Logs:Dragonlessness
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| RL Date: 20 November, 2012 |
| Who: Hattie, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Hattie is dragonless. N'rov is not. |
| Where: Training Room, FTW |
| When: Day 20, Month 4, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
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| The training room is not the most populated cavern in the Weyr before or after lunch - at times not populated at all during these hours - and today seems to be no exception. The only movement in the room is the slow back and forth of one of the punching bags swinging idly and never to a complete stop, suggesting that there must be someone there giving it the occasional nudge. It doesn't gain enough momentum for it to be being kicked or punched and just keeps up its steady sway, the culprit hidden in the shadows cast by the solitary screen standing nearby. Turns out that Hattie isn't even standing to prod the punching bag every few moments, and sits slumped on the floor, batting it forward with the tips of her toes, staring at said toes. If it were a tunnelsnake, it would've bit him. The young weyrleader turns up with a couple of confederates, but it's quiet, so he shoos them off in favor of methodically divesting himself of his overtunic and running a hand over his close-shorn hair. Just as methodically he dons padded gloves, and walks towards the next furthest punching bag... and, without warning, gives it a swift, solid kick. And then, as it swings back at him, an epithet a hairsbreadth after a nearly-literal jump. "What are you doing here." Hattie. He's staring at her. The bag only gets enough of a punch to keep it out of his way. Hattie keeps right on staring at her toes and nudging the punching bag back and forth as if she hasn't noticed or heard N'rov at all. About half a minute passes with her having not altered in the slightest, then she twists her foot to one side and lets the bag get on with its own thing. "I wasn't aware that my movement had been restricted," she remarks, dragging her gaze up to the Weyrleader with a distinct lack of interest or anything crossing close to respect. "Seems you have a habit of not knowing things." Where 'its own thing' equates to N'rov giving it a low kick instead, the only question being why he didn't do it sooner. What this former Weyrwoman says, he ignores, still looking at her as though there were some blueprint in his head to which this broken... thing... does not match up. "I've wondered," he says slowly, "why you're still here." At all, would be the heavy implication, if it were really meant for her at all. Hattie's attention doesn't truly rest on N'rov at all, but some distant patch of wall beyond his shoulder; maybe not even there. "Did you know," she begins, out of breath already, quite as if she hasn't planned on speaking at all, "that they stopped me?" It's exhausting even looking past him, so she lets her head tip all the way back, aiming her blank gaze at the ceiling. "When she... After waiting for yours to be safe..." Her head lolls forward again, like she could cast blame solely on him. "What a waste that was." The bag, the bags, swing and swing, ever shallower. The light changes as they do, shadowing, the ropes and leather low creaks that are irregular even as they recede. He might have known that: it would be hard to tell by his expression, if she were even looking at all. And when she does, finally, by then he's looking past her too. "It was," he agrees, after a blank moment of his own, that could cast in doubt whether he'd heard that either. There's another, too. "They shouldn't have stopped you." "Well, I hope they got what they wanted," the once-Weyrwoman declares bitterly. "...Must've been counting on cowardice. It's more difficult to pick up the knife with half your faculties still knocking about." And if Hattie couldn't seem to wallow any more in self-pity and loathing, she somehow manages to sink to a new low, miserable sneer cast down at no-longer-fascinating toes. "Maybe they'll find me cold in the Fountain one morning. We can only hope." "No," N'rov says finally. "You deserved better." He steadies one bag with his hand, less stopping it than blocking it from moving further until it swings again and again into his palm, weaker each time. "If you ever," but then he shakes his head abruptly in lieu of keeping that thought. Only, looking nearly at her for once, gray eyes hard and bleak like the stone of this room behind its whitewash, "It won't happen to me, you know. I'll go with him." It's nothing he can truly promise, and yet he says it as a vow as he turns away, to go beat against a very different bag. A shudder runs through Hattie and only catches her right arm, making it twitch like she intends to swat at something, perhaps at the mere idea of deserving anything. "Don't," she murmurs, yet she can't help but sneak a look up at him at his aborted something, if she ever... How desperately does she want it to be what it could be? She doesn't push, just looks, a distant longing in dark eyes for the perceived possibility in words unspoken. "...That's what everyone thinks. It'll be easy. You'll know when. And then..." she utters hoarsely, watching his feet now. His booted feet move in regular, practiced, knowing rhythms that counterweight the dull thump of his fists. They do not stumble, do not trip. (Not like the other night.) "We'll be gone." Anything else is unthinkable, would be even without the ghost of her, breathing, haunting, there. |
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