Logs:Thank you and I am sorry
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| RL Date: 9 April, 2015 |
| Who: Edyis, Zadkiel |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: After the Bazaar Edyis thanks the person who shouldn't have had to rescue her. |
| When: 23D 6M 37T I10, summer afternoon |
| OOC Notes: Feel free to edit, correct, and alter away! |
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>---< Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr(#290RJs) >-----------------------<
Ringing the southwestern side of the hatching sands are ample tiers of
carved stone benches, the lowest of which is some six feet off the ground
-- just high enough to separate wayward hatchlings from unwary viewers,
and vice versa. A metal railing on the outside helps prevent anyone from
falling off; it also extends up the stairs that lead the way higher into
the galleries. While most of the area is open seating, ropes section off
some of the closer tiers when dignitaries are expected; those areas even
feature cushions in the Weyr's blue and black.
The higher one climbs, the more apparent the immense scale of the entire
cavern becomes. The dragon-sized entrance on the ground is dwarfed by the
expansive golden sands that glitter in the light. Everything on them is
easily visible from the galleries, whether that's a clutch of eggs and a
broody queen, or simply its emptiness and the handful of darker tunnels
that lead to more private areas than the bowl. Wherever one sits or looks,
however, one thing is constant: the overwhelming, suffocating heat.
>-------------------------------------< 23D 6M 37T I10, summer afternoon >---< The note left in elegant, precise script, just gives location and approximate time. No initials or anything otherwise noteworthy about the small scrap of hide. The person who left it, however, is sitting in the Hatching galleries, which appear to be only sparsely populated. Edyis sits, elbows on her knees, flask in her hands and the canvas satchel she usually carries at her side. She seems to be either waiting for someone or lost in thought. The Igenite's arrival is unobtrusive. He's a silent thing by nature - moreso now, with moods being as they are. Zadkiel slips into the stands, soundlessly seeking the note-leaver. It isn't hard to spot her, in the end. It's without a word that he sits next to her, his elbows ending up on his knees and his liberally bandaged forearms allowed to dangle a bit. The wordlessness persists, with only a sidelong look spared for his fellow Candidate. He's patient. He'll wait. At that sidelong look, she tips back the flask with a small sloshing sound, before setting it to the side. "I wanted to thank you," she answers after time. "For getting me out of the way the night of the Bazaar." A beat, "Other things too, but. I'm sorry that I wasn't of more help that night." Exhaling softly, before finally looking over to study the Igenite's expression. Gauze-wrapped fingertips touch and steeple a little. Zadkiel's immediate response is a melodic hum-grunt, a sound that's neither satisfied nor displeased. His gaze slides from her to the eggs beyond, his expression rendered unreadable in that moment. Eventually: "You are welcome." His mouth twitches, but his attention remains fixed on the eggs. "Do not apologize," is with a palpable tinge of vehemence. "Your reaction was natural. You could not help it. I regret that I did not realize it sooner and get you to safety faster. For that, I am sorry." "No." She sighs then, "It felt anything but natural. Had it been anything else, I would have been running forward to help. Fire... I thought I'd gotten over it by this point." brows draw together as she reaches for her satchel then, fishing around until she finds the thing she is looking for. It takes a few moments, and she produces a small scrap hide wrapped book of sorts, handing it over. Inside several carefuly rendered drawings of the dancers and even his performance. "For you. As a thank you for the necklace." "Maybe so, but." Zadkiel reaches with a hand to try to place his fingertips - briefly - on her knee. "It is not something you should be apologetic for. Fire is..." he trails a bit, as if digging for the words. Finally: "Fire is different." And that is all that can be said. When the book is handed over, his brow pinches. He slowly flips through it, though his expression seems to slide between unreadable and something peculiar. Dark. "Pahaliah said it was a poor choice of dance," is mused just under his breath. "She was right." Louder, for her sake, he says, "I do not... know what to do with this. But, I thank you." "It was dark and unsettling and something that was difficult to draw the eye away from." There's a chuckle at that. "Seems like the perfect choice for this place." And at his protest she smiles as though there is a perfect symmetry in him not knowing what to do with the gift. "So it is. That part, especially." Zadkiel sucks his teeth and leans back a little, the book braced on his lap by both of his forearms. "There are other parts of that story. Chapters. There would not have been enough time to do all of them." His mouth lurches to one side and he blows out a sharp breath through his nose. "Before I leave, I will see if some of the dancers will return to do a different dance. Perhaps that might be a good thing." "I would be curious to hear about those other chapters sometime. To see other dances too. I've never seen anyone move like that." She glances over at him then fishing out a bottle of rum from her bag, and holding it in his direction. (She doesn't seem like she'd be offended if he refused.) "Are you a man of superstitions?" She murmurs, reaching for her flask and tipping a little more back over her lips. At the last, she goes thoughtfully. "What is it that you miss most about Igen?" "It will be easier to show. Later." Shoulders rise and fall in a shallow shrug and Zadkiel's attention fixes properly on Edyis. "Everyone knows the story in the pit of their stomach and the marrow of their bones. Seeing it, that makes it real." Which should be enough introspection from the hunter-turned-Candidate, but the question she poses seems to force him to dig a little deeper. He shakes his head at the offer of the flask, the gesture subtle - but clear. "I do not know if that is the word for it. But. Sometimes- yes. I suppose." The creasing of his forehead renders his expression troubled for a short while. Thoughtful. As for the last? That's easy. "The people. Here, it is different. It feels different." His nose wrinkles and the limit of his articulation is reached. The bottle gets tucked back carefully into the bag. "To feel and know something on an instinctual level is different than understanding the thing itself. Not every mask he wears is disturbing. I've seen Death come quietly, like an old friend, bringing peace where it was needed." She frowns realizing perhaps that she is thinking out loud more than she ought. "Different isn't always bad people aren't always bad." She corks the flask, tucking that too back in the bag. "But then again, you doubt being surprised." She smiles at him, tugging the bag over her shoulder, and giving those bandages a serious scrutiny. He clicks his tongue. "Death is always peaceful. It is everything leading up to that moment that is not. All it can do to ease suffering is to take everything away." Zadkiel rolls a shoulder. "The dances about Death are all echoes of that. Reflections. But always different." Which ties into her observation and transitions into his reply: "I did not say bad. Or good. Different. I will not say I will miss everyone here - but I will miss some." He reaches to lightly tap knuckles on her knee again, only to turn his arm so it's wrist up, so she can examine the bandages. Those bandages are well-wrapped and properly tied off, though some hint of something is starting to leak through. "Need to replace them soon," he notes. "The Healers have been busy." Dark brows draw together at the assessment. "Sometimes that is enough." Leaving the topic of death alone as he offers the arm for inspection. Gently long fingers find the undamaged portions of skin to rest upon as she tugs, her grip feather light, bringing the limb over for closer scrutiny. "Not so busy they can't properly replace these, or even Keysi would be willing. She can regale you on the problems with waiting too long to change bandages." There's a wry smile with that. Then a sigh. "Come on, lets go get them changed and I can check on Alida while I'm at it. I have a sneaking suspicion that you need a chaperone to ensure your injuries are tended to, properly." Her expression equal parts wry and amused as she releases her hold. "Were they not my arms," Zadkiel counters, "I could do the bandaging myself." He grunts. Her efforts at getting his arm closer are successful; his skin is naturally rough and sun-weathered, but supple. Responsive. He keeps the limb still while she examines it. "I have seen what happens when injuries are not seen to, Edyis. Burns. Bites. Cuts." The short list is punctuated with a flicking of fingers. "I am no stranger to infection. After I saw you here, I was going to go have it seen to." A lie? Truth? Difficult to tell. Once he's released, he pushes to his feet and jerks his chin, as if motioning for her to rise and make good on her suggestion. And the book she gave him? Tucked under an arm for now. The former scribe can't help but smile at the punctuation. "If I was sure I remembered properly how to change them I would do it for you. But I imagine you probably need numbweed or redwort applied too." She answers his counter. As for the injuries? "I've noticed." Something wry in the twist of her lips, she is content that he agrees to have it looked after, and whether or not she believes him she does seem intent to see that he follows through Since she follows his lead. |
Comments
Laine (11:10, 9 April 2015 (EDT)) said...
Aw. This was sweet. (Bittersweet?)
It's nice to see more of Zadkiel's personality coming through~
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