Difference between revisions of "Logs:Chance Encounters"

Weavercraft Hall, Boll Area(#893RJs$)

    Nestled in a verdant tropical forest, the dazzling white slate of the Weavercraft Hall is protected by two solid wooden gates that are usually left open to admit the warm, balmy air. Draperies frame windows in a soft and lightweight violet brocade, fluttering lackadaisically in the gentle breezes.

    Pern's history is detailed on several brightly-shaded tapestries bedecking the walls, spaced between sconces of glow baskets that provide light when needed. Ornate tables gradually increase in complexity, from the more simple apprentice's tables to the intricate and thickly padded rich purple of the Masters' seating.

    Within, the decorous hall is rife with activity, and sounds issue forth seemingly from every direction - the soft buzz of spinning wheels, the tick-tick of shuttles and looms in use, and the steady hum of stitching.

    Outside, a well-traveled stone path leads toward Southern Boll Hold, a mere few minutes' walk away. Other paths lead toward the breathtaking fields, or to the docks, the gardens, and the nearby beach.

One would probably never consider Edyis a connoisseur of fashion given her paltry wardrobe. Even here at the Weaver Hall on a winter's afternoon amid the hustle and bustle of weavers displaying their wears she has opted for practical and frugal rather than anything with specific style. She seems to be waiting for someone as she studies the bolts of fabric almost longingly, pausing at the shades and patterns which particularly please her.

At the opposite end of that spectrum is Weylaughn, who is presently sporting a fine ensemble in gray and white, with a black, fur-lined and hooded cloak. He's making his way slowly along the various avenues and stalls, pausing here and there to touch this or that or the other with the one hand that's ungloved. His brow is slightly furrowed all the while, however, and there's a seriousness to his features that's ill-suited to him. He doesn't yet notice the recordskeeper - but he's also quite lost in his own thoughts by the time he passes by the very booth she's at.

"Weylaughn?" Dark eyes carry a sense of uncertainty as she glimpses him from the corner of her eye, turning to study more closely as though this would confirm her suspicions. "It is you, I had wondered, what had become of you." Probably not, she can easily guess why she hasn't been about the Weyr more recently, but perhaps it is politeness that has her expression schooled to one of concern.

It's certainly him, as it turns out. Wey's footfalls are arrested by the sound of his name and he half-turns in search of the source of it. Not that there's any real need; the woman's right there, after all and he's not one to forget a voice - or a face. "Ah, yes," he hazards with a quick, tilted smile. "It is a pleasure to see you again, Edyis." A bow is sketched out and, when he straightens, there's a habitual adjusting of cloak and glove - and the other glove is finally pulled on, only to also be adjusted. "I'm sure the Aunties have their theories, if you give them half an ear," he offers with a shallow roll of shoulders. "But, my duties are done at the Weyr. Nothing more; nothing less." It takes him a moment to wonder, "As for you- ah. How have you been?"

"Well they are the sorts to prattle about things that aren't their business." She responds somewhat diplomatically, returning the bow with an effortless curtsey. "So what will you do now?" She tilts her head curiously, "The same as always, busy." Smiling, she brushes her braid over her shoulder.

"Much like the regular folk, I suppose," Wey muses. A glance is spared for the bolts of fabric at the booth, a glance that lingers a beat or two before it re-centers on Edyis. "I'm meeting with a few holders of the smaller holdings in the region for now." He sucks his teeth for a moment. "The Harpers are verifing a few things, so we're at their mercy until they're done. Until then, well." His smile returns, lopsided and boyish and brief. "I tend to Seven Echoes and handle managing it, while Pulhaun works and Mother frets. Busy, in other words, though I'm sure not so much as you are."

Considers him a moment, thoughtfully. "Does it matter if it's legitimized? What you will do if they decide that their truth is everything must be a lie?" Studying the fabrics, "Will Seven Echoes ever be enough for you?"

"It does." There is, if for just the span of those two words, a searing intensity to his gaze. Weylaughn's attention cuts sharply from her to the fabrics again and, this time, he turns to contemplate the weave of this one, or the pattern of that. "If they do find it all false," and those words are forced through a filter of disbelief, "then I will take Seven Echoes after Pulhaun passes." Matter-of-fact, that. It's at her last question that he glances sidelong at her, brow furrowed. "It will have to be. What else is there?"

She makes a small sound of acknowledgement as his gaze intensifies. Thoughtful, "Pulhaun, will pass the hold to you, knowing you are someone else's - offspring?" She chooses the last word delicately. "Most holders prefer someone of their own bloodline take up the role in my experience, which is how my idiot brother ended up with Esvay."

"His sons are ill-suited to it - and Mother runs it, anyway. He'll sign anything she gives him, do anything she tells him." Shoulders rise and fall; the gesture is curiously resigned. "That part has never been in question." He reaches a little to pull a bolt of fabric closer. "The only other one is Ulahaun, but he'd run from the duty, rather than tend to it." A canted look is cast her way, guarded but curious. "Truly? Was there anyone else he could have picked? Or, I suppose, should have?"

"It should have been left in the care of my stepmother, but she is determined to ensure he doesn't run the place into the ground." She explains, with a shake of her head. It's a thoughtful pause. "No I just thought a man of your qualities would find it - unsatisfying." Not that she's offering alternatives.

"So, it is still effectively in her care, if she has to oversee him. Isn't it?" Wey dismisses the topic after that, moving onto the next with a sudden, bright laugh. "A man of my qualities," is more a deadpan recital of the phrase than an outright question. "I was raised to run a Hold. It's what I know, even if it doesn't seem like it." His tilted grin wanes, but only a touch. "It's not as if I could be a crafter of any sort; I'm terrible with my hands. Satisfying or not," and it's likely he wouldn't know the difference, "it's what will need to be done." He gives it a moment, then asks, "What would you have chosen to do? Are you doing it now?"

Edyis laughs, "I wanted harper hall, but buy the time I had the freedom to go, I was too old for it. You could say I did find my passion in my work I suppose." She studies him a moment considering. "I'm still very much a work in progress." A younger blonde appears and waves ecstatically. "I'll leave you to your shopping. My sister is here. "

"I tried my hand at Harper. It- ah. It didn't go well." Weylaughn adds his own laugh in, coupled with a shallow nod of acknowledgment, if not understanding. He pushes away from the booth and considers her for a moment before offering, "As are we all - but you seem more... together, if that makes sense." And, if it doesn't, it doesn't matter. With the interruption of the sister, Wey dismisses everything else to the wayside and issues a bow for the both of them. "Take care." And he'll wait until they're gone before he continues on his way to find whatever it was he was looking for.