Difference between revisions of "Logs:Spillage"

Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr

With its entrance located between the kitchen and the living cavern, this tiny bubble cavern is cozy, always kept warm and is filled with comfortable chairs and a small round table. At the far end, there's a hearth, outlined in ruddy, aging bricks, where a pot of stew simmers in the evening hours. Generally quiet, the nighthearth is the haunt of insomniacs and those seeking quiet from the bustle of daily Weyr life.

As lovely and bright the day is, it's still cold. The Weyrwoman doesn't make her entrance obvious as she slips into the nighthearth, cloak hung at the door as she looks to unthaw with a rare mug of klah. Mug in lap, curled up in one of the cushier seats in front of the fire, it's the perfect recipe for a nap. The grip on her drink manages to stay, if just barely, as Azaylia's brow awkwardly rests against the back of the chair. Given that there's no horrible keening, she's just dozing rather than dead. An easy enough mistake, should one happen upon her.

Cold is precisely the reason Farideh avoids going outside at all costs; it is her good fortune that she works in such a warm cavern. She wanders into the nighthearth's bubble with just a light jacket over her normal assortment of clothing, and her hands wrapped around a ceramic mug. Her eyes scan the tables when she enters, assessing her options, and fall swiftly on the sleeping woman curled up in a chair. Footsteps lead her towards the brick hearth, but she pauses, craning her head around to get another good look at Azaylia. Someone smart would go about their day and let sleeping dogs lie, and yet.. Farideh is not smart. It's with soft foot falls that she creeps up to the woman's table, looking this way and that, as if someone would catch her.

Azaylia thankfully doesn't snore, though that's the only dainty thing about her slack jaw and crooked neck. Her breath is even but not terribly deep yet, but with every exhale her muscles relax even more which is not good as far as that mug is concerned. Her dark blue dress is of high quality, if the style is one or two cycles old, hair done up in immaculate twin buns. It's after a dozen or so breaths that her own ceramic mug slips, startling the Weyrwoman awake as she desperately tightens her grip. She catches her klah, though a good bit of it goes splashing into her lap, "Ahshards." A near whisper of disappointment.

Farideh is absorbed in checking out the goldrider on display before her. She's ogling that blue dress, eyeing the hair style, and manages not to notice the hand slipping until-"Oh, no," is her yelp of surprise as she jumps back, and she, too, spills warm liquid down the front of her shirt and over her boots. Now that makes two of them. Disapproval twists her lips as she flicks her other hand, trying to rid herself of the unwanted moisture. "That was unexpected." But rather than look at the Weyrwoman, she's busy looking at her boots, lifting one and then the other, clicking her tongue in distaste.

Overcompensating with over-wide, alert eyes, Azaylia is startled as Farideh suddenly appears. Not overly aware upon waking up, this one. "O-oh!" A squeak. "Oh no." Not a squeak, but she sounds far more dismayed at the sight of Farideh's spill than the one she swipes at in her own lap. "I'm sorry-- I didn't see you there." She didn't see much through her eyelids, no. Long legs untuck from beneath her, standing and shaking out her skirt before giving up on what might be a stain, later. It's awkward, when guilty eyes can't seem to find a rag or towel in the immediate vicinity and she simply stands there. "I'll... I'm sure the laundry will be able to get that out?" She tries.

When Azaylia stands and shakes out her skirts, making those apology sounds, the laundress can't help but look up, with mild irritation. "I am the laundry." Farideh sighs, flinging her hand again. "It will have to do," she mumbles, looking around for a towel or other drying agent. It's a rag, most likely used for dusting, which she finds stuffed between bricks by the hearth. Rather than take it for herself, she offers it to the goldrider with a sardonic purse of her lips. "Here. You'll have a harder time getting that out of your dress than I will out of mine."

With a faint wince of embarrassment for Farideh's occupation, "Oh." Azaylia chooses to swallow a mouthful of klah, reducing the threat of another spill by a significant amount. When the rag is offered, she gives a light shake of her head, "Oh no, please. You probably care more than I do." is said with a laugh for her own habits. She doesn't accept the rag, aiming for a lopsided smile and an encouraging flutter of her fingers. "Nothing my assistant can't handle." Because she can afford to have miracles preformed on her clothes.

Standoff - with the rag. Hazel eyes narrow as her thin brows knit together. "Suit yourself," she mumbles, and strives to wipe off as much of the brownish liquid as she can; it's unfortunately soaked into certain spots. "You can afford a new blue dress, I can imagine." Her reply is tart, but her nod is, slightly, respective as her eyes flick back up to the Weyrwoman. "I'm Farideh." They've already established where she works and it is quite needless to say where Azaylia works - they live in it.

There's a soft exhale of relief when the rag is finally put to use, Azaylia choosing to do what she can with the side of her hand. "It's a dark dress, anyway." Excuses won't make the dark puddle any more obvious, but thankfully it's mostly over one thigh instead of a more embarrassing spot. "Oh, probably." She mumbles, distracted. Perhaps Farideh's tone sinks in, prompting a gentle, "Not that I would. It's hardly ruined, even if the stain is noticeable." Her smile is still a touch awkward, not that it takes away from the intended warmth, "Well met, Farideh. Azaylia." A short introduction given, "We've probably walked past each other in the lower caverns. What do you think? Can it be saved?" A consultation rather than a demand for the laundress to snap to it.

"No," Farideh admits glumly, eyeing Azaylia's dress, "It's not ruined. I think it just needs to soak." Her fingers grip the rag, which isn't moving to clean her own garb anymore. "You should get it to the laundry as soon as possible. The longer you leave the stain.." She lowers his eyes to the coffee-stain again, and shrugs, turning to place the rag back where she found it, never mind it now smells strongly of klah. "Or, you can buy a new dress." Guilelessly, she gives the other woman a humorless smile, and tucks hair behind her ear in a self-conscious gesture. "Ma'am, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go-" with a wave to her own stained clothing.

"Oh, of course." Azaylia shouldn't seem startled, given the laundress' advice, "I should take care of mine." And though the dress does eventually come through the laundry, it's only after a good deal of work has been done to subdue the stain. Drowsy and off tilt, she manages to keep her smile, "Have a good day, Farideh." She'll finish the rest of her cooled klah before heading out herself.

A slow finger wave serves as her goodbye with a less-than-pleased smile. Farideh turns on her heel, exiting through the way she came, without another word or a look back.