Logs:Flower Fairies
| |
|---|
| RL Date: 8 May, 2012 |
| Who: Azaylia, Iolene |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Iolene meets Azaylia beneath a large blossom while she's getting K'del a present. |
| Where: Greenhouse, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Mentions: K'del/Mentions, Tiriana/Mentions |
  |
| Azaylia finds sanctuary from the snow, however light it may be, among the vibrant flora of the greenhouse. She's perched beneath one particularly large blossom, as if the glass above is likely to fail at any moment. Limbs are tucked, one arm keeping a lazy hold on long legs, the other keeping the soggy bread to her lips. Her head is tilted up, gazing into the depths of the weighted flower, jaw chewing lazily. Not far from where Azaylia is, Iolene is rummaging around in the earth with a gardener watching her every move. "Like this?" asks the blonde girl, her wide blue eyes cast behind her to seek out approval and once finding it, smiles widely. "Thanks for your help and for giving me a plant. I hope it doesn't die in my weyr." With that happy thought, Io's impulsiveness rights her up long enough to give the poor old man a hug before she's hugging the clay pot closely to her chest and making her way out. And then, pause. Downward crouch. Peek. Under a blossom. "Hi. Are you a flower fairy?" Bread sightlessly seeks out the mostly empty bowl next to her, Azaylia managing to not get a big mouthful of dirt. No, she successfully sops up the last of her stew, soaked starch disappearing into her mouth as she seems so entranced by the inner workings of the flower. Luckily she's chewed and swallowed by the time Iolene's sudden appearance, squeaking sharply and still managing to choke on just air. "Oh! Am..?" Whimper. "...maybe? What's a flower fairy?" Eyes wide, ignoring her urge to flee in lue of an answer. "A story my grams used to tell me to get me to be quiet for a moment." Iolene continues to crouch, hugging that potted flower to her chest. "Am I bothering you? Or do you think there's enough room under there for me too?" Curiosity takes Io's gaze from Azaylia to the ground, to that now empty stew bowl, and then up to the blossoms and beyond that to the glass windows that bring light reflecting off snow. "It seems cozier here than in the galleries, for sure." Azaylia is overtaken by a sudden giggle. She might sound quite mad at the question, until her face falls and she explains, bashfully, "...you'll be bringing a flower into a- a bigger flower." Which is an answer in itself, though the Herder makes room for Iolene by tugging the bowl and oversized (moldy!) old coat aside. "The galleries? Why would you be..." Should Iolene accept the silent invitation, and move closer, it'll dawn on the young woman. Squeak! And staring, lots of that. Iolene looks down at her pot and then up again, her laugh rises above the bashful explanation. "I guess I am," replies the teenager affably as she crouch waddles beneath the large flower. "Oh, it's warm in there and I like to sink my toes into the sands there for a little bit. It's cozier than a fire in the hearth and a lot of people seem to like hanging out there when winter comes. You should try it sometime. The other day, a group of seamstresses were sewing there and I think some harper was teaching a class." The stares are something Io can ignore (or at least pretend to). Staring is rude. Once again realization is swift and merciless, decending on the young woman and wiping her face clean. Just like before, it doesn't stay that way and a somewhat forced, genuinely shy smile is offered. "O-oh? Is it warmer than in here?" The blossom's hue casts them in a gentle pink light, carried through the petals by the numerous glows outside. Her hands become interesting, watching as her thumbs wrestle amongst themselves. Lips part, question hovering on the tip of her tongue, until the words are forcefully morphed into different sounds. "Ar...en't many people that come in here though. It's peaceful." A glance towards the unconfirmed goldrider. "Except... maybe flower faries?" "It is," confirms Iolene as she looks about again, ducking her lean abdomen down to try and peer out from under the blossom. "More peaceful here I mean, cause there are less people. Is that why you're here?" As for flower fairies? Io tips her head back just long enough for the impish curl of her lips to favor Azaylia for a brief instant. A single finger lifts to her lips, freeing it from hugging the pot long enough to do so. "Shhhh. Grams always said flower fairies run away if you talk about them too much." He'll have to forgive that discontent that strains the very edges of her honeyed touch, or brings the smallest burr into the melodic strains that drift from Ysavaeth to Cadejoth. But, in spite of the discomfort being gravid brings her, there's still warmth and adoration. « Where are you? » Wistful. So wistful. (Ysavaeth to Cadejoth) Azaylia doesn't answer right away, though she looks ready to. Instead, her brow wrinkles in thought, "I guess it is." She sounds mildly surprised. "That, and it's warm. Maybe not toasty," A touch of longing with a splash of curiosity for those cozy galleries mentioned earlier, "But warmer than outside." Lips suddenly disappear, or at least attempt it as they flatten into a silent, sealed line. Mustn't scare the fairies off. So instead, she offers a hushed greeting, "I'm Azaylia." To Ysavaeth, Cadejoth's thoughts are filled with the rush of chilly winds and the tang of snow in the air - but it's real snow, nothing to do with forgotten Iovniath - and he shares it as though they were both hurtling through the skies and enjoying it. « I needed-- » Words fail in the description: adrift, while K'del finds it so difficult to fly, single-armed, restless, caged. But: « Shall I come and keep you company? » For her? Even this freedom he will give up. The finger's lingered longer at her lips, turning into a pointed finger as some clouded light from above reflects through the snow and creates a glimmer on a bead of water. And then it lifts right back to Io's smiling lips. "Io. I came in here to get a plant to put in K'del's weyr. He's still recovering from-," the blonde pauses, the smile dissipating a little, and ends her thought with a very lame, "From his injuries and I thought it might make him happier." There's not even a second between his response and Ysavaeth's, though words aren't quite so forthcoming. Instead, she blends herself with him, lending her heat to the rush of those chilly winds and the snow that falls through the air. It's consent, of sorts, if he'll share what he feels with her. If he'll share his freedom with her. This would be an acceptable, if secondary, form of companionship. (Ysavaeth to Cadejoth) Combined, those snowflakes melt far before they gather around his chains, and the steady drip-drip-drip that might eventuate is flung out into the winds: free! He needs no second suggestion; what was, before, a suggestion of sensation, becomes now a torrent of it, of wind rushing against him/her/them, and wings spread wide to catch it. He shares the view: a grey landscape spread out below, all those clouds above. (Cadejoth to Ysavaeth) To Cadejoth, Ysavaeth isn't flying with him, can't quite feel the sensations he feels or how the snow catches in bronzed wings. And yet. And yet, she's there, a golden streak with her own wings flung outward, the tips grazing his in an action reminiscent of how people hold hands. There she is, below his shadow, sharing in his flight, and interplayed in a series of images is a memory that should be long lost; another shared flight. Brown eyes follow the pointed finger and the smile is no longer forced though it's thoughtfully reserved. There's the potential for growth, however. "Iol-... Io." Azaylia affirms. Unsavory reminder of the Weyrleader's injury, or rather the origin, weighs heavily at the corners of her mouth. She manages to sound optimistic despite it. "I hope it helps. It's a pretty flower." A sigh, "Think that there's anything else to do? Uhm, I mean about maybe making him happier?" Brainstorming under the blossom. "I...," for once, Iolene's at a loss for words and after that pronoun, stumbles into silence. Those blue eyes darken and a slow, measured breath exhales audibly. "I think there's nothing we can really do other than show him we support him. In whatever way." The blonde girl's crouch sinks a little more so that the bottom hem of her tunic brushes into the dirt, and then suddenly, she's animate again, scooting backwards a bit. "Ysav-, I... I think it might be best if the Weyrwoman took a vacation for a while. But-," discomfort unsettles Io further and she scoots back again, "But I shouldn't say that outloud I think. I'll see you around? I want to put this in his weyr before he returns to it." Perhaps it's not a real shared flight, and yet-- it may well be the first he's had, the first in many turns, at least. He shows her how they dive together, how they rise: his heart soars as they do, his affections spilling out in little buzzing wires of sheer joy. Together. Heat, in his thoughts, rises: perhaps he doesn't remember specifics, and yet... (Cadejoth to Ysavaeth) Azaylia seizes on that idea with about as much ferocity as she usually musters. And so, like a frightened kitten, she tenatively bats at it. Just barely. "Va... vacation?" Whisper is a mix of shock and perhaps a touch of... fear? "Can... can she do that? Shouldn't she?" But then that fear flares into her eyes, gaze widening at Iolene's discomfort. Uh oh? "Yes, okay." A swallow, and she musters a smile for the fleeing teenager. "It really is a lovely idea." She then follows, at least poking half of her face out from beneath the blossom. "Tell me how it goes? Later?" And just like that the fairy disappears back beneath her flower. For Azaylia's request, Iolene smiles. "I will. I hope it will make him laugh. Or at the very least smile. Have a good night, Azaylia, flower fairy in training." And then, the leggy, skinny blonde finishes scooting out and wanders out of the greenhouse into the snow and cold with her precious potted plant. And yet... And yet- It ends, the weariness of carrying eggs drifting Ysavaeth off into a light slumber. But not before she requests, « Tomorrow? » Again. Let's do this again. (Ysavaeth to Cadejoth) To Ysavaeth, Cadejoth's understanding is immediate, and though he's not there, physically, to tuck himself against her, there's a promise in his mental touch: he'll be back. « Of course, » he promises, in words, as his mental touch retreats to allow her her rest. « As often as you like. » The lightest brush of a melodic string of bells with the faint clang of chains ringing them seems to sound in the distance, followed by a fleeting warmth that blossoms into a beautiful flower. (Ysavaeth to K'del) |
Leave A Comment