Logs:Beating the Blizzard
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| RL Date: 21 February, 2016 |
| Who: Catling, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A blizzard's coming, and it won't be long. Time to leave the galleries! |
| Where: Galleries, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 27, Month 1, Turn 40 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: A'sran/Mentions, Baliol/Mentions, Blume/Mentions, Dahlia/Mentions, Kh'tyr/Mentions, Olivya/Mentions |
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| Wind blusters outside, and its latest special delivery is N'rov, his long coat unbuttoned enough to hold it expansively, dramatically as further wind-shield for the white-haired assistant headwoman he escorts; now that they've reached the galleries' warmth, they split the place up, each with a message for those they come across... who stir, and some look worried. N'rov, by coincidence, has Catling's side. Catling is sitting in the stands near the edge, wrapped in a warm, if rather homely shawl. She looks tired, and she sips at a mug of warm cider, cupping her hands around it. She is looking thoughtfully down at the eggs, her gaze drifting from one to the other to the other. It takes her a moment to notice the approach of N'rov, and she blinks a moment before setting down her mug. "Sir?" "Candidate," N'rov greets, dropping into an easy crouch when he gets there; more of a height with the girl now, he says, "Nice hideout. Another storm's coming in, though. How long have you been here?" "In the Weyr, sir? About five months now. Here in the galleries? Oh, about a half-hour, I suppose. Done with duty for the day, and wanted to come and look. I was cold... the children wanted to play in the snow and so I was out with them in groups.... supervised, of course, but they like me. I know how to care for children. But still, it's chilling work. So." She blinks. "Have.... have I done something wrong, sir? If so I'm sorry..." N'rov's grin is quick; kind or unkind, though, he doesn't interrupt. "Not that I'm aware of," he says when asked, the single crooked brow only implying a question. "No, it's more that nobody wants you lot trapped, only to find you sevendays later, dessicated in your seats." "Trapped? I'm not sure I understand." Catling raises her head, looking around. Her eyes widen, and she tilts herhead from side to side. Her nostrils flare, and she turns to look at him. "If there's danger to us, don't we need to help protect the eggs?" "A," N'rov explains, still comfortably crouched and about as unprepossessing as he gets, "I'm exaggerating. At least slightly," he emends. "B, eggs don't have to eat or drink or, forgive my indelicacy, pee. They also have a big creature whose job it is to see to them; sometimes even two. C, they have lasted don't-make-me-count blizzards already this season. Feel better?" "Not.... exactly. We'll be trapped here?" Catling rubs her arms under the shawl, then nods. "Thank you for letting us know. Is there anything I can do to help?" She looks wistfully at the eggs and the warm sand and her cup of cider, then rises to her feet. "I've been trapped in blizzards before. It isn't pleasant. Though.... to be frank, it is entirely possible to pee into snow." "Don't fall into a snowdrift," N'rov suggests helpfully, right before he, too, stands. "Easier for a boy, I'd wager. But the point is, if you're stuck here, we don't want anything peed in or on. Imagine Lord Ruatha sauntering in only to sit upon a pud... no, it would have dried up by then but, regardless: stinky." "Not as much easier than you think." Catling chuckles. "I can squat and protect my parts from the wind. And with practice, you can get pretty good at it. At least I don't have to worry about my bits getting frost....bite.. .. Oh shells. Shells. SIr. I'm... That was wholly inappropriate for me to say, sir. I'mm... erm...." "About to make your way out in safety," N'rov tells her. "Play follow-the-leader. There might even be a rope to hold onto." He gives her another of those quick grins and moves on, lest the assistant headwoman get too far ahead of him, though he'll check back on the herd once they have them moving out. Obedience is perhaps too deeply ingrained in the girl; at any rate she does not argue. She finds herself smiling back, her cheeks going pink and then scarlet, and she shakes her head. "No, lass, no, keep your head somewhere sensible. It's his nature to be charming. And you're some squeaky thing, little kitten, naught more." She sighs, then shakes herself and grabs her mug, playing follow the leader indeed. She remains behind him, just following orders, and totally not there for the view. Then she'll see him collect visitor after visitor, singletons and pairs and groups, whether the elderly seeking warmth or young ones hoping or others just looking to socialize: an urbane sheepdog with easy words for all and sundry, herding the stragglers while the assistant headwoman takes the lead. It's right before they're headed out into the sharpening winds that N'rov glances over his shoulder to Catling, amused; "Still there?" "Aye sir," answers Catling, her head jerking up from where her gaze was focused. She flushes, then sketches a salute. Of course, she does so with the mug, which she smacks into her forehead, sending her reeling and splashing the rest of the cider all over her head. She stumbles and falls on her rump. "Have you fallen every time we've met?" N'rov inquires with interest. Though, "Crossing in the lunch line doesn't count." "Have I?" Catling blinks dazedly. "Maybe I have. Though I don't think I've ever done this before, sir." She winces, then staggers to her feet again. "As long as I do it differently each time it isn't a pattern. It's just coincidence. Right?" She's babbling, red-faced, and looks a little dizzy. "They make those mugs really solid...." "Right." N'rov eyes her a moment. "Why don't you walk ahead of me," he says. "It seems safer. I won't have to worry about one of Dee and A'sran's candidates wandering off into the snow, never to return until spring, and then only with sweet white flowers growing out of her eyes." "That's escee... eskeed.... that's very morbid, you know." Catling takes her place just in front of him, then pauses, goes back to retrieve the mug, and picks it up, almost losing her balance again. "Really solid and painful, actually. The mug, not what you're saying." She takes her place in front of him again. "Which sweet white flowers?" N'rov waits, looking patient enough; if Vhaeryth is bespeaking Leczuth, it's not written on his features. "Just walk in the footsteps of Jeanya in front of you. Take it slow and easy. Flowers? The kind that grows out of eyeballs, of course. I don't expect there's more than one kind, possibly two, though Dee's a farmcrafter; she might know." "I've never seen eyeballs growing out of... I mean eyeballs growing out of flowers." Catling offers a flustered little smile. "So I wouldn't know. But still... I mean... still...." She looks down, following Jeanya's paces. "How.... I mean, have you seen them?" "Well, you wouldn't, would you? They always blink first. The others are harder to miss. Not," N'rov goes on to say, "that I should admit to such a thing, lest you fall again and break something, become ineligible to Stand, and set some poor dragonet howling to Impress Headwoman Blume. That would set the Weyr on its ear." The weyrleader's careful with his own footing, each step deliberate despite that the flow of his speech is as carefully not. "What do you make of Weyrlingmaster Olivya?" "Well.... I think she's.... I don't know her well enough to have an opinion, actually, sir. I don't think she thinks much of me. I'm hopelessly naive, and... well. Just.... I guess I'm too much me. She shrugs her shoulders. "But that's all right. I mean, maybe I am. As long as she's fair, it doesn't matter if she doesn't like me. I'm used to that enough." He makes no promises on the greenrider's behalf, though there's a hint of complex amusement in his, "I see." It's a few footsteps later that N'rov decides to add, "She has a soft heart hidden way down deep inside, you know. We all have to pretend it's not there. It's why she protects it so." That smile might be audible in his voice when he says, by now less than a greenlength from the caverns' light, "Don't tell." "Just like Kh'tyr pretends to be a horrible person when he's nice deep down?" Catling smiles back at him, turning her head and nearly falling again. She drops the mug again, and this time it shatters. "Oh. Oh, I'd better clean that," she murmurs, though she looks up at him. "She's nice. I'll try to remember..." That inspires a laugh, inhibited only by the cold; "You could," N'rov starts in on something... only the crash interrupts it, and then he's frowning. "You should, yes. Don't cut yourself." He's also walking briskly past her, long stride bypassing the shards even on the icy ground amidst the snow that's starting to fall, as up above, dragon after dragon makes it home in time. She might even seem forgotten, were it not for one of the caverns workers that sighs and agrees to go back and check on the girl: deal with the big pieces, the rest will survive, just get inside. "Yes sir," answers Catling, flushing once more. Then she lowers herself to the ground. Picking up the pieces doesn't take long; the girl does it with a resigned air, as if this is not the first time she's done such a thing. It doesn't take her long to have them gathered in a spare kerchief. And then, crouched on the ground, she makes the mistake of looking up, and she is mesmerized by the sight of homecoming dragons. She remains there, one knee bent to the ground, snow falling on her and the cider beginning to freeze in her hair when one of the workers comes to check on her and ushers the girl in. |
Comments
Roz (12:02, 23 February 2016 (PST)) said...
This was kind of cute. <3 :D
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