Difference between revisions of "Logs:Thunder with a chance of falling ceilings"

Since the tithe arrived at the Weyr, it's been difficult to pin Hattie down to one particular location in the caverns with any certainty, for when she might normally expected to be in one place, some task or another related to all those goods has drawn her elsewhere, with little time to simply converse with anyone. This afternoon, the state of the council room table says much of the hectic nature of days past, for all sorts of lists and grids of numbers, and checklists and correspondence from various holders lie scattered across its surface in quite the contrast to the way the Weyrwoman usually works. Maybe that's why she's currently pawing through them all, plainly unable to locate what she wants.

As below so above -- the roil of thunderheads across the range today has been as unpredictable as the Weyrwoman. A respite in the heavy autumn rainfall has allowed a chance for a new-come rider to make his way down to the bowl level relatively undrenched. Out of the thunder, in to a storm of papers. At least D'shal is no threat of dripping, the shoulders of his flight jacket dry. There are blank spots where patches and knot have been pulled off and not yet been replaced. His scarf, though, is red, as is the lining of the helmet that's been tugged off and stuffed under his armpit. A purposeful step slows in the hall, stops as he comes to the threshold. He clears his throat, the force of it betraying a touch of congestion in his chest.

For just a moment, it looks like Hattie has successfully located the particular document that she's looking for, but then just as soon as elation strikes, so does disappointment arrive to dash hopes and see her abandoning the hide back to the table. She's shaking her head and muttering something under her breath just as she realises that she's no longer alone with the sea of numbers and inventories, and she quickly straightens from her inspection of all those hides, hands moving to smooth unnecessarily at her skirts. "Can I help you?" is less question and more interrogative demand, until a second or two gives her the chance to realise that the figure in the entryway is not such a familiar one. "Oh. You're probably looking for N'muir, aren't you? You're the new one."

The elation, or perhaps the loss of it, yields a cocking tip of the new one's chin as hazel eyes drift across the sea of records. Demand is sure to bring his attention back. It also starts an answer rising breath in his chest, though the assumptions that follow are merely answered by a nod that starts slow and ends with curt surety. "D'shal, ma'am. Kuquuth's." His boots scuff a moment on stone, weight shifting, before the swing of his stride restarts to carry him into closer conversational distance. "I'm just getting settled." He dodges a brief scan of the room, as if he expects the Weyrleader may materialize now that he's been named. "My timing could be better," he supposes as his gaze skims again across the papers on return. His smile barely touches his mouth, but it's present more deeply about his eyes in a there-and-gone flash.

"D'shal," Hattie echoes, making it sound quite as if she required the reminder, whether she did or not, and whether /that/ is any attempt at belated politeness, the offering of her hand is, steps taken back from the table to approach the bronzerider instead. "Everyone's timing could be better, these days, so you're not alone," she dryly remarks, her smirk one that's truly half wry grimace. "Hattie," the Weyrwoman provides in turn. "Elaruth's. It's my queen's babies that you'll be tending to first, if we're to assign you as you have been for the past few turns. I'm sure you've heard all the stories about the clutch that we were expecting that didn't happen, but I can assure you that there will be eggs this time." She glances in the direction of the ledge, or maybe it's just towards her own weyr. "Unless Elaruth has simply put on an inordinate amount of weight."

D'shal jams at the tuck of his helmet beneath his arm while their steps bring them together, assuring it won't fall as he accepts her hand. "Pleasure," is intoned mannerly-enough in reply to her introduction, despite the low-gravel mumble of his voice and the lack of grace to be found in the workman's shake. There's a trace of congestion's husk to the chuckle that adds to the curve of his mouth. "That's... reassuring." It's a bit of an echoing smirk he wears, dropped into a lull of semi-awkward by rumor and plump golds. "Kuquuth," offers quick recovery, "he takes a real shine to weyrlings. So if the Weyrleader would put us there." Yeah, that'd be good, moues his mouth. Hazel eyes are drifting again towards the table. "You have been having some luck, huh?" he might have heard rumor. "Looks likes lots's come in for winter though." A lot of papers, at least.

Dragon> To Elaruth, Kuquuth is a casual amble of presence, awareness brushing by as if on the path of some greater journey. But not /accidental/ -- no, there is /intention/, though it comes wordlessly. Tribute given without any accompanying demand.

"In this case, 'lots' is just about enough, so I should warn you not to expect lavish fare at every meal," Hattie answers, taking a step or so back towards the table, where she begins to look through the hides again, though her attention remains mostly with D'shal. "You'll have to speak with the Weyrlingmaster too, I'd expect. At the moment, her three long term assistants are female - and greenriders, all of them, including her - so you'll have to see whether she's prejudiced against other colours or it's just coincidence." There's the slant of deadpan teasing to both voice and expression. "I've met bronzeriders who consider teaching weyrlings to be beneath them, so I hope you'll be a refreshing change from that."

Dragon> To Kuquuth, Elaruth makes no demands of her own, not for attention, nor fawning respect, and acknowledges the new presence in her Weyr with the brush of pale mist, Kuquuth's mental touch logged for further investigation later. Maybe when she's not so sleepy.

"What, only one bottle of Bended red at every table?" D'shal can do deadpan, too. There's assessment buried in the peek he gives the Weyrwoman as he offers the tight curl of mouth that assures he's joking. It all ebbs away to a more comfortable reserve as he considers the weyrlingmaster situation Hattie outlines and the humor with which she does so. "Yeah, I've met 'em too." The bronzerider stands still even as she moves back towards the table, one arm hanging and a thumb having found hook in his pocket after releasing her hand. His attention is a bit restless, touching often on the chaos across the table between following her motions. "Know where I might find her?" Of course, "the Weyrleader might have some procedure," he supposes.

Hattie plucks another hide from the table to give it closer inspection, and maybe it turns out to be the one that she's looking for, since a small smile curls in one corner of her mouth and the hide is not relinquished back to get lost among its brethren. "I expect she's spending a lot of time in the weyrling complex by now," she hazards. "Other than that, her weyr is near there and she drills with Jasper. One of her wingmates might be able to tell you better than me." She squares her shoulders, easing them back as she tips her head up to seek out D'shal's gaze. "I suppose I should ask if you have any expectations? Of the Weyr. Or of me, I guess. I can't promise that either of us will meet them, but I can /ask/."

"Jasper," D'shal nods. "Alright." Half lost to his own thoughts, it takes the bronzerider a beat to pull up and meet Hattie's eyes with level focus. He lets a back slide of a heel square up his posture to hers and straighten the line of his spine. From his pocket, his fingers lift to pull his scarf a little more loosely from around his throat as he presses together thin lips and give a little shake of his head. "Three squares, a dry place to sleep." That would probably fall under 'the Weyr.' His attention is again lost briefly as he drops a scan over the Weyrwoman. There's a vague smile on his features as unworried hazel eyes settle back upon brown. "Don't need a lot. A dresser might be nice. But, I'm thinking, stores might not be real excited this seven. Having an extra nose poking about and all."

"I suspect you would be better off asking for that during the months in which we assist the Woodcraft, if it turns out that there's nothing appropriate in stores." Hatte's smirk surfaces again just before she amends, "You might get the raw material from which to have one made, anyway. Shevena might just flat out kill you if you disturb the sorting process right now." Where 'Shevena' sounds an awful lot like 'I', acknowledged by the sharp line of her lips and something close to humour lighting her dark gaze. "And, well, if your weyr starts leaking, then we probably have more serious structural issues to worry about. Do let me know if /that/ occurs."

"Yeah, could do that." You know, given the threat to his life and all. It puts greater spark to hazel eyes as they reflect the light in her dark gaze. A slim lick of his tongue leads the brief curve of a deeper smile. "Don't need to go digging for trouble. Yes ma'am, I'll be sure to." D'shal takes it as a smooth transition, unearthing things in Stores to warnings of cavern collapse. There's rumor enough, surely, to leave his humor a bit wry on that score as he lingers a slanted look on Hattie while his weight shifts. Speaking of keeping his nose out of trouble, "I'll leave you to that," is only sort of a question as he acknowledges her found paperwork with a point. "Thanks for the advice, Weyrwoman."

"Welcome to Fort." Hattie's voice is still somewhat dry, as if her humour just doesn't have another mode than doesn't lean towards faintly sarcastic, which might well only be further confirmed when she adds, "Where there's a ninety percent chance that the ceiling won't fall in on you." You know... given that one time. "Good afternoon, D'shal." She'll let him see himself out, and she won't be far behind, not now that she's found that errant hide.