Difference between revisions of "Logs:Changing Up"

A wiry woman, hair greyed throughout, straightens herself, back uncurling and an ungainly push from the ground unbending her knees. Slate eyes look critically down at the hemline of the skirt, before a dry voice advises, "You may think it needs to be shorter, but shorter is less in style this season and you've the winter to think about. If you pair it with a nice set of heels the tanners could cobble together for you, it should be about the right length for winter gather fun." And before the Polaris greenrider can protest, Maris flickers fingers, turns her back to start writing in a hide, "I've an appointment you've run into. We'll speak again when next I fit you."

It's a cozy little room, Maris' quarters, the weaver apparently preferring her own room to the clutter of the workrooms. Not that the clutter here is any better, but it's cozy. It's home. Everything is in its place and that's happy making for people far too set in their ways to change. By the closed door in the hallway, there's a bench with a fabulously embroidered cushion atop it and a small stack of 'reading' supplies; where 'reading' is in quotes simply because they're more bound together sheets of designs. There's a fire in the hearth and the distinction between work area and sleeping area is made by a heavy tapestry.

If the weaver's impatient, Leova's had practice with not seeming so. Practice, even, with not being so. Arriving some minutes before she was due, after a glance flicked the other greenrider's way, she'd had a token look at the designs and settled into jotting notes on her slate. For this, she's as simply clad as ever: boxy tunic, trous, riding boots with recently-cleaned soles. While she waits until that greenrider's moved past to stand and approach the weaver, amber eyes seek Maris out well before then. It's been a while.

Slate meets amber briefly, in a throw away glance behind her shoulder and a careless gesture to the sitting area next to the pedestal. However short, that split second glance somehow conveys sentiment: welcome, relief, and a distinct warmth that's fleeting. The paperwork Maris works on is finished with a neat line through a final 't', and then she's turning, hands braced to the table to consider Leova in a long, silent appraisal. It's a dance played as often in their infrequency of seeing each other: the loser? Whoever speaks first.

The greenrider approaches, but doesn't sit. Rather, she pivots once Maris looks to her, a slow motion that takes her full circle: yes, this is how she looks. Still. Cropped hair and all, though it's less sun-rusted this far into the Turn. She doesn't favor the one scarred hand, nor hide it from the weaver's gaze. And since she doesn't mind losing, not for this: "Have plans for Turnover?"

"Oooh," the brittle voice smooths with that elongated syllable, trailing off into a breathless exhale of the mildest triumph. She won, see. "You know me," she doesn't, but the facade is always nice, "I'll be shacked up with one of the uncles who can still manage to navigate a woman's body." There is, of course, a healthy dose of wry humor infused into this statement. Maris pushes herself off the table and comes up a few steps from Leova, making a circular perimeter around the greenrider, making a little sniff here and reaching out to curl a lock of that cropped hair about her pinky before releasing it. "I see children haven't ruined you entirely."

Does Leova get a bonus, when she lets Maris win? "Good luck with that," the greenrider says quite wryly in her turn, the more so for having the luxury of a weyrmate who's technically an uncle if not the decrepit variety. But. She stills at the touch. Turns her head. Regards Maris, quiet. Until, "No, but give them time. How is your grandson?"

"He hasn't managed to impregnant all the girls at the Farmercraft, for which I'm thankful. And you should be too. The world does not need to be populated by a litter sprung from his loins. They'll rue the day when they denied him the opportunity to be Searched by Igen." There's a story there that doesn't get told. Maris eases back, her gray eyes still in constant appraisal of the woman before her and then finally smiles, deepening the well-aged wrinkles about her face. "Did I mention? You should be saluting me now, Vrianth's rider. The biddies at the Hall have finally approved my promotion. Honorary, no doubt. I imagine they think I'll fade off into the sunset with my new found Mastership."

"Thank you, Faranth," the dragonhealer duly murmurs. Lifts her eyes skyward, even, or at least to Maris' ceiling. Then to Maris, not lifted at all. She has a one-cornered smile to match the other woman's, even if what lines she does have don't measure up. "Congratulations. Not going to send you off, are they? Somewhere warm? With sunsets twice a day."

"It may come as a shock to you, greenrider of a Weyr, but such cold assignments are not for the weak of heart and not as popular as one might think." Maris gestures to the pedestal when it becomes clear Leova isn't going to sit. "They're probably more than happy I will stay right where I am, was born, was raised, will die, rather than mess with their Hall politics." The eye roll doesn't manifest in her actual features, but it's thickly ladden in her tone. "Are sunsets twice a day something you might be looking for though, m'dear?" A rolled measuring tape appears from a pocket, released to unroll and swing like a yoyo-less yoyo near her knees.

Leova does remove her boots, first, tucking the laces neatly beneath their tongues. Her socks are, as ever, darned where once they had holes. Upon mounting the pedestal she stands straight, though she does keep her feet her shoulders' width apart and one hand automatically clasping the other wrist behind her hips. "Good 'nough. None of those for me, no, though this time of winter... would like to actually see one, hm? Got a good ledge for it, but no." Silence, for a moment. "Might be changing up my duties some, though." She doesn't have to say, just between them. They know. "Might affect my clothes. U'sot wants me to make a decision. Haven't talked to Taikrin yet."

"Moreso than a child does?" Maris brushes her thumb lightly against what might have once been a milk stain. It's fleeting and mostly on the way for her hands to go about Leova's body in order to start getting measurements. The numbers are never said aloud. They're not even written down until she's done, which she isn't just yet. But they're always precise. "Lift." Her arms presumably, as Maris' hands come up along the sides of the greenrider's torso. "And what does your better half think?"

Leova tenses, forcibly relaxing a moment later. She's wearing, as ever, the tight binders. A shake of her head is her reply, whether Maris needs it or not. Also as ever, she follows directions. Lifts. Waits. "She is not keen on that idea." As ever. "Too much waiting around. Flying without me, it's not the same." Though the weaver hadn't asked, "He likes it. I'd be around more. We could have lunch more regular-like. More responsibility, though, filling in when it's needed. Like with Cadejoth." She makes her grimace brief. "And knows that if Vrianth's not happy," ain't nobody happy.

"The life of a rider sometimes reminds me of marriage," remarks Maris. "Except your partner doesn't always progress past the maturity of a teenager. It was never the life for me." The bindings allow the weaver to touch a little more closely, to get the measurement all the tighter; knowing her client. "I have something that might interest you. If you're interested."

"Mm." She's not, quite, smiling. "If you think it might. Worth a look, to be sure." Leova adds, closer to neutral than reluctant but only just, "Thought about changing things up."

Maris pats Leova's cheek in a motherly fashion, with just that splash of maternal condescension, the kind that's not really superior or ill-meant, but somehow all-knowing. A smile creases the old woman's features once more as she departs Leova's side to go towards the large wardrobe on one side of the room and opens it. Rifling through the various fabrics, the now Master pauses, gently caresses one and pulls its hanger out: a lovely champagne concoction with shimmering gold highlights threaded into the chiffon-esque fabric. "It'll need to be taken in around the waist, you've lost quite a bit since our last venture. But I could have it ready for Turnover. For whatever you and your man," the emphasis is slight, perhaps teasing, "Decide to do then. I hear there's a winter ball at Bitra."

Leova doesn't object the way she might have done fifteen Turns ago, twenty, twenty-five. Thirty, nearly. Nor does she watch Maris move away, looking instead into the middle distance. Until Maris speaks. Then she looks. That nearly-thirty-ago Leova may not be there anymore. Twenty-five-ago has a certain repressed longing in her eyes. Today's says, "It looks rich for my blood." She has no Blood.

"Consider it a loan. It was my final project as a journeyman. It deserves to breathe and see life. I expect it back in one piece afterwards. Please," Maris adds, "Don't stand too close to the hearth. Dance for all the turns I haven't been able to out of honor for my age." As if Maris doesn't dance anymore. "It should suit your figure. You'll let me know if adjustments should be made. There's a built in support system." The dress, she drapes over the side of the couch and she returns, presumably to renew her measurements: arms, neck, and inner thighs left.

How many women are wandering around the Weyr with a figure that this dress would suit? With the coloring, likewise? The longing vanishes beneath Leova's deliberate deliberation, and slow appreciation, and agreement. "I won't say no. Thank you, Maris." She swallows once, and then suddenly Maris may be able to measure her thighs, but not elsewhere because her hand is over her face.

This is new. So new that for a moment, a tangible perplexity hangs in the air as Maris's expression twitches with indecision of what to do: continue and measure, pretend not to notice, or... an arm slips about Leova's shoulder, slipping unobtrusively and then descending with the lightest feather touch. It then lifts so calloused fingers can pet through the greenrider's hair. She's quiet, the new-made Master, and takes a step back, giving the once Tillekian space. She waits.

She gasps, a hiccuping noise that she strangles before it can become a sob. Her head stays bowed as Maris steps back. She nods. She lifts her hand. Even then, it takes Leova a minute before she looks back. She wears no eye makeup, no makeup at all, and so it has not smeared.

For a weaver, Maris lacks the expected niceties of handkerchiefs, but she does have scrap fabric. It's within reach, just right there, and yet-... The weaver holds out a hand, taking the liberty to reach out and grip Leova's hand. Her fingers are strong, the callouses running deep from her finger tips to the palm. They're rough, working people's hands, a touch of the reality of Maris' life beyond the facade of put together attire and carefully cultivated exteriors.

Leova's is the scarred hand, pale lines now against the brown. It has calluses too, despite the time spent oiling Vrianth. They have that in common. The woman says to the other woman, quietly, "Maybe I don't have to disappear anymore." Any word could be weighted. None of them are. None except, "Thank you. Let's take it slow." Except for that dress, that night.

Take it slow. Even without the desire evinced by Leova, Maris is the type to be slower than normal. Measurements are taken, small talk made of Turnover plans and discussions of necklines and hemlines and what the greenrider previous to Leova wanted -- all very nonchalant but gauging nonetheless. And when the hour is up, the dress passed on with a not-normal-to-them hug, one-handed thought it might be. "Take good care of it. Shine at Bitra, let them ask who it's made by and let's give those dust-gatherers at Weaver Hall have something more to worry about."

Leova will, she promises more with her expression than with words. She'll let Maris know how it went, said in words but only a few. In the end, she'll also leave on time. Even with the gift of a borrowed dress, with a hug, with a held hand... some things just can't be allowed to change.