Logs:In The Dark
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| RL Date: 20 July, 2012 |
| Who: Leova, Azaylia, Brieli |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Things that talk, squeak, and lurk late at night. Oh wait, that's just Leova and two of the weyrlings! |
| Where: Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 12, Month 4, Turn 29 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: E'gin/Mentions |
| Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr Massive in scale, the Weyr's main storage passage connects to the kitchen on one end and the outbound tunnel on the other. Large enough to admit a wagon laden with goods, the tunnel easily permits the unloading and organization of supplies into the various storerooms. Branching off from this corridor are multiple caverns, the nearer two being 'open' stores from which residents can readily help themselves, while the deeper stores are kept locked up tight with a posted sign and inventory hung on a hook outside of each. An alcove next to the public stores serves as a catch-all area for reshelving items whose destination is uncertain; two sets of stone shelving and several bins hold these items neatly until a stores assistant has a moment to deal with them. Though the storage caverns vary in size, shape, and the smoothness of their walls, all belong to the same system: whitewashed walls, swept floors, and most importantly, neatly labeled and inventoried shelves providing ample space to stow all the supplies a busy Weyr needs. Though there's no direct internal lighting, a glowbasket may be brought in from the niche outsde each cavern, the better to ward off pests and the inky dark of deep caves. Deep in the storerooms, there's no snow, not even a true breeze, just the slow flow of air keeping the caverns fresh. It might be warm, humid, sultry as a Southern summer. But there aren't any stars here, and the only light is that which a woman brings with her. It glows greenly out from a dead-end cave, a pale wash of light that seems to bring voices with it... or /a/ voice, a smoky alto that's maybe a little sleepy too. "You think?" she asks. There's a pause. "I know, but it's not as though we have a /choice/. It's better than," but her voice breaks off there, exasperated and fond all at once, with a nearly-audible shake of her head. Things lurk in the darkness. Though it sounds more like rummaging, trust that it's actually quite menacing and not at all announced with a gentle, tired, "Oh... wherryfeathers." Azaylia is trying her best to see with the little glow she dared to swipe from one of the baskets in the tunnels. The sound of a stranger's voice has her falling still, cupping her hands around the glow in order to stifle some of its light. Rather than call out, the weyrling waits with a held breath, unsure of how lenient that curfew of hers is. The late snowfall hasn't put Brieli's fashion sense back into hibernation; she's finally bothering to dress well again, bothering to put herself together like she might have in the past, though there's a better look to her clothes now - hardly surprising (and yes, hard to see in the dark). Long legs carry her confidently, but quietly through the depths of the storerooms - maybe it's the soles of the slouchy boots she's wearing, or the lightness of her steps. She can't avoid the faint glowlight she too has with her though - it bobs along, only stopping as she catches that rummaging, the smoky voice that sounds maybe-familiar, the 'wherryfeathers' that does. Still, the glow gets shoved in her new jacket as she edges closer, now against the wall. Who spies on whom? The original voice mutters grumpily, "Lucky to have gotten in at all. Make up your /mind/. Don't see why you even care, considering," and then there's a low scrape of /something/ heavy being moved, tipped... and thudding. And unwilling laughter, after. Silence is for those who can afford to not care. Before she even realizes what she's doing Azaylia is calling out with a quiver in her voice, "H-hello? Did you hurt yourself? Are you okay?" Mister or Missus scary voice? Not scary, perhaps mysterious but the weyrling doesn't have time for semantics. Glow still held against her chest, her steps aren't nearly as quiet. One, two, three, and she stops. In the dark, hidden against the wall, Brieli winces as Azaylia calls out. She hadn't held her breath; it might be a nothing conversation - but now, who would ever know? Still, she'll wait to hear the answer, see the situation before revealing herself off, even fading back a step or two as her fellow weyrling's glowlight creeps nearer. She cares. About what's happening. That swish-thud, there, that would be the sound of fabric sliding against leather, Leova whirling to take in the newcomer. The one who shows herself, anyway. She laughs again, quicker this time, her voice slid up half an octave: "Azaylia. Sweet Faranth, you startled me, it's all right." There's just an upended chair, its upholstery split, feathers spilt from their casing and a fold of paler fabric mostly hidden within the snowy litter, too: stuffing, maybe. Nobody else is there. Maybe she always was alone. Leova's whirling will have Azaylia's arms giving a startled spasm, glow tossed up just as there's a frightened squeak to go with it. "Eee!" And down she goes, following the glow to the ground as long legs lock up. "Ahhhhohhello." She will greet, gently of course, from the ground as she looks up at Leova with still-wide eyes. "I'm okay." She'll stand back up, dusting at herself as an excuse not to look up, embarrassed as she is. As there's that thud and a laugh; as there's squeaking and that long hello, Brieli makes her way up to the cavern's edge, pulling her glow back out as she does. Rounding the corner quickly, wide-eyed, "What-- Who-- Oh, Azaylia." Her frame, tensed as if she'd been expecting some sort of emergency, relaxes, and she glances over to Leova, then the chair, bemused. "Hello. I thought someone had fall-- er. Something had happened." Perhaps to distract from her dusty fellow weyrling, she peers over at the chair again, asking, "Yours now?" It might be a hair emergency, if nothing else: Leova's is standing on end, the few rusty ends recently clipped short into a finger-length mane of dark auburn. She dusts her own hands off on her knees, cutting off the assistance Azaylia doesn't seem to need after all. "Of course you are," she says with a small hiccup of a laugh before turning. Embarrassment may flame her brown cheeks, but she welcomes the otehr weyrling anyway. "You, too, of course. No, that should have held up, it's no proper chair and I won't have it." Azaylia will take the time to scoop up her glow, poor little thing, and cradle it in her hands again. Though one is clutching a short, what appears to be a utensil between her fingers. Eyes drop down to the chair, perhaps leaning with her illuminated hands to better see the piece of furniure. The seconds pass by, before, "Wouldn't it make more sense to do this during daytime?" Says the pot. If Brieli, so fussy about her own curls, which are slowly starting to grow longer, has anything to say about Leova's new cut, she keeps it to herself. She likewise pays no attention to embarrassment all around, instead inspecting the offending chair, stepping forward to poke it with the toe of her boot. "It does look fairly sad, doesn't it? What does it need to hold up to?" Her question might be innocent, but her tone certainly isn't, dark eyes brightened and amused. Looking over Azaylia's way, she has to tip her head at that - good question - and waits to find out. She wasn't furniture shopping, after all. It's an armchair that's built low and wide, with short, carved, heavily twisted legs that should have meant stability, and canvas upholstery that features faded, printed-on palm leaves. Faded and ripped, now, at the seams. No moths are flying out of the stuffing with the poke, not yet anyway, and the corner of fabric proves to be a less-faded brown in the green light of the glows. "Don't reckon we could see any better in the daytime," Leova-kettle points out, the high color on her cheeks not yet entirely faded. "As to what it should hold up to, sitting's good, hm? For starters." Azaylia looks to her friend, who gets a belated grin that is both sheepish and happy. Then she looks to Leova, and then back down at the chair. Hm. "Doesn't look like it'd do that very well." Though the weyrling shrinks somewhat as the greenrider makes a valid point. Nervously, she brings her mystery item up to her head and gives it a scratch before realizing what she's doing and straightening up. "...Uhm. Hraedhyth wouldn't let me sleep." She offers her excuse, unpromted though it may be. Perhaps it's the color the greenrider has that's made Brieli questioning and entertained, as she takes a look at it from another angle, nodding seriously. "For starters," she echoes agreeably. "If you can't sit, what good will it be for anything else? And that is true. It could be high noon in here for all we know." Except it's not, but hey - why not pretend this is all normal? Peering over at Azaylia and whatever she's scratching her head with, the other weyrling asks, "I thought she was getting better about that. Is she..." She makes a winding motion with her finger. Excuses? Who needs them. Amber eyes track the scratching, more by habit than anything else, and then the greenrider gives a one-shouldered shrug. "Dragons." Can't sleep with them around, can't burn them. "Why wouldn't she let you rest, Azaylia?" No finger-signals from Leova, though, she's busy turning the chair over. Of course, now it's lying on its back, not the traditional sitting position at all. "E'gin gave her a spoonfork." « Spork. » "And she wants me to find something nice for it." Azaylia is tired, and while she doesn't sound too bothered there's an unspoken; whatever that means. Brieli will earn another smile for that wound finger, a little shake of her head. Though Leova's one-word agreement has her head tilting curiously. "Was that who you were talking to?" Duh. As the greenrider fiddles with the chair, a concerned and confused glance will be sent the other weyrling's way. Uhm? Brieli's dark gaze takes in that chair, obviously figuring something is going on, but not so intent on getting at it that she'll pursue it. She'll just find a place to lean, and possibly make up things in her head. Finding a place to set her feeble glow, she folds her arms and sighs, "I suppose we'll need to look for this sort of thing, eventually." If that's what's available, forgive her for not sounding thrilled. Even though she's used to the other gold's oddnesses, this one has her eyeing Azaylia, confused. "Something nice for it? How do you mean?" As for that glance from the other weyrling, she just shrugs. Who knows. Leova cocks her head, but it's eavesdropping Vrianth who says it: « Spork. » "Find something... nice. For it. What, exactly, would that be?" She leans a knee on the upturned edge of the seat. "Yyth used to collect gory things, still does for all I know. Sounds like a step up from that." And: "Talking to?" The chair? For Brieli, "Don't reckon as I know much about your decoration, but there should be some furnishings already, depending. Some stuff, it's too unwieldy to move, so they don't bother." Both questions have Azaylia taking a moment to analyze what her lifemate means, exactly. The answer has her sighing, though the tolerant smile carries affection with it. "She either wants something to tie it to her riding straps, or some way to display it in our weyr." That they don't have yet. Hraedhyth will offer the (nosy) green a mental image of the utensil, carved from bone and absolutely perfect as far as she's concerned. "Hraedhyth... has some things buried." Gorey things, but let's not get into that. "Uhm! Yes, you were talking to someone? In the dark?" With a wrinkle of her nose, "Gory things. Well. Something else to be grateful about." Brieli shudders at the very idea. However, what she does like better is Leova's news about the weyrs. Pleased, "I'll be fine with anything that they saw fit to put in a ground weyr, no doubt. Iesaryth... We'll see." She quirks a wry smile. Dragons indeed. Then, to Azaylia, wide-eyed; "Buried?!" The whole spork thing is is sort of bypassed due to that; perhaps the question of whether the greenrider was speaking to someone or not is bypassed in there as well. "Wouldn't it be poky?" Leova inquires after leaning over for a better look to supplement the one that Vrianth gets. "Don't suppose she'd take to blunting the tips a bit... no? And do you happen to remember those things got buried? Not that she loses track and digs up the whole Weyr, looking." Which is a way of stalling her way into, "Might have been talking to. My dragon. Yes." Which is normal. Perfectly normal. So is the nosiness, and the bright spark of pleasure for the image: bright but electrical-sharp, verging on a zap. "She particular, Iesaryth? Least should be able to requisition fancier things than the rest of us." Azaylia tests the pokeyness of the spork, offering Leova a closer look in the meantime. Brieli's shock forces a quick answer from her, though the words don't come out any louder. "It's better than her dragging them into the barracks!" A touch embarrassed for her own dragon's odd ways, she gives a helpless huff. "I remembered. She'd tear everything apart looking for the skulls if I didn't." Skulls. Talking out loud to one's dragon is perfectly normal, and the weyrling will give an understanding nod. Hraedhyth isn't sure how she feels about that almost-zap, growling a low warning that sounds a touch on the drowsy side. Cranky dragonet. Brieli doesn't seem overly surprised that Leova should be talking to her dragon - in fact, the chair 'holding up' makes more sense, but it's perhaps less fun than what she was supposing. Peering over at the spork, she nods to Leova, explaining, "Iesaryth is picky about certain things to do with her, not so much to do with me, but I suppose I'm fairly particular about that. Clothes, anyway. Everything else..." She waves it off, picking up her glow again as she eyes Azaylia. "Skulls. I know, I know!" she says, before the other weyrling defends Hraedhyth. "I know what she's like. I should likely go... I didn't sleep all that well last night, and it's already late... Good luck to you both?" With a little wave, she'll make her way back into the main stores, still quiet as she walks. The greenrider must take Azaylia's gesture as warranting more than just a look, for she reaches out to test, too. Cautiously. Meanwhile, "Found anything interesting in the snowmelt? We get all sorts of things," this with a reminiscent air that makes Brieli's information easy to take in, and the girl herself easy to wave off. "Sleep." A woman can wish. "P'ax, he used to boil off the carcass, even, get the bones nice and clean for her. Sometimes, anyhow. Survival mechanism, I reckon." Vrianth? Less cranky and more... interested, hazing into crackly static in its wake. There's a faint reluctance in handing the spork over completely, though in a moment the tension leaves her and she lets Leova have a closer look. Nothing should be done to upset the gold, especially this late in the evening. Brieli's quick departure has a near whispered farewell, and the promise that she won't be in too late. Well, late-er. "I thought about boiling them, but this started at her first kill." The most important kill. "And gold or no, the kitchens wouldn't be too happy if I tried that." Hraedhyth fusses at the static, attempting to drown it out with a steady pounding of her drums. Clearly the better of the two sounds. Vrianth certainly doesn't take it from her, Leova doesn't that is: just a light press of human fingertips to the points of the tines, seeing just how pointy they are, and withdrawing. "Wherry?" she ask. "Or a bovine... or a tunnelsnake? Well, when you have your own place, you can stink it up all you want until the neighbors complain. Unless you'd be just as happy not to, anyhow." She's got a sideways smile for Azaylia, and as for Vrianth, she has a moment of silence for every drumbeat... followed by more static in between: thud-hissssss thud-hisssss thud-hissssssss, not quite up to boom-shakala but give it time. It certainly isn't a newly made thing, who knows how long it had been sitting in E'gin's weyr? "I think I'd rather like this in our weyr." Azaylia admits for the spork, which is perhaps why she didn't settle on the first bit of rope she had found. "Her first one was an old goat. She's got one of... gee, just about every animal." That can be eaten. "Not tunnelsnake." Though now the gold will have that idea in her head, thank-you-Leova. Rather than fury at the static interruptions, Hraedhyth shares a flicker of enjoyment for the sound. It'll fade, not because she likes it any less, but because it is a highly soothing combination of whitenoise. Cranky to sleepy, whether that is the green's intention or not. "Goat, hm? Sounds like quite the collection." Leova looks briefly distant, first straightening, then beginning to right the chair so it may sit puffily on all four legs. There's a moment where it sways on just two, where Vrianth balances between experimenting and continuing with that soothing that is not-so-soothing for so many others, but then all drops into balance. "Does she care for the quality of the animals? If she don't go after any Lord's bloodstock, he'll be that much the happier. And it may not be the usual decoration, but there's something to be said for making a place your home, I reckon." Azaylia fiddles with the bone utensil, gaze lifting with curiosity at Leova's fascination with the odd chair. "Uhm..." Still unsure of the greenrider's fussing, it takes her a moment longer to process the question. "I don't think so. As long as it's important to her." Luckily not sharing in her Sister-gold's need for quality control. At least not in the same manner. The weyrling straightens, as if a pressure has suddenly lifted. Or Hraedhyth has finally fallen asleep. Relief is worn on her face, "Oh thank Faranth." The oath sounds odd to her ears, but not at all unpleasant. Right now, the extent of Leova's fussing is sticking the chair back into place, about as neatly as it will readily go and no more. "That's the thing, I suppose, what makes it important. Usually is..." But then she's glancing Azaylia's way again, brows lifted, a silent question before she walks the few steps over to retrieve the glowbasket. When she takes it down from its hook, the light sways, the shadows dance until she stabilizes it in one hand. One forgets that not everyone is privy to their dragon, though the savage gold can be quite talkative when she feels like it. "She fell asleep." Azaylia explains, words managing to escape before she's consumed by a yawn. It ends in a squeak, big surprise. A glance towards the glow basket, so much smarter than the little bit of light still in her hand. "If you're heading out," And only if then, "Can I come along? It's a bit hard to see." Obviously. The other rider can't help but smile, saying, "I slept and slept when Vrianth did." Maybe she still does. "You're welcome to take it, even. I know the way pretty well." But though Leova offers Azaylia the glowbasket, she does it lightly so that it may be accepted or refused, and either way she'll walk with the younger woman and the green light of the glows until they're back to the better-lit passageways. No shortcuts, not tonight: just the simplest route to get them home. |
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