Logs:ISO: One Blue Chair
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 24 May, 2015 |
| Who: R'hin, Ulyana |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: R'hin, oddly, comes in search of a blue chair of the former occupant of Ulyana's weyr. They play 20 questions. |
| Where: Close to the Ground Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 21, Month 11, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Hattie/Mentions, N'muir/Mentions, U'sot/Mentions, Leova/Mentions, Vienne/Mentions |
  |
The rest of the weyr is small and somewhat battered. An attempt at sound-proofing remains in the form of a heavy canvas sheet hung over the entranceway, though the elements have done some damage to it. There's a dragon couch large enough for - perhaps - a decent sized brown, and past it, via a narrower passage, the living area. Within, there's room for some chairs and perhaps a desk or table, though it's currently empty. At the back, an even smaller cavern, barely large enough for a double-sized mattress, has been carved free: a bed built straight into the stone, with walls on three sides and a tattered curtain providing complete seclusion. Evening brings with it no end to the rainfall that's been plaguing the Weyr. It's a light rain, to be fair, but certainly enough to make things uncomfortable for those that must spend the day in it. Ulyana is one such unfortunate. But, Qhyluth is on his ledge, freshly divested of his straps and she's hauling those soaking straps into the weyr to hang them up and hope they dry. Her helmet and goggles are hung up next, with her jacket following suit. It is, in short, just another early evening in the relatively small - and still, oddly, unlived-in-seeming weyr she calls her own. The only peculiarity one might note are the deep gouges high on the walls - and the painted patterns, too, that are scattered below them - roughly at human height. And Qhyluth? He coils tightly before the weyr's entrance, protecting where the battered canvas cannot. The narrow ledge outside leaves barely enough room for the large bronze to land, Leiventh balancing rather than truly landing -- only long enough to deposit R'hin, before dropping towards the nearby ground, with a fast-fading, tangential greeting of the blue, one of those familiar, I-already-know-you, no-effort-taken type of wordless thought. R'hin glances after the bronze, for a moment, then steps towards the weyr-proper -- tries to, anyway, stopping short as he regards Qhyluth with a sudden, frank, confusion, that narrows into a press of lips, self directed annoyance, it would seem. He exhales a sharp breath, gaze wandering over the walls for a moment, taking them in. Passage is permitted - but only after a sharply intoned, "Move," from within the weyr. Qhyluth shifts just enough to allow R'hin entry - and his thoughts only briefly lap at the distant shore of Leiventh's mind, coupled with the distant click and clatter of nightmares in the distance. Brief. Ominous. Gone. Ulyana's much farther in by now, but her voice carries - flat and clear - as she grants: "Enter quickly. I will be with you in a moment." And she will be - but only after she's had a chance to change into something clean and dry. Until then, there's plenty to see - the gouges in stone appear to have some rhyme or reason to them; the painting, on the other hand, broad strokes of brushes sculpted into loose, abstract designs, seems to have no sense to it at all. This continues inside as well, though only just barely. Abruptly - and still from that back section of the weyr: "What business you are here on?" The cold winds of Leiventh's thoughts retreat, not out of fear of what rests in Qhyluth's mind so much as a habitual reticence. R'hin's attention snaps towards the dragon as he hears that sharp-toned voice from beyond, his nod towards the blue one, too, of respectful habit, passing into the weyr, running a hand through already wet hair. He's familiar enough, it seems, with the insides of the weyr that he takes only a cursory look, lingering briefly on that painting, before locating the direction of the source of that voice. "A chair," comes the easy answer, as the bronzerider nosies briefly through whatever shelf or drawer is closest to him. "There is only one in here." Matter-of-fact. "I have no need of it." Ulyana emerges from the smallest cavern and folds her arms at her midsection, her expression suitably indifferent to match her natural tone. And there is only the one. The only other furniture is the bed - if he were to look that far into the weyr's innards, that is - and the dragon couch. Supplies dominate the shelves - most of them for leatherworking or dragon-care. More notable is what there isn't - no trinkets, no baubles, no tapestries, no rugs. Nothing at all to suggest the place is even lived in, save for the lack of spinnerwebs and dust. In the bed nook, some books can be spotted - and, possibly, pots for paint - but there's not much else to it. "So I see." R'hin's gaze settles on Ulyana for a moment once she emerges, making an odd sort of grimace, before he strides towards the sole chair, inspects it, and settles into it, as if testing it. "The chair I was looking for was blue." He tilts his head upwards -- now that she has the height advantage on him -- to ask, "Do you have a blue chair?" As if there might be some other nook or cranny she might be hiding it in. Her response is delayed, time spent processing the words and eventual query. Ulyana blinks once, then looks just past R'hin to the blue that is, now, peering into the weyr with red-rimmed eyes. She ignores that particular detail. Her gaze eventually slides back to R'hin. When she does respond, it's with a dull, "I did not see one when I was given this weyr. I am not certain where another chair would be located." One shoulder rises and falls in a lopsided shrug. "I will presume that you know this weyr well enough to know that it had a blue chair. Is there anywhere it might be otherwise located?" And while she considers his words, and her response, R'hin's gaze wanders, taking in the contents of the weyr, undoubtedly taking notice of the lack of personal items. Her suggestion that he's familiar with the weyr earns another, rippled grimace, as he leans forward. "You are from Igen? No, -- Fort," he self corrects, though there's an air of query in the statement, too. She lets him ask - and correct. Ulyana's reply isn't immediately forthcoming, but purely because she's occupied with the arrangement of jacket and helmet and goggles over there. Stark black trousers for her; white blouse. Boots. The meticulous motions of arrangement are made with a strange sense of efficiency; crisp and curt and without wasted effort. Eventually: "I am from Crom Hold," is her correction-slash-clarification. "He is from Fort Weyr." A stiff, nigh-mechanical tilt of her head indicates the blue monstrosity that looms not so far from her now. He utters a thick, gurgling sound, then nothing - but his attention is keenly fixed on the visitor. From her: "Why are you looking for a blue chair?" Now, only now, does R'hin fully turn his attention to Ulyana, like she's done something of interest to him all of a sudden. "Crom," he utters with a low-throated laugh. "Figures. At least tell me you're not related to that ass." He doesn't specify which; perhaps he thinks it obvious? He shakes his head sharply at her question about the chair, giving a wave of hand as if it's irrelevant, now. Yet he still sits in her chair. To which there's a long, unblinking moment in which she just looks at him. Not with a look or anything of the sort; just the same dull, neutral expression that she rarely deviates from. The weight of Ulyana's gaze might be intense, but it is nothing in comparison to Qhyluth's. After a moment, she half-turns to face the blue and states flatly, "Go to the lake." The beast protests briefly, a struggle of wills yielding obedience. He departs and she is, ostensibly, a bit more free to speak. "I do not know of whom you speak," she responds. "My father is a brownrider here. My mother is deceased. Unless you mean her husband, in which case, technically, I am not. Not by blood." His failure to answer her question is noted; it's just enough to briefly pinch her brows together. R'hin is no stranger to looks, intense or otherwise, from rider or dragon -- he only turns attention to the blue when she does, watching the exchange with silent, yet obvious interest until Qhyluth retreats. Apparently her answer, while not a direct one, serves for him to intuit one otherwise. "Do you want your chair back?" he asks, leaping from question to question with the ease of long practice, of one who is inclined to keeping others off balance. Arms fold comfortably about her midsection and Ulyana remains where she is, relatively unmoving save for the necessary rise-fall of her chest and the periodic blink. Question and answer; it's a familiar pattern for her. Comfortable. Even with the rapid bouncing from question to question, she maintains her stride easily - slow and measured as it is. With the next question comes a predictable delay and a bland: "As I stated before, I have no need of it. It is not blue but, if you need it, it is yours. The blue one might be in the stores. I cannot be certain." "You do not require a chair," R'hin concludes, placing both hands on the arms of the chair before pushing himself to his feet, walking directly and deliberately towards the painting, studying it with silent attention. Perhaps he seeks to divine the meaning of the abstract patterns; perhaps he's delaying for time. "I have a bed." A lopsided shrug follows. "It suffices." Ulyana tracks his movements and, as he draws nearer to the painting - and, inexorably, into the shadow of those claw-hewn gouges in stone - she takes enough of a step back and away to grant him all the space he needs. No explanation is offered; no questions are asked. The painting will have to speak for itself, in its queer whorls and jagged, tribal lines. The colors are all muddied and strange, a bizarre combination of yellows, greens and browns with brighter, exotic hues that clash uncomfortably. Closer examination yields that they might just as easily be the delirious efforts of an illiterate trying to write letters - or creatures, rendered in abstract and broken into their constituent parts before being wedged together again. And neither, does R'hin seek answers. Instead, once he's inspected the painting, his attention turns towards those marks in the stone. If he knows the weyr, then he undoubtedly knows they weren't present, previously. Instead of commenting on the painting, or the claw marks, he asks her with a glance over his shoulder, "From whose dragon did your blue hatch?" The claw marks, by contrast, seem to have an organization. Vertical. Horizontal. A rare diagonal. There, an attempt at a curve that failed. Past displeasure might still be felt in that partially rendered whorl. Ulyana just watches him as he studies and watches more, even when his attention briefly cuts to her. There's a barely perceptible flattening of her mouth at the query. There. Gone. Dully, she states, "He was hatched out of Hattie's Elaruth by N'muir's Bijedth - one turn, eight months and twenty four days ago." He makes a faintly acknowledging sound in the back of his throat, as if perhaps he's not that surprised by the answer. "She's another clutch on the sands," R'hin observes, pale gaze lingering on her expression, noting the reaction, however faint, letting it pass unremarked on, as if he hadn't seen it at all. "Will you go, when it hatches?" "He desires to. I will not." This is coupled with a single, left-right-center shake of her head that terminates with a return to her near-stare at him. Ulyana's arms tighten just a little at her middle and, for a fleeting moment, her gaze cuts toward the weyr's entrance. Then back, without a blink to mark the transition. "There is no need for me to be there. I have no desire to go otherwise." A beat. Two. Then: "Do you intend to go?" Again, there's a sense that the answer interests the Savannah Wingleader, head tipping to one side marginally. "Yet he does. Would you not, for him?" Her question, in turn, makes R'hin smile, abruptly. "If I'm not otherwise engaged," he allows. There's a mirrored, mechanical cocking of Ulyana's head - just as marginal as his own, true, but there it is. "He is fascinated by the process of hatching and the resulting hatchlings. He is intrigued by their possibilities and he is disappointed by their resulting conformity to the species." A pause. "But he also understands my feelings about the Weyr of his birth. He will forget that he missed seeing it." She even trips over the word feelings, just a little - as if something bitter had gotten into the words. Another small crack. Faint, but there. And for his answer, an appropriately mechanical nod. Contemplative, to some degree. The mirrored gesture earns an appreciative, low-throated chuckle from R'hin, though that fades at the words that follows, taking in her words with a nod. "It is odd, to find someone with such strong antipathy towards the Weyr that birthed their dragon." Yet he doesn't ask the why, instead: "Are you here because of your father?" "I am surprised that such a thing would be odd." Statement of fact, issued without inflection. Ulyana doesn't delve into the question that remains unasked; rather, the query that is offered is met with another of those singular headshakes. "There were a number of reasons. The Healers felt the climate might alleviate my flight sickness. If it does not, we will determine another course of action." One shoulder rises. Falls. "The dragonhealing program here is one of the best, or so I was told. That my father is from here - and, I believe, remains here - is a coincidence." "You don't seem surprised," R'hin counters, without heat; an observation, too, if supplemented with an amused glittering of pale eyes. "Mm. Many self-delusions, we train ourselves to. To ignore the obvious, most logical answer. But," he continues, skipping from one subject to the next smoothly, "It is true that the dragonhealing here is done well. U'sot grows old, however; I'd not be surprised if Leova takes over from him sooner than later." And the shifting of subjects is met only with a slow blink from the bluerider and little else. No response to his observation; none is needed. Likewise, she offers nothing further for the rest. Topics are just as easily gathered as they are discarded. So it goes that it's only at the end that Ulyana intones, "That is my understanding of the situation. I have only just started my lessons," and only just; no traces of the work to be found here, but that will inevitably change over the months to come. Surely. "Regardless, I will learn as much from him as possible until that day comes." "Mm," is R'hin's sole response, along with a short nod, moving away from that wall, pacing the short length of the weyr, as if making a last inspection, before he turns on a heel. Wordlessly, then, he heads for the ledge, stepping out into the rain without much care for the weather. That progress is, at least, unimpeded by the presence of a particularly dark blue. Ulyana watches him go, pivoting just enough on her heels to follow his progress. Silence persists, bent only by the steady fall of light rain outside - and, on the ledge, the equally steady hum of Weyrlife that continues despite the weather. And R'hin departs, just as abruptly as he arrived, the rustle of wings preceding Leiventh's descent and tenuous perch on the edge of the ledge, before his rider adeptly jumps on, disappearing in the gloom of the evening rain moments later. A few days later, though, she'll find new additions left on her ledge under the overhang; a jar of red-gold paint, the color of desert sand of Igen, and a dark blue, borne of the deep ocean, or just perhaps -- not that dissimilar to Qhyluth's coloring. |
Comments
Alida (03:56, 25 May 2015 (EDT)) said...
I enjoyed this...seeing how these two reacted to one another. :)
Leave A Comment