Logs:Hair Angst
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| RL Date: 22 June, 2012 |
| Who: Azaylia, Brieli, Meara |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Azaylia and Brieli don't manage to get away without haircuts, though they try. |
| Where: Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 15, Month 1, Turn 29 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Iolene/Mentions |
| Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr Tucked off the back of the training room, the barracks are a huge, high cavern that stretches far back into the stone of the Weyr. Both of the longer walls are lined with couches for the dragons, enough for a couple of Pass-sized clutches at once, each matched with a cot and press for the weyrling dragonrider. In this day and age, however, the couches in the back have been allowed to grow dusty with long disuse. Hearths are spaced between every few couches to heat the big room. For decoration, there are a number of tapestries on the walls, looking almost as beat-up as the couches out in the training room, but scattered flower pots with their bright blooming contents provide a cheery touch. Additionally, some of the couches have had graffiti scratched into them over the Turns that were never quite cleaned off: smears of chalk messages or even rough pictures, some not fit for young eyes. In many cases names and dates have been painstakingly carved into the rock, a record of those that once made their home here. Afternoon wing-stretching exercises concluded about an hour ago, and most of the weyrlings have spent the time since checking over their dragons, taking them up to the hot pool for warm baths, or otherwise catching up on daily duties. Meara disappeared promptly after class, leaving her assistants to deal with the usual questions and assistance routine; now, however, she's making her slow way back into the barracks, stretching out her shoulders with an audible click that seems to only briefly pain her. Many of the weyrlings aren't back yet, of course, but each of those who are get visited, one after another, and their names are ticked off down her list: the scissors hanging from her belt are a pretty good indication of what is presently underway. With the excercises behind them, Azaylia has taken her time in warming some of that oil in order to work heat into Hraedhyth's joints. It's not much, but it seems to make all the difference for the gold. Her growls of pleasure are carried on every exhale, the rest of her melting as her weyrling's hands work into spars and sails. She's draped shamelessly over the ground, ashen head tilted with two sets of lids lowered... until Meara approaches. She acknowledges the woman with a half-lidded whirling gaze, Azaylia trailing down the last of her dragonet's joints. "Weyrlingmaster." She greets with a glance over her shoulder, polite but short as she finishes her task. "She's growing well," says Meara, in lieu of a greeting. Despite her business, the middle-aged weyrlingmaster spares a glance towards the pair even before she approaches: Hraedhyth's growls seem to both amuse and please her. The young queen is given a low nod of acknowledgement in reply; then, the greenrider turns her attention back upon Azaylia. "Your hair must be taking up more of your time than you really have to spare," she says, levelly, with an arch of one brow that encourages reply. Azaylia turns and squeezes her hands into the bucket, opting to massage with oil-softened hands rather than a paddle or rag. "Oh." Taken by surprise at the compliment, she glances down at Hraedhyth's head and turns her attention to Meara. Seeming startled by her own dragon's health and growth, she can't stifle the proud smile on her lips, "Thank you." Though it's for the sake of responding, rather than taking any credit for the gold's development. Azaylia freezes in reaching for a nearby drying cloth, forcing herself into motion to avoid dripping anything on the floor. Turning to face the Weyrlingmaster, she wrings her hands with the cloth as her gaze falls from Meara's eyes to her boots. "Uhm. I-I don't... know." Twin buns are secure on her head, though messy and clearly rushed from this morning. The content rumbling slows to a stop throughout Hraedhyth's plains, the golden brush falling still at a new sensation that ripples between their bond. « You are not hungry. » Her voice is smooth, confident, deepened from previous days, until a crack on the last word belies her youth. « What is it. » Still calm, she probes at the sudden tightening in Azaylia's gut, a displeased snarl given at the clammy cold that washes out her content warmth. (To Azaylia from Hraedhyth) "You've got enough to do, looking after her, getting your head around everything else. You and Brieli both need to get your hair cut. It's-- once you've graduated and out of my care, you can do anything you like with it. Grow it to your ankles, if it pleases you." Though there's no censure in Meara's voice, it's certainly firm: this will happen, and really, it's better to avoid complaining too much. Indeed, she's already reaching towards the scissors, unhooking them from her belt and holding them up in her free hand. "I do a good job of it. I've had plenty of practice." Azaylia can't, and won't, speak for Brieli though there is a hint of a grimace at the Weyrlingmaster's persistance. "It takes so long t grow back." Not arguing, there's no strength behind the whimper as she fidgets on the spot. Hraedhyth's head has lifted, staring pointedly at her lifemate though her wings remain half-drooping and drying. "Io... Iolene..?" Even as the words leave her lips, the young woman looks sick and quiets at the sight of those scissors. Her eyes drop once again, and she reaches up to unfasten and untwirl one and then the other bun. Hraedhyth senses that Azaylia doesn't try to shield her lifemate from the hopeless pit that's formed within, trembling inside and out at Meara's strength. She doesn't offer a verbal explanation, but the images flash in her distraught and preoccupied mind. Haircut. Her locks falling to the ground. That one of the things she actually likes about herself can be taken away, just like that. I don't. I can't. They can't. It's not fair. The sentiments swirl around in her head with no direction, no attempt to stifle the chaos of emotions. Mention of Iolene was probably not the best course of action, because Meara's expression darkens in response to it, and the shake of her head is a firm one. "That was different," she says, not bothering to explain why or how this was so. "Have you got a comb handy? This won't take long, I promise. It'll grow back before you know it, and I know you'll find it easier for now." The middle-aged weyrlingmaster steps forward, setting down her list so that she can move the scissors from one hand to the other. "Just be thankful we're not shaving heads." Azaylia senses that Hraedhyth tries to understand, rooting around the wordless turmoil of what is upsetting her bond. It's a familiar fear, but this time it's so potent that the gold is choking on the blackened smoke. It makes it even harder to understand, though Azaylia is keeping nothing from her. She attempts to communicate her growing concern with heavy blows, drums pounding harshly as the gold wades through soot and muddied thoughts. It's no surprise when her patience runs thin, fires flaring and forcing the link between them to clear. Meara and her scissors flicker within the flames, and Hraedhyth's rumbling begins again. Perhaps Brieli was a little slower with the bathing and oiling today; perhaps the eternally curious and lazy Iesaryth caused the pair's lack of speed this afternoon, but they are markedly behind the others, thus both unprepared and uninformed about the situation she's about to walk into. Granted, it had to be expected for her to, one day, come upon Meara and scissors - what she doesn't expect is to find Azaylia seeming to meekly submit to shearing. With a narrow of dark eyes, barely able to stifle her frustrated sigh, she continues along with her dragon, pretending the whole thing isn't happening. Because that'll work. Azaylia visibly wilts at Meara's expression, fists gripping the edge of her work-tunic, and it's a safe bet her toes are curling within her boots. Rather than speak, she nods once and navigates around her dragon in order to get to her cot and the things strewn about. It's organized chaos, finding the comb quickly enough. Turning with her warm cheeks somewhat pale as she pointedly doesn't look at her dragon, who is still save for the swivel of her head and the quick whirling of her eyes. Brieli earns a glance on the way back to Meara, and Azaylia bows her head before holding the comb out to the Weyrlingmaster. Hraedhyth ignores the other gold pair for now, gaze shifting ever so slightly so that it's Meara in her sights now. Hraedhyth senses that Azaylia is finally able to focus in her physical silence. « I have to get my hair cut now. » She can feel the dragon already stirring, sees that the gold has found and understands the source of her displeasure. She doesn't contest the image within Hraedhyth's candid flames, but there is an attempt to sooth. « It's... » She falters, « It's our duty to the weyr. » It's the rules. They're making me. echoes behind what she's actually said, ringing true. Meara doesn't seem to have noticed Brieli and Iesaryth - she certainly doesn't acknowledge them - but that doesn't mean she's actually unaware: Isath is, after all, hovering around outside the barracks. Instead, the weyrlingmaster takes the comb, and shifts around Azaylia so that she can begin combing out that hair with the casual expertise one might expect from a person who has, after all, done this plenty of times. "Hraedhyth is staring at me," she says, finally, voice pitched low but not so low that it won't carry. "is she upset by this?" Azaylia senses that Hraedhyth repeats the previously unspoken truth. « Making? » Red is not just the hue which blinds her, but it is the fire that blazes across dried brush and consumes all. There's no care for the leveled plains, only for Azaylia's discomfort and who is to blame for such a thing. « Forcing. » She snarls, drums pounding in her head and Azaylia's, insult and fury twisting the word to fuel her rage. « FORCING. » It's sudden, her anger thrust past her parted jaws in a warcry for those who would force their will on Hers. Iesaryth is also curious about this, for all she's content to get up on her couch and try to curl up - it's not as easy as it used to be. The gold watches Hraedhyth with interest, rumbling quietly her sister's way as she rests her head atop her paws. Brieli doesn't notice Azaylia's glance on the way over, nor does she look over as she finds a rag to clean the oil from her hands, though her head is certainly tilted to listen. In fact, if anyone were paying attention, it might be obvious that the weyrling is having a hard time not speaking up, but for the time being, she's still shutting up. Maybe Hraedhyth will get growly. "Mmhm." Azaylia squeaks in response as Meara notices the young gold's gaze, voice even more choked as she stands as still as possible. The comb is something familiar, attempting to relax between strokes through her dark, curly hair. Easier said than done, and everytime the dull teeth touch her head the weyrling visibly stiffens. "I'm trying." Rather than answer the question, she grips her tunic tight and strains, "I'm telling her-" Growly? No. Hraedhyth lurches to her feet and gives a furious bellow that's likely to startle the unsuspecting weyrlings around, wings snapping tight against her body. She stomps, one leg rapidly after the other, rearing up and giving another roar. There are no demands to be met- one must understand that this means war. To Hraedhyth, Iesaryth's ocean waves are never far; now the tide rolls in with the cries of birds, the scent of sea-salt and fresh air. Calm. She can help. « Are you upset because she is upset? » To Iesaryth, Hraedhyths plains have been wiped out by wildfire, black soot and scorched earth meeting the edge of her sister's beaches. It blazes on, untamed and wild, trying to burn the image of Meara and her scissors right out of Azaylia's head. The roar echoes among the violent drumming, mingling with footfalls of soldiers preparing for bloodshed if it comes to that. « FORCING. » She is beyond the ocean's cool touch, a whirlwind of heat and fury. « Hraedhyth, » comes Isath's warning tone, loud enough that a number of the dragons in the barracks may be privy to it, including Iesaryth. « That's enough. She must have her hair cut: it's the rules. » She hasn't - yet - laid down the full force of her authority, but the warning, the implication, is certainly there. "I know you're trying," says Meara, who clearly isn't going to try and put the scissors into action while there's any chance of startlement. "Calm her down. We've got time. Brieli?" Oh, so she has noticed the other weyrling. "You're next." Jumping at Hraedhyth's bellows - though she should be used to them by now, really - Brieli spins around to look at the gold with wide eyes, then between Azaylia and Meara. Expression hardening, chin lifting, she makes a decision and just forges forward to ask, "If Iolene didn't have to cut her hair, why should we, ma'am? Why do the rules apply to us, but not to her? I don't want to cut my hair; it doesn't bother me to take the time. It's obviously upsetting them both." Folding her arms while trying not to look totally insubordinate, "It doesn't make sense." To Isath and all, mildly, Iesaryth notes, « We are talking. » To Hraedhyth, Iesaryth's waves start to clear away some of the soot, trying to help clear away the anger. Rhythm of the waves falling into sync with that of the drums, « We will see. Even Brieli is not sure if she can 'get away' with it. Apparently, there are things that they 'have' to do. » She tries to give over her own rider's sense of irritation, unfairness, beneath it, resignation. No wild emotions there, though a core of determination to Not Give Up. Hraedhyth will attempt to burn the heart out of Isath at the simple warning, youth a great disadvantage, though it doesn't shield the gold's intent. « Yours DARES. » Barely breaks through the inferno that she unleashes with no restraint, drums threatening to beat headaches into those who are foolish enough to remain within range. Azaylia has her eyes clenched, fists abandoning the wrinkled fabric of her tunic, tensing at either side. Meara's words take far longer to sink in as the weyrling strains, taking a step or two towards the gold. A gritted "Hrae." But there doesn't seem to be a change in the gold's crimson gaze, jaws parted as globs of drool slide down oversized jaws. At Breili's mention of Iolene, there's grimace for the other goldrider- an attempt at a silent warning. To Iesaryth, Hraedhyth refuses her younger sister, a wall of flame roaring towards the trespassing waves and halting just on the edge. They'll dance dangerously close, restraint slipping as she wants to sacrifice Iesaryth's bounties to her rage. Instinct gets in the way of that, not yet burning one of her kin. The fire is snuffed out all at once, only to return with a vengeance; Azaylia's attempts to sooth as prevalent as the other gold's, though Hraedhyth rampages on. This time? This time Isath unleashes her own censure. She may be a green, without that innate ability, but her position lends her power - and now, she puts it into play, suppressing Hraedhyth's fires with darkness and moonlight, the faint rustle of grasses: peace. « She does, » she agrees. « It is her right. They are her charges, and you are mine. Hush now, Hraedhyth, and soon it will be finished. Iesaryth - yours, too. » Meara, who so often portrays herself as cheerfully relaxed, does not look so relaxed now. "You," she begins, in a warning tone, "are not Iolene. Your circumstances are not Iolene's circumstances. Do you wish me to set the pair of you above the other weyrlings? Imply that you don't have to follow the rules. Are you going to argue with me on all the rules you don't like? Rules," she continues, with quiet intensity, "are not guidelines." Brows drawing together in concern as she glances as Iesaryth as the gold huffs, eyes whirling a bit more quickly, Brieli murmurs, "Usually, that works." The tall weyrling is briefly distracted by Hraedhyth's total lack of calming - neither Azaylia's nor Iesaryth's logic or love helping her out tonight. Though the gold does not argue - it's her rider's fight - the former seamstress purses her lips. She can't stop herself. "Iolene," she notes, "Is the one who told me she refused. And I never said it had to just be Azaylia and I. Anyone could have refused - lots of people heard me the first time. I don't intend to argue with rules I don't like; it's rules that don't make sense that I have an issue with." Hraedhyth tries to burn Isath's grasses, even as gutteral, near-demonic cries are thrown up to that stifling moonlight. The bonechilling cries refuse to acknowledge her defeat, though there will be a noticeable relief throughout the barracks as the gold is reigned in by green. Words. Words are useless as the dragon mentally fights back, futile though it is. Azaylia rushes forward, hugging against her dragon's head, turning her face away from the others. Hraedhyth's struggling turns physical, tense tawny hide twitching haltingly even as the young woman does her best to share her calm. Her words are muffled, thrown at Meara with something sharp on the edge of her tongue. "I know." Her head turns, watching Brieli with eyes that echo her dragon's intensity- but with Azaylia's own curiosity. There will be no burning of Isath's grasslands, and now, she aims to spread a certain hushed cool over Hraedhyth's smouldering defeat. Meara's arms cross, comb and scissors still in hand, as she turns from Azaylia to Brieli, back again, and then, finally, to Brieli for a lengthier moment. "You're a weyrling," she says, cool but largely unemotional. "You don't get to decide which rules make sense, and which don't. My rule supersedes all, in matters weyrling. You will have your haircut. And then," for a moment, it might look like she's about to smirk, "you'll write me a paper on the reasons why it should not be required. Argue your case." Unhappily, "Argue my case after." See, because Brieli thinks she could argue up a pretty good case right now! And convince Meara she's right! But it's hard to argue that logic. She is a weyrling for now and she doesn't get to decide for now. That thought might cross her mind and her expression, but it passes; she glances over to Azaylia and Hraedhyth for a moment, expression unreadable before, shortly, "Fine. Ma'am." Iesaryth might be a little apologetic to Isath, but not very obviously and very quietly; just a drift of sea-breeze - nothing to see here, Brieli, really. "She can stop rubbing it in, now." Azaylia speaks in her usual whisper, voice dropping to previously unexplored depths as she keeps her back to them. Not a growl, there's nothing rough about the low note directed at Meara. Hraedhyth simply lies there, flames shrinking with nothing left to burn, and no more energy to will it so. Her plains are black and dead, silence washing over in honor of her defeat with even her drums absent. Eyes slow, a tired whuffle leaving Hraedhyth's muzzle as she reluctantly lets the blue wash over her gaze once more. Azaylia echoes her dragonet's exhausted exhale, turning to look at Brieli and then Meara, leaning back against that large head. "...I want an essay, too." The request lacks that tone from moments ago, managing not to tremble. Hraedhyth senses that Azaylia reaches for her bond who's gone uncharacteristically quiet. It's not the silence before an attack, but genuine stillness. « Hrae. » It's a whisper full of love and compassion, trying to coax even the smallest flicker of life among her dragon's deserted plain. « Hraedyth... sweetie, it's okay. Hair grows back. » Isath withdraws, after flicking a moonbeam in Iesaryth's direction, although whether it is in direct reply to Azaylia's words or not - well, that is less sure. "Thank you," says Meara, business-like and quite calm. "Which of you wants to go first? I've no objection to you both writing the essay, Azaylia. You can present to me in two days time. I look forward to hearing your thoughts." That seems genuine enough; it's even accompanied by a smile. "Perhaps, in future, you'll reconsider your approaches." "Azaylia..." Brieli starts, but doesn't finish, likely well aware the other weyrling has sealed her fate by asking in the first place. Shooting the other girl a pained look, the goldrider offers up one of her little shrugs, perhaps a bit more resentfully than usual. "I'm fine either way," she tells Meara, seeming diffident about the whole thing, for all she was determined not to lose this one. And then, there's her last. She pauses a moment as she finally tosses that rag of hers away, thoughtful - then she sighs. Damn. Possibly a missed opportunity to get away with the whole thing. "Two days, yes." Azaylia glances towards the other goldrider, eyes softened and matching her voice, "Brieli." She glances at Hraedhyth, who is now most certainly sulking as her neck snakes against the ground- refusing to look at any of them. A few murmurs and cooes to soothe the gold's wounded pride, hands smoothing over her thick bull neck. And then, "I'll go first." The words are said delicately, carefully, and when there's no reaction from the spent dragonet she relaxes somewhat. Steps towards Meara are purposeful, turning on her heel when she reaches the Weyrlingmaster. Her waist-length hair flips and settle for the last time in a long time. "Keep it as long as you can, please." Azaylia senses that Hraedhyth doesn't respond, the stillness persisting even at the gentle prodding. Scorched earth cools and steams with the faintest trails of smoke that dissapate even before they can fully break away from the ground. The silence persists, but the stench of failure hangs in the air, thick and putrid. Meara is quiet, now, and refrains from pushing further remarks on either of the weyrlings: she's had her say, she's won her battle. There is sympathy in her gaze, though, as she goes to work on Azaylia's hair: it's mostly hidden by the weyrling, but it's there as bit by bit, those long locks fall to the ground. True to her word, she is pretty good at this: the end result is a short bob, nothing long enough to get in the eyes or in the way. Nor does she follow up with any platitudes-- there's no need for that. "Brieli?" Next. If Brieli could find a way to have someone other than Meara cut her hair, she likely would. But she'll make her way over, unpinning her neat bun as she eyes Azaylia's hair pooled on the ground with distaste. Her expression is a little more grim than it really needs to be for the process; it's like she's actually getting her head shaved, as was mentioned before. Perhaps, in her mind, it's about the same. To Azaylia, quietly, she'll try to be encouraging, even as she waits for the guillotine: "Looks nice." Drama! Azaylia shares her friend's grim expression, though it looks ready to crumble at any moment. "Thanks." She whimpers back, blinking rapidly though there are no tears. She reaches up to run fingers through her hair, hand jerking back when it comes to a sudden stop. She doesn't touch it again, stepping out of the way and once again hugging into Hraedhyth's warm hide. She gives Brieli the same courtesy, turning to watch Meara work even as those scissors lift and her knees buckle. Sliding down the gold's neck, she sits on the ground and observes. A moment of silence, please. Brieli's haircut goes much the same way as Azaylia's, until, in the end, there's an impressive collection of dark hair comingled on the ground. "Thank you," says Meara, as she draws the scissors back, inspecting her handiwork for only a moment before she steps back. "Do you want to keep the hair, or shall I clean it up?" That sympathy is gone from her expression, now, but that doesn't mean she's no longer feeling it: she maintains a certain neutrality, clearly intending to take her leave as soon as this last matter has been dealt with. With a heavy sigh, Brieli can still be polite, even under duress. "Thank you, no. It's fine." She doesn't really want to touch her hair, but can't help her hand from sneaking up to the back of her neck to grasp shorter curls with widened eyes, to toss them lightly to test the sudden lack of weight. Almost amazed, "It's so light." Not that she likes it, no - she'll tell Meara briskly, "We can clean it up if you like. I hope it wasn't too much trouble." Which it totally was, but never mind. She glances Azaylia's way, pursing her lips at the other weyrling's expression. Azaylia opens her mouth, eyes dropping to peer at the mass of dark hair. It's hard to tell which of it is hers, or which of it is Brieli's. Lips remain parted for a little longer before she closes them and shakes her head at Meara. Doing so has her stopping suddenly, reaching up to brush at her neck, having overshot the force required to shake her unburdened head. She leans her head back looking to find Hraedhyth's neck still craned so that she isn't looking at anyone. Not that she would be, anyway, with all lids closed. "We can clean it." Azaylia echoes the other weyrling, trying not to seem too useless at the moment. Meara hesitates, before she goes, rather as though she'd like to say something. In the end, however, she doesn't: she just gives both an approving nod, and then turns on her heels and departs. After she's gone, Isath's words come floating out across them, draped in moonlight and definitely not trying to be soothing. « They did well, » she reports. « She is impressed. » And then they're both gone. Brieli looks at Meara leaving, gaze dark and flat. She then turns to look down at the pile of hair with the same expression before heaving another sigh. Once the Weyrlingmaster is for sure gone, "Fuck. Oh well." And she's looking for a dustpan and broom with quick, brisk movements. Hraedhyth doesn't so much as twitch, even as Azaylia uses her to help stand on shakey legs. "I'll..." She swallows, doing her best to keep strong as she has been. "I'll hold the pan, you sweep?" Though there's a concerned glance for her dragon, expression lingering even as she helps Brieli clean up. Her movements are slow and clumsy, but she'll get the job done. There will, however, be a noticable silence from both weyrling and dragonet for the rest of the day. |
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