Logs:Valicious
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| RL Date: 20 June, 2011 |
| Who: Val, Iolene |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Turnover mixed with a gold flight brought with it many experiences, and this is the day after where Iolene meets Val. |
| Where: Living Caverns, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 1, Month 1, Turn 26 (Interval 10) |
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| Turnover brought many new experiences for many of the exiles, least of which was the party that was an actual party and not the meager gatherings that pass for celebrations on the island. And well, the obvious. A gold's mating flight is apparently nothing like a green's and so if there are a few less exiles present at breakfast, it could be either one of those reasons or the myriad of reasons in between, at fault. Maybe Iolene didn't indulge as much last night, and quite clearly, there's no sign of hangover in her thoughtful look as she's claimed a seat near the bowl entrance, but with a vantage point to observe all entrances to see who comes and goes and possibly overhear conversations. Before her is a bowl of porridge with some crumbled dried fruit and a mug of steaming something or other, which only a closer inspection will prove to be hot water. In from that cold bowl comes a rider, she must be, or else a rider's woman: all furs and plush fabric and plusher lips, her black glossy hair half-hidden by a pert cap, water droplets spangling the tips of the fur like so many diamonds. Other women enter about the same time, but this one has more direction to her, certain even as she pauses by the entrance by the hatracks and coathooks and such to unveil. She unfastens the buttons, deliberately, with a little sigh as she undoes the collar and tests the atmosphere of the cavern, finally easing herself the rest of the way out and hanging the garment up. She takes her time with that too, giving the sleeve a little tug, making it lie just so. The lining is pink. Her hat, for now, stays on. As a succession of women enter, it's the fur-clad, plush woman with the diamond droplets snagged midst the furs that catches Iolene's attention. Her lips part and she can't help the rude, lingering stare cast Val's way; from the way the woman's glossy hair peeks out from beneath a cap to the way she so fastidiously looks to her belongings. Flushing suddenly at her cheeks, Io remembers to look down and pretend to busy herself with her spoon, but perhaps, not quickly enough. At least she doesn't get one of those so-rude stares in return, just that glance-to-glance that leads to Val's lingering just a touch, just the very lightest touch before she takes what's now a little extra time in unwrapping a scarf, a very fine and silky scarf that very much does not belong to a day like today, except in that it must have kept any stray roughness from chafing her delicate throat. She winds it around her wrist instead, wears it like a bracelet, and proceeds to what's today the assiduous business of collecting a breakfast. Something nicer than porridge, while she's at it, at least to a palate used to more varied delights than an islander's. Sidelong glances keep track of this wondrous vision, something so different from her usual island fare of blonde, blue-eyed and ever so not delicate and fragile seeming. And in purple to boot; a color only found when those rare stained berries come together. But throughout, Iolene's hands have learned to keep busy, the one holding the spoon turning her porridge inside out until the dried fruit's sunk somewhere into the depths. The other? It picks at an idle thread along her new-to-her tunic. What's Val got there? What's she eating now? When a crowd of children and their nanny converging on the buffet obscures her vision of the fascinating woman, she starts to lean upwards and look all the more obviously. Val's got eggs, and thin curls of bacon, and a sprinkling of toppings: cheese grated with some sort of herb, from the greenhouse it must have been, and spices. And a little more bacon, and a fruit sauce, and why not, some of that dried fruit on the side. And /two/ mugs, one dark, one lighter, both rich and steaming. It takes a whole tray to carry it, that needs balancing through the quick steps required to escape the children untouched, and... look. The girl, she's looking at her. Val gives her a slyly friendly smile, look-you're-caught, rattles something on her tray with a thumb... and circles around to Iolene's table. Even if the girl's abandoned ship by then. Those white cheeks turn bright red again. Caught! but even so, Iolene's unwilling to move quickly back down into her seat -- it'll just draw more attention. So slowly, ever so slowly, pretending she was watching the children, though the deer-in-headlights look straight at Val's sly smile proves otherwise, she sinks down off her one tip toe and slides the knee on the chair down, twisting until she's seated again. This attempt at discreet maneuvering loses her sight of Val, until it's possibly too late. In the mean time, she'll start spooning large portions of porridge into her mouth; the better to eat quickly with and scram. Eat quickly. Scram. Even when Val's settling a little sack on the table across from Iolene, before she even sets her tray there? A sack that spills the fine cords used to tie it, not currently doing much good, as they expose something fine-woven and floral and... that could be more pink. It could. And a soft green and softer turquoise, but it would be hard to tell all that if one is running away from the woman who's settled, smiling, into what's now her seat and her meal. With a mouth full of porridge, she's unable to scram, so Iolene looks up, startled, when this non-exile sits at her table; this non-exile she's been observing since she walked in. A tongue darts forth, capturing a stray piece of grain stuck to the bottom of her lip, which only serves as yet another nail in the coffin of embarrassment and a series of frantic chews and one gulping swallow later leads to a, "I'm sorry," that's contrite, but doesn't quite explain what she's sorry for. "What for?" Val seems genuinely curious, might even seem a little kind, and it's not as though she's leaning forward or shoving her tray into Iolene's space, even. Quite the contrary. She dabs her lips and then goes so far as to remove her cap, letting two girlish pigtails swing free. One of them has a ribbon on the end, but the other doesn't. "I could come up with ideas, I could, but it would be ever so much nicer if you'd tell me." The emergence of the pigtails catches Iolene fascinated once more, trying to cobble together a mental image of just _what_ this woman is about: rich furs, glossy hair, /pink/ all over the place, and now pigtails, one be-ribboned, the other not. It's a confusing compilation of random facts to put together into one sense-makey view and ultimately, Iolene fails, if the baffled wrinkles in her face are any indication. "I-," Io starts, her spoon working over time to work her porridge into more of a paste than individual grains, "I'm sorry for staring. You caught me staring, so I'm sorry. It's rude. My grams-... If she were alive, my grams would knock me on the back of my head for forgetting my manners. We're exiles, not savages." The last, carries a mimic of what must have been the formidable woman, as Iolene is unable to help the infusion of such familial mocking into an oft-heard phrase. "Of course you are," Val says agreeably, all that talking of Iolene's doing a wonderful job of letting the other woman make inroads onto her feast. She pauses to take a sip of the lighter-colored drink, all comical distaste before she drowns it with the darker-colored liquid and relaxes again. "I would love... to hear about your grams. She sounds like a remarkable woman." More of the bacon gets her attentions next, layered on top of a slice of toast, receiving a nibble that may be delicate but also is quick and sharp. A nip. The smell of bacon and toast reaches into Iolene's gut and wrenches free a rumbling that sounds very disgruntled. Val gets bacon? I get porridge? And clumpy, clotted porridge at that now? Even the once islander's expression takes on a wistful look, though most likely the lessons of others have impressed themselves quite firmly into Io's pretty little head: eat tasty things, worship the hole in the floor that carries all the waste away. So she turns away from watching Val eat back down to her half-finished bowl listlessly. "Really? You want to know?" Io's glance grazes upwards slowly, to find Val and be sure the other woman really does want to know. "Most of you seem more curious to try and expose us to new things and laugh when we react in different ways than expected. Are you sure you want to know about my grandmother?" Such a rumbling! Val isn't so polite as to not look, something quirky turning up about her eyes but not allowed to touch her mouth. "Yes?" she suggests in an even softer, easy-to-overlook voice. Yes: what is it? Yes: she wants to know. Poised with fork halfway to lips, she adds more conversationally and with more of a smile, "Your grandmother, she won't put me off my feed, will she? I wouldn't think so. So, woman-whose-name-I-don't-know, I'm all ears." Delicate little ears they are, too, with loops of wire curling through. There's a flare of something in those dark blue eyes of hers; a sort of vulnerable hope that emerges at Val's affirmative and its subsequent teasing. Some of the defensive posturing, as well as the embarrassed hunch disappear as a gift for that smile, and in kind, Iolene ventures one of her own -- a tentative half curve -- as she offers her name, "Iolene. And my grandmother was a wonderful woman. My grandfather too. She cared for me after my parents died. When," the girl's untrained, velvet voice hesitates, before continuing on ahead matter-of-factly "When all her children died. I was all she had left." Val takes care to meet that smile, that name, with the respectful appreciation they're due, and if she also gets some humor out of inferring the girl's grandfather was also a wonderful woman... only sleepy Visigoth has to be witness to /that/. "Were you very young? Was she your father's mother, or your mother's? I don't like to imagine how much harder it would have been, without such a woman to speak for you. My parents are," and she makes a pretty moue. "Quite amazingly healthy, despite some close calls here and there." Unaware of her faux pax in designating her grandfather a great woman, Iolene exhales, measured breathing rather than a sigh in and of itself, and listens to Val. "You're lucky. My grandparents were healthy people too. Well, grams was. I think the life went out of my grandpa when she didn't come back with us. I've heard it happens sometimes when people truly love each other. The will to live just disappears." The porridge is given up on, the bowl being pushed away as Io leans back with her now, not so steamy, hot water. "I was four when Thread ate them alive. My mother was their daughter, and they," a beat, "My uncles and aunts and parents, were out fishing together on a raft. No one knew it would happen. Our harper then said it wasn't supposed to happen." The dark lashes drop, shadowing the brownrider's thoughts. "It wasn't. It really wasn't supposed to happen. So much died." She nudges at the last bit of bacon with her fork as though it were tasteless, now. "Our starsmiths," and she doesn't think to glance at Iolene now, to see how familiar a word that might be, "They say it shouldn't happen again. But we can't /know/, can we. But at least we have our dragons." In Pass. In Interval, to tide them over during this time when they aren't as truly /needed/. There have been harper classes about varied subjects, but nothing like asking one herself. "How do dragons help?" Iolene asks, simply, latching onto subjects that might lead to less sorrow. Those brown eyes lift in a hurry. "We /fight/ it." Val blinks a couple times in succession, licks her lips, and then drinks again instead. From the wrong mug. Which means she has to drown /that/ with the nice dark brew instead, but at least it's definitely not a laugh. "Our dragons, they breathe flame, and that kills it. It kills the Thread, and because they fly, we can go up and /get/ it before it gets anyone." And if queens have it differently, well, they don't seem to matter much just now. Iolene considers this, nursing her tepid water as if it might be tea. It buys her time to think and dwell on this information that, if her lack of startlement is anything, is not new. Her, "Why?" is quizzical, and with the earlier embarrassment forgotten about (for now), and sadder subjects compartmentalized into a different chamber of her brain, she focuses on this line of thought quite intently. "I mean, why do dragons do this for people?" Enough of even the bacon. Val wipes her lips, wipes her hands, wipes her hands some more, and slides her tray sideways away from them both so she has more of the table free. She unwraps her cloth bracelet and rewraps it, this time around her neck, before reaching for the little sack with its lovely contents. "Why?" Why does Rukbat rise in the east? If only /Val/ had taught weyrlings or indeed anyone at all, this might have been easier, but instead, "They want to. They want to get it too." She looks at Iolene and her braids and her blue, dark blue eyes. "We take care of them and they take care of us. Is that what you mean?" The answer suffices for now, Iolene recognizing that she might not get anything more detailed out of this otherwise, fascinating woman. "So, when they exiled our ancestors without dragons, it was for them to die." There's a distinct lack of sorrow in those words, merely a thoughtful realization that then turns to, "How did we even manage to live, I wonder." Rhetoric, though the statement might be, Io looks to Val with a brief flicker of her light lashes, catching sight of the shift in the cloth bracelet's location. "Tell me about dragons, if you please? I'd like to know more. We thought they were sea monsters when you first appeared over our island." There's the /they/ and there's the /you/ and Val repairs the torn blouse she's pulled out with sharp, stabbing motions. "Holders do that. They do. We don't." However complicit they may be. And, perhaps, would-be-jaded Val may still be innocent of some truths. "I don't know either. It was a miracle, it must have been, Iolene. There's a song about a girl who runs and runs, until riders find her..." Her eyes rest on the needle for a moment, or perhaps past the needle, and then she seems to relax again: less tremulous, less tense. "I can try and tell you what you want to know, yeah? But I'm not sure where to begin." A prompt. Iolene's good for that. "Tell me why there is one rider per dragon. They're not like the runners I've seen in the stables. Where anyone can mount one I'm told. One dragon belongs to one rider. Or is it one rider belongs to one dragon?" Io ignores the way Val moves now, so focused is she on this conversation that those dark-shaded pale eyes don't deviate from studying the woman. "And well, what your name might be." "I was wondering when you'd ask," the brownrider confides. "You can call me Val. It stands for Valicious," which may be more like impish. More seriously, or at least a little more seriously: "Yes, one to one," see her fingers spared from the needle, crossed together, close as close can be? "It's when the dragons are born. They pick, but only from the ones we picked, so I suppose it's fair in its way. Although I should advise you, some runners are safer to ride than others, and some belong to particular people though that's more rare. The stablehands should know... in the spring, maybe you'll try it." "Val." The belated exchanging of names draws forth that ephemeral little smile out of Iolene again, the effect strengthened for how much more relaxed she's becoming in Val's company. "Valicious," is echoed a little less certainly, a brow lifting quizzical as if to ask: Are you sure? Absolutely positive that's your real name? "I see... your parents were interesting, but I imagine, to you Iolene might seem a little strange." Maybe? Dubious names aside, even if her brow is still a little furrowed and stuck on Val's full name, she continues with a question, that's only half-distracted: "So how do they pick? Why do they pick? Can't they survive on their own?" "That's what they tell me," Val demurs, but again with the impishness: can she be believed? Should she? About that? It's harmless teasing at least, to go with her, "Strange is as strange does, yeah? I /heard/ that you all get one name to begin with, and then another when you're weaned and another at first blood... but I don't know if that's true," and she peeks up from her work at Iolene: will she try to pull her leg, too? "/Dragons/ don't survive on their own. No. At least, we don't know of one who has..." A frown might give Val wrinkles, and scare the islander besides. She stops. "They pick because... they have to? Because it clicks? They don't think like we think, though, so it's hard to describe," and the brownrider's gotten to smiling a little more now, like she's got a secret, a secret she might just like to share. "You get one more question, for now." Sounds like there could be more, for later. The idea of pulling someone's leg on a subject so solemn as namings wouldn't even occur to Iolene, so unfortunately, Val's peeking curiosity and her impishness are left unsatiated by the islander. So while she won't pull the other woman's leg, she does, however, find it in her to laugh, a lighthearted sound that carries its joy freely throughout the breakfast cavern and that ends abruptly, as if she's startled herself with her lack of sorrow. "Oh. No. It's not true. We're given names at birth, so that if our babies don't make it, at least there will be a name to carry them out to sea with." As for her last question, she has one ready immediately: "What do you do at the Weyr that allows you to afford such pretty things?" She can't help the drop to the scarf about Val's neck, but those eyes are quick to lift again. Val's answer is immediate, a smile as bright as a grin but kept contained to the curve of her lips: no teeth, no laugh, just an appreciation of Iolene's. /That's/ better. "I see!" she says, not loudly, once the cavern's morning buzz returns to its normal self after its own surprised, pleased silence. At least, silence except from the couple of elderly bronzeriders who'd only descended further, muttering, into their hangover. "And I..." will make Iolene wait? Through the end of the repair, through the replacing, only doling out little phrases along the way? "...Have a good eye." ... "Stay in with the assistant headwomen." ... "/Supplement/ my income." ... She twiddles her fingers at the islander, like tickling the air, "And get to work on time!" Poor tray, she leaves it there with its scrap of bacon, to re-garb herself so much more quickly than when she went in and go, all but dancing, out the tunnel where she'll slow into rain-melting snow but get going all the same. Which leaves Iolene with only a name, and possibly a fake one at that if Valicious is anything to go by, and no idea of what this mysterious woman does. Well, her porridge is far less appetizing now than it was before and having lived a life of keeping order in the midst of nothing, the young exile gathers her dirty dishes, utilizing Val's tray (and cleaning up the other woman's left behinds), and brings it over to the kitchen. Another glorious day of nothing but shirking harper classes is ahead of her. What to do next. |
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