Difference between revisions of "Logs:Bit of a 'How's Your Mother'"

A rustic and unadorned vestibule leads in from hewn spiral steps to a refitted ledge, enclosed by limestone pillars. Sturdy wooden framework captures elongated glass panes, tilted to absorb the most light during the day. The wash of heat from within, lush and humid, persists even into the dead of winter; the air is heady with the scent of fresh-turned soil and various flora. Long, deep troughs of soil line the inner stone wall, planted with an assortment of broad, leafy tropicals - practical and decorative alike. Fruit and vegetable baskets hang from rafters, optimizing space, tempting in reach with a perpetually ripening harvest. A series of stone shelving is devoted to flourishing, aromatic herbs and new green shoots; even the softest touch releases a burst of savory scent from tender leaves. Amidst the greenery, a handful of wooden benches have been scattered, making this a temptingly warm and secluded spot to sit. Shuttered vents serve to regulate humidity and heat given off from a small hot spring recessed into an alcove at the back; a secondary pool with cooler waters siphons off to provide a constant, fresh supply for irrigation. A small potting station nearby is cluttered with watering cans and gardening tools of various uses, with a wooden bin for composting materials tucked underneath.

Condensation clings to the greenhouse's glass, but outside there's nothing to see but white. Leova doesn't look out from where she sits on a bench, though. Her head's tipped back. She's looking up into the jungle of green, amber eyes unfocused. It's quiet.

Too quiet. But then, that might just be due to the introduction of H'kon's presence to the greenhouse. He slides his arms and shoulders from his already-opened jacket, quite soundless, and walks slowly, with careful control over the fall of his bootheels. He might have a final destination. The set look on his face at least suggests some sort of motive. Naturally, it goes neatly unnanounced as he makes his way... somewhere. That way.

No reaction from the greenrider, he's that silent. Her jacket's next to her, only partly visible beneath the sweater that must have come off afterward. Neither of them are folded. She doesn't snore. She does blink, once or twice.

Neither does H'kon - blink much, that is - when he comes upon her. He's got room enough to stare at her for a while without altering his pace, and apparently, space enough in which to make a decision. The decision that brings him not only to a stop at the edge of the bench, but to reach for sweater and jacket, adding his to the pile he shifts when he seats himself. Even H'kons are, sometimes, half-full of surprises.

The movement draws her eye, and with it her head, a slow rotation. "Morning," Leova says, half-question: is it, still?

"Hmm," is confirmation from the brownrider, complete with the slightest forward tilt of his head, almost a nod, but not quite. H'kon's eyes rove upwards to the greenery, before his head is willing to, slowly, lift after them. "Vigil?"

"No." Leova considers him, her hands laced over her belly, less protective than... resting. "Warm." Green, also, as he's seen. Quiet. Even now.

H'kon stays sitting carefully straight, his arm coming to rest on that pile of outerwear that has slid partway into his lap. "Ah," has all the sound of understanding... and no further sounds to immediately follow it, but for a slightly deeper breath.

Nor does Leova say anything further. It stays quiet. Now and again, condensation might drip off a leaf, or there might be a sound from within one of the squat stoves that keep the place warm in winter. Quiet.

That breath he's taken, it's let out slowly, long and controlled. A swimmer's exercise, maybe. A meditation, perhaps. The brownrider remains still, and watches the green overhead.

"Your mother," Leova says after a while. "Her plant, for the soup. Did it thrive?" Nothing about knots or nooses, wings or tithe.

H'kon's breathing pauses more than hitches, focusing on the subject without refocusing his eyes from that green ceiling of sorts. "It did well enough at first." Sounding more disturbed than he might otherwise, over a plant, "I've paid it little attention of late."

"Is it here?" is Leova's only question. She's gotten to looking at him, elbow braced on the bench's back.

"Some part of it," H'kon estimates, closing his eyes, with his head still pointed up. His fingers press the pile of jackets on one side, the side of the bench on the other.

"Like to think she'd like it." Leova's looking at the pile by now, like she'd looked at the leaves. Past it, past them. "Glad there hasn't been a lockdown on Tillek. Wonder when High Reaches' is going to get lifted." Her jacket has a Glacier knot on it, down at the bottom beneath everything else.

H'kon nods his head, just faintly. "I imagine she would." He turns his head slowly toward her, opens his eyes, and gives a little frown. "It seems there is much to be resolved before that might happen." And his fingers begin to search out his coat amidst the rest.

"Perhaps." The second syllable has scarcely more weight than the first. "Luck to your plant." The Glacier rider turns back, tilts her head back, looks back up at the green.

H'kon fishes his jacket out, and is careful, in standing, not to bring Leova's things to the ground. "Enjoy your warmth."