Logs:I'm Blooded
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| RL Date: 9 August, 2011 |
| Who: Nathalia, Iolene |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Iolene finally meets someone that actually angers her and that she might dislike. It's like a momentous occasion in a weird weird reversed way. |
| Where: Barracks, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
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| It was not that she was hiding, honest, the Smith turned candidate had been chased off her duties for the second time by a very angry seamstress and laundry woman. Instead it seems the smith has taken to sitting on her cot, an assortment of Boll sea shells sitting strewn about along with hundreds tiny metal rings and a set of jewel crafter tools. She seems intent upon working the rings into a chain. When she's not in all her remedial classes for learning how to be a proper person of Pern, Iolene is traipsing the grounds, finding some little unknown little space or some such. And when she's not doing that, she's curled up by the hearth reading, for yes, the ignorant little exile apparently does know how to read. So it's there, while Nathalia sits working rings onto a chain, that Io's claimed, a blanket thrown over her frame, so much so that only her fingers peek out to turn pages at rapid intervals. Somewhere between closing loops In her little piece of chain, and eyeing which of the sea shells would best be suited to the piece Nat does notice the blonde girl. "Good day for reading, if you have a rest day. . ." The girl notes cheerfully. "What are you reading?" Loops go through and an appropriate length of delicate chain has been prepared. Setting the work aside she starts sorting shells. Her concentration breaks with such a direct inquiry - there is, after all, not that many people reading at this hour in the exile/candidate barracks - and Io's chin lifts, eyes tracking quickly to where the voice came from. The book she holds closes with the softest thump and her two hands press against the hard cover in an action akin to a prayer. "Nothing really. Just something to pass the time mostly. Poems? I think is what the recordskeeper called them. Songs without music," is from the self-satisfied nod Iolene grants that last statement what she's decided they are. "You?" The question is polite. Restrained. Un-Io-like. Her lower angle makes Nathalia's work look similar to picking lint off linens. There's a smile for poems. "Harpers are amazing creatures, to paint such pictures in words." The smith nods in return. "I was told never to show my face in the laundry or attempt to mend again." She laughs a bit sheepishly. "So I thought I would work on a few pieces of jewelry in an attempt to replenish my purse." She smiles, "Nothing fancy just some chain work with sea shells I got in Boll." The mention of shells moreso than the jewelry piques Iolene's interest enough so she's pushed forward onto her knees, blankets draped about her shoulders like a mantle, so she might get a better look at the offerings on Nathalia's cot. The book falls to her side, held loosely by the tips of her fingers as she does a knee shuffle closer. The girl's dark blue eyes light up, "Pretty!" and a quick smile finds the candidate, slipping fractionally as she catches sight of the designated white knot that separates the two girls in rank. "Are you from Boll?" Nat smiles Clearing a spot should the girl wish to clamber up and get a closer look. "No I am from the Smith Hall, and Igen Weyr before that. But The rider who searched me and her Weyrmate took me down there a few months back." It is now that Nat notices the absence of the white knot at the girl's shoulder, though nothing changes in the warmth of her expression. "Are you from the Island?" She asks. A long beat passes where stilled silence clouds Iolene's all too thin features. "You- you're allowed to leave the Weyr?" What questions Nathalia might ask are ignored, possibly not even heard, as the young blonde latches onto this idea. Nat lifts a brow at the response but she offers a tentative nod. "Candidates may so long as they are accompanied by a rider, though I imagine with the eggs so close to hatching they might frown on going too far." It seems her interest in leaving though cements at least a partial Identity of the girl, and there's a thoughtful expression on her features. "You've not been outside the weyr before?" "I went to the gather," responds a faintly defensive Iolene, unaware of her slip. "I'm not sure I liked it very much. There were too many people and too much noise, but," There's always a but. "The Hold's closer to the ocean than the Weyr is and if I sat out on the rocky sands, I could almost imagine- being home." If she wasn't aware of her unintentional outing before, surely this was on purpose. The dreamy quality of her rich voice dissipates in her next words, a clarity returning to both vocal timbre and gaze as she looks back to Nathalia, smile at ready. "What's Boll like?" Nathalia frowns at mention of the gather. "Can't blame you if you didn't, People aren't always kind." She notes. "You miss your home don't you?" More a statement of the obvious, but there's a softness to the words. At the question the smith leans back thoughtfully. "It's warm for one, The water, the air, and the sand. Probably a bit warmer than here in the summer I'd take a guess. The water's clear, not green and dark like at the hold , and such a shade of blue." Even the smith can not help but sound a little dreamy speaking of the place. " It's alive too, fish swimming everywhere, Firelizards darting about on occasion. Tall trees that don't really have branches up top, just huge leaves." She smiles. "People aren't always kind?" Sudden confusion reigns in Iolene's voice, and the rest of what Nathalia says slips away, in one ear and out the other, despite the fact she's asked for the girl's assessment of Boll. "What do you mean by that?" From standing on her knees, Io drops back down, not far from her original position, to sit, legs slid out from under her and the book resting in her lap. There is a sigh from the smith, "I mean, people are not always kind." She looks back to her work with a frown. "The nerve of that lord, for one. Accusing the Islanders of stealing some necklace, just so he would have some sort of validation to prevent them from coming back." She growls a little, It may not be proven fact but it's certainly her assessment of the situation. "Or that Candidate brat, who was Lady Reaches Niece, trotting around an Islander for attention. Never mind that the girl was being treated more like a pony than a person. Thank Farnath for Lujayn's intervention on that one." Iolene's brow puckers at Nathalia's visceral reaction, and the perturbed expression deepens at the crafter's assessment of a Lord. Her, "He's Blooded," is a softly spoken reproof, lips pursed. Those dark eyes fly to a currently empty cot, the belongings of which are decidedly male before turning back onto Nathalia. "And if someone stole the necklace, I would think he has every reason to be unkind." Clearly, the blonde has not come up with any alternative explanations for the events of the gather. Pragmatically, her voice strengthening as she finds an opinion buried deep within herself somewhere, "And I don't blame him for thinking it was us. We are likely suspects. Though I don't think it was any of us that did it." He's blooded gets a laugh, "I don't give a runner's behind about what his lineage was. A person's value should never be measured by who their parents were, or what they happen to inherit." She shakes her head. "Most of that lot don't care about anything other than themselves. I would love to meet a few some day who were actually worth their salt." She studies the girl thoughtfully. "You really think that lot cares, when there's talk of them paying the weyr to keep you here?" No anger or heat, just simple questions. While Nathalia might not be angry, her mocking of Iolene's words have certainly roused the younger teenager's long dormant, doormat of a temper. Except in Io, temper doesn't quite manifest itself the way it might in others. She'd do her grandmother and Blooded ancestors proud, she would, as she goes silent, as if thinking, and then gets to her feet, blankets, book, and all. "/I'm/ Blooded," is her suddenly very very quiet return. "And /I/ care where I'm from or what I should have inherited." A swallow precedes the fixed look those dark blue eyes pin upon Nathalia. "I'm truly sorry I'm not worth my salt to you. Have a good rest of your day and I'll try to stay out of your way." Nat's expression softens, "I see," the smith seems thoughtful a moment. "No please don't go." She says quietly. "I stand by what I said, about that lord, and many of the bloods I have met. But that doesn't mean that all blooded folks /have/ to be like him." She slides off her cot, as the Islander stands. "Were you to get what you ancestors lost all those years ago Miss. What would you do with it? Bask in all the finery that you couldn't get on your Island, take your revenge on the decendants of the ones who exiled you. . . or. . ." she trails off a bit quietly. "Or would you try to move forward, to do what's best for those in your care and what's best for pern." she asks, quiet but earnest. Iolene is above words now, particularly erratic words from someone whose moods shift as quickly as Nathalia's seem to and the reproof so mild in her voice earlier is written all over her normally cheerful features. "Grams always said you should think before you speak. I think I'm only starting to learn what she meant. Goodbye," is a final statement, yet touched with some warmth, as if to take the sting out of her departure, and out Iolene goes, sweeping the hand me down blankets behind her like they might be some rich lady's attire. |
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