Difference between revisions of "Logs:A Pirate On Land"

Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr

The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself.

A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one -- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly tempting stairs.

A spring flurry brings in a little late snowfall, though there is no accumulation as the flakes spiral to the ground on a dizzying breeze.

It's just as Rukbat begins to set that a cloaked figure makes her way out to the lake shore, bucket and long scrubber tool in hand. She finds her own little area, away from other riders and their splashing dragons and settles upon a sizable rock. Not quite a boulder, but close. Azaylia sits and waits, pushing her hood down once she realizes the flurry from on high never quite reaches the ground. It's chilly, but not so much that her long sleeved work clothes don't do the trick, stained and making her look more like a drudge than anything-- if not for her clean state and well-set side braid.

Since her rather unceremonious arrival and eventual escape from the firm hand of High Reaches' healers, Itsy has been keeping a low profile; many of those rescued have returned to whatever counts as home, but not this sailor, and not the boy-- young man-- who so often accompanies her. It's unusual to see her, realistically, and more unusual still to see her without Drex, but tonight she's both present and alone, having waded knee-deep into the freezing water, her eyes closed against the dying light. If she's noticed Azaylia's presence-- or anyone's, for that matter-- she shows no sign of it; hunched forward, face hidden by still-matted hair, she's lost to her own thoughts.

Normally Azaylia wouldn't bother anyone, even if many argue it's within the Weyrwoman's right to do so. But normally, there's not a flurry of bubbles rising up a few feet in front of an unsuspecting young woman. The goldrider leaps off of her rock, "Excuse me? You're don't want to stand there--" It's Azaylia's fault for not noticing Itsy before letting Hraedhyth know that she's ready and waiting. Now, the bubbles are joined by the churning waters and a shadow that may have looked harmless enough, but is now obviously one big thing. Hraedhyth rises from the depths with a spray of air, and if Itsy isn't quick enough to move, she's likely to get drenched.

Itsy is quick... but not that quick; water-resistant, too, but not that water-resistant. One thing she isn't, however, is scared, and though she has to dive to try and get away, it's more out of self-preservation against the freezing, early-spring water than it is about escaping the scary monster. Water cascades down through the sailor's hair, and the worn, shapeless expanse of her clothes, but as she regains her footing, back up towards the shore, now, she turns her head to glance at Azayalia for the first time, for all that her expression remains utterly unreadable.

Hraedhyth is less apologetic than her rider, the gold giving a good full bodied shake before settling in the shallows. Her shallows. "Oh dear, I'm sorry..." Azaylia is already jogging toward the semi-familiar face, in that Itsy was hard to place the first time the Weyrwoman looked over the survivors. "Queens need a lot of room..." The excuse dies with a little shake of her head, "But really, I should've picked another spot. You're not too soaked, are you?"

"I'm fine," answers Itsy, her voice gravelly and surprisingly deep for a woman, rough-edged in a way that makes her sound significantly older than she surely can be. It's coincidence that has her shaking herself off in a manner not so dissimilar from Hraedhyth's, though at least she attempts to avoid shaking too close to Azaylia. "Only water, eh? Not like I didn't know it were here. S'what a coat is for." And hers is relatively waterproof, as much as any can be. "Must make you the weyrwoman."

does seem visibly startled by Itsy's voice, though she wears a polite smile as those dark eyes take her in. "I am. Weyrwoman Azaylia." She motions toward the warrior queen, "Of gold Hraedhyth." She shrugs off her cloak, throwing it over an arm as she murmurs, "I'm terrible with names, or you never gave it." Not as if the two spoke much, even while Itsy was in the infirmary. There had been a lot of people picked up from the boats. "I know you're one of the sailors, at least? Or, daughter of one?" There's genuine interest there, Azaylia's smile quirking with curiosity. "You've decided to stay?"

Azaylia does seem visibly startled by Itsy's voice, though she wears a polite smile as those dark eyes take her in. "I am. Weyrwoman Azaylia." She motions toward the warrior queen, "Of gold Hraedhyth." She shrugs off her cloak, throwing it over an arm as she murmurs, "I'm terrible with names, or you never gave it." Not as if the two spoke much, even while Itsy was in the infirmary. There had been a lot of people picked up from the boats. "I know you're one of the sailors, at least? Or, daughter of one?" There's genuine interest there, Azaylia's smile quirking with curiosity. "You've decided to stay?"

As disinclined towards obvious reaction as Itsy is, she can't stop herself from exhaling an obvious snort at the possibility of being someone's daughter; it has her shoulders straightening, ever so slightly, even if it doesn't actually bring her to her full (not very impressive) height. "Itsy," she says. "I was on the Pirate Queen." There's something about the way she says the ship's name that speaks to her affection for the vessel; she misses her. "Ain't got nowhere to go, just yet. Figure we'll wait it out. For a little while. 'til we can work out a new sitch."

"The Pirate Queen." Azaylia says it differently, slowly, no affection for the vessel itself although she seems awful fond of the name. "Was it painted gold? Or at least had gold trim?" It's a light tease, hardly meant to mock the ship that Itsy cared so much about. "Well met, Itsy. I hope the Weyr has been kind, during your stay." Not a proper question, as the Weyrwoman is sure that it has been. Or else. While she's turned around to gather up her tools for the sudsy task ahead of her, the goldrider can't help but ask, "We?"

Beneath the fall of her hair, Itsy's expression sharpens somewhat, that question apparently not drawing enthusiasm, or, indeed, approval. Rather than answer, she turns her attention to shaking out her hair, then her shirt, her silence awkward except for the way that she's not self-conscious at all, not even a little. "Drex'n'me. We've always been together. Always will be." And now, suddenly, she's staring off towards the bowl, narrowed gaze searching - presumably for this eponymous 'Drex.'

By the time Azaylia turns with her arms full, she's missed that sharp expression as Itsy goes about shaking herself and clothing dry. If the silence is awkward, the goldrider handles it well, walking toward the waiting gold. "Oh, right. Drex." The fact that she remembers his name might be telling, almost as much as the impish curl of her lips. "I thought I saw you two together, but..." Now it's with interest and a touch of caution that she peeks at Itsy from over her shoulder. "...well, it's good to know." Her assumption is a cheerful one, and is probably for the best. "I was always told life on the seas involved good, hard work?" For proper sailors, perhaps.

The glance Itsy shoots Azaylia when it becomes apparent that she remembers Drex is-- well. Not venemous, perhaps, but at least one part startled, and more than one part disapproving. This time, she meets the weyrwoman's gaze square on, her chin lifting in a way that is defiant, stubborn and also full of warning. "We've always been together," she repeats, shortly, as though this were relevant. "Sailing's not for the weak," she adds, then, apparently striving to at least try and be communicative and polite. "It's hard. Hard life. Good life." She plainly misses it.

Though Azaylia doesn't avert her gaze, she has the sense to soften her smile into something far less... mischievous. "Always? Must be close, then." Rhetorical, spoken to let Itsy know that she understands, and that's all there is to it. "Not much to do around the Weyr that's as hard, I imagine." Not unless one enjoyed heavy lifting for the sake of it, or tending to the 'beasts. "If you're itching for some good, hard work, I could always use some help with Hraedhyth?" The bucket is hoisted, but it is very much an offer rather than an order. "You didn't seem to mind her, earlier." Itsy's bravery is rare, even among those who have lived at the Weyr for some time.

Does Azaylia understand? Itsy's not much for letting her emotions show in her expression, and yet there's still something dubious there; clearly, she very much doubts it. She crosses her arms in front of herself, now, briefly outlining spare curves, and then shakes her head. "Got to find Drex," she says. And, stiffly, "Thanks." For what? She doesn't specify. She doesn't wait for a reply, either.

"Sure." Azaylia smiles, giving a casual nod before she finally commits to the task of scrubbing all of Hraedhyth. There's a good reason she's left the chore last, when there's no longer any pressing matters to attend to. "It was nice talking to you, Itsy. Hope you find your way back on the water, soon." A glance over her shoulder, even as she's wading into the icy water, "Both of you." Hraedhyth gives a low rumble, splashing about and muddying up her forelimbs in order to get her rider's attention. The cooing that follows is enough to give anyone a reason to make a hasty retreat.