Difference between revisions of "Logs:Outsiders"

The heavy rain outside has driven most people indoors and for some, the heat and warmth of the hatching cavern is a welcome hidey hole. Some seamstresses, escaping the monotony of their workroom or the living caverns have set up a sewing circle at the top while a young harper with her even younger charges conducts a class at the far end, but is having some trouble keeping the attention of the toddlers, as they peer off at the sands where Ysavaeth is slowly pacing the grounds. Every so often, Reaches' young queen flicks out a limb to run the back of her talon against the walls and through the sands itself, while her rider is sitting up front and center alone. "If it really bothered you, you probably could have asked him to stay. I really don't think he would be able to tell you no at this point, you know," remarks Io's low voice out into that nether. She turns a page, but those dark blue eyes boredly glazed, it's unlikely she's actually reading the hides in her lap.

Ducking in from that rain and looking more than a little damp for it, is yet another seamstress, though it's hard to tell what she is now, beyond a tall wet grumpy cloak. The cloak becomes a girl as if by magic when Brieli throws it off, careful not to fling water on the sands - who knows what might offend the large, egg-heavy queen. Speaking of which... the brunette seems to be here to join the sewing circle - she's a basket of fabric and other sewing things - but Ysavaeth's slow pacing catches her attention, and she watches for a time, dripping. Iolene is likely way over the whole thing, but for her, it still holds some sort of interest.

As if on cue, Iolene's voice, one that would've thrived for some harper training in its rich lowness, lifts, "If you stay a bit longer, she'll do it again. And again. And again. And," the blonde face lifts, a rueful smile creasing her features, "I'm not even sure she knows what she wants from the sands." The interest in the other woman's face, draws an inquiry from Io, "First time at the Weyr? Or first time getting to see an incredibly picky dragon?"

"She looks," Brieli notes, her own tones calm and cultured - though likely nowhere near harper-quality, "Like one of my aunts in labor. Pacing because it's meant to help, but knowing that it'll only happen when it's supposed to. And she's so /big/." In that last, the seamstress doesn't even pretend not to be somewhere between awed and terrified. And due to that, she'll take a moment to busily hang her cloak on an outcropping. "Only a few weeks at the Weyr. And I've never seen an incredibly picky dragon, no. I've heard they can be that way."

Io's head turns from Brieli to Ysavaeth, as if double taking to assess the other woman's words. "I guess... I've gotten so used to how big she is, I didn't realize she was getting any bigger. She originally wanted to come in here to make sure the sands were prepared for her eggs, but now... you might be right. The pacing, getting ready.I've never had any interest in dragonhealing or anything." Quieter, somewhat self-mockingly jovial even in that murmur; "Worst goldrider ever, no? If you don't count crazy ones." But, since it's murmured, it's shook off quickly in favor of another smile, and a scoot over with a hand that pats the bench next to her. "I've only been at the Weyr for two and a half turns. Everything seems a lot bigger here than- home."

Once the cloak is sorted, Brieli glances up toward the seamstresses in their circle for a moment before taking herself and her basket nearer to Iolene with slow, easy steps. "She likely doesn't seem big to you. I'm getting that, to their riders, dragons seem like small harmless kittens, not giant firebreathing creatures. Or... not, as the case may be." Lifting dark brows at the self-deprecation, she admits, "I wouldn't know how to judge goldriders, but it seems to me if this is your first time, you get some leeway?" After a moment of hesitation, she perches on the bench next to the weyrwoman, sets down her basket. "I'm finding the same. Bigger. Different. I'm Brieli." She offers a hand.

Not entirely unobservant, Iolene peeks over her shoulder, following Brieli's glance, and then spots the seamstress-apparent's own basket. A pink flush claims her cheeks, but her tongue keeps for now as she introduces herself. "I'm Iolene. But I like being called Io. Are you always called Brieli? Do people ever call you Bri? Or Li?" Another quick look takes in the sewing circle, with perhaps just a flicker of envy in those far too young seeming, dark eyes. Softly, with her head tipped to Brieli, Io asks, "Will you get in trouble? For not being with them?"

With a nod, "Iolene. Io." As if committing the name to memory. Brieli offers a quick smile, quicker for the blonde's flush. "And sometimes, people call me Bri. It's easier, and there's not many of us. I doubt there's many 'Io's either. Do you not like 'Iolene'?" The flash of envy in those eyes might take the seamstress aback by her blink, but that's the only indication; she shakes her head, giving the girls a look as well. "No, I was just coming to find where everyone had gone. I thought maybe you'd be more interesting." Another brief smile before she toes her basket, admitting ruefully, "I ought to mend something, I suppose, though."

"Like I ought to read something," replies Iolene, her voice companionable and that fleeting flicker of envy disappearing forthwith. "Oh. I don't think I'm so interesting, but I've noticed a lot of people are more interesting than they think, so maybe. When I first came to the Weyr, I thought dragons were sea monsters." The recollection and thought of such a time drops Io's face to study her open text, before a side look sneaks up to find Brieli's reaction. "Sometimes," the girl admits with a glance stolen back to the laughing circle of women again, "I wonder if the riders of dragons aren't more of monsters."

Conspiratorially, "If you pretend to read, I'll pretend to mend, and your dragon can pretend that pacing will make her feel better." Brieli seems to think all this equitable; she plucks a shirt from her basket to settle in her lap, examining the torn collar. "I think most people can be interesting, depending on what you're interested in." As she starts to thread a needle, the seamstress doesn't quite laugh; she quirks an odd smile, noting, "They still scare me a little." At Io's last admission, her own dark gaze shifts sidelong to the other girl, then back to her needle, "You never can tell with people, can you?" There's a moment before she offers, "I hope you're all right?"

Io's face is the open book her words sometimes reflect, though now, the mixture of chagrin and uncertainty on her face don't correlate to words. She doesn't speak and merely turns a page, while studying Brieli. After a long time, where Ysavaeth continues another round of the sands, her neck snaking downward to inspect a small hideyhole with intensity, Io exhales. "I'm sure you've seen or heard of the Weyrleader's injuries?"

Brieli pretends she's not being studied; threads the needle, ties it off, starts in on the tear. Her own expression is calm, patient - she can wait for whatever Iolene is considering. Or struggling with. As time goes on, she does glance up, brows drawing together in mild concern, to catch the exhale - then enlightenment. Careful, "Ah. Yes. I saw. I spoke to him briefly. It seems... unfortunate. It seems unfortunate that everything should go so far. But it seems there is that - tendency here."

For the first time in the conversation, a cooler edge cuts through the richness of Iolene's voice. "It shouldn't be the tendency. It's apparently not the first time Tiriana's put a rider into the infirmary for saying things she didn't like or agree with. Or done something rash." Ysavaeth's inspection of this little tucked in nook continues and Iolene surfaces from whatever dark thoughts cloud her generally cheerful outlook, looking to the gravid queen, and as such things go, the distraction gives her cause for a subjet change, "Have you ever thought of being a dragonrider?"

"Isn't it?" Brieli asks, looking up at Iolene, brows lifted curiously - but she mentioned it, so she must have heard something, right? Either way, she's not too set on keeping the goldrider in a bad mood, because that might put Ysavaeth in a bad mood, as as was covered - she's still a little scary. "Not that it matters. I don't think anyone should be punished like that for anything." Eyeing the gold as well, though perhaps for different reasons, "I think everyone has. Though what I've heard of weyrlinghood is sobering. Sharing your thoughts - everything - to the point where you almost lose yourself... that's quite a thought."

"It wasn't a thought that ever really crossed my mind until- until we were here and I realized I had nowhere else to go." Which is such a ringing endorsement of becoming a dragonrider. Iolene is cognizant of the implication of her words enough to let loose a little laugh. "I think-," starts the goldrider as to Brieli's concerns, her eyes once again upon a now moving Ysavaeth. "Each dragon is different. Ysavaeth keeps my secrets and I don't pretend to think I know all of hers. I-." The girl's hands fall into the gutter of the book she reads, fingers inter-playing against each other in what could be nervous habit. "I don't try to know all her secrets. Sometimes, I'm almost afraid of what I might learn. Which is silly, cause- cause well, dragons aren't scary."

It's hard not to laugh after that recruitment pitch; Brieli gives in as well, shaking her head as she grins. "I suppose it wouldn't cross your mind, riding a sea monster," she says, light enough for a tease, but it makes a weird sort of sense too. Concentrating on making stitches with long, callused fingers, but not so much that she can't take things in with fleet glances; Ysavaeth's pacing, Iolene's hands, "I can see they're different in even the way they stand and act... I wouldn't have thought they'd have their secrets. Or be sort-of scary to their riders. Because people always insist that, the not-scary part. Perhaps too much? Even people are frightening from time to time."

Something in Brieli's mannerisms, or perhaps the way she speaks, brings a pause to Iolene's expression, her lips falling slightly slack as she listens and absorbs and then considers her next statements carefully. "Impressing," she begins after a lull, the book falling shut atop one hand, the other reaching to make sure it doesn't fall off her suddenly stretched, lanky legs, "Was probably as euphoric as everyone tries to explain. But it was also terrible in a way. It's not always easy to share your thoughts with someone, even someone who won't share them with anyone else but sometimes, it's a relief too. Ysavaeth is-," the dragon on the sands has quit her pacing and settled in on the heated sands for a nap, "She's determined. And I can't say I've never had a moment of regret."

Pulling a stitch tight, Brieli seems to sense the shift in Iolene, in the conversation, and her sewing stops. Needle in one hand, a bare flash of silver in the cavern's light, she listens - really seems to listen, tries to absorb what the goldrider is trying to tell her. Thoughtful, she pokes the needle in the fabric aimlessly. After a time, "There's a price. But it's worth it. Like a lot of things that are." With a slight smile, "No regrets is a better endorsement, I think."

The solemnity of the moment continues for a few more seconds before Iolene's bubble like laughter erupts. "It would, wouldn't it? I've never been good at not telling the truth. I wish someone had been as forthright with me when I was trying to decide whether to stand or not. I feel like too many people romanticized the idea and it's not a very romantic future." She might say more; it's writ in her expression. But nothing. Instead, dark eyes slant curiously to the stitches Brieli makes, "What are you sewing?"

Brieli admits with a widening grin, "I was about to say that I needed to thank you for that - for the honesty. I'd rather know what I was in for than agree to something, and realize I'd made a mistake. I know 'the dragons don't make mistakes', but still. Maybe riders do, once in awhile." Crossing long legs at the ankle, she evaluates Iolene's expression for a moment before she'll note, "Romantic in the heroic sense, but I guess less so now. Not in the things-every-little-girl-dreams-of sort of way, to be sure. Oh, it's a shirt. Someone tore the collar at the seam." She holds it up to show the damage - very exciting.

"Do you ever do prettier things? Embroidery? Lace? Is lace made by sewing? The most I've ever managed to do is patch holes in clothing and try to put together Ysavaeth's straps. But a leatherworker had to finish it up since I had more pricks on my fingers than on the straps themselves." Io spares the shirt a look and then the circle of seamstresses as they laugh over something or other. "Is that... really what you do all day? Mend shirts?" What's not said but palpable in the teenager's tone is: don't you get bored??

"I can do some embroidery, but I'm not on the level of some of the girls. Or a weaver, for that matter. And lace is made by a type of sewing, though not one I learned. I'm not a particularly talented seamstress, to be honest, but it's a better job than most." Brieli does, however, grimace at the mention of leather. Starting in on the collar again, she tells Iolene, "I doubt you were the only one with holes in your hands. Leather is a tricky business; it's why there's tanners, isn't it? And..." Brown eyes shift from her work to the other seamstresses, then back to Io with a shrug. "That's what we do. Sometimes we make some more clothes for stores. Sometimes, you're on duty in case someone needs a quick repair. But the weavers do the fancy outfits. So... you mend and chat and listen and eventually, it's as if your hands know how to do it without you." So. Yes, it's a little boring.

"It seems like most of the seamstresses are friends from the way they talk," is Iolene's aloud observation of the circle. "Have they-, welcomed you decently?" Ysavaeth rouses from her nap, only long enough to shift her weight to the other side, the egg bumps visible as she does so, and resettle her wings. "Sometimes, even after being here for almost three turns, I feel like I never quite belong. I hope they have. Welcomed you at least. It'd be sad if they hadn't."

Considering that for a moment or two, Brieli tells Iolene, "Mostly. Some of them have been friends since they were quite young; some have been working together since they were twelve or thirteen." Watching Ysavaeth with a sympathetic purse of her lips - the egg bumps! - "So they know each other quite well. Some... feel very involved in the Weyr, so don't precisely like where I come from, so don't precisely trust me. But there's a lot of girls that are easy enough to win over if you're willing to lend a hand with their work." Tightening a stitch, she'll admit, "It may take some time for me to feel like I belong. We people... not kind to you?"

"Where-," Iolene hesitates long enough in the pretense of politeness, before forging on ahead, "Where are you from?" For now, the question Brieli's returned to her isn't answered.

With a moment of her own hesitation, Brieli answers, "Crom Hold." Another stitch. "I am not a fan myself, but that doesn't seem to matter."

A cheerful obliviousness might suit Iolene, or might be her reputation, but given the reading in her hands, one marked as a very old volume of High Reaches Hold history, it's unlikely she's not intelligent in some way. And her, "Ahhhhh," release, says most of it -- the awareness of why Crom Hold might get a chillier welcome. "Well," ever the optimist, Io reaches forward with an impulsive hand onto Brieli's shoulder, though she has to scramble with her other hand to catch the book from falling off her lap, "If you ever need someone to sit with at meal times, you can sit with me." It's like the first day of classes at any crafthall.

The hand on her shoulder draws a genuinely grateful smile from Brieli, her hands settling in her lap as she looks over at Iolene, pretending not to notice the sudden scrambling reach for the heavy book. "Thank you, Io. I appreciate that." And she sounds like she does, though she will point out, "I think Ysavaeth has a standing appointment for a little while, though?"

"Soon. The dragonhealers tell me her flight was really quite long and high for a maiden flight and-," a touch of crimson colors Iolene's cheeks, the rest of her words lapsing into a wordless shrug. She's quick to hurry forward with, "K'del seems pleased so I don't know any better not to be and Ysavaeth is... satisfied with that part of all this. I have a feeling she'll demand Cadejoth's presence more than mine, but I guess we'll see. She has other plans for me." Which isn't ominous at all. No. "I should probably return this to the records room before I damage it by dropping it somewhere I shouldn't."

Either bright enough or empathetic enough (or just totally without knowledge enough) to let all the flight talk stand as the goldrider leaves it, Brieli instead considers Ysavaeth again. "I would guess her opinion is the one that matters. If she's happy with it, I think you're probably set." Though 'plans' makes the seamstress curious; dark eyes narrow on the gold with interest. "She has plans for you? Oh!" Taking a second look at Iolene's tome, she agrees, "It looks fairly ancient. I'm sorry, don't let me keep you - I can join the stitch-and-bitch above." A roll of the eyes, good-natured.

"Plans." Wry that, the goldrider hides the text under her jacket and shoves her feet into boots tucked beneath the bench she was sitting on. Then, Iolene blinks twice, the second succession of lashes drawing a startled look to Brieli. A wide grin emerges. "Stitch-and-bitch. I'll remember that. See you around, Bri." And then she cheats, avoiding the rain by dancing light steps across the heated sands, past her dragon towards an entrance that leads somewhere into the caverns.

With a laugh for Io's startled blink, Brieli gives the goldrider a little wave, tossing her shirt into the basket for the climb up - though she will take another few quiet moments to study Ysavaeth on the sands before joining the others. Plans? Interesting...