Logs:The Uncertain Future
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| RL Date: 4 February, 2013 |
| Who: Ceawlin, Lourna |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Ceawlin finds a quiet spot in the Nighthearth, which Lourna is also attracted to for solitude. Conversation around current events ensues. |
| Where: Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 24, Month 12, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
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| 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. Contents: Lourna Obvious exits: Inner Caverns Night cloaks the weyr, giving shadows where there weren't any before and a hushed tone to a place usually busy. The nighthearth is one such place, full of shadows and flickering light, yet warm and cozy enough to keep winter at bay. By the light of the flickering fires, Ceawlin plucks at the strings of his instrument, a quiet, almost mournful melody drifting away from him in soft, quiet music. Fire flickers red-orange across pale hair, casting shadows across a sharp-featured expression. Only slow, plucked notes are played, fingers finding their tune on the strings of the glossy-wooded instrument. There are likely other places that Lourna could find herself, but the Snowasis is avoided this evening in favor of the quieter, dimmer, and more lonesome Nighthearth. With certain events looming on the horizon, the youth finds it difficult to find her rest, and comes slowly treading into view with a soft scuff of leather boots. Her walk is flagged with exhaustion, and the only sound that issues from her mouth is a wide, jaw-cracking yawn instead of greeting. Lourna might not note Ceawlin's presence by his appearance alone, but the quiet, slow plucking of his fingers across strings is enough to draw dark olive green eyes towards him. There is a halt to her step, a jarring pause that leaves her standing there blinking owlishly in soft firelight. With tow-head bent downwards, and eyes at half-mast, Ceawlin's normally cold, judgmental expression is softened by the act of playing. Either he has not yet realized that Lourna's arrived or he's not bothered by her presence given that she's being quiet about it. The song is slow, soft and full of a mournful melancholy that pulls at the lower registers of what the strings can go to. Upon closer inspection, a long-gone congealed and cold mug of klah lies barely touched by his side. So he's been at it a while. She needn't speak immediately, lapsing into quiet as she appreciates the flow of the young man's fingers. Lourna remains unmoved for a time, studying and watching the dexterity of his hands, following with ease and a total lack of understanding. Finally, drawing herself from the reverie of Ceawlin's melody, Lourna gives a small shake and a few tentative steps towards the warmth of the hearth itself. Chill air has seeped deeply into the weyr, and the dull heat of this place is a relief. "You play lovely, you know," Lourna murmurs into the silence punctuated only by musical notes. It is the touch of a skilled hand that prevents the song from being jarred to a close when Lourna draws his attention away from his music. As the notes slowly fade into nothing but a memory does Ceawlin finally lift his head, blinking cold blue eyes of the remnants of whatever concentration was needed for play. "Thank you," even "he" knows good manners. Drawn out of the quicksand of playing, he reaches for the cold klah and takes a swig, not seeming to mind its age. "What brings you down here at this time of night?" Question comes with the slight quirk of eyebrow. "Usually, it's just me." "I didn't want to go to the Snowasis. There are always too many people there and I just wanted to be mostly by myself," Lourna is admitting before she realizes the words are spilling from her lips. Blonde brows furrow, and she glances briefly from the crackling fire burning low in the hearth towards the blue-eyed youth with his stringed instrument. "I can't sleep, so I thought I would go somewhere warm that wasn't as full of snores as the apprentice dorms are." A wry smile reaches her lips, and the warmth that comes so readily to her is clear in the gleam of her gaze even if it is harder to note her expression in the darkness; it fills her voice. "And you? Why find yourself here so often?" "Because it is a place that I can practice and compose without interruption," Ceawlin answers simply, his grip on the instrument relaxing to better allow for conversation. His other hand still holds the mug, which comes to rest on the edge of his shoe where it crosses his knee. "And it's noisy in the dorms and I doubt anyone would welcome me playing during their nightly snooze." The last is murmured wryly. Expression shifts to one more thoughtful: "What weights you down that you find yourself in search of solitude, smith?" Curious now, though not much touches the coldness of frigid blue eyes. Not even the warmth of the fire. "I would welcome playing such as that over the bellowing snores some nights," she muses. She doesn't find a stool or a seat; Lourna is going directly to those aging, warmed bricks arrayed before the hearth as a part of it. Bending over and running fingers over them to gauge their heat, Lourna smoothly lowers herself to the floor in a cross legged fashion with forearms resting limply against her knees. "The Search." The smile is gone, and her countenance suddenly serious, but poorly hidden considering the firelight that glances off of it. "The Search of what?" Ceawlin queries, tone fairly neutral and possibly inquisitive. Klah mug is lifted to his lips while he waits for her answer, then decides to comment on her first answer. "You might be alone. Who knows who thinks that snoring is music? Everyone has different tastes." The wry, dry humor is executed in deadpan style, humor in the words stated rather than tone. "This search, it worries you?" "I... guess, but I'd never think of snoring as being musical. Music has a purpose, and flow, and a recognizable..." Lourna trails off as the realization settles in that no doubt a Harper knows better than she. Her cheeks color lightly, and her green eyes swerve abruptly away from Ceawlin to focus on the burning embers of the fire before her. That brightness stings a little in this darkness, but she doesn't blink, lost in memory. "The Search for candidates to be Impressed for this Hatching. Don't you know about that?" Setting the cold klah aside, Ceawlin strums a disjointed tune that is reminiscent of the snoring cadence of the apprentice dorms. Looking at Lourna, his fingers slow and the tune changes slightly, until slowly what might have once been snores becomes something else. "Everything is music, and everyone's opinion on music is different." Such is the life of a Harper, teaching the lesser folk (aka, not harpers) the music of the world. "The -" Discordant notes are plucked from the strings until silence follows. "The clutches that aren't on the sands yet? You've a while yet before it becomes a worry. Be more worried that High Reaches doesn't suffer the same fate as Fort did. Half of their last clutch -- I think it was half," muses the boy, "- was stolen. And a few eggs found dead." Another melody of discordant notes is played. "That's more worrisome. That and the fact that the weyr could tear itself apart with the lack of certainty around who's to rule." So simply added: "The eggs will clutch, then will hatch, and then will Impress. It's inevitable." The instrument quiets as Ceawlin holds up one finger, "But to what weyr will they Impress to? That's a bigger question." So, perhaps he's thought about recent happenings too. It's a sharp lesson, and though she doesn't fall into a sullen state, Lourna is silent as the grave while Ceawlin speaks. She succumbs to gnawing harshly upon the full lower lip with her fingertips lightly and uselessly scrabbling against the brick beneath her calves where they tuck loosely against thighs. "That-I didn't think of that," she admits with guilt lacing her otherwise pleasant voice. "But it was-well, nevermind that. It doesn't matter." Her words are stated firmly, and she looks thoroughly admonished by the apprentice Harper's observations. "You're right, of course. If each and every egg hatches, then we will count ourselves lucky, no matter who they Impress." "It could also all end amicably," Ceawlin says, stirring entropy this time. Though tone does not really seek to admonish, the slight incline of his head shows that he's satisfied that the girl's thinking of the bigger picture now. "It's hard to tell what will happen. "Something" will, but, as to what. Only Faranth knows." Now, curiosity truly does stir in unreachable blue eyes, ""It was well", what?" Pale 'brows lift slightly, expecting disclosure to half-stated confession. "It's nothing, you'd just think me selfish. And likely right to." Lourna lifts a hand to wave fingers dismissively towards Ceawlin, but in a manner that suggests whatever it is isn't of great importance. But, Lourna is young, tired, and impressionable. That silence doesn't last. "I was Searched for the last Hatching and stood as a candidate for Impression." That's all she says; given Lourna's status as an apprentice smith of sorts, it's clear the youth doesn't believe she need speak on it further. The implications are there and open to interpretation. "It's in the human condition to be selfish," Ceawlin comments, unperturbed by any perceived selfishness on the Smith's part. "There "will" be a clutch on the sands. When that time comes, ask someone to Stand again if that's your desire, but take a good look around and make sure you "want" that." You know. Hopefully by then, the weyr won't be in chaos. Picking up the instrument again, fingers test out the thing's sound. A jaunty flow of notes follows. "Which should ease your worry, but then there's always the hatching next. There's always "something" coming on the horizon." Slowly, he begins taking up another tune. It's different this time, not mournful, but full of question. Slow, soft, quiet, and contemplative. No lyrics follow -- good luck getting him to sing that sweet voice -- but the tone is richly well done. Lapsing into silence with only music to fill the void. It could be an invitation for Lourna to think on her thoughts or it could merely be an acceptance of the fellow apprentice's presence in the Nighthearth with him. Either way, his own attention turns inward, back to the songs his fingers know by heart. "The weyr will survive, it always does," Lourna says softly with a surprising amount of confidence laden in her voice. "This isn't the first time there has been confusion within the leadership of the weyr. It won't be the last, but we will persevere for the stronger, even if that day isn't tomorrow." There's a notable pause, and Lourna is flashing the cool, controlled Ceawlin a warm smile that is devoid of self-consciousness. It comes so readily to her lips, blossoming across her face. "But, I'm sure you know much better than I on that count." Dark green eyes linger upon him a moment longer, appreciative of form and ability, even if the young man is frosty in demeanor. And then she's slipping back into her reverie with a quiet sigh, drawing her knees to the swell of her chest to drop her chin upon folded forearms, her feet planted. |
Comments
Comments on "Logs:The Uncertain Future"Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Tue, 05 Feb 2013 23:28:01 GMT.
Ah, youth. It's so nice to see what the young, non-rider folk think about what's going on. :)
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