Difference between revisions of "Logs:Imploding"

Tess's habits might be said to be odd, if anyone were bothering to watch. The only thing that is regular about them is roughly the time she takes her meals and her morning calisthenics routines, but since rumor began to circulate about the trashed council room, she has been regularly seen ghosting about near the Bowl Falls. If that "happens" to be one of the places that Hattie sometimes comes? Well, that must surely be coincidence since today she's engaged with some colored chalk on the stone near the edge of the falls where she can readily use the waters to rinse it clean. So far, there's a small collection of doodley flowers, a sun and some clouds. Tess' art, sadly, is little better than a five turn old's, but she seems to enjoy what she's about, for whatever that's worth.

Of late, Hattie's world has narrowed significantly, thanks to her lifemate, and so she's not exactly the most observant of people when she plods her way from the caverns and towards the bowl falls, her path tracing the course of the channel of water etched into stone. When she reaches a certain point, she unceremoniously and rather clumsily strips off her sandals using her left hand, then steps into the water, hardly careful of the skirts of her yellow sundress. No sooner has she stepped into the current than she sits down on the channel's edge, propping her elbows on her knees. She manages to stay like that for a mere moment, then she dips her uninjured hand into the water to scoop out as much as she can apply to her collarbone as possible. Some women might try it as a method of seduction; she's just a little too overheated to care. Tess must register at the periphery of her senses, for she peers blearily in her direction.

"I've a cup if you'd like it," Tess lifts her voice to offer to the Weyrwoman as if there weren't a strange sight to be seen. She moves without confirmation to dump the small polished wood thing holding the chalks and lofts it carefully, the thing splashing near the older woman. Then she bends her head back to drawing. "When you're done, maybe you'd be able to help me? I can't decide if there should be some summer rain for my flowers," it's wry but perhaps also part genuine given the thoughtful look at the chalk on stone.

Hattie's gaze darts between Tess and the wooden cup, and though she stares at the latter for a little while, she catches it up all the same, to submerge it and unabashedly pour the whole lot of water over her head. She doesn't so much as shiver, nor does embarrassment register as droplets begin to drip their way from frizzy curls and slip down from her temples to eventually be lost beneath the cut of her dress. "Thanks," she drawls, the cup hanging from one finger of her left hand. "Best I can do you is wet footprints, I'm afraid. Not left hand dominant. Why're you doing that, anyway?"

"They say it can be therapeutic," Tess' words are wry, as if she doesn't wholly believe it. "I had to spend months drawing my stick figures to hone my "skills"." Perhaps that's really the source of her amusement. "It works for some people," she allows cheerfully enough. "This seems good, too," she makes gesture to the water. "I heard the rumors about Elaruth," and other things. "How are you doing, Weyrwoman?" The words are respectful, interrogative, but with an inflection indicating genuine concern for the goldrider's well-being.

"Should I be concerned that you need... thera... puting?" Hattie narrows her eyes a little as she produces that last word, but if she's made up a word or got the wrong one, she lets it slide. Gently, she sets the cup the right way up and places it on the surface of the water, to send it back to Tess with a quiet, "Watch out." In-case the waterfall claims it. "I don't think you need rumours about Elaruth anymore." She flaps a vague hand towards where her glowing queen can be seen on one of the higher ledges, pale gold resting comfortably against a not-Bijedth bronze. "I'm just great," she assures with heavy sarcasm. "I might implode. She might implode. Everything might implode. Lots of imploding."

"'Healer, heal thine self,'" Tess intones the phrase she must have read somewhere or otherwise been taught. There's a smile that mixes amusement with just her usual warmth. "You know, early on, and even later, we practice on one another at the Hall. Important to understand both sides. But never fear, they sorted me out long ago," there's more humor for that, good humor. Clearly she has good memories of her time at the Hall. "You know, I've never "seen" an implosion," she begins with feigned thoughtfulness, then ends more seriously with, "but I shouldn't like my first time to be yours, or Elaruth's." She leans far out to catch the cup up with her fingertips before it's gone too far and shake it free of drops. "Is there anything you find that helps you in times like these?" Proddy times? Stressful times? Imploding times? She doesn't specify.

"Do you really believe than anyone is ever truly and completely sorted out?" The sarcasm has mostly bled free of that enquiry, turning into something more curious and genuine, though a faint, cold edge remains. "I figure an implosion's much less dramatic than an explosion and much better contained. Less mess." Hattie tips forward to rest her head on her knees, arms wrapped around them, the bandaged right hitched a little higher than the left, out of the water's reach. "Stay out of the way and wait to be useful again," she says lowly. "What else is there to do? I could wreck the Weyr and my personal life with the happenings of an hour, out of my control. Just have to wait."

Tess's smile holds admission. "No, but I believe we can become better, if we choose to, if never perfect." She sets the cup down on the stone, leaving it there to dry (more or less) while she picks up a muddy red and begins a new flower. "An explosion like what happened in the council room?" The healer's question is gentle and quiet, inviting an answer, but not "pressing" for one. "Do you know how long you'll have to wait? I've heard some dragons have patterns." Others? Not so much.

"Hmm." It's a non-committal sound, difficult to use as evidence to infer whether Hattie is satisfied or disappointed by what she perceives as honesty. Mention of the recent state of the council room makes her press her face all the more against her legs and lazily stretch her arms out before her. Nonchalantly, she supplies, "The sideboard had it coming," and no more commentary than that - nothing particularly incriminating on its own. "Days yet. Not so many, but..." She shrugs. "When I can't string a proper sentence together, you'll know."

"No doubt it did," Tess agrees readily and with evident (if likely feigned) seriousness. "And no doubt you've been meaning to do some redecorating," she adds with a little flourish of the red chalk on stone. "That sounds like a very difficult time. Difficult, too, that you can't just pick up and go on vacation and come back when you're feeling yourself again." She's giving the drawing a thoughtful look. "Does it help to talk?"

"I suppose the opportunity to provide the Woodcraft, Weaver and Vintner Halls with more business was not one to be missed." More droll, that, but then Hattie's too busy sitting up and twisting a little to look up at her lifemate, shielding her eyes with her bandaged hand. "I think this is a vacation for her," she utters just the tiniest bit bitterly. "A vacation from herself. Not that she seems to dislike who she is, or how things are, but she gets a good several days of being everything she isn't." Dropping her head back to her knees she admits, "I don't 'talk' well. And there's nothing I can do about what happens anyway."

"Certainly not." Tess agrees gravely before her lips are threatening to curl back into their natural state. "Just imagine, if you can carve just a little time out of your schedule, I'm sure the Weyrweaver, Weyrwoodcrafter, and Weyrvintner would be pleased to provide you with swatches and samples. "Probably", free of charge." And aren't the best things in life free? The healer's eyes turn to where the glowing queen was indicated before. "Do you think it's stressful for her? Normally, I mean. I've always wondered. Golds, they say, are born for leading. I wonder if that means their riders must be as well, even if they don't know it?" Arguably, there's history that proves that mightn't be the case. "Has a gold ever "not" wanted to lead the Weyr?" She ponders without seeming to seek real answers. It's just interesting to think about. "So if not talking, what "do" you do well? Besides leading and all "that"." She flaps a hand to dismiss the duties. She means on a more personal level.

Hattie allows herself a tiny, wry smile before she sobers again in contemplation of Elaruth. "I know it's stressful for her," is an easy enough acknowledgement now. "Everything's loud and bright and if they hurt, she hurts, and sometimes all she wants is peace and quiet. But she wants to protect them and be there for them, and that instinct must be stronger than the rest." She tucks her head in a little more, unconsciously, like she'd try and fold in on herself. "She doesn't want to /command/ them. Anyone. She wants to look after them." Maybe she's going to stick her head in the water, but all she does is reach into the channel again and lift more out to touch to the back of her neck. "I don't know what I do well. I've only ever done /this/."

Tess is genuinely thoughtful in her contemplation of the Senior's words. "That sounds very difficult. But heavy is the mantle of leadership, I'm told, so it might be universal." Still, it warrants a sigh. "Only ever?" The healer seems surprised, though perhaps because she's still young herself and likes to think she's lived so much in her relatively short life; don't the young usually like to think that? "How old were you when you Impressed?" She asks quietly, curiously.

"Twenty." And then, to clarify that she's aware that twenty turns is a whole lot of living before Impression, Hattie adds, "I was a bossy little bitch at home too." There's no shame in that description of herself; if anything, she owns it, even in her hazy state. "I don't know..." she murmurs a moment later, dismissively. "Sometimes, it's difficult to remember the turns she wasn't there." Even if it's half a lifetime. "Do you remember how you felt before your Craft?"

"Yes," Tess answers without having to think on it. "All I wanted was a life I "chose". Not one others would choose for me. I knew I'd never have that if I stayed in my home." She watches the goldrider for some long moments. "But it does seem a lifetime away already that I was ever going to be just another pawn. I imagine Impression is a more profound experience with more compressed intensity than apprenticing. How was it for you? Finding her? Or her finding you?" However it happened.

"But with some of the same results," Hattie remarks, "though Impression is rather less subject to outside influence beyond... something final." The moment she says that, she presses her forehead into her knees, shoulders slumping, and stays there for a little while, silent, until she exhales suddenly and pushes herself abruptly to her feet. "She found me," she says softly, swallowing down the lump in her throat. "And I should find..." Something? Someone? Somewhere? Whatever she means, she steps out of the water and makes to amble off back the way she came, only this time minus her sandles.

"You think?" Tess is curious. But whatever she might think to say or inquire about next is stilled by the goldrider's movement. "If you need anything, Weyrwoman," is offered by way of parting before the healer is turning her attention back to her own therapy.