Logs:Simple Kindness
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| RL Date: 25 January, 2016 |
| Who: Daemon, Dahlia |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Dahlia seeks refuge from the storm when Daemon is on duty; small kindnesses and introductions are exchanged. |
| Where: Stables, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 3, Month 12, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Thunderstorms have rocked the area off and on all day, retreating at times to let lighter skies dominate, but soon enough the clouds thicken and darken again with rain pouring down, thunder growling and lightning bolts flashing. |
| Mentions: Guzman/Mentions |
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>---< Stables, Fort Weyr >---------------------------------------------------< While still in the same general vicinity as the Feeding Grounds, the Stables are a separate entity in and of themselves. All the Weyr's runners are stabled there, as well as runners brought in by visitors. The stablehands do all the regular upkeep; from ensuring the animals are cleaned and well fed, to ensuring the stables are kept up and in good condition. There's a large fenced in area that uses the existing fence of the feeding pens, giving the animals plenty of room to run around in. Hay is kept in a loft that's accessible via a ladder at the front, to the left of the entrance. -----------------------------< Active Players >----------------------------- Daemon M 23 6'3 muscled, blond hair, blue eyes 7m Dahlia F 19 5'9" sturdy, dk. brown hair, hazel eyes 0s The thunderstorms that are on-and-off today are on at this point in the morning, with drenching rain pouring down. It makes the stables a nice refuge, for all it's distance for any riders unfortunate enough to have lifemates wanting to feed with their relative company. Lightning arcing through the sky shows Taeliyth's egg heavy form some distance away in the feeding grounds, while Dahlia ducks, soaked to her bones from her trip from wherever she came from, into the stables, hands pushing water away from her face to clear her water-blurred vision. Dark as it is outside, the shadows cling and coalesce in an almost homey way in this confined space for runners. Warmth battles against the chill of Fort's autumn morning, with the comforting (to some) sound of runners stamping and snorting. None are currently in the fenced area for exercise, and the stablehands are all busy in their own right while ozone saturates the air chased by the rumble of thunder. Daemon is not the most experienced with runners, but he's not the least either. This day, he's busy filling the feed of the various housed runners when Dahlia ducks into this microcosm of warmth and peace. "Hey," his voice is careful, action arrested as the only visible stablehand in this brief slice of time, "Can I help you?" Eyes narrow in a squint as memory places the girl's face, "Uh, ma'am." There's an easy, wide smile from the just barely not drowned brunette as her eyes catch on the stablehand. "Thank you, you can. Mind letting me linger here while Taeliyth feeds?" Dahlia might not truly need his blessing to stay, but she asks for it anyway. "I wont be a bother, I promise. I'll just stand about here and squint at the rain," as if she could see through it. Daemon blinks, but hastily adds with a quick shake of his head, "Of course not." Calloused fingers curl around the feed bag that he has in his arms, his eyes flicking briefly over the drowned-cat state of her appearance before quickly setting the bag down. "Uh," the look he gives her is a touch uncertain, but only for a moment. "Lemme get you a blanket." Never let it be said that Daemon can't be a gentleman (kind of). "It'll be a little," his voice drifts off from a corner turned while he digs out one of the runner blankets used during the winter, "runner smell-y, but." Returning on the heels of a rush of breath, "Warm. And better than..." Trailing off, he gestures at the whole of her. Dahlia's smile warms further at the offer, "Thank you, that's kind." She extends a hand to accept it. "I don't mind. Once you spend a significant time with mulch and manure, you don't tend to mind smells quite so much." There's a wryness to that return, good humor in her expression. "I'm not sure we've met. I'm weyrwoman Dahlia," the second hand extended is surely for a shake or something of that variety. "And if we have met and I don't remember, I do apologize." Just in case. "Kind of new here, myself," Daemon doesn't hesitate in taking her hand: a blend of skittish confidence. "Daemon, stablehand." At the mention of mulch and manure, his eyebrows raise as surprise dances across his features briefly. "I can't imagine you buried in mulch and manure." The quick shake - his hand is calloused and warm, grip strong but not //too// strong - ends and the man presses his hands together. Again, he tacks on a hasty, "Ma'am." The storm brings more thunder, reverberating through the stables and causing some of the horses to stamp their feet. The scent of damp hay permeates as eddies of air circle through the building. "Don't think we met before, so you're good." A charming smile tugs up the corner of one side of his mouth. Dahlia's grip is firm, her shake perhaps a little enthusiastic. The blanket is drawn across her shoulders when the gesture is complete. There's a light laugh for his words, "Well, I did miss that particular hazing ritual by not being at the Hall with the rest of the twelve turn old apprentices." It's hard to say if she's kidding or not, given the pressed-lip smile left in the wake of the words. "I was a FarmCrafter for turns before I Stood, though, so I can promise, honestly, that I'm no stranger to dirt and worse." On another note, "I'm glad to know I haven't forgotten you, then. Welcome to the Weyr. Are you settling in alright, Daemon?" Only a beat later she's adding, uncertainly, "Unless you mean new to here as in the stables." She lifts her brows, asking. "Ah, well," Daemon lifts his hand to scratch behind his head, looking a touch - uncomfortable? It's not the right sentiment, but a little bit like he's either underestimated the goldrider or he's unsure of his footing. Perhaps a little bit from column A and a little bit from column B. "That makes sense then," maybe that's a touch lamely said for lack of something a little snazzier, but he follows it up with a warm grin. "No, no, you're good. And no, I'm new to the weyr... did some stable work before, but I'm certainly no runner expert." He gives a little shrug, and makes one of those 'I'm learning' faces. "So a little bit of both? And yes, I'm settling in just fine. I like it here. It's better than what I left behind with more opportunities and less failed crops." The last is given with a blend of irony and humor. Dahlia's smile softens a little in the face of the first. "Everyone has beginnings," she offers her smile widening briefly, "I'm proud of mine." She glances out at the rain, perhaps a little embarrassed to have made him some variety of uncomfortable or unsure. She looks back after a moment of seeing more nothing but rain with a flash of light, "I'm glad you're finding something familiar to do, then. I hope the others have been good about showing you whatever you need to learn," she apparently is willing to extend him the benefit of her belief that he could and would learn whatever it is. "The Weyr does offer some interesting opportunities, though we feel the failed crops no less than the Holdings farming them, I'm afraid." Her smile is a little wan at that, but she clears her throat and asks delicately, "Did you leave much behind? Family?" It's a touchy question since the plague, but she asks it with a quiet grace and respect. "Everyone has been very kind," Daemon assures, settling into the skin of confidence once again, nodding a silent agreement to the fact the weyr feels the failed crops as much as anyone. When she broaches the touchy subject, the young man looks out to the storm before answering. "Let's just say, I'm hoping that the weyr can be a new beginning. A new home where I can... leave behind the past." His voice rings with truth - desperate truth, almost. Turning back to the weyrwoman, "It's familiar enough that I don't fail horribly, but new enough to be different." Dahlia's hazel eyes observe the older man as he answers and her look is not unintelligent, but she must be used to encountering those with little wish to talk about their recent experiences. "A Weyr is a good place for that," she tells the stablehand, the words at the same time accepting what he's said and giving some measure of assurance that she won't press him about them. "I hope it doesn't become routine too soon. I imagine we have more uses for runners than most Weyrs, with the Hold and Halls being so close." If quite a ways down in altitude. "Do you ride yourself?" It is her quiet assurance in demeanor and words that she won't pry that visibly settles Daemon and bleeds away his discomfort and uncertainty. "It has been good to me, for me." Once again, he reaches up to scratch the back of his head and turn his attention out towards the storm before giving into a sidelong look at the girl. "Well now, ma'am, you'd think I'd be able to ride well, but the truth is? I've only taken care of the animals, never actually ridden them." He shrugs, as if to say the gig is up. "I think I'd do passably well, but they're dangerous in the back, tricky in the front, and crafty in the middle," he jokes, grinning. "Besides, I've learned to saddle 'em, brush 'em, and feed 'em, but never really to ride 'em." Beat. "What about you, lady goldrider? You ride?" Pause. "Erm, runners that is." The first earns an astonished look that's swallowed by laughter for his joke. Dahlia grins at the stablehand like any other nineteen turn old might, if one could put out of their mind that fancy knot looped over the shoulder of her blouse. "Never to ride them. That's... you'll have to learn," she decides, but hastily adds, "If you want. I mean, you have access now, and there's plenty here who could teach you, I'm sure." She probably realizes that she's babbling and that only deepens the tinge in her cheeks that began with her self-correction. "I did. I haven't in a very, very long time, but I was posted to Southern Weyr as an apprentice, studying under the master posted there so when we would visit the outlying holdings, sometimes it was easier to go by runner from one to the next, with our gear and all that." That likely means multi-day trips which likely means Dahlia, as the apprentice in that scenario, probably knows how to do those care items, too. "And weyrwoman or ma'am is fine. I'd say Dahlia's alright too, only the ma'aming business seems all the more important because I'm younger than most of the people who say it to me and," she leans a little bit toward him, suggesting the imparting of a secret, "a shocking number of them would like to simply dismiss me because of my age alone." Imagine that. In his current station, it is hard for Daemon to put out of his mind that big, fancy knot of hers, but still that grin of hers brings out an abashed little clearing of his throat. "Maybe I can now, I will." Thoughtful with a pensive draw of his brows that such a possibility exists, but that's eradicated with her story and the surprise that settles in his blue eyes. His mouth opens as if to say something, but the sentiment is aborted when she leans towards him, imparting what seems like a secret. "That's just plain uninformed to dismiss someone simply because of their age and not their experience." He hesitates and almost frowns in thought but just as he's about to continue on - possibly in the same vein - someone calls his name. Daemon jumps and looks over his shoulder, "I'd better get ..." Thumb's jerked over his shoulder before he hefts up that bag of feed, hefting it with one arm curled around it. "Nice to meet'cha, ma'am," he adds, sincerely. "Stay long as you want," an easy grin spreads over his features, "It's your stables, after all." With an easy salute, the stablehand turns and heads back down the way to continue a job he likes enough to produce the jaunty whistle in time with his steps. "If only my experience equaled my age," Dahlia returns with a rueful grin. "Don't let me keep you," she encourages him back to work, though certainly it doesn't seem like she's tired of his company. She touches the blanket, "Thanks again," for it, "and it's our stable, for the record. The Weyr's. You're part of that now too." The smile says she means that, that she sees his role as important here, in the grand framework of the greater Weyr. She doens't keep him though, not beyond those remarks, stepping toward the entry a little, to watch the rain until Taeliyth's sated herself and the goldrider can leave the blanket and dash back out into the rain to meet her. |
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