pointed in a specific direction. Enter Mave, her hands plastering said orange-red folder to her as the helpful local weyrling indicates the feeding grounds from across the bowl. Plunging into the sunlight with a dedicated pace, she's there with no extra meandering, a can-do thinning of her lips as she glances into the cloudless sky, timing her walk-- or calculating some, perhaps the afternoon feeding habits of certain people in various places. When thick-soled sandals, a departure from the heavier boots of usual days, hit the trampled ground of the feeding pens, she pauses to actually ''survey'' what it is she's been power-walking towards. This realization puts a general brake on her progress.

Oh yes: the survey. A section of the feeding grounds has been given over to elderly and infirm beasts, and the growing dragons that hunt them. Jhorinth, one of the biggest of the latter, hunts with a focused intensity that's disturbing and doubly so given the unconscious grace of his movements. He circles a particular herdbeast, marking his prey before launching himself up into the air and down in a bizarre crow-hop directly upon the poor beast. The back crunches, neck snaps, and down the bronze goes exultant. His feeding is more gruesome. N'hax watches the process with the distant eyes of a man who isn't quite paying attention to what is in front of him. The bronzeling is leaning against the fence, arms leaning against the tallest rail; he's in profile to the approaching Mave.

A profile she's eager to pick up on, even if it takes Mave a moment to realize ''that's'' the one. Gearing back up to a purposeful gait, she's by him momentarily, preparing the greeting of a quick grin to the side of his face. "N'hax!" She's done her homework, proven by a glance cast out amongst the beasts where she, squinting against the sun, comments openly, "Jhorinth's good at that." Chin jerking to indicate the dragon, she's hasty to pull the folder off from her chest, resting it on an arm to use her other hand to hold up a finger, "Do you have a ''moment'' to give your opinion on something, structurally?" The last a hint of a question inside a question, a gamble that she's remembered what she has correctly: that this word will elicit a response.

"He's studied it," returns N'hax, wryly; "Extensively. I expect he should be." The man's grey eyes shift from his lifemate to the newcame Mave, and an eyebrow lifts. "Mave, isn't it?" They've met, of course, but -- his last few months have been, to say the least, hectic. His eyes sharpen at the last part, interest piqued. "Of course. Anything I can do to help. What is it exactly that you have a question about?" Meanwhile, the sounds of Jhorinth chowing down offer a gruesome song as background noise -- like elevator music, but with more gristle.

"It is!" Surprise at being remembered somewhat dazzles her smile with confusion, but Mave moves on instantly, clambering onto his alerted interest. Flipping open the folder reveals a set list, and a few preliminary sketches. Her hand splays over the pictures to point them out, "I just wanted an opinion on a building thing." A second later, realizing the obstacle of seeing ''through'' her fingers, she glides them off, holding the folder open with both hands. Pictures of a pretend hold, a renegade sailing ship, and a beach are prevalent. Others are smaller, etched into corners, or abandoned. There's also been notations on a few, as well as attempts at fusing the sets together, all scribbled out. "Some sets are being designed for a play we're doing, but I'm-- well, desperate, frankly, to make this as cost efficient as possible, as well as making it ''really'' easy to switch between sets quickly. Really, if it's possible. I'll also settle for normal easy." He's flashed a cheeky smile, to relieve some of the pressure she'd otherwise be putting on his five-minutes-in-the-feeding-pen talents. Her face softens. "I remembered your beautiful drawings..." As explanation for her purposeful hunt: not unlike Jhorinth, she's pounced. But with less gristle.

Though he can be clueless about some things, N'hax at least has a knack for names. He offers a smile for a smile, his marked less with confusion; then she's showing, and he's absorbing, fingers hovering over the marks on the page. He's frowning, in thought, and silent throughout her light commentary - even through the end. It takes a moment after for the weyrling to rouse out of his thoughts. "What was that, again? Oh. Yes. Ah, thank you. I wouldn't call them ''beautiful'' per se..." He squints up from the pictures -- Jhorinth, having slowly devoured all of one side, is nosing the beast onto the opposite side to have at the rest. "I think it's doable. Do you have the backing of the weyr, for this? It would be-- effective, if you had access to the stores for this. You could repurpose items that otherwise have sat around forever. Ugly furniture, that kind of thing. Where are you holding it?"

"I..." Mave's confident beginning, sounding like she spat it out before fully processing his question, trails off more sheepishly, "-- haaaave... ''not'' gone back to the harpers with all this-- but no one's ''stopped'' me yet." Eyes that were starting to droop pop up to stare at him for the idea. "Oh! Good, yes. Waste not, want not. Use all of everything you catch." Fingers writhe against the bottom of the file, as if meaning to create an emphasizing gesture but, finding themselves trapped in occupation, only rattle all the hides and papers stacked within so that her thumb has to slide out and catch a heavier sketch littered with numbers down the side. "Umm. So, I was hoping outside, in a part of the bowl. If the weather holds. Though a big part of my crew just arrived-- have you seen the traders?-- so I'd like to consult with them. Of course, I'll take any suggestions. I haven't the head for it, like you." She's bright-eyed and all ears, unbothered by her own stated short-comings.

The gaze he passes over her is more than slightly sardonic for the over-the-top compliments. "How many set-changes are you looking to execute?" The cogs are grinding in his head (kind of like the small bones grinding together from where Jhorinth's getting too enthusiastic about his food). "You could..." He trails off, shaking his head, musing over the sketches again. His fingers hover, as if so entirely ready to save the portfolio from Mave should she ill-treat it with such ignomities as rattling at the papers again.

Sardonic for him; sincerity for her, compliments eased by with the simple practicality of her tone. N'hax is good at this: it is known. Queried, Mave sucks in a breath then exhales it slowly, wobbling a few pages when she begins to count off half-silently on her fingers, lips mouthing: one, two... "Three major, between these," rolling her shoulder, she dips an arm out to indicate each of the main sets in turn: ship, beach, and hold. "Then it stays on the hold exterior for quite some time, then ''technically'', the renegade ship is supposed to show up there, but, I'm not sure how to ''do'' that. Technically. For some reason, ''nobody'' felt like including a how-to in the play's reading, which is absurdly rude, and I'm aiming to quite remedy."

"Hmm." N'hax eyes this longer, for a moment or three. "Do you need a great bit of interaction with the set items? If you ''can'' get into the stores, I'd say seek out as much old sheets as you can and stitch them together -- you could paint backdrops and have them mounted on a reel, so you could-- roll them down individually when you need one, roll them up when they aren't. If you put enough care into that, it will solve a great many of your issues. Then you're only looking at facades, which is where repurposing things would come in." He's contemplating the prow of the renegade ship, expression thoughtful.

Minutes are employed for Mave, lips gently parted, to stare dully ahead of her, gaze glazed in a concentrated imagining of what's been suggested. Her eyebrows trail downward, tugging in a way that pulls like a puppet string on the corner of her mouth, but she's biting her lip in held enthusiasm by the end. "There's-- oh, well, people have to be able to enter and exit the hold, I suppose. And there are some physical gimmicks with the ship, but I imagine that E'sren's family could improvise. He says they're real good at that."

"Of course. You could -- have cu..." N'hax trails off by a particularly MEATY crunching coming from Jhorinth's corner. He winces, the first physical reaction, and shoots Mave an apologetic glance. "When you have your supplies together, and your crew together, and need someone to vet specific elements -- give me a shout. I'd be more than happy to make sure that things are structurally sound and safe for people to interact with." That's about the best she's going to get, because the bronzeling is dipping between the rails and heading towards his lifemate, whose gaping maw shows a pool of ichor among all the blood: man, bones can be SHARP.

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Logs:Better Instincts

2013-04-08T00:09:20Z

Mave: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Barnabas, Mave | where = Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr | what = Bones puts Mave through the paces as part of his unique training, then agrees to a second hire o..."

{{ Log
| who = Barnabas, Mave
| where = Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Bones puts Mave through the paces as part of his unique training, then agrees to a second hire on.
| when = It is a summer morning, 11:35 of day 14, month 6, turn 31 of Interval 10.
| gamedate = 2013.04.07
| quote = "Don't you want to hit my face?"
| weather = Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air.
| categories =
| mentions =
| ooc =
| icons = barnabas spirit.jpg, mave littletoughgirl.jpg
| log =
'''Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr'''

'''The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself.'''

'''A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one -- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly tempting stairs.'''
------

The welcome beaming of a bright summer day is welcomed with hard work and sunny grin from the inked and dreadlocked gardener on the shores of the lake. It's there he's chosen to meet Mave for the training she insisted he of all people give her, and from the looks of things he's taking it serious. The sands are littered with all manner of goodies from the greenhouse that he's worked to bring down since early morning, many of which are suspect in how they'd help teach a girl the arts of combat. Sandbags, clay pots, sticks, stones, and a few wicked looked bladed impliments that're hard to distguish between weaponry and gardening equipment, all strewn out in an order that only Bones seems to understand judging from how he looks out with satisfaction opon them. Now all the scene needs is the girl. "She better show up or I'mma beat her ass. Ha!" Said in good humor to himself with his hands on his hips.

"Get out!" She's heard before seen, that subtle flower of grace. "Get out, get out of my hair before I ''eat you''!" Hands scrambling to bat in the air around her head: must be Mave. On approach to the shore, she's plagued by the blue firelizard squawking up a lively alarm, ranging between helpful and irritated as it earns an open-palmed smack or dives claws into the girl's hair, wrenching strands of it, often accidentally from getting caught, out of the proper runner's tail. Hitting the sand, she backhands the creature with a finality that he flaps up a few more inches, just hovering and spying, and giving Mave rest enough to rub at her eyes till Bones comes into focus. Dressed ready to move and sweat, she yet suffers from morning-sluggishness-- or is that ''training catching up to her'' slowness. Her shoulders stiffen when she rolls them back, but her greeting to Bones is full-force, a chipper hum as she bounds down to meet him; a pace interrupted when she slows to stare blankly at the assorted items, posing, "... did someone else's greenhouse wash up on shore?"

The first sounds of approach are met with a smile and turn of head to look back over his shoulder, but as Bones spots the wacky battle, he's at first concerned for her safety. He turns fully towards her and takes a few steps in her direction with bare feet, but stops as she's cleared herself of the hassle of firelizards, and waits for her to close the rest of the distance. Bones is equally prepared for a day of physical exertion, wearing nothing more than leather cuffs, and dark pants that are soo loose and thin they might almost be describe as billowy. "Huh?" He doesn't get her joke at first, untill he looks out at his gear with a stranger's eyes, and then gives a laugh. "Ha! Nope, this stuff's all mine, and it's gonna put you through your paces today kid, just watch."

Sure, joke. That's what it was. So answered, Mave mouths an ''oh'' that is not reflected in her eyes, narrowed as they are in continued wondering; but ''how''... An eagerness to find out smoothes aching muscles enough that she's the ability to lock her arms and give each a preparing stretch. Second order of business: redoing the hair that the blue pulled out, so that none strays into her face distractingly. Bumps along her head show that her hair will never be ''straight'', but it pulls into a fairly taut tail, high back. A yet-nearby chirp has her side-eying the hovering firelizard with a scoff, "I'm never setting my alarm ever again. Shoo!" Her voice raises, "I'm here! It's over!" Wriggling out her shoulders to relieve that tension, she glances, finally ready, at Bones.

Bones moves towards where he's collected his gardening tools and sets out to do the last bit of preperations for the training regiment he's set out for the girl, starting out with a traditional shovel that he uses to start digging a narrow pit into the sand. "Now, here's the thing..." he starts as he balances some heavy, bare toes across the top of the metal portion of his shovel, helping to kick it into the earth and then heave the sand over his shoulder. "What's the point of two fighters both teachin' you the same techniques all day, right? Jo's got the skill to teach you how to throw every punch man ever invented, and then tell you which ones he shouldn't have bothered, eh?" It doesn't take long for a shallow hole to have been dug, and he tosses the shovel aside to go fetch a clay pot big enough for tree. Even empty, Bones grunts lifting the pot, and again once he settles it's near four-foot diameter into the hole. "Stand in here." In the pot? Yes, that's where he's pointing anyway.

Mave's leveling a contradictory glare of suspicion with a pressed mouth of trust at Bones, leaving her nearly blank after the war of not-understanding. Encouraged though she was to nod over differences in teaching techniques, her chin's held slightly high in question as she steps carefully around to the indicated pot. Toes touch the pot's outer edge, pushing sand about. "In it." A question, as well as a command to herself. With a last flicker of eyes to him, she sucks it up-- inhaling, and quite openly gets to wiggling down, making a funny grimace at the feel of the clay, scraping lightly at its sides. "I feel like you're about to push my head down, cover me up and leave me here to sprout," she admits, a joke with a little waver of nerves. Her uncertainty grows when there's thick clay restricting her in a full circle.

"That's almost like a poem." He says, musing over her choice of words. "And it ain't too far from the truth. I'm gonna plant a girlseed, and grow a man outta 'ya!" Now, he goes to getch a long strip of linen, the kind one would use to wrap up the tightly clenched fists of a boxer. Instead, he reaches for her wrists with it, and holds them together. "Or I'll grow a woman, whatever. Semantics. You'll be tough is what I'm saying. Anyhoo, this is the part where shit's gonna get weird if I don't explain what it is we're doin' here. When ''I'' learned to fight, there weren't no teacher, and you had to get your ass handed to you a dozen times over just to even get to a place where you could ''start'' learnin' anything. You remember that first lesson I taught you? The most important rule of fighting?" He pauses to see if she'd recall it, but in the meantime he'd start to bind her wrists together in front of her, restraining them together like some sort of prisoner. If she trusted him, of course.

"Uh huuuuh." Skepticism abounds: poetry, out of ''her'' mouth, growing a man, woman, Mave-thing. Glancing down her body, now partially trapped in the maw of a clay pot, she evaluates her scrawny legs' chances of sprouting. Tugging on her wrists brings her up, hands reflexively jerking backwards but stilling at seeing him there. An unhappy squirm has built inside the tensing of her stomach, stressing a couple of overly wrought muscles; her high-strung nerves obvious to a man so trained, though she does her upmost to keep most of the discomfort from twisting her mouth, except the corners that twitch with a childish-like whimper. "That I'll..." fingers twitch, but as she attempts to recite from memory-- hah!-- she soothes her pains, steeling herself with a sense of adventure instead until her uneasy expression's passed. Or appeared to, through sheer force of will. "Forget everything once it all starts."

There's a pause in the man at her tension, but he continues on once she's found her resolve, binding her wrists up not all too tight. In fairness, she could absolutely free herself with just a bit of struggling and twisting, but that's by design by the big man above her. It's more of an honor system restraint than anything else. "See, you're nervous right? That's good, that's what we're workin' on getting rid of. See, fightin' is kinda like... lifting heavy weight around. Y'can spend all day havin' somebody to teach you how to do it proper. What kinda grip to use, how to bend your knees, yadda yadda yadda." as he works, there's extra linen, and he uses that to wrap once around her waist like a belt, forcing her to keep her hands down. "But y'don't ever build up the muscle till y'actually start lifting. Y'gotta actually get that feelin' of panic and fear in your head, and make it your best buddy. I had to do it by actually fightin', and this whole time I've been thinkin' about how to get you in that spot, in that fighting place in your head, without actually messing you up." He takes a step back from her to survery his work. "Oh man, if somebody saw this on the beach right now, it'd look so messed up. They'd probably throw me back in the mines, ha!"

"Wait," Mave's been struggling, not outwardly, but inwardly with listening while batting down the flush of noise in her ears. Dressed for it, and she's already sweated from the jolt of preparation and unknowing Bones' process brings on. "Am I getting ''rid'' of the nerves or being ''friends'' with them?" Using nerves for good isn't where she's stuck; really, that much has dawned as logical on her face, and it's left to decoding her instructor's wording. Truly restricted when he steps back, adventure takes a second-seat to anxiety when it flares back up, truly ''feeling'' her limited movements, the small space, and how her legs bump into unyielding, cold clay. She's small enough to fit but restraints are a different danger, a little beat of her heart-- conquered by a blast of worry for something not herself: "N-no!" She stammers hopefully, lurching forward in her determination while forgetting in that second that she's tied and bumping in a wobbly step into the front of the pot towards him, "Not for ''me''!"

Bones takes another moment of pause to let her relax and find a few calming breathes, even while he smiled all the while at her predicament. Just like the equipment laid out on the beach, this smile is more for himself, pride at coming up with such a training methodology. "You're... you're making friends with the nerves and then getting rid of them. I guess." he hadn't really tracked his own logic as well as she had, clearly. "Whatever, I'm new at this. The point is, if you're out there fighting, you ''are'' gonna get hit. That's what this is all about, we're gonna teach you how to take some hits, and not freak the hell out about it, alright?" He takes a step forward with his hands raised up into a fighting stance, but without the tightly wound knuckles of focuses fists. Instead, he's got his palms out and fingers splayed. "Don't worry, I ain't fixing to really deck you here, alright? Gonna start with one to the chest, you just focus on keepin' your balance, and ''not'' flinching."

Methodology there may be, but what Mave's eyes tell her is she's about to get smacked by a much larger man. Trust elbows for room next to instinct, and a hazier day-dream seeking to take her brain along the path of ''how the hell did you end up in a pot on the beach about to get decked''-- no. Not decked. Repeating it inwardly, she licks her lips, teeth getting in a soft scrape at the end. Hands flex and release, indignant to the idea of not ''defending'' but being complacent, even as she tries to widen her stance as much as possible inside the little tree container. "Balance, don't flinch," she repeats once, testing, then, as a mantra to herself, "Balance, don't flinch. Balance, don't flinch." Saying the word causes her to flinch-- and flinching causes her to flinch. With a grunted irritation, she snorts out a breath and waits, in silence, steeling for two seconds before: "''Okay''."

Mave's flinching gets a wincing, the wise old sensei suddenly feeling like five kinds of jackass. Is he really doing this? Punching girls on a beach? Yes, yes he is. "Hey, you asked me to show you the ropes, kid." That's his justification for what comes next, a fast and frightening looking strike aimed at the top of chest. Despite it's speed and technique, it lands home with a surprisingly unpainful slapthudding sound, only the barest hint of sting lingering after the touch is concluded. Bones' hands are back at the ready, up and guarding himself in proper form despite there being no real risk of counter-attack. "How's that? Hurt at all?"

Tensed-- too tensed, after all-- for the hit, Mave sways backwards like a pop-up toy, ''oof''ing, with a drop of her chin. She instantly attempts to take it back, harming her balance more than the hit had, and causing her hands to twist in retaliation against the binds. When she realizes there's only a sting, flushing erupts across her freckles in angry embarrassment at herself and the fiery sense of disappointment has her glaring, without answer, at a patch of sand below Bones' hip.
Attemps at reading the girl's face prove futile, and even as exposed as she is the bodylanguage is just as difficult for the dense gardener to pick up on. He drops his hands and stands up a little straighter to double check. "Hey, don't play with me Mave, did I hurt you?" His misinterprets her masked embarassment as stifled pain, and takes a step closer with concern painting his expression. "Because I ain't fixin' to bruise you up here. If you gotta throw a swift kick to my eggs to make us even then that's what we gotta do."

"No!" Again, it's thoughts of Bones that lead Mave on a straight shot out of her own head, pity cast aside like garbage. "Yeesh, no..." A pause as she gathers herself against the flash-bang of annoyance in her chest having little to do with Bones' hand pushing there. "I..." as if he hadn't seen, "Lost my balance and I flinched. No, other than ''that'', everything's great."

A combination of relief and amusement flood Bones' at her revelation. The only thing he ended up hurting was her pride, and that has him laughing a bit. "Hahahaha! Oh sweet merficul crap I thought I was gonna have a heart attack. I thought I ended up hurtin' you somethin' bad, girl!" With him recovering, and her spitting out her confession, he puts his hands back up. "C'mon mave, you're gonna end up flinching for the first few dozen of these I throw at you. It's built into you. Built into everyone. You were thinkin' you'd get it right on the ''first'' try?" He bobs his arms a little, and then motions towards her with a jerk of his head. "Now I'm gonna throw one at your gut. We'll stick with the body at first because it's a little easier. Now, ''try'' not to flinch, but don't freak out when you do, alright?" And true to his word, another slapping strike is aimed just above her belt.

Pursing of her lips suggests that she hadn't ''thought'', so much as there'd been a glimmer of hope. Now it's business time. Shame, while heated, dies quick as a flare. A start of a laugh, because of his, or at her own expense, Mave quells when he raises his hands, licking her lips in a flash. "Okay!" Some of the amusement sticks to her affirmative, making it almost excited. Indeed, with her first embarrassment out of the way, she's room now to fill with a sense of actual adventure; she's doing this. Her belly flops slightly in its own self-awareness, but she stands straight to receive the slap-- and actually flinches too ''early''. Anticipation jumps the gun. Eyes closing in her wince, she opens, body softening just in time for his palm to impact her in the gut. Being loose helps her stagger, after all, and she recovers in good time with a flutter of blinks and a readying shudder of her head. "''Okay''!" Again!

Now there's a grin for the girl at her earnestness in continuing, landing that second hit and gauging her reaction. His strikes come fast enough to trigger the flinches in her, but he uses that same care as before to avoid giving anything more than a bit of lingering sting. Her skin might be a little on the red side after they were done. "See, learning how to throw, how to move, that's the fun stuff. I'll let Jo handle the fun stuff." His third punch isn't annoucned, but it's a little slower, and it'd end up hitting the side of her shoulder. He's casually using her like a delicate punching bag as he speaks. "But this is more what it's really like. A little pain, a little confusion, and fear." His next punch is a mirror of the last, a slowish hook to her opposite shoulder just above her bicep. "There's always a little fear. Unless you're drunk o'course. Ha!"

"You saying-- oof-- I'm not having fun?" Wryly done, as Mave continues to allow herself to get smacked on. Without him saying, she flinches wholly against his third attempt, a fast inhale punctuating it and the ''bang'' of her right foot against the back of the pot. Since it's slower, there's less wobbling-- just that compunction to ''move'', get balance. "Mmph," she complains on a second assault to a shoulder, their soreness part of that ''fun'' with Jo, stiff and aching with use. But, noises aside, after each one, she scrambles to straighten, to present herself, almost bouncing on her heels in a kind of hyper desire to keep going. "I was learned," the way she says it presumes a more distant time than here, or with her rider instructor, or perhaps even anyone at the Weyr, "That a little fear's good. Nerves're how your body tells you to be prepared and not too big for yourself."

"Well, you want a little fear." He casually continues their conversation as the light strikes keep coming, the next aimed at the bottom of her ribs beneath a breast. "But you want just enough to help guide your decisions, not so much that it makes them for you. Are you decidin' to flinch, or is your fear doin' it for you?" It's a rhetorical question they both know the answer to. "Fear's doing it for ya, because it's faster. It's instinct. This is just step one, we're teachin' you to get hit and keep your brain workin'." Now he throws out a feint towards her chest again, a punch that doesn't quite reach it's target. Behind that one, Bones ducks low and throws a soft uppercut into her stomach, his palm landing across her belly button. "And then, I'm gonna let you undo your wrists there, and start throwin' some up at your head. That's the real tough one. Your eyes are gonna wanna close, your head's gonna wanna turn away, and it takes a long time to teach yourself to do neither of em."

She skips a breath, getting struck in the ribs, face briefly sullen for ''that'' sting. And it stops her from getting out the noise her mouth opened for to answer the rhetorical. Jaw closing, Mave listens, instead. Listens, tries to absorb, as if staring harder will cause it to sink in better. "Make a new instinct?" Speaking of, chest feeling in danger sucks it in, funneling breath so that her cheeks shallow. But her stomach takes the blow, curling her. She snaps up with a sudden "''euugh''," different from previous blows. Her hands jump up, wishing to reach for the cheek she's now pushing out into roundness with her tongue, eyebrows low and thinking. "Oh, that stung ''more''," she complains curiously, rolling her shoulder back and trying to blink into concentration for his new instruction. Nose wrinkling at the thought, she does the usual: licks her lips. A taste swiped across them causes her to falter again. "... oh, I think I..." tongue pokes as she grimaces, "Bit my cheek."

Bones smiles at her folding, noting the discomfort of the impact, the surprise of it. That's the knowledge, the sensation that he's trying to impart. But as her reaction lingers, his hands slowly drop down and his lips part to ask what's wrong. The sight of blood at her lip has his answer before the question leaves him, bringing out a wince in him once again. "Whoa, blood in your mouth?" The half step forward is all he needs to be within range to help her untie her wrists, just a few easy tugs from a set of soft knots. "That's part of fighting too, but maybe it's a little early for that lesson." As much as Bones is a man for equality, there's obvious touches of gingerness in his treatment of a girl of fifteen.

"No, I'm fine," she insists, garbled somewhat by her pushing tongue, and even though her hands, writhing out that last inch into freedom, jump up. Mave thrusts a thumb inside her cheek, swiping and pulling it out to wipe off the saliva heavy blood left there with her other fingers. It's light; she's already licked the rest off her lips mostly by accident. "I just have a nervous habit, of chewing on stuff. That'll teach me, huh!" Her 'huh' echoes childishly of his 'ha', barked in its manner as best a fifteen-turn-old girl can. "While we're paused, though," not one to waste time, she, while playing her fingers around, curling and stretching and pretending to play an instrument on the air, "I've been meaning to ask you, not that I've any right since you're already doin' this, but I wanted a favor, y'know, just your input on this play I'm doing."

Bones finishes unwrapping her entirely from the loose restraints he'd previously put to her, and starts wrapping the loose strands around one hand just to bunch it up properly to be put away. "Well yeah, if you're in a fight that's probably a habit you should work on, heh." Still with a touch of concern in the man for her bit cheek, he doesn't press the issue any further out of trust for her assesment that it was nothing too worry on. "A play?" He cocks an eyebrow. "You want ''my'' input on a play?" Three or four steps back are taken, and he motions with one of his hands for her to step up out of the pot for the time being.

"Yeah." Fiddling with her cheek a couple more times, causing herself more unnecessary pain, Mave lifts her knee up onto the pot's edge when she sees his motion without thinking about what she's doing. Noticing she's leaving, she pauses, almost hurrying to complete, "One of the sets is a renegade ship, and I've seen fishing ships and all, but they look different to you when you're five. Thought maybe you could help me figure out what it should look like, far as bigger ships go." Then she shoves up, balancing her weight on that knee, so that she hovers indecisively on it, swaying tiny bits side to side as she waits between getting out and slipping back down in. "Don't you want to hit my face?"

Bones' looks down at the sands at an angle as he scratches the top of his head, not looking up at Mave as he ponders the details of her request. After a few moments of silence, he shrugs up with a smile. "Yeah, sure!" There's a surprising bit of enthusiasm to it before he realizes there's some additional clarification required. "Oh, to the first thing. The boats. Not the hitting. I might slap you around a bit later, but I wanna give your cheek a few to heal up. In the meantime." He moves to grab a hand sickle left stuck in the dirt and starts chopping into the sand to create a clear and deep line in it. "We're gonna have you work on some sprints. Fighting is the most exhausting thing out there, and jogging or shadowboxing just doesn't cut it." He takes about fifteen long Bones-sized paces before he gets to the other end, and starts chopping an equal line at the other side of the sands.

Beaming smiles she means to thanks Bones with freeze incrementally as his plan sinks in, leaving Mave looking quite like she might shrink back into the pot and not come out. But, gradually, she pulls her foot up and slinks over to where he's drawn the line, her mouth a firm but unhappy line at the prospect. It's morning, after all, and who knows if she's had breakfast -- what with the state of her alarm firelizard -- and the fifteen paces looks like the length of the bowl the longer she stares down it. An inhale as she takes her eyes from the mark to look over the rolling waves beside them, harsh crashes at the end of gentler arcs firms the disagreement off her features. She calms, breathing the distinctive air. Digging her feet into the sand in preparation for instruction, Bones will find her, for the better part of the morning, a willing participant, even as her body does the complaining for her. Sprinting, and then exhaustion, sap up the better part of her concentration, so that talking falls to the wayside and she'll have to fill him in later on the play details. Hopefully over a giant lunch.

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Logs:Priorities

2013-04-07T21:20:24Z

Mave:

{{ Log
| who = Mave
| where = Residents' Quarters, High Reaches Weyr
| what = After hiring E'sren, Mave remembers what she forgot.
| when = It is a summer afternoon, 13:44 of day 11, month 6, turn 31 of Interval 10.
| gamedate = 2013.04.06
| quote = "Of course I did."
| weather =
| categories = Vignette
| mentions =
| ooc =
| icons = mave unsure.jpg
| log =
She's high on enthusiasm from the encounter in the records when she bursts through the family quarters' door, singing dirty limericks to the jaunty tune E'sren left her with. High until she gets through the door two steps and her swinging book-bag almost takes out the half-empty dishes stacked on the nearest cabinet.

Lunch.

Her stomach rumbles, but not in hunger.

Mave eases more carefully into the room, spotting Ratha at her desk, with the blue firelizard squawking in the corner, trying to chew off the edges of the paper her mother's writing on. "Hey, you're up…" Mave notes, trying to sound cheerful; her glance jumps to the plate. "Sorry, I… I missed lunch…" As she approaches the chair, Ratha turns, holding out a hand that Mave takes, squeezing, "You took your medicine without me?"

"Of course I did." Ratha scolds, hands strong from labor squeezing her daughter's back dismissively; who's the mother here. "Now, tell me about what had you singing."

Excitement turns over the grumbling of guilt in Mave's belly; she drops eagerly to her knees, adjusting Ratha's blanket across the woman's lap before laying her hands over. "You wouldn't believe! I found a director, and he even has experience, and-- "

She goes on for quite some time, curled up at her mother's feet while the woman writes shaky letters.

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Logs:Priorities

2013-04-07T21:18:50Z

Mave: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Mave | where = Residents' Quarters, High Reaches Weyr | what = After hiring E'sren, Mave remembers what she forgot. | when = It is a summer afternoon, 13:44 of ..."

{{ Log
| who = Mave
| where = Residents' Quarters, High Reaches Weyr
| what = After hiring E'sren, Mave remembers what she forgot.
| when = It is a summer afternoon, 13:44 of day 11, month 6, turn 31 of Interval 10.
| gamedate = 2013.04.06
| quote = "Of course I did."
| weather =
| categories = Vignette
| mentions =
| ooc =
| icons =
| log =
She's high on enthusiasm from the encounter in the records when she bursts through the family quarters' door, singing dirty limericks to the jaunty tune E'sren left her with. High until she gets through the door two steps and her swinging book-bag almost takes out the half-empty dishes stacked on the nearest cabinet.

Lunch.

Her stomach rumbles, but not in hunger.

Mave eases more carefully into the room, spotting Ratha at her desk, with the blue firelizard squawking in the corner, trying to chew off the edges of the paper her mother's writing on. "Hey, you're up…" Mave notes, trying to sound cheerful; her glance jumps to the plate. "Sorry, I… I missed lunch…" As she approaches the chair, Ratha turns, holding out a hand that Mave takes, squeezing, "You took your medicine without me?"

"Of course I did." Ratha scolds, hands strong from labor squeezing her daughter's back dismissively; who's the mother here. "Now, tell me about what had you singing."

Excitement turns over the grumbling of guilt in Mave's belly; she drops eagerly to her knees, adjusting Ratha's blanket across the woman's lap before laying her hands over. "You wouldn't believe! I found a director, and he even has experience, and-- "

She goes on for quite some time, curled up at her mother's feet while the woman writes shaky letters.

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Logs:Hey Mr. Director

2013-04-07T01:57:03Z

Mave: Created page with "{{ Log | who = E'sren, Mave | where = Records Room, High Reaches Weyr | what = A fortuitous meeting of minds takes place in a place of learning. It's almost as if someone plan..."

{{ Log
| who = E'sren, Mave
| where = Records Room, High Reaches Weyr
| what = A fortuitous meeting of minds takes place in a place of learning. It's almost as if someone planned it that way.
| when = It is a summer afternoon, 13:44 of day 11, month 6, turn 31 of Interval 10.
| gamedate = 2013.04.06
| quote =
| weather = Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air.
| categories =
| mentions = Sabella
| ooc =
| icons = e'sren 4.jpg, mave bright.jpg
| log =
'''Records Room, High Reaches Weyr'''

'''Books. Scrolls. Bound hides. Maps. If it's a record pertaining to the Weyr, it's likely to be in this roughly oval room with its floor-to-ceiling cherrywood shelves, its multitude of slots for scrolls, and its wide drawers for materials that shouldn't be rolled up or folded. A scribe is usually on duty at the tall desk up front with its good view of the room, and is able to help visitors find what they're looking for via the big bound index on its rotating stand. Past the desk, several tables stand in neat rows for note-taking, each stocked with glowbaskets, scrap hide, paper and pencils. Additional lighting is provided by a many-armed wrought-iron light fixture, its glows gleaming through luxurious glass containers in fluted shapes instead of baskets.'''

'''To one side of the room, a gap between two sets of shelves outlines where another set once stood, now replaced by a tapestry-covered aperture. Peeking behind the tapestry reveals another cavern, this one likewise full of shelves, but occupied by only a few boxes of older records and a somewhat musty air of disuse. As well, two narrow but solid doors are locked when the room is unattended and a discreet staircase provides direct access from the Weyrleaders' weyrs.'''

------

The further they get into summer, the sweatier the weyrlings. Exercises outside have gone from pleasant in springtime to kind of hard now, with the sun beating down, and E'sren is one of those who can't stay sweaty for long. Not when a bath is within his scope. So he sits with damp... scalp, or fuzz, since his hair is growing back with a quickness, and an apple, and a book. Perhaps seeking some quiet time, or maybe this is just where the books are and he didn't want to wander away with one. He's alone, so it might lean toward the former, and the crunch of his next bite is loud indeed in the still room.

A couple of benches off from the weyrling's haven of book-reading, Mave's bent over her own, whittling away at its words of wisdom with a diligence unlike to her-- and, perhaps, not as thorough as first glances suggest, considering her heavy eyebrows-- until that ''crunch''. It seems to echo, magnified, and rattle about in her head between tuffs of brown hair loosened from a tail. With a ''thump'' of her shoulders, she's abruptly lifted from the book, hitting her back against the wall with the expulsion of a deep, discontent groan.

Maybe not as alone as he thought? Somehow he must have missed Mave, because her groan makes him jump, startled, and do that quick look people who have been startled do to find the source of the noise that startled them. Finding her, E'sren closes his eyes and continues to chew his mouthful, swallowing perhaps a few chews premature. "Have you been here this whole time?" he wonders, eyeing her from his bench.

Hand having drifted forlornly to her stomach, Mave startles, in turn, to be addressed. With a too-hurried flip of pages, she slams the tome's heavy cover closed on her fingers, which causes her to shudder in a secondary jump. But she's nearly too absorbed in thinking over the question to oblige a small sting; her hand shakes out after escaping with a jerk from inside the chapters, as she blinks, "What whole time?" As though she's missed the parade going by.

"What whole time... um, nevermind. I'll take that as a yes." Not that it makes Mave any less of a strange occurrence right now, since she's groaning and slamming her hand in books and stuff. "I slammed my hand in a book once. I was sure I broke my fingers. Are yours okay?" E'sren leans on the table, his elbow crooked, and takes another bite, crunch. ''His'' book is a smaller variety, something either simple or a smaller part of a larger series.

Turning fingers in, she squints in an avid examination, but with the lack of pain registering on her face, it's an easy leap to: "Yah," before she slides her hand, with only a small grimace back onto the table, "Weren't hard." Mave's study, however, has been summarily interrupted. Instead of return, she latches onto her own arm and stretches, doubly answering the question of time as she works out the kinks. Opening an eye finds him, his apple, with a tic of her mouth. "I'd just forgotten how ''hungry'' I was, till you did that."

"Oh good." Even if it wasn't really all that dangerous or even a little likely that any serious damage was done. His own fingers drum out a quick rhythm on the still open pages of his book and he looks down at his apple, nearly gone, a little bit guilty. "Did you not have any lunch?" E'sren is only assuming it's past lunchtime, since he's been in here for a while. "I brought some food in here, I snuck around earlier to steal some so I could come in here instead of wait in line. I have..." He looks down at the bench next to him, at some unknown thing that she can't see from her angle, and he rummages. "Another apple. A roll?" Those items, the former naked save its peel and the latter wrapped in a napkin, appear on the table.

Between E'sren's words, she'd risen, hefting her book-bag up along her shoulder, where it sags, attempting to drag her piteously to the floor. Now a few steps from his table, she spies on the food, feet sliding to a slower, more hesitant stop than she'd planned. The bag drops off her shoulder, catching with a jolt on her elbow. Pursuing her mouth, Mave looks up to his face, "You don't have to share your food just 'cause I wasn't thinking," straight-faced said, while her fingers roam straight up the table and snare the corners of that napkin, beginning to drag the food-bit towards her side with unabashed steady pacing. "What'cha reading on, then?"

She purses her lips, he pouts his out a little, eyebrows lifted while he nudges the napkin'd roll towards her tugging fingers to urge it along. "Well I have it, you're hungry, easiest math problem ever. Math? Something. ''I'' am reading a book about the history of Bitra Hold, right now I'm on one of their Lords from like a hundred years ago or something, Mikus. He had issues. You can sit if you want." E'sren has since straightened up from his lean to sit up, now he gestures at the seat across from his own in case she'd like to, looks up at her with his head tilted. Ya know, if she feels like it.

Logic; Mave enjoys logic, and now it's telling her to scoop up the roll she'd been sneaking along to unwrap it generously in front of her. Guided, she sits. The book-bag thumps into the bench and is allowed, with a straightening of her elbow, to crumble to the floor. "Well, he was a Lord," she determines cleverly from his description, "I'm sure he had issues. And other people's issues. And the Hold's issues..." If she were to go on, it's no more; a plucked selection from the roll stuffs her mouth and she chooses to chew on it to soothe that grumbly noise coming from not out of her lips.

Angling himself when she sits to face her staight on instead of kind of sideways, and then folding his arms atop the table, E'sren leans forward and consents with a lifted eyebrow. "That's true. I think if you're in a position of power it changes you either for the better, for the worse, or you just go crazy. But the more I learn here about that stuff... I'm not so sure. Seems a lot of people have some tragic combination of all three." Suddenly he narrows his eyes at her, a suspicious squint. "How old are you," he questions her flatly.

"Odd's fish, ''blunt''!" There's almost a laugh to it, excusing malice from scoffing as she shrugs, "Fifteen and some. Oh, and I'm Mave, by the way. Thanks for asking that first." Again, a scolding that's gone with the breeze, as thin as it was to begin with, it's easily carried away. Her hand reaches up, stuffs the rest of the roll into her mouth to hold, then reaches forward to tip the book somewhat more to her angle, crooking her lips around her snack. Removing the roll with another hand, she swallows and mentions, "If you ask me-- " but, he didn't. Maybe that's why she trails off introspectively instead.

His reply to her scolding is to look very seriously scolded. He puts the knot there between his eyebrows, tightens his lips. "What was I thinking. Mave. E'sren. You didn't ask me either before eating all my food." Pointed look for the bread she's whittling away to nothing, but it's all in fun, over the top faces and besides, they both know he told her she could have it. "I guess I was asking because I didn't wanna start talking about the trials and tribulations of the local leadership with, like, a twelve year old. But if you're fifteen, any scarring for life has already been done. So says my little sister."

"It's not all your food until you let me have that apple," mentions Mave gamely, innocently factual as she gnaws on her lip instead of the last bit of bread she's pulling apart between her fingers. "Scarring for life, huh," a little writhe of her shoulders brings her leaning ever closer in; she nearly climbs up onto her knees to spy on his reading before thumping back down to sit on her foot, freeing his space. "I've some life still yet to live, I'd like to think. Life that will, welcomingly, be in the position of powering absolutely nothing except, perhaps, power-''washing'' the floor."

Oh yeah, she was gonna say something. He hadn't given much thought to her curiosity about the book before, but when she leans in like that he kind of can't ignore it. Hardly uncomfortable, but maybe a little unsure of what's going on, he leans away very slightly and reaches over for that apple to pull it in for a distraction if need be. Need doesn't be, but E'sren gives it over anyway. "Here. And here." And his book, which he rotates around with a twist of his fingertips on the pages. "Oh come on, life has more in store for you than that. What were you gonna say, before?"

More in store? "Eww, why." Now that he's turned the book her way, Mave obliges by glancing over at it, but her focus' moved on. Apple's balanced on the table, one finger at its indented top as she rolls it idly in blocky circles. "Nothing," she proclaims, "Well, something." Not sullen about admitting it, since it's a clear fact. "But something I took back." Her eyebrows raise, tongue wandering through her cheek and puffing out her freckles at him till she adds, a ''hint'' deeper than her casual lilting, "It's not a washer's place to say. Why are you reading this?" Because asking questions is a magical way to make things you don't want go away.

Maybe there's something about having a little sister about Mave's age that lends E'sren a certain understanding of, if not her words and their meaning, than ''her''. Or at the very least the patience and desire to understand. Though he does his eyebrows at her again and his squint is a little lost, he does make the effort. "Not a washer's place to say what? And who am I to say what you can and can't say. There's nobody else here." Just the two of them, although he didn't know ''she'' was here moments ago so who knows who else might be here too. Her question results in a shrug. "Because I didn't know this stuff before. And I'm interested in things I don't already know."

Mave squirms lightly on the bench as though he'd dropped an insect down the back of her shirt. Her hand drops off the apple, planting her elbow for her to lean, grasping fingers into her hair with a small sign of agitation. "Too..." she weighs, drawing out the word, "Talk about leadership, as if I had any idea what truly went into it." More to it, kept close to her chest. Rocking on her seat, she reaches for her own book, sticking out of the sagging bag, and hauls it up to the table. It's clearly a volume amongst other volumes of great size and, therefore, likely dryness. With but her red swelling finger as marker, she must've lost her place, because she throws it open and starts flipping pages generously.

"Well I don't know what goes into it either, but I wanna learn about it. And we don't have to talk a ton of shit about the people who run this place to talk ''about'' them. I think a lot of people around here don't really get that." But that's neither here nor there. Which is right around when Mave's book makes its appearance, an ominous, heavy cameo. "What were ''you'' reading?" E'sren asks, after about the fifth of those flips.

"Theater stuff," it jumps out of her mouth without her really thinking, distracted by flipping pages-- and with the furrow her eyebrows have become at his words. Mave's lips mull together progressively harder till her, "How to do the design-y parts," is outright dismissive, and she hurries into, "You are marvelously refreshing, E'sren. Everyone in the caverns just wants to gossip, gossip, gossip. Pick sides, and gossip some more. Honestly, at this point, I don't know that it wouldn't be better to have brand new leadership altogether." A kind of alarm flits to her eyes as she hears herself but, rolling them, she lets that go, flipping another page, now slower.

Design-y parts of theater stuff. "You'd think a book about that would be like... purple or sparkly. I'm just saying, at least some gold leafing on the pages." Not just big and big and brown and big, like that one. He grins, she said he's refreshing, which squints his eyes. "I wish I could say I'm doing it on purpose but I genuinely hate gossip and rumors. Where I'm from, we don't really do that. I mean we talk about who's having a baby and who's running what, to keep in the know, but like... I dunno, man. It's different here. I'm kind of a black hole for that stuff." Maybe he senses her own inner alarm going off for her own words and that's why he suddenly asks, "So why theater stuff?"

A flash of gratitude crosses her face at his redirect-- questions to the rescue again. "So I can keep narrowing down who to ask for help on one." While saying, Mave tips up the tome, turning it about, back and forth, to examine each of its angles for any of the decoration he proclaims its missing: he's right. Letting it resettle, she shrugs, "I've hit a bit of a dent, and this is ''supposed'' to be a book on, like... structure and putting things on, but it mostly seems to be ''one'' guy just tooting his own horn for a thousand pages." Sighing heavily, she splays her hands over the useless book's cover, willing it to become a new, marvelous piece of perfect instructions instead. When she spreads her fingers and it's still there, her mouth mopes, "If I can't figure out someone to direct it, besides the assistants that turned me down, nothing's ever going to happen."

E'sren proves to be a good listener while she laments the usefulness or lack thereof of her book, but she hits on something when she mentions direction. "Direct 'it' meaning a show? Is that what you're trying to do?" His eyes lower to the pages, as if looking at them upside down would help. "What kind of show is it?"

"It isss..." Occupied with whatever her hands are doing for several seconds, Mave waits till she's wrassled her full attention back to him before answering, the elongated 's' marking time. "A comedy of errors, or so the other book told me. And I have a few caverns people who are willing to spare time to construct some set parts, but only if they know it's actually going to happen." The word of a fifteen-turn-old not amounting to much, not that she seems to level any blame on them. "And one of the headwoman's assistants asked where my ''funding'' is coming from, and I very poorly evaded answering by asking her quite abruptly how her children were doing." The down curl of her mouth brings to wondering if any of the assistants actually ''have'' children.

"Oh okay." E'sren accepts this answer with ease, it's a language ''he'' seems to know. "It sounds like you need a real team. Not just a bunch of people who might do it, maybe, we'll see. Do you wanna just put it on for the fun of it? Political commentary?" Remembering his apple, he recollects it and takes another bite, close to the last there is to take, despite its browning fruit-meat. "What kind of funding are we talking about here?" he asks around that mouthful. "Any of the shows we ever put on we did with stuff we already had. Makes it easier when you look around and use stuff that's in the room, instead of stressing out about getting the stuff you don't have."

"Started out simpler," mused with a lower of Mave's eyebrows, till they're a straight line above her eyes, tagging in her nose to keep the wrinkle going. "I was just going to find some hands to help out the harpers, so what ''they'd'' put it on. But it's kind of grown since. Once I walked away and thought about it, I figured she meant for the kinds of supplies it might take to make scenery or some... Wood, and paint, and all. But, before, I was counting on the harpers to back me once I proved people were in." Fingers tap along the spine then on the table. What's left of the roll has been left lying, broken into a sad pile of its once delicious self, on the napkin nearby. She picks at this, too. "Just supposed to be something for people to do, y'know. Putting energy into something can help take your mind off stuff."

E'sren flattens his mouth, leans back in his seat and pockets his hands. "I think it's a great idea, I didn't mean for the questions to be a deterrent. Things like that sometimes do kind of grow into their own thing." And because it's kind of a theme of their talk that people need to be in, or else this idea of hers won't work, he shrugs his shoulders and says, "I'm in, if you need some help. Now that exams are over I have more free time than I did."

"What, really-- ? Wait. ''Exams''?" Mave's face screws into a look of frustrated disappointment that breezes away with a sigh, leaving no dents. "You're a weyrling. You guys have somewhat higher priorities?" She falters there, like a truth that's been whittled away at. Her pick of the roll turns into one at the napkin, shredding its corner till little white flecks dot the table like the sparkles missing from the theater show tome. "I know your rules have loosened some, come new months, but it seems to figure that you'd have other stuff to focus on. Not that-- " her hand raises, showing him her palm, "I'm saying I'm not grateful."

E'sren grins easily in general, it's a thing. "We have evenings free pretty much. I mean yeah there's a lot of stuff to do and I'm really busy right now but it sounds like you need some help and I actually know a little bit about how to do this stuff. And it isn't like I have anything else to do when I'm not hanging out with Sabs or Ahruth. Sabella could help too actually, I'll just recruit her. We'll just tell her later." No need to bother her with it now. "Sound good?"

An infectious thing, too, E'sren's grin, creeping into Mave till her cheeks bubble up and she's grinning despite her practical wonder, "Oh, you... you know some of-- this?" An indicating finger accuses the useless book. Flicking eyes between him and the written word, it takes no guesses to figure out which she prefers to learn from. Hesitation curls at her feet, and she bounces a knee nervously, but a grim suck in of her lower lip as she looks over her shoulder to consider the prospect of scanning further shelves for a better source has her turning to him with a fierce nod. "Alright. I'm going with your word on the matter here, E'sren. No trouble. And you'll be my consulting director. And what does Sabella do?"

"Yeah, me and my family put shows on all the time. Sometimes they're skits, sometimes they're just music. Sometimes I do some tricks. Those were some good times. I might even be able to get them to come perform if we're short on actors. Or performers. Whatever." What does Sabella do? E'sren pauses to search around inside the gumshoe file cabinets in his brain. "Hair and makeup?" he lands on, somehow, looking a little bemused himself by that knowledge. "And wardrobe? Especially if we're talking costume changes."

Any caution left in her is outshone by the slight glow in Mave's cheeks at hearing the fabled Sabella's talents. "That's fantastic." With her hair lazily whipped up and no make-up on, it could sound like mystical powers to the adolescent. Clapping her hands together in a rush of excess excitement, she forces her nod to be more level, even-headed. The seriousness of it elicits a sobering thought, as she gnaws on her lip before sincerely admitting, "There's nothing I can necessarily promise your family for compensation. Or Sabella, who we haven't asked, or even ''you''." Despite volunteering-- and despite words, there's a gumption to her, stating the obvious not as a pity maneuver or in defeat, but stating the problem to find a solution.

Cue another grin, and if his are infectious, so is her giddy clapping. "See? We can so do this. And don't worry about pay. I've only ever asked for sheer, unbiased fame and adoration, my family would probably be willing because it'd be a business opportunity. And we can figure out what Sabella wants when we tell her. Which is not now, it's later. Much later." Like after he's had a chance to maybe butter her up a little. "It'll all work itself out." This must be that laid-back part people talk about sometimes when describing him. He starts gathering his things, sudden but unhurried, and adds, "I have to go, Ahruth, but do you wanna meet later tonight to talk about it more? Like after dinner?"

"Much later," Mave repeats to demonstrate her superior listening skills, his respect owed for his new consulting position. Watching him begin to pack up has her shifting, pulling a leg up onto the bench then sliding it back down indecisively seconds later. "My best to Ahruth." Then, because it seems the proper thing to do, she unfolds off the bench and offers him her hand in a very official shake to seal the deal, firmly and with a grip unseemly for a teenage girl with cute freckles. "After dinner it is. Unless, or until, something of greater importance comes up."

She actually stands before he does, which is a little surprising but he's hardly taken aback. He catches up quickly, tucking his book under an arm and also awkwardly holding his mostly-eaten apple in that same hand so he can accept that surprising grip of hers. He keeps his light for her little hand, but he adds on a stern, businesslike expression. "Indeed. I doubt it will, but if it does I'll let you know. And he might be around with us later, if that's okay. So you can give them to him yourself." Grinning again, he salutes her and exits, whistling a jumpy jig along the way.

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Logs:Tanner Extraordinaire

2013-03-28T14:52:44Z

Mave: Added L'hai > Kolniveth pros.

{{ Log
| who = Azaylia, L'hai
| where = Craft Complex, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Azaylia and L'hai are awkward at each other. Hraedhyth 'visits' Kolniveth.
| when = Day 9, Month 5, Turn 31
| gamedate = 2013.03.27
| quote = << You on the market for a bronze, then? >>
| weather =
| categories = General
| mentions = Taikrin
| ooc =
| icons = azaylia uhmm.jpg, azaylia hraefire.jpg, l'hai tanner.jpg, l'hai kolniveth-tower.png
| log = Craft Complex, High Reaches Weyr
----
A passageway hewn into the rock and heavily patched with cement leads a short distance in to the bowl wall, with a door on either side. Lit by regularly spaced glows, the white-washed walls have been covered over by colorful tapestries, wall hangings and pieces of art made from metal and wood. To the left of the entranceway, just a single step inside, a spiral staircase opens out of the wall, leading upwards through the stone. Further down, a doorway opens to either side of the corridor, while at the far end, there is a hewn-stone staircase leading up to the residential quarters, wreathed by two final doors to private quarters and the bathing room.

The door leading to the east opens into an expansive room that seems to provide both general working space - with long, bare benches and chairs - and a cozy lounge complete with over-stuffed sofas and a few fuzzy armchairs. Three tall windows are carved into the stone, and offer air and light when the heavy wooden shutters are left open, though the lounge area has to make do mostly with glows. A hearth at the back of the room provides both heat and basic cooking facilities. The white-washed walls are bedecked with decoration - from quilts, to tapestries, to wooden carvings and metal sculptures.

The western door leads into another passage, off of which the main workrooms have been built. The loading dock is at the northern end, leading back out into the bowl, with the rest of the rooms leading deeper and deeper into the wall.
----

If one ever has the need to feel small, then look no further than the forge within High Reaches' craft complex. Even Azaylia's noticeable height seems insignificant when compared to the beast of a journeyman lumbering alongside her as they leave the smith workroom near early evening. The weyrwoman seems to be explaining something, motions excited though her soft voice offers nothing in the way of juicy snippets. After she's gone and run out of breath, there's one last invisible circle drawn on opposite palm with her fingertips. Eventually the two will part, the journeyman giving a grunt as he puzzles over what has been said. The rider is less eager to venture out into the chilly fog, despite warm dress and cloak, deciding to linger in the complex she once knew so well.

Less intrusive now, the tanner presence has receded to its corners, letting scents of heavy workload stay behind the thick door to the individual workrooms. In the general lull of the complex, L'hai's secured territory near an outdoor exit, unperturbed by the occasional blast of chillier air as workers enter and exit. Paved with a layer of sweat along his exposed arms, there's a chance he covets it. Sat forward on a stool, he leans into the hide draped across the stretcher that sits, braced on his knee. Feet, one far in front, one perched on a toe below the stretcher, balance him as he sways forward and back with the sweep of the blade taken across the hide, stripping it of animal hairs. Because she's close, or denied him his routine shot of outdoor fog, the concentrated worker's eyes lift to spot Azaylia, blink with familiarity, then drop.

Curiosity has already drawn Azaylia in, so to speak, maintaining a distance between them that goes beyond mere manners. Her steps are slow, careful, brown eyes locked on the sweeping silver of L'hai's blade as he works. She's close enough now that he might catch her sudden inhale, eyes widening when he looks up. Bracing herself for the stroke she'll surely cost him, it's only when the motions continue that she releases the air in quiet relief. "That looks..." Like hard enough work that she's still worried about breaking his concentration. Simple curiosity insists that there's no harm in standing ''quietly'' and watching.

Eyes lightly shifted to the corner without his head raising, L'hai's pace slows within the instinctive wait for the end of her sentence. A tic of confusion arrests his mouth, then he assumes her loss of interest and continues the nearly paused scrape. It's a distinctive sound between them, metal against skin. Stroke, stroke. Productivity indulges curiosity. The next break is meant, purposeful; he shifts one foot closer to his seat and repositions the stretcher, beginning to slide it towards the ground. With a flick of his gaze he reads that Azaylia's still near, her feet in danger. So he smoothly switches, hefting it across his other knee instead with a flex of arms to lean the whole contraption off to one side. The better to clear the hair left on and show where it still clings. Without a moving blade at work, he relaxes the fraction that puts him looking back over at Azaylia, squinting at her. "Welcome basket weyrwoman."

Dragon> A trail that has not gone cold, but is masked all together by the passage of turns and acrid urban air. Hraedhyth is not subtle as she follows the path once forgotten, bridging her primal realm to touch upon the bronze's contrasting thoughts. She braves such a journey for one thing, and one thing only. ...What was his rider's name again? (Hraedhyth to Kolniveth)

Dragon> Subtlety has no place here. A puff of smokey appreciation for the dragon's forwardness greets her at the end. Gnawing noises, like of construction-- a building, half-done, clouded with the sawdust of stilted progress, forms the bronze's voice. << L'hai. >> Shot out, then done. Transaction complete. Except for the lone whiff of old complaint. << Not that a body can tell anymore. >> (Kolniveth to Hraedhyth)

It's an easy silence on the goldrider's part, perhaps desperate enough for a distraction that the work of a tanner appears fascinating. The chance that Azaylia's interest is genuine is as likely, moving closer when the opportunity arises in his half-pause. It isn't her intention to be underfoot, and if she is the weyrwoman does her best to shuffle out of the way. "Oh." His acknowledgment has her straightening up, hands politely folded in front of her. "I... yes. Azaylia." She reminds, all too aware with how hard it is to remember names at times. Yep. She fidgets, perhaps impatiently, "And you're..." Airy tone suddenly slams down with borrowed certainty, "L'hai!" If that isn't telling, surely her relief is. "It's been a long time. I... so you keep busy?" Awkward, now that there's more talking than tanning.

Dragon> To L'hai, Kolniveth rumbles, low, with the bass of a drill far below ground. << She forgot your name, dude. >>

Dragon> To Kolniveth, L'hai calmly stamps down on the loose board, stifling the noise. <>

Dragon> To Kolniveth, Hraedhyth's own dark smoke is stirred by a mental sigh. The relief lingers a moment longer, delicate perfume claimed by the gold while gentle floral notes are not ''of'' her. << L'hai. >> She echoes, contralto tense with an oath that it won't be forgotten again. Though their business is done, the queen invites herself to stay a bit longer. << He is different. >> An observation, a question, an offer for him to explain if the bronze wishes.

L'hai's stare remains brutally unreadable, blank, uninvolved in responding to any normal social cues in the woman, though his mouth tics subtlety to the side after the brief rapture of his name. "I, uh," Awkward, basically always. For a calm stare, he's much less so in voice, lacking composure as he prods at his deduction. "Yes. Busy, yes. I'm keeping-- " Noticing his repetition, his voice catches self-consciously; he clears his throat. "Busy." A firm slap at the stretcher loosens some more hair and brushing it off the hide, he then turns his hand over and wipes the back against his leg. He's covered in the evidence of his day: work with more than hair has tainted his clothes, and his arms here and there, while he hasn't any sleeves. "Now, especially," he adds with a soft sniff, glancing along the room, "with weyrlings."

Dragon> Harder, thicker: cigar smoke coils after the feminine mix, chasing its skirt out the door. << He's L'hai. >> Seems explanation enough, now twice given, a notation that's a black chalk mark against gold-- or that complaint, buried under other paperwork. << Tanner extraordinaire, don'tcha know. >> (Kolniveth to Hraedhyth)

If it's only a stare L'hai offers, Azaylia has been exposed to far worse ''faces'' since the bronzerider's transfer. Where patience might be best when dealing with this particular rider, she can only offer eager curiosity. "This," What he's working on at the moment, "Is for the weyrlings?" It only takes a moment longer for obvious thought to pull her back, spine straightening during a bout of short-lived embarrassment. "It makes sense. I never stopped to think about ''where'' the leather for straps came from." Then again, with a dragonet as needy as Hraedhyth, a lot went unnoticed.

Dragon> To Kolniveth, Hraedhyth behaves, even as he goes about shooing her bond's feminine wiles. Her pulsating ferocity is still felt, at the moment laying dormant while they're being ''civilized''. There's a sooty snort for the charade, but the warrior ambassador is willing to play his game. The gold's touch may be rough, but there's a certain amount of care as she goes rifling through what is readily available. Not snooping, just keeping busy, <> Now she does.

"Oh, uh... some. They go into stores, too," L'hai's consistent breed of self-awareness, too ''resigned'' to be precisely ''self-consciousness'', smothers any nearby embarrassment. He plows-- rambles-- straight on, "The weyrlings, I mean. Well, the leathers do, too. Point being," his hand strokes over the newly smoothed portion of hide over his lap, "Making sure what's taken there is replenished and, ah... to bring in new to encourage, well, older riders to surrender theirs to stores. It's a-- a, ah." Eyes flick to the ceiling then down. "Cycle." Boots scuff on the floor as he adjusts. The stretcher sidles back onto his knees, blade resting on one edge. Somewhat of an explanation, too, for the early start the tanners have been getting. Those spending any portion of time in the complex have come to understand that some of the tanning processes can take months to settle. "''Oh''," eyes suddenly flush with realization as he leans back, start of an apology causing him to lick lips as it leaks into his tone, "Or did you mean where the ''leather'' comes from ''exactly''-- "

Dragon> She's allowed to rifle, suggesting that nothing of any importance lies out there, spread between them in the dusky office of his thoughts. Scuffing echoes that from his rider, like boots hitting wood. Relaxation sifts, as masculine as any scent-- musky, telling of hardwood and cinnamon. Perhaps he hasn't entertained in a while. So that even female company is company. He leads, << So, what does that make ''me'', sweet cheeks? >> (Kolniveth to Hraedhyth)

This shouldn't be new information, should it? She ''is'' a weyrwoman after all. Azaylia gives a quick nod for his fractured explanation, only once he reaches what possibly sounds like the end of a though. And then he starts up again. "O-oh, no. I just meant..." Fingers unfold from each other, motioning towards the task still stretched out in front of him. "I know where it comes from." Said with only a hint of uncertainty, accepting that if she were to let him continue, she'd end up learning a lot about leather. There's a glance for the exit, eyes captured by the swirling fog, thoughts obvious even as she continues, "Do you have any time for personal projects?" She corrects herself quickly, "I mean, commissions?"

Dragon> It's the petname that has Hraedhyth giving another unladylike snort, sound tainted by the gold's unapologetic amusement. She pauses in her rummaging, drums rolling in time with the prolonged flick of stacked papers, << A bronze. >> What may have once been simple-minded youth has matured into blunt honesty. Flames curl thoughtfully, her own smokey scent mingling in the closed quarters they currently share. << It depends on what it is you want to be. >> For now, Kolniveth (for ''she'' does not forget the names of her people) is of L'hai, tanner extraordinaire. (Hraedhyth to Kolniveth)

L'hai's mouth shuts with a snap, the letters ''of course'' nearly printed across his forehead in thin wrinkles. "Yes," he murmurs, soothing himself as he leans back, irreverent to her uncertainty, "Beastcrafter." A tilt of his head indicates her shoulder, "Formerly." Her glance to the exit affords him one; face turning down, blade lifts-- pauses. The crease meant to portray a disturbance gets righteously defeated by the first strike of real possible interest in his eye. Turning more rapidly, humanly, to her. Not that his tone manages to reflect it. Pessimistic to the point of defeating his own enthusiasm, he patiently responds, "I do. When I have a commission that I've set time aside for." He hums regretfully, mouth souring, "It's not always a specific one."

Dragon> But tanners have no need of dragons. Merely their hides, the flat disposal from off their structure-- Kolniveth's large and, as noted, bronze. Meat, that bulk which defines ''him'' chars to a grizzled toughness. << Cheat sheet, sweet cheek. >> A blast of pleased smoke having filled Hraedhyth's snorting nostrils at the blunt sound. << The answer's chopped liver. >> An old argument, gone with the screech of wheels. Burnt rubber; foreign things. It's clear the bronze's own straight-forward confidence allows no such answer to be true. << And if it's fifty-percent want, then it's fifty-percent demand. >> Of the 'supply and' fame. << You on the market for a bronze, then? >> (Kolniveth to Hraedhyth)

"I'm not..." Azaylia's own hesitation continues for as long as it takes her to weigh the pros and cons of encouraging him, "...completely sure how it's ''all'' done." Manners and her need to please win out, obviously. "You could tell me about it, sometime?" A subtle stress on that last word in particular. When L'hai suddenly turnsr, the weyrwoman's unintentional lean is straightened a second time, breathless squeak leaving her. "Oh. Uhm. I was asking because Hraedhyth has been getting some ideas, and a tanner could certainly help." She doesn't mean to be cruel, dangling the prospect in front of him just as duty's call becomes unbearable. "I'll save the project for you. I actually have work of my own to do. Thank you for humoring a nosy goldrider." The fairwell may be swift, but she lingers long enough for his response, if there is any. He'll receive that chilly woosh of air as the woman's long strides disturb the fog that eventually swallows her retreating form.

Dragon> To Kolniveth, Hraedhyth meets the squeal of foreign machine with bared jaws, tension rippling through the air as drums steady themselves. Grim composure is too much to be anything but playful, the gold almost gleefully accepting her fate. Two for flinching. Something's lost in translation, street to the plains, << All of the bronzes are of use to me. >> As is Kolniveth. Instinct catches wind of what might be a challenge for that which has already been won, a borrowed chill from her brown mate settling in her shoulders. Though, <> His slang is awkward on her tongue, the gold deciding that it has been too long since she has wrestled with a bronze as large as he. Whether she's able to convince him or not, Hraedhyth's visit continues until she is called away-- likely by a needy dragonet.

{{#ifexist: Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}} | <hr><hr> <h2>Comments</h2>{{Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}}}} |<hr><hr>}}

}}

<comments />

Logs:Talent

2013-03-27T20:42:29Z

Mave: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Mave | where = | what = Getting turned down turns Mave around. | when = It is a spring morning, 13:39 of day 9, month 5, turn 31 of Interval 10. | gamedate = 2..."

{{ Log
| who = Mave
| where =
| what = Getting turned down turns Mave around.
| when = It is a spring morning, 13:39 of day 9, month 5, turn 31 of Interval 10.
| gamedate = 2013.03.27
| quote =
| weather =
| categories = Vignette
| mentions =
| ooc =
| icons = mave smiling.gif
| log =
''It's too bad there aren't more hands.''

One might think it was just an innocent aside -- a benign encouragement to let a girl feel better about being let down as she was sent on her way. A thoughtless comfort.

Mave knew better.

She heard the message: find people who can fill roles and there's no way they can ignore you next time. It was a hint, so carefully dropped, as she walked out of the harper classroom.

Her mother agreed. As she'd combed Ratha's hair that morning, her mum'd related how her daughter was ''always so ready to lend a hand''.

A hand. Like trying your hand at things. She'd done it with the betting, and been average. Even an average performance might lift some spirits.

And, lucky for her, she knew some people who were above.

{{#ifexist: Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}} | <hr><hr> <h2>Comments</h2>{{Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}}}} |<hr><hr>}}

}}

<comments />

L'hai

2013-03-24T01:07:56Z

Mave:

{{HrwProfile
|picture=Lhai_profile.jpg
|name=L'hai
|position=Bronzerider
|dragon=Savvy Skyscraper Kolniveth
|craft=Tanner
|birthplace=Ista Weyr
|mother=
|father=
|siblings=
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Michael Shanks
|livejournal=[http://lachai-tea.livejournal.com lachai_tea]}}

== Description ==

Average height emphasize broad shoulders, where a lean fit shape has filled out into muscular arms without quite losing its trimness. Pale-skinned, with a long face and high forehead, he has light brown hair once cut short and now growing out of its style, while his jaw is speckled with beard overgrowth, strongest under his chin where it's gone untamed. His nose is a bit crooked and his wide lips form a mouth that looks always slightly perturbed. Brown eyes are clear, when not veiled by the glass of thin-rimmed spectacles. His most expressive features are actually his hands; he has long, nimble fingers.

== WYSK ==

* L'hai is a transfer from Ista Weyr. There's no big scandal or rumor mill really attached to his transfer.

* Since transferring, he's made... zero waves. In fact, he seems to have hermited himself quite well, even skipping all of the drama involving the queen flights -- he and Kolniveth were notably not present for either.

== Kolniveth ==

A towering sculpture of a bronze, warm as dawn's light on stone and bright as glinting steel, this dragon holds himself high and straight with unmistakable self-assurance. His face is strong, chiseled, all clean lines and smooth planes with a sturdy, distinguished jaw and sleekly curved headknobs. A wide avenue of ridges advances down his back in monotonous squares until they rush into a crowded series of bumps along his streamlined tail. Tin-cast champagne splashes his trim sides, made all the brighter by irregular streaks that patter his ribs like so much half-rinsed grit. The tall, muscular architecture of his shoulders and haunches and the depth of a broad chest give his otherwise lean build an athletic quality, lending power to long limbs and quick motion. When spread, his enormous wings reveal the length of straight spars that gleam like newly polished metal, their sails holding a mottling of brick and concrete, rendered indistinct by the haze of sunlit smog.

== Relationships ==

lol

== Basically... ==

{| style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto;"
| [[File:L'hai1.gif|200px]]
| [[File:L'hai3.gif|200px]]
| [[File:L'hai4.gif|200px]]
| [[File:L'hai2.gif|200px]]
|}

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

== Mentioned In... Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{#titleparts: {{BASEPAGENAME}} | 1 }}/Mentions | columns = 3 }}

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

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[category:Characters]]
[[category:High Reaches Weyr]]
[[category:High Reaches Area]]
[[category:Greater Pern]]
[[category:Ista Weyr]]
[[category:Riders]]
[[category:Bronzeriders]]

File:Icon l'hai kolniveth-sculpture.png

2013-03-23T21:35:44Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai kolniveth-isking.png

2013-03-23T21:34:58Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai kolniveth-lawn.png

2013-03-23T21:34:20Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai kolniveth-tower.png

2013-03-23T21:33:51Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai kolniveth-sleepycity.png

2013-03-23T21:31:51Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai kolniveth-busy.png

2013-03-23T21:31:13Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai windswept.jpg

2013-03-23T19:44:22Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai uhh.jpg

2013-03-23T19:44:03Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai stare.jpg

2013-03-23T19:43:45Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai somber.jpg

2013-03-23T19:43:30Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai reader.jpg

2013-03-23T19:43:13Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai orator.jpg

2013-03-23T19:42:56Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai lecture.jpg

2013-03-23T19:42:35Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai judgingyou.jpg

2013-03-23T19:42:15Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai inspect.jpg

2013-03-23T19:41:56Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai pretty.jpg

2013-03-23T19:41:35Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai eh.jpg

2013-03-23T19:41:10Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai desk.jpg

2013-03-23T19:40:03Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai comfort.jpg

2013-03-23T19:39:43Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai bitchplz.jpg

2013-03-23T19:39:19Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai chatting.png

2013-03-23T19:38:52Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai troubled.png

2013-03-23T19:38:17Z

Mave: Mave moved page File:Icon lhai troubled.png to File:Icon l'hai troubled.png

File:Icon lhai troubled.png

2013-03-23T19:38:17Z

Mave: Mave moved page File:Icon lhai troubled.png to File:Icon l'hai troubled.png

#REDIRECT [[File:Icon l'hai troubled.png]]

File:Icon l'hai bwlook.png

2013-03-23T19:38:01Z

Mave: Mave moved page File:Icon lhai bwlook.png to File:Icon l'hai bwlook.png

File:Icon lhai bwlook.png

2013-03-23T19:38:01Z

Mave: Mave moved page File:Icon lhai bwlook.png to File:Icon l'hai bwlook.png

#REDIRECT [[File:Icon l'hai bwlook.png]]

File:Icon l'hai sideeye.png

2013-03-23T19:37:45Z

Mave: Mave moved page File:Icon lhai sideeye.png to File:Icon l'hai sideeye.png

File:Icon lhai sideeye.png

2013-03-23T19:37:45Z

Mave: Mave moved page File:Icon lhai sideeye.png to File:Icon l'hai sideeye.png

#REDIRECT [[File:Icon l'hai sideeye.png]]

File:Icon l'hai troubled.png

2013-03-23T19:36:39Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai bwlook.png

2013-03-23T19:36:11Z

Mave:

File:Icon l'hai sideeye.png

2013-03-23T19:35:50Z

Mave:

Mave

2013-03-23T19:33:09Z

Mave: /* WYSK */

{{HrwProfile
|picture=Mave_profile.jpg
|position=Caverns Worker
|dragon=
|craft=
|birthplace=Keroon Area
|mother=Ratha
|father=Deceased
|siblings=
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Hayley McFarland
|livejournal=}}

== Description ==

With all the definition of a stick, except for a couple of knobby knees, the wealth of Mave's appearance lies in her face: oval, but plump in her cheeks when she smiles, and her round chin sticks out from the angle of her jaw. Almond is her eyes' color and form, with a matching set of eyebrows, and tangled waves of reddish-brown hair, parting at the top of her head and riding down to her chest. Good days and bad days plague her hair; it's an easy assumption that, if its pulled up and out of the way, it's a particularly frizzy day, allowing her big ears to stick out. Her nose starts well enough but widens not very girlishly at the tip. She's got a wide, easily animated, mouth with some perfectly normal teeth. Light brown freckles spatter her cheeks, shoulders, and a few sneak onto her legs -- near her hips, then a couple on her feet.

Clothes tend to be simple, most days composed of slacks -- always slacks -- a basically functional looser tunic, of varying sleeve-lengths, and a rougher olive jacket, wrinkled and well-worn. She wears footwear appropriate to the weather, and occasionally is seen with a bandana or hat to tame her hair.

== WYSK ==

+ Mave and her, currently ailing, mother have been at the Weyr for 8 Turns now, having originated in the Keroon area. She's blended well and comfortably into the weyrbrat culture since then, and knows her way around.

+ Her mother is infamously tight-lipped amongst the chattier cavern women.

+ She once gave a bully (named [[Wakizian]]) a bloody nose. And hurt her own knuckles just as bad. They haven't talked much since.

+ Doesn't appear to have any specialty, but is a hard-working hand at usual lower caverns chores. As such, she answers primarily to the Headwoman and [[Azaylia]] now, after the shake-up in the lower caverns with [[Aishani]].

== History ==

A hearty prairie-born woman, Ratha proved capable of raising her rough-and-tumble daughter while a father figure remained frequently absent at sea. When Ratha's young brother, and Mave's uncle, was lured into the lifestyle as well, the two women handled themselves in the sailor-dominate fishing hold south and a little west of the main Keroon Hold. Ships often passed through on the way to Igen or Ista, and there was plenty to do, and imagine doing while running around in the neighboring marsh-lands or prairies. But when Mave was 5 Turns, a terrible sea storm struck, and Ratha sat her daughter down and stoically explained that both father and uncle had been lost at sea during the strong winds. It seemed impossible at first -- Mave had never known them to be anything but incredibly capable sailors, from what her young mind ''could'' remember -- but she gradually adapted.

It was only two Turns later, when Mave was 7, that Ratha would disrupt their familiar life, claiming it was time for a change, now that they were truly alone. She packed up their humble things and, after some travel by wagon up north, eventually hitched a ride to the mountainous High Reaches Weyr -- as change as change could be. There, Mave reinvented herself as a weyrbrat, quickly integrating into the life as simply as she had the fishing one.

When she was around 11, a boy named [[Wakizian]] started to bully her, picking her out of groups and just unfathomably harassing her (and her pigtails, the horror!). Fed up, Mave clocked him one in the nose, bruising both it, and her knuckles, and that was generally the last they heard of one another, though both continued to live at the Weyr. Other than that, she's been fairly peaceable in her role, showing no preference or talent for any particular job, but willing to work at any of them. The shake-up by [[Iolene]] was dizzying, but she kept her head down, and reported to [[Brieli]] while the kinda-kinda not Senior Weyrwoman took a controlling hand in the caverns' affairs.

Since [[Aishani]]'s announcement, things in the lower caverns have shifted again, but Mave's been busy trying to figure out her own business, including burgeoning confusing relationships with both [[K'zin]] and his best friend [[N'ky]]. Since they've Impressed, she's begun to wonder what her own role will be, as she comes up on an adult age.

==Nutshell==

[[File:Mave1.gif|right]]
 
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/PintsizedPowerhouse Pint-sized Powerhouse]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/CuteBruiser Cute Bruiser]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/PluckyGirl Plucky Girl]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TellMeAboutMyFather Tell Me About My Father]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/GirlNextDoor Girl Next Door]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/YouthfulFreckles Youthful Freckles]
 

{| style="padding:10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"
! [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LO0nJX7eCE4 "A Kiss Is A Terrible Thing To Waste"]
Whistle Down The Wind
! [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PHzOOQfhPFg "Just A Girl"]
Pink
! [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G_g3kkGH8Mo "Don't Rain On My Parade"]
Barbra Streisand
|-
| align="left" style="padding:10px 50px 10px 50px;" | The loneliest words you'll ever know 
If only, if only, it were so 
The emptiest words that there'll ever be 
It coulda been me, it coulda been me
| align="left" style="padding:10px 50px 10px 50px;" | Cause I'm just a girl, little ol' me 
Don't let me out of your sight 
I'm just a girl, all pretty and petite 
So don't let me have any rights
| align="left" style="padding:10px 50px 10px 50px;" | I gotta fly once, I gotta try once 
Only can die once, right, sir? 
Ooh, life is juicy, juicy 
And you'll see I'm gonna have my bite, sir
|-
! [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ppotuhZjIkA "Little People"]
Les Miserables
|-
| align="left" style="padding:10px 50px 10px 50px;" | And little people know 
When little people fight 
We may look easy pickings 
But we've got some bite

|}

== Relationships ==

[[File:mave-relationship-status.jpg|center]]

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

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

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

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[category:Characters]]
[[category:High Reaches Weyr]]
[[category:High Reaches Area]]
[[category:Greater Pern]]
[[category:Residents]]

Logs:Cast-Offs

2013-03-22T04:05:16Z

Mave: Created page with "{{ Log | who = L'hai, Liv | where = Craft Complex, High Reaches Weyr | what = The tanners have taken over the craft complex for a night, unfortunately the one Liv chooses to g..."

{{ Log
| who = L'hai, Liv
| where = Craft Complex, High Reaches Weyr
| what = The tanners have taken over the craft complex for a night, unfortunately the one Liv chooses to get some work done.
| when = It is a spring night, 20:17 of day 16, month 4, turn 31 of Interval 10.
| gamedate = 2013.03.21
| quote = Who ''are'' you?
| weather = Fog begins to coalesce in the very early morning hours and lingers throughout the day, soft and still and clammy.
| categories =
| mentions =
| ooc = L'hai apologizes to anyone who actually knows anything about old-fashioned tanning beyond several Google searches.
| icons = l'hai tanner.jpg, liv Stare.jpg
| log =
'''Craft Complex, High Reaches Weyr'''

'''A passageway hewn into the rock and heavily patched with cement leads a short distance in to the bowl wall, with a door on either side. Lit by regularly spaced glows, the white-washed walls have been covered over by colorful tapestries, wall hangings and pieces of art made from metal and wood. To the left of the entranceway, just a single step inside, a spiral staircase opens out of the wall, leading upwards through the stone. Further down, a doorway opens to either side of the corridor, while at the far end, there is a hewn-stone staircase leading up to the residential quarters, wreathed by two final doors to private quarters and the bathing room.'''

'''The door leading to the east opens into an expansive room that seems to provide both general working space - with long, bare benches and chairs - and a cozy lounge complete with over-stuffed sofas and a few fuzzy armchairs. Three tall windows are carved into the stone, and offer air and light when the heavy wooden shutters are left open, though the lounge area has to make do mostly with glows. A hearth at the back of the room provides both heat and basic cooking facilities. The white-washed walls are bedecked with decoration - from quilts, to tapestries, to wooden carvings and metal sculptures.'''

'''The western door leads into another passage, off of which the main workrooms have been built. The loading dock is at the northern end, leading back out into the bowl, with the rest of the rooms leading deeper and deeper into the wall.''' 
------ 
Communal as the craft complex typically is, this night a grand portion's been summarily reserved, and the evidence's thick in the air: a heady mixture of grasses and alcohol, along with a scent more rancid that escapes a name. The tanners have spread from their specific workshop into the passage leading into the loading dock, taking full advantage of its airier length. To spare any lingerers, the three tall windows of the complex have been thrown wide open, but the fog of the day leaves little but clamminess sweeping through. Strong hands have hauled a few long oval tubs out, and the solution splashing in these must be the origin of the smell, though it's since clung to everything, including L'hai and his well-dirtied leather gloves, amongst the rest of his dye and dirt spattered face. Long ago, he forgot his glasses on the top of his head and he squints in the growing dark, spotting glows to move, striding backwards towards the entrance to get as complete a view of the operation as possible.

For anyone who might want to use it, the complex is not its typical open self. For someone like Liv, who spends most of the free time she gets in the day working, this is not good news. She bears coils of leather straps and clinking metal buckles looped several times around her arm, slung up on her shoulder, and a leather sack hangs from her hand with two straps that hang from it that would probably go around her waist if she were wearing it at all. Whatever those people are doing over there, it's interesting, so she draws closer to the smell and to whoever is a part of it. This might make her crazy; she doesn't seem to mind. She stands there, a safe distance away so as to be out of the way, and watches L'hai, he's kind of close, with her head slightly tilted.

Deeply involved in weighing the picture in his mind, L'hai dismisses else, except when, stepping backwards once, then twice, to encompass each of the long tubs completely within his vision-- demonstrated by the 'L' shaped fingers he raises up to frame them-- Liv enters into his periphery. Brown eyes cast reluctantly to the side and he takes in the complex's intended worker with a scrupulous up and down, sparing nothing in politeness, and scoping out her leathery goods far more than her face or figure. His long swallow paints the impression he's not spoken in quite some time, the process must be dredged from some terrible pit. "You can," his right hand twists, wagging impatiently at a pile of other scrap leather in the corner, haphazardly disordered so that L'hai's distracted on noticing, glancing this way and that for ''something'' before sighting back on Liv even more offhandedly, "Put them with the other cast-offs."

She fits into that 'L' shape nicely. Confused at first, Liv stares unabashedly at L'hai for a long moment. There is no furrow of her brow, no narrowing of the eyes. Just that long, uncomplicated stare. She speaks evenly. "These aren't cast-offs." But she takes another look around, noting the tubs, the gloves, the pile of leathery bits, the smell... Maybe he knows what he's talking about. "They aren't brand new. I suppose I could trade them out. I was going to work on them some, but instead I interrupted a..." She pauses, takes a beat, and decides, "session," is a good word choice. "What are you doing? Some of it looks familiar but..."

What? Oh. Having summarily forgotten Liv, L'hai's forced to reevaluate. A step into heading towards the disorderly pile, he pivots, hard, eying her as if for the first time. Only when his gaze drops to the leathers in her hands does recognition sing in his eyes. Calculatingly, his hands begin to lower, and the right turns in to use his thumb, gloved and dirty, to scratch at his growing length of scraggly beard. "Not for the scraps..." Right. A look cast over his shoulder measures the exact no free room behind him, though that speaks none of the unseen tanner's workroom itself. All other doors have been tightly shut, and nostrils tell why. "It's..." and then, mid-explanation, he recovers walking over to the cast-offs-- flying straps, most, with the rest hard to distinguish in the clump-- utterly ditching Liv.

That's okay because as soon as he turns around she makes a face behind him. Not too dramatic, it consists of lifted eyebrows and widened eyes, but disappears so quickly after he won't see it. "Not for the scraps?" she asks, totally intrigued. The weight of the leather is lifted up from her shoulder and she gently lowers it to the ground, wherever she finds a spot that isn't already occupied by something else, and sets also her tool belt down with it. Thus freed up, she can now trail after him a little bit, not with a lot of commitment in case he whirls around again. "It's what?" This person is much more interesting than straps.

On the way, L'hai lifts his head, recognizing that she's there with a firmly closed mouth. Arriving at the mess, he promptly scoops up the first wayward belt, thumb riding along its length familiarly, notching into one of the sizing holes. "Drenching. It's, uh," an arm reaches out, indicating across from them where other apron and gloved men sort long, surreally colorless stretches of hide, flat and limp representations of the beasts who once wore them. "To open the skin." Having said, he juts a finger in a practiced swipe up the side of his nose. If his glasses had been there, he would've straightened them. Without, he leaves a streak of tanning solution across his pale skin. Picking up another belt of similar length from the pile without looking, he lays them both across the nearest bench together. One booted foot has already begun to separate a few of the fallen lumps of faded jackets and larger pieces to a different corner. "With new weyrlings we, uh. Uh, we evaluate stock." A nod; he looks over at the tubs. "Prepare new, if needed."

She follows him obediently, without command, perhaps following her own curiosity moreso than the actual source of its spark. Her eyes follow every movement, note every thing, sharp and intense but half-lidded like she's only happening to do it. "Drenching." To try the word out with its new meaning. Liv notices too, of course, that he now wears that streak of color but she chooses not to comment. Not yet. Instead she stares at his face and this time her eyes do narrow a small fraction. "Who ''are'' you," she wants to know, must know, before anything else. Because he is very interesting.

"Drenching." He repeats it, seemingly merely because she did. Leather whooshes beneath them; again, without a second glance, he's snatched what he meant, filtering the thicker belt over with the others, then its partner he tests along the length till a scabby portion cracks under his fingers' inspection. This, he stuffs into his pocket, eying Liv. Brown eyes impart a judgment questioning her skewed priorities; looking like she's asked him to explain a fantastically boring piece of work. "L'hai," finally rolls out, forced from him. Fingers finish stuff and slip from his pocket, and when he looks at her next, a glean of intelligence in his eye marks her; kin to hers, sharp, evaluating. Then he blinks, sniffs, and looks away.

"L'hai." Her tongue articulates his name very carefully. Deliberately. Whatever he's doing with that piece of leather in his pocket, it doesn't seem important. Or it is, but it's taking backseat. She looks down at the leather, then drags her eyes up from his boots to knees, hips, torso, shoulders, until she reconnects with him, meets his gaze just in time for that spark and before he looks away. She tells him very calmly, "I'm Liv." And, so introduced, decides now is okay to tell him about that streak of stuff on his face. "You have a little something on your nose."

"Liv," he murmurs, looking away. Finding her, "Liv." Again. A second sniff wrinkles his blemished nose. "Just my nose?" L'hai's quip, if that's what it is, lays too flat. Out of practice, or disinterested. "Liv," low, aside, as he looks down, scuffing his boot under another one on the floor. Dipping to retrieve the article, it's turned in his hands affectionately as he straightens. "It's a very," boot in one hand, its pair lifts to scratch at his neck; there's a dap of solution there too, now, to match his nose. "Open-ended question, Liv." Scratch, scratch, scratch, in a rhythm. Then both hands fondle the boot, rotating it in circles in an excruciatingly thorough examination of its every pore and scratch. Each inch. "Which I answered very shortly, as I, ah, haven't a lot of time," his head tosses absently, but gaze remains pinned down to his work, "Now, you, too."

"Well no, now, more." His neck too, and probably more if he doesn't stop touching things with his dirty gloves. Liv watches him interact with that boot from the floor with the same mildly expressed but very acure interest, which shifts into confusion again when he speaks. This time a small something happens between her eyebrows, not a wrinkle or a crease but perhaps a small knot of lost-ness. That he's short on time comes as something of a surprise but then again, what hasn't so far? "Well I'm sorry for interrupting. I'll leave." And even though there's a period at the end of that sentence, there is also a small question mark, as if this is a suggestion as open-ended as that question.

"Ahh..." Some polite conversational pleasantry dies before making it to L'hai's lips, forgotten and shucked off as unimportant. His own mouth creases easily, along with a near constant worry line across his forehead. Narrow, all, now in her direction as he stares uncomprehendingly at her leathery burden. "You came here to..." It's not even to her; an observation made purely exercising his discomfort. Soon as it's said, he's, frowning, returned to the boot. And the belts. What was once a clumsy pile's beginning to take form as a collection of organized settings. Confusion aside, over her perceived change in intentions, he slips back to seemingly not knowing she exists with twitchy ease.

"I came here to mend my straps. I'll do it in my weyr." Dismissive in her own way, Liv turns away to where she left her things, stoops to pick them up again and hitches the leather coils up onto her shoulder. She turns to him, poised ready to leave or maybe to come back to talk to him more and paused in that state while she considers. "You're very strange, L'hai," she tells him, the announcement delivered in a neutral tone. "And I find that very hard to resist. But for now, I'm going to." 'See you around' would be inappropriate for so many reasons, so she just leaves it at that and turns to leave. Simple.

He lifts his head, blinking, at the sound of his name, yet despite the wide blank stare he carries her announcement to himself with not a lick of surprise. When his eyebrows soothe down it's to a contented tune. Yes, of course. Troubling, more, her intention after. When she turns to leave, L'hai's still softly frowning as he slaps the gathered leather items against his thigh, rounding up a few to toss in the corner as he steps off. Then again, he's frowning when he rejoins the others, head lightly bowed whenever he talks. Frowns to walk amongst the barrels. It's when he's positioned in front of one, leather filling his hands and drenching fluid everywhere, that it all settles out to nothing.

{{#ifexist: Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}} | <hr><hr> <h2>Comments</h2>{{Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}}}} |<hr><hr>}}

}}

<comments />

File:Icon l'hai tanner.jpg

2013-03-22T04:03:51Z

Mave:

Mave

2013-03-21T19:22:43Z

Mave:

{{HrwProfile
|picture=Mave_profile.jpg
|position=Caverns Worker
|dragon=
|craft=
|birthplace=Keroon Area
|mother=Ratha
|father=Deceased
|siblings=
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Hayley McFarland
|livejournal=}}

== Description ==

With all the definition of a stick, except for a couple of knobby knees, the wealth of Mave's appearance lies in her face: oval, but plump in her cheeks when she smiles, and her round chin sticks out from the angle of her jaw. Almond is her eyes' color and form, with a matching set of eyebrows, and tangled waves of reddish-brown hair, parting at the top of her head and riding down to her chest. Good days and bad days plague her hair; it's an easy assumption that, if its pulled up and out of the way, it's a particularly frizzy day, allowing her big ears to stick out. Her nose starts well enough but widens not very girlishly at the tip. She's got a wide, easily animated, mouth with some perfectly normal teeth. Light brown freckles spatter her cheeks, shoulders, and a few sneak onto her legs -- near her hips, then a couple on her feet.

Clothes tend to be simple, most days composed of slacks -- always slacks -- a basically functional looser tunic, of varying sleeve-lengths, and a rougher olive jacket, wrinkled and well-worn. She wears footwear appropriate to the weather, and occasionally is seen with a bandana or hat to tame her hair.

== WYSK ==

+ Mave and her, currently ailing, mother have been at the Weyr for 8 Turns now, having originated in the Keroon area. She's blended well and comfortably into the weyrbrat culture since then, and knows her way around.

+ Her mother is infamously tight-lipped amongst the chattier cavern women.

+ She once gave a bully (named [[Wakizian]]) a bloody nose. And hurt her own knuckles just as bad. They haven't talked much since.

+ Doesn't appear to have any specialty, but is a hard-working hand at usual lower caverns chores. As such, she answers primarily to the Headwoman and Brieli (at the moment).

== History ==

A hearty prairie-born woman, Ratha proved capable of raising her rough-and-tumble daughter while a father figure remained frequently absent at sea. When Ratha's young brother, and Mave's uncle, was lured into the lifestyle as well, the two women handled themselves in the sailor-dominate fishing hold south and a little west of the main Keroon Hold. Ships often passed through on the way to Igen or Ista, and there was plenty to do, and imagine doing while running around in the neighboring marsh-lands or prairies. But when Mave was 5 Turns, a terrible sea storm struck, and Ratha sat her daughter down and stoically explained that both father and uncle had been lost at sea during the strong winds. It seemed impossible at first -- Mave had never known them to be anything but incredibly capable sailors, from what her young mind ''could'' remember -- but she gradually adapted.

It was only two Turns later, when Mave was 7, that Ratha would disrupt their familiar life, claiming it was time for a change, now that they were truly alone. She packed up their humble things and, after some travel by wagon up north, eventually hitched a ride to the mountainous High Reaches Weyr -- as change as change could be. There, Mave reinvented herself as a weyrbrat, quickly integrating into the life as simply as she had the fishing one.

When she was around 11, a boy named [[Wakizian]] started to bully her, picking her out of groups and just unfathomably harassing her (and her pigtails, the horror!). Fed up, Mave clocked him one in the nose, bruising both it, and her knuckles, and that was generally the last they heard of one another, though both continued to live at the Weyr. Other than that, she's been fairly peaceable in her role, showing no preference or talent for any particular job, but willing to work at any of them. The shake-up by [[Iolene]] was dizzying, but she kept her head down, and reported to [[Brieli]] while the kinda-kinda not Senior Weyrwoman took a controlling hand in the caverns' affairs.

Since [[Aishani]]'s announcement, things in the lower caverns have shifted again, but Mave's been busy trying to figure out her own business, including burgeoning confusing relationships with both [[K'zin]] and his best friend [[N'ky]]. Since they've Impressed, she's begun to wonder what her own role will be, as she comes up on an adult age.

==Nutshell==

[[File:Mave1.gif|right]]
 
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/PintsizedPowerhouse Pint-sized Powerhouse]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/CuteBruiser Cute Bruiser]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/PluckyGirl Plucky Girl]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TellMeAboutMyFather Tell Me About My Father]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/GirlNextDoor Girl Next Door]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/YouthfulFreckles Youthful Freckles]
 

{| style="padding:10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"
! [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LO0nJX7eCE4 "A Kiss Is A Terrible Thing To Waste"]
Whistle Down The Wind
! [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PHzOOQfhPFg "Just A Girl"]
Pink
! [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G_g3kkGH8Mo "Don't Rain On My Parade"]
Barbra Streisand
|-
| align="left" style="padding:10px 50px 10px 50px;" | The loneliest words you'll ever know 
If only, if only, it were so 
The emptiest words that there'll ever be 
It coulda been me, it coulda been me
| align="left" style="padding:10px 50px 10px 50px;" | Cause I'm just a girl, little ol' me 
Don't let me out of your sight 
I'm just a girl, all pretty and petite 
So don't let me have any rights
| align="left" style="padding:10px 50px 10px 50px;" | I gotta fly once, I gotta try once 
Only can die once, right, sir? 
Ooh, life is juicy, juicy 
And you'll see I'm gonna have my bite, sir
|-
! [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ppotuhZjIkA "Little People"]
Les Miserables
|-
| align="left" style="padding:10px 50px 10px 50px;" | And little people know 
When little people fight 
We may look easy pickings 
But we've got some bite

|}

== Relationships ==

[[File:mave-relationship-status.jpg|center]]

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

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

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

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[category:Characters]]
[[category:High Reaches Weyr]]
[[category:High Reaches Area]]
[[category:Greater Pern]]
[[category:Residents]]

Mave

2013-03-21T04:27:31Z

Mave: /* Nutshell */

{{HrwProfile
|picture=Mave_profile.jpg
|position=Caverns Worker
|dragon=
|craft=
|birthplace=Keroon Area
|mother=Ratha
|father=Deceased
|siblings=
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Hayley McFarland
|livejournal=}}

== Description ==

With all the definition of a stick, except for a couple of knobby knees, the wealth of Mave's appearance lies in her face: oval, but plump in her cheeks when she smiles, and her round chin sticks out from the angle of her jaw. Almond is her eyes' color and form, with a matching set of eyebrows, and tangled waves of reddish-brown hair, parting at the top of her head and riding down to her chest. Good days and bad days plague her hair; it's an easy assumption that, if its pulled up and out of the way, it's a particularly frizzy day, allowing her big ears to stick out. Her nose starts well enough but widens not very girlishly at the tip. She's got a wide, easily animated, mouth with some perfectly normal teeth. Light brown freckles spatter her cheeks, shoulders, and a few sneak onto her legs -- near her hips, then a couple on her feet.

Clothes tend to be simple, most days composed of slacks -- always slacks -- a basically functional looser tunic, of varying sleeve-lengths, and a rougher olive jacket, wrinkled and well-worn. She wears footwear appropriate to the weather, and occasionally is seen with a bandana or hat to tame her hair.

== WYSK ==

+ Mave and her, currently ailing, mother have been at the Weyr for 8 Turns now, having originated in the Keroon area. She's blended well and comfortably into the weyrbrat culture since then, and knows her way around.

+ Her mother is infamously tight-lipped amongst the chattier cavern women.

+ She once gave a bully (named [[Wakizian]]) a bloody nose. And hurt her own knuckles just as bad. They haven't talked much since.

+ Doesn't appear to have any specialty, but is a hard-working hand at usual lower caverns chores. As such, she answers primarily to the Headwoman and Brieli (at the moment).

== History ==

A hearty prairie-born woman, Ratha proved capable of raising her rough-and-tumble daughter while a father figure remained frequently absent at sea. When Ratha's young brother, and Mave's uncle, was lured into the lifestyle as well, the two women handled themselves in the sailor-dominate fishing hold south and a little west of the main Keroon Hold. Ships often passed through on the way to Igen or Ista, and there was plenty to do, and imagine doing while running around in the neighboring marsh-lands or prairies. But when Mave was 5 Turns, a terrible sea storm struck, and Ratha sat her daughter down and stoically explained that both father and uncle had been lost at sea during the strong winds. It seemed impossible at first -- Mave had never known them to be anything but incredibly capable sailors, from what her young mind ''could'' remember -- but she gradually adapted.

It was only two Turns later, when Mave was 7, that Ratha would disrupt their familiar life, claiming it was time for a change, now that they were truly alone. She packed up their humble things and, after some travel by wagon up north, eventually hitched a ride to the mountainous High Reaches Weyr -- as change as change could be. There, Mave reinvented herself as a weyrbrat, quickly integrating into the life as simply as she had the fishing one.

When she was around 11, a boy named [[Wakizian]] started to bully her, picking her out of groups and just unfathomably harassing her (and her pigtails, the horror!). Fed up, Mave clocked him one in the nose, bruising both it, and her knuckles, and that was generally the last they heard of one another, though both continued to live at the Weyr. Other than that, she's been fairly peaceable in her role, showing no preference or talent for any particular job, but willing to work at any of them. The shake-up by [[Iolene]] was dizzying, but she kept her head down, and reported to [[Brieli]] while the kinda-kinda not Senior Weyrwoman took a controlling hand in the caverns' affairs.

Since [[Aishani]]'s announcement, things in the lower caverns have shifted again, but Mave's been busy trying to figure out her own business, including burgeoning confusing relationships with both [[K'zin]] and his best friend [[N'ky]]. Since they've Impressed, she's begun to wonder what her own role will be, as she comes up on an adult age.

==Nutshell==

[[File:Mave1.gif|right]]
 
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/PintsizedPowerhouse Pint-sized Powerhouse]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/CuteBruiser Cute Bruiser]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/PluckyGirl Plucky Girl]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TellMeAboutMyFather Tell Me About My Father]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/GirlNextDoor Girl Next Door]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/YouthfulFreckles Youthful Freckles]
 

{| style="padding:10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"
! [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LO0nJX7eCE4 "A Kiss Is A Terrible Thing To Waste"]
Whistle Down The Wind
! [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PHzOOQfhPFg "Just A Girl"]
Pink
! [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G_g3kkGH8Mo "Don't Rain On My Parade"]
Barbra Streisand
|-
| align="left" style="padding:10px 50px 10px 50px;" | The loneliest words you'll ever know 
If only, if only, it were so 
The emptiest words that there'll ever be 
It coulda been me, it coulda been me
| align="left" style="padding:10px 50px 10px 50px;" | Cause I'm just a girl, little ol' me 
Don't let me out of your sight 
I'm just a girl, all pretty and petite 
So don't let me have any rights
| align="left" style="padding:10px 50px 10px 50px;" | I gotta fly once, I gotta try once 
Only can die once, right, sir? 
Ooh, life is juicy, juicy 
And you'll see I'm gonna have my bite, sir
|-
! [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ppotuhZjIkA "Little People"]
Les Miserables
|-
| align="left" style="padding:10px 50px 10px 50px;" | And little people know 
When little people fight 
We may look easy pickings 
But we've got some bite

|}

== Relationships ==

[[File:mave-relationship-status.jpg|center]]

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

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

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

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[category:Characters]]
[[category:High Reaches Weyr]]
[[category:High Reaches Area]]
[[category:Greater Pern]]