Logs:Stare
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 17 June, 2013 |
| Who: Azaylia, H'kon |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: H'kons gonna H'kon, but Azaylia doesn't have to like it. |
| Where: Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Weather: Heavy rain in the middle of winter only means that the temperature is only a few degrees above freezing; it's more miserable for the soaking torrents. |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions, Edeline/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Backdated and finished on gdocs. |
  |
| Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr With its entrance located between the kitchen and the living cavern, this tiny bubble cavern is cozy, always kept warm and is filled with comfortable chairs and a small round table. At the far end, there's a hearth, outlined in ruddy, aging bricks, where a pot of stew simmers in the evening hours. Generally quiet, the nighthearth is the haunt of insomniacs and those seeking quiet from the bustle of daily Weyr life. Though there's stew on the fire, the nighthearth is abandoned by those who seek a more hearty meal in the living cavern. There's an unspoken appreciation for being able to fill their bellies: they should enjoy it while it lasts. It leaves Azaylia without much company, drenched cloak hanging by the entrance with a small puddle beneath it. The comfortable chairs are ignored, a sacrifice she's willing to make in order to sit as close as she is to the roaring flames. Warming her hands around a mug, the goldrider's forearms are perched on her raised knees, warm dress and leggings leaving little concern for modesty as unfocused eyes stare at the slithering shadows on the cavern wall. And then there are those who are caught out in the weather still, due either to poor timing or an unfortunately rigid sense of duty. Either way, H'kon comes in late for supper. His leathers are soaked through, and his gloves are sticking enough to his hands that, even by the time he's abandoned the line for food in favour of the warmth of the hearth, he's still jerking his elbows about. But it's H'kon. Even when he approaches the fire, perhaps to see if he can dry the stickiness out, he's aware of the, "Weyrwoman," and accords her a deep nod as well as space enough that she's in no danger of being hit in the head. Green eyes are on the hearth itself, though. With most of her flank and back aimed at the hearth, Azaylia is able to watch H'kon's jerky approach. She turns back to the wall, careful not to spill the contents of her mug as she scoots back with the heels of her feet. After silently offering him the most space, "H'kon." No nod, but a flicker of a smile. Easy silence floods the moment after, the goldrider adjusting her gaze off to the side so that she's not staring at the brownrider's knees. An afterthought, "There's a pot of klah on the table. Or, water for tea." Never mind the stew itself, a stack of clean bowls resting on the mantel. In the end, the fire doesn't help H'kon in the least. The glove comes off by sheer force, slapping the back of the hand that's pulled it, though it can't escape the grip. H'kon's fingers, beneath, are not quite pruny; still, he holds up his hand for inspection, working it open and closed, watching softened skin. Before that hand is allowed really any time to warm, it's grabbing its own glove, and the other, by the cuffs, and pulling. Round two. "I will see to klah," comes through teeth clenched in the indignity of the fight, "soon." Too much motion to ignore, Azaylia's brown eyes flick up to watch the brownrider struggle. She doesn't celebrate his success in freeing one hand beyond draining the last of her tea, placing the mug aside in order to push up onto her feet. Rather than pour him a mug of klah during his struggle, the weyrwoman closes the distance between them an expression that wars between determination and dull resignation. There's nothing forceful in the way she bats at his ineffective hand, reaching to pinch the leather tips of index and ring finger, "Now pull." The wrinkled top of his glove stays that way when H'kon drops his naked hand, and the empty glove it holds, off a bit to the side. There's a ruddiness that takes to his cheeks, beneath the stubble, but any protest from the brownrider is made only by virtue of his Face. And sets his jaw, and pulls. When the friction between leather and skin gives way, the glove wrinkles do flatten. H'kon can just nod, an almost avian bob of his head, just one time. "Do you need klah?" is a sort of grudging thanks. Looking to her mug brings a correction of, "Or tea." A glimpse of the Face begets the Stare, softened only by the downward tilt of her chin: really? Once the leather finally releases its sticky grip, Azaylia is quick to hand the limp thing back to its owner. Her own nod is much smoother, short, "Tea, please." Static is smoothed away with the renewed distance between them as she turns to fetch her mug. There are a few pouches of leaves sitting next to the kettle, metal hot to the touch, a promise that its contents are still warmed despite how much time has passed. Despite the temptation of stubborn silence, "Sweeps?" H'kon carefully folds the gloves together, and tucks (well, shoves) them into the pocket of his sopping jacket. That, at least, he can rid himself of without help, for all the arms turn inside out, rolling easily until they hit the seams of the shoulders. "Hm," is an affirmative, paired with a curt nod. The pile of wet leather is left on the floor - well away from Azaylia's seating space - and, seemingly more comfortable with the sweater that's soaked only at the collar and base, H'kon reaches for her mug. Only once he's filling those mugs does he give a sharp-edged mutter of, "Tillek has proven wet, but in no other imminent danger." Morbid to his humor, "Too bad we can't say the same for the Weyr." Though it is certainly wet. If Azaylia regrets those quiet words it doesn't show, wearing only the weight of those interrupted thoughts in lidded gaze and set mouth. A shift in the slant of her lips as he fills her mug, "Thank you." Meanwhile, each teabag is brought up for inspection, detecting the flavors offered with a curious sniff until she decides on a dark, spiced brew. "Did you see Lady Edeline?" Not too odd a question, these days. H'kon's face remains set, from the beginning of the pour for Azaylia's mug (and he does fill hers first) through the filling of his own. It stays on his face when he hands her the water, and when he cups his mug in his fingers, letting the warmth of the clay of which it was made warm and dry them. "I did not. The weather did not lend itself," answers her question, spoken quickly, then done. In the same manner, but only once he's started to move away from the tables, "Imminent implies something instantaneous." His eyes sweep over available chairs. "I do not believe that is the case here." Rather than leave the tea to steep in peace, Azaylia steadily dunks the bag in and out of the darkening water. "Probably for the best." She accepts his answer, not willing to give it more thought than that. With H'kon rescued and her reward currently brewing, the weyrwoman could leave the man to his drink without guilt. Instead, slow steps follow his path towards the chairs she had snubbed earlier, "It could be." If the Acting Weyrwoman were to suddenly wish it, for whatever reason. The longer it takes the brownrider to find a seat, the more appealing escape seems to the weyrwoman. "Well," another dunk, watching the dark cloud taint the rest of the cup, "She could try." A casual, if belated agreement that what looms over their home isn't instantaneous. H'kon's quest for a chair is not long-lived. A suitable thing, hard-backed and short-legged, is found, from which he can see the pile of leathers he'd left to dry. His face twists a moment, conflicted, and when he lowers himself to sit, there's a pause before he hits the seat. In the end, it's left, and any discontent is communicated only by, "Perhaps not instantaneous, but... present, at least." The brownrider wriggles carefully until he's found a comfortable position, and lifts the (unspilled) mug. "Seen," lags behind, after Azaylia's words, lags enough that it's half-covered in the cautious scowl that fits to the man's face. There is no answer for her beyond that. H'kon just watches. Carefully. By comparison, Azaylia's descent is much more smooth despite being plagued with her own halting hesitation. Her choice isn't terribly close to the brownrider, but it won't make conversation too difficult, either. She's content to give a quick nod at his words, setting the mug in her lap as she turns back to watch the fire in silence. H'kon's allowed his long, wary stare, uninterrupted by the weyrwoman for a generous amount of time. Even if his attention eventually falls elsewhere, the sensation of being watched is one that's difficult to brush off. There's no patient sigh, though it wouldn't be out of place in preceding her quiet, "What?" But it doesn't shift, that attention. H'kon probably doesn't notice it, cold and tired and more internal than usual, and occasionally working the muscle of his jaw as he thinks over whatever mass of everything is running - or more, plodding laboriously - through his head. "Hm?" answers Azaylia's eventual interjection. "Hm," is more thoughtful, and H'kon lifts his hand, and adjusts his legs once again. "There is little obvious," comes after it may've seemed those sounds were the closest he'd get to words, "as to where the right ground lies." That first hum has Azaylia's head turning, probably not terribly surprised that he's still at it. The teabag is rescued from the cooling water, uncomfortable heat tolerated as she drains it with a squeeze of her fingers. "I don't know what to say." The sentiment is genuine. What will remain unclear is whether her words are of resigned as far as the brownrider is concerned or because his well-spoken meaning is lost on her. The goldrider's expression isn't much help, somber mask unchanging as she rises to discard the bag and find some sweetner. "There are times," H'kon muses, his gaze finally breaking off in favour of travelling to the mug in his hands, "when there is, indeed, little to be said." The arch of an eyebrow might be for a comment made quietly to him, or simply for his own afterthought on that statement. H'kon, naturally, does not bother to explain. He leaves another great space of silence after that last statement, getting so far as to lift his mug, and then holding it steady, just before his lips. It drops back to his knee, and he turns green eyes back upon the goldrider. Three spoonfuls of sweetner won't make the conversation anymore palatable, but it does wonders for the spiced brew in her mug. Azaylia doesn't ask after an explanation, returning to her seat and bringing the tea up for her to quietly inhale the steam. This time, while H'kon's gaze finds her, she's drawn back into the crackling flames. Sip. The quiet isn't comfortable, but stubborn on her end-- not yet ready to leave and not willing to just because of the cryptic brownrider. There's a moment, just fleeting, where the brownrider seems ready to stay, staring at Azaylia, for the rest of the evening. But some thought jars him from the rut that was threatening, and H'kon lifts his chin sharply, a movement almost akin to one of Arekoth's. "At any rate. If you or Hraedhyth should require us... Arekoth and I will hear." The sip of klah does little for the bit of palor that touches his face. And already, the dripping brownrider makes to stand. Hypnotized by flames not of her lifemate, Azaylia's stiff defiance relaxes into a more natural apathy. Her shoulders bunch at the sudden movement out of her peripheral, head turning only when H'kon speaks. Now it's her turn to watch, eyes alert even as she attempts to regain some of that ease from before. Though her voice is soft, the words themselves are firmly put, "I only want riders who will trust their weyrwoman." Singular, and without the weight of acting, leaving little mistake for which one she means. Standing doesn't give H'kon all that much height on the weyrwoman; his gaze on her hardens, but there is certainly nothing of a loom or condescension in it. After a moment's reflection: "I do not recall a time when I should not have put trust in your action, weyrwoman." It's blunt; there's no emotion of discontent (though he surely wouldn't deny it if asked), and it's no rebuke. H'kon seals it with a sharp nod. Azaylia's focus climbs the short distance from H'kon's jaw to his eyes, meeting hard green with browns that flash a fire's reflection. "Good." Somehow defiant, despite the agreement. "I won't give any reason for that to change." The weyrwoman leans back in her chair, shoulders dropping with a slow, silent exhale. Though the hearth claims her attention once again, its heat is no longer held in her gaze. It's just as he's turning that something in H'kon's expression shifts from that of stern decisiveness to bring far more weariness into it, viewable, if at all, only from the side where already it will be distorted into something, anything else. The rest of his movements, finding his gear, dropping off the mug, heading to Arekoth without even trying to put on wet leathers once again... the lot are on the fringes, separate from the exchange with Azaylia, and he treats them accordingly, keeping his attentions focused on the task at hand, and nothing else. |
Leave A Comment