Difference between revisions of "Logs:Favors"

Weyrwoman's Weyr, Fort Weyr

Just inside and to the right, beneath the vast archway of the entrance to the Weyrwoman's weyr, lies the doorway to the council room, usually shut even when occupied. Past this, Elaruth's deep wallow is sunk into the floor and lined with soft, padded wherhide precisely anchored around its rim. At the head of the wallow sits a tall tree constructed from various pieces of smooth, pale driftwood, ornaments in silver, white and blue hanging from its long, spindly branches. The opposite wall plays host to a series of brass hooks and fixtures, supporting shelves and providing a hanging place for coats, straps and other riding gear. The walls here are washed with a pale blue, tinted just enough to be warm; the promising light of a pale dawn. The rest of the space here is clearly divided into two areas: one with a sturdy, meticulously organised desk and twin bookcases sat on a tan-coloured rug; the other home to a table, and two matching wooden chairs, as well as two comfortable chairs upholstered in rich fabric, all set before the hearth.

Beyond the door leading to more private quarters, the walls are painted a deep cream colour that creates a welcoming light when lit by glows and hearth. The large hearth lies in the wall to the right, a wide couch and rocking chair built of pale wood and smooth angles laid out opposite. The bed lies towards the back of the cavern, quilts and furs spread out or folded neatly atop it, matching bedside tables on either side. Two tall fretwork screens create a separate room from one corner of the chamber, two single cots, a slim wardrobe and low bookcase found within. The most distant corner is home to the archway leading to the bathing room, discreetly hidden by another screen, a large, deep pool and stone-carved shelves home to towels and the like occupying this smaller chamber.

Drums that are a constant over High Reaches may seem all too loud when reaching out to the Fortian queen. There is no urgency beyond the sudden connection, Hraedhyth's growl friendly as she inquires, « Mine wishes to enter your territory. » Specifically, the Weyr. « If Yours is available? » (Hraedhyth to Elaruth)

Only those of her Weyr might see Elaruth shake her head a touch from side to side before angling her gaze skywards, as if to check that the drums are really there, or not some external physical sound that requires her attention. When words follow, she stills and settles back down, the ripples in shallow, cool water barely there at all by the time she responds: « She may. You may. » To be clear. « She is in our weyr. Yours is welcome. » (Elaruth to Hraedhyth)

The cold of between has cool winds feeling almost warm as Hraedhyth appears above Fort Weyr. Tawny hide is almost bright against gray skies, a greeting lobbed at both the watchdragon as well as all three queens with focus on the Matriarch. It's not so loud. Rather than land on the low ledge the dragon aims for a spot in the bowl, leaving Azaylia to dismount and climb the steps leading up to the Weyrwoman's weyr. Dress and cloak are warm enough for this weather, darker hues matching well with the pale scarf wrapped around her neck, pinned by a glass badge of High Reaches. "Weyrwoman Hattie?" She calls, clutching a paper package to her chest and barely inching past the threshold with an openly curious gaze.

There aren't many things that would keep Hattie at home during the day, but one of them that would (and has), is the little girl sprawled in her arms and over her shoulder much like a feline, limbs heavy with sleep and no care paid by Nimarie for her mother's attempts to cradle and move her sleeping form, turning her into a rather uncooperative sack of tubers. Padding out towards the ledge, the Weyrwoman brings her youngest daughter with her, having found nowhere to rest her burden on that particular path, and greets Azaylia with a not-so-quiet, "Come in," paired a wry smile. "Azaylia. Or... am I to call you 'Weyrwoman'?" If she doesn't quite know the protocol for the situation, it doesn't appear to trouble her very much, her question entirely genuine. "Give me a moment and I'll put her to bed. Grab a seat!" That invitation called over her shoulder as she turns back to head into the inner weyr and settle her daughter down, door closed behind her when she returns a minute or two later.

At the sight of Nimarie, Azaylia's face brightens and there's a crinkle as her grip tightens on the package. "Ohgood." Is uttered softly, not yet aware of just how out of it the toddler is. It isn't as if she speaks loudly to begin with, "Thank you." The question has her a bit flustered, stumbling over what the appropriate response might be. "Azaylia is just fine." She decides with a helpless sort of smile, choosing one of the upholstered seats near the hearth. Once Hattie reappears, "I had heard you and the, uhm, Weyrleader had a daughter together." Hesitant if only because N'muir is not acting at the moment. "She's very cute." And a heavy sleeper, apparently.

"Azaylia, then," Hattie agrees, pausing for a moment beside the door, listening for any telltale cries of child waking and protesting. "And Hattie is just fine too," she says gently, meaning to drop the use of the rank her shoulder knot denotes her as. Stepping away from the door and across to claim the other before the hearth, ruefully admitting, "And she has us both wrapped around her little finger, I fear," as she settles down. She smoothes her skirts down over her knees, favouring silence for a second or two until she lifts her gaze back to her fellow goldrider. "I hope you don't think I was being rude in not delivering anything in person. Visiting the 'Reaches... is not a very politic move for me to make. But I wanted to tell you... and so..." She makes a single emphatic gesture: and so she /sent/ rather than visited.

"Hattie." Azaylia echoes warmly, brown eyes following the older goldrider into the nearby seat. Though she looks tired, the young woman is freshly scrubbed and in high spirits for this visit. "Does she? I hope I'm not making matters worse, then." The paper package she offers to the Weyrwoman is only meant to protect its contents from flight and between. Inside is a prettily pale pink lump that is far too fuzzy to be recognizable at first. Only when Azaylia spreads it out is it revealed to be a fluffy hat with a cream and pink pompom on the top. "For her." Much too small for either of their heads. "I don't know how to make a lot of things, and I don't know if you like hats." She straightens up, perhaps a bit startled. "Oh, no. Of course I didn't think it rude-- I completely understand." Judging from the subtle wince, she really does. "It was a lovely gesture. Thank you." Again.

Hattie tilts her head curiously as Azaylia spreads out the hat, a lopsided sort of smile blossoming as she realises what it is. "I like hats," she assures. "And so does she. /And/ I can never make them quite right - I gave up, you know; they always ended up not the right shape, so this is a /proper/ hat," is shared with continuing wry humour. She accepts it with a warm, "Thank you," and, "I'll tell her who it's from. She should know who you are - that there are goldriders and queens beyond Fort. Never too young to start learning who is who." She inclines her head in response to thanks, not seeking them in acknowledgement, and rather needing to explain herself, perhaps as evidenced by how she relaxes back into her seat once she's managed to. "How are things going for you? Though I understand if you'd rather not speak of it. I imagine /everyone/ is asking you that question."

Azaylia's smile grows into a pleased grin, eyes crinkling upwards at the effort of using those forgotten muscles. "I'll remember that you do." Mention of the other queens beyond both their Weyrs has her giving a gentle nod. "She's lucky for that. I had to learn when I was much older." Along with much of rider history in general. The curl to her lips shrinks some, "Not as many people as you'd think." Nothing bitter, just a simple fact. "Trying to keep things going smoothly-- even smoother than before." Which might be the reason for her looking so fatigued, given the situation. "Brieli and I are working together every step of the way. We have to." The weyrwoman assures, perhaps with a hint of pride. "And there will be eggs. Oh," Concern is suddenly there, reminded by her own words. "And you? It's terrible of me to only ask now. You've been through so much yourself."

"Good. You and she should. The others - the bronze and brownriders - come and go, and it's always good when you some that you can work with, but the Weyr is yours, really, no matter what any of them say." Hattie instinctively glances the way of the ledge and the outside world beyond it when she speaks of the visiting 'Reachian queen, as if trying to see her through the cavern walls. "Hraedhyth is doing well? Will she... be okay with sharing the Sands? I wonder if the accord between yourself and Brieli will assist there..." It not being a situation that she can claim familiarity with, her pondering is thrown out there for what it is: an obvious, hazarded guess at what could be. "And," with a heavier look settled across the distance between chairs, "are /you/ sleeping?" So, fatigue hasn't gone unnoticed. As for herself: "You aren't the least bit terrible, Azaylia. I think Ali and N'muir have had a worse time of it than me, to be honest. I just could do very little about either situation." And, despite her attempt at being just so matter-of-fact about it, her fingers unconsciously curl into loose fists among the fabric of her skirts.

"Bronzeriders." Azaylia hefts out in a sigh, sounding more tired than antagonistic towards that particular group. "Not that there aren't others in the weyr who aren't happy." Rider or no. Hraedhyth isn't so much as terrorizing the Fortians as she is exploring the unfamiliar bowl. Some might claim to have been sniffed by the brawny gold. "Hraedhyth is happy. As far as she's concerned, everything is fine. She'll want to get back to Szadath soon... he's the brown that caught her." At least when speaking of the dragons there doesn't seem to be any hesitation or uncertainty. "I think they'll be fine. Hraedhyth adores Iesaryth. Ah, when they're not proddy." Or fighting over how to handle criminal browns. Ahem. Azaylia leans forward, a delicate hand resting on Hattie's tightening knuckles, "It's awful, isn't it? The feeling that there's nothing you can really do, when it's supposed to be your job." She knows it well, "So no, I haven't been sleeping much. There's hardly any time to, and when I try I can't stop thinking." Not that she looks nearly as sickly or troubled as she did after Iolene's death. "If you'd like, I could see if any 'Reachian dragons see or hear anything during sweeps? Just in case."

"Bronzeriders aren't goldriders," Hattie states, quite like there's the answer to everything to be found in that obvious fact, somewhere in the nebulous inferences that might be made, even if she can't find the words for any herself. "/Some/ will /always/ be upset, for the most petty of reasons. Personally..." and from the lowered voice she employs, it may be very clear that she speaks for herself, and not as Fort's Weyrwoman, "I don't see why two women couldn't lead a Weyr. As Weyrleaders, or..." Or the other way. She glances down when Azaylia's hand covers her own, the touch seemingly her first and only indication that she's betrayed her feelings, and, a moment later, she makes to cover the other weyrwoman's with one of her own. "Maybe Hraedhyth could help you? If she's inclined to. Elaruth... will help me sleep, when she believes I need to." That there's no denial; that she moves (has to) straight on to the practical: yes, it is awful. "I'd appreciate that. If there's any hope, then it's that they are young, and the young make /noticeable/ mistakes." There's a scrabbling sound at the door to the inner weyr, handle pushed down before it slips ajar and a little face peers through. Speak of the young and they shall appear? "If there's anything we can do... so far as Fort and the 'Reaches goes," Hattie offers, the first and only offer made, perhaps that much safer to make now, in her eyes. "At least, maybe one thing off your mind."

Azaylia's hand remains, to comfort and be comforted by the more experienced Weyrwoman. "If only. Then they might understand..." She'll find words for at least one of those inferences, the many others untouched. Hattie's personal admission has her lips quirking, "There is no reason, really." The other half of her thought shows itself by the worried furrow in her brow, "Except that it would upset the Weyr." Its folks, its traditions. As for what she can do for Fort, "I'll make sure our riders know what to look for. Hraedhyth will keep an ear out. I might try that, having her help me sleep." The goldrider gives a little start at the sound of Nimarie's rousing, peering from around her chair to give that little face a bright smile. "I should go. Szadath is asking after Hraedhyth, anyway." Not that the gold dragon isn't eager to get back to her own Weyr, and her mate. "I don't know-- One thing." Azaylia stands and turns with a face that warns of a favor, "We won't go to Council. I can't-- but, if something happens. If Brieli and I are questioned... I know you didn't vote for Tiriana's transfer. So..." She doesn't actually voice the obvious request, perhaps embarrassed by it.

Encouraged by that smile, Nimarie begins to edge around the door and creep slowly forward towards her mother, as Hattie slowly gets to her feet, one arm reaching out to tuck her daughter in against side, should she get that far. "They have no right," the Weyrwoman insists of the Council, firmly shaking her head. "Your Weyr is yours and no-one else's. You have my support in that, I assure you. He-- /they've/ had their time. Now is yours." In as much as she can promise anything, she can promise /her/ voice and vote, at least.

Azaylia keeps a smile up for Namarie's sake, though it's much easier once Hattie puts her at ease. For the hundreth time, "Thank you. So much." If she can manage, there'll be a careful side hug for the Weyrwoman and a wiggle of fingers for her toddler. "Hello." A soft coo, "And, goodbye." Even Elaruth will be able to feel Hraedhyth's insistance, the smudged gold shifting weight on her legs. "Keep in touch. Clear skies!" She's not rushing to leave, but there is a familiar speed to her walk as she doesn't want to keep Hraedhyth waiting. With a fond fairwell, the two will disappear above Fort.