[Maitrey] That whole sunrise-in-the-garden with Amerie thing.
RL Date: 9/12/09
IC Date: 9/25/20
It's actually just before the crack-of-dawn, that 'always darkest' time people like to talk about prophetically. Which means that 95% of the population of the Weyr is asleep, 4% is either cooking breakfast or out on sweeps, and 1% is prowling sleeplessly. Guess which percentage Maitrey falls into! After much wandering, some of it aimless, much of it deliberate, he winds up standing outside a certain door, peering for any indication of light from the cracks. Eventually, whether or not there is any, there's a real fortune-favors-the-bold moment followed by the rap rap rap of knuckles, just loud enough to not really be ignorable but quiet enough that anyone on the other side of the door could pretend not to have heard it.
Most of the crafter's doors are shut tight and dark beneath, though there's one where a bar of dim light tries to crawl out beneath, not strong enough to really cast its glow into the beyond. Given that, it's easy enough to be missed - but luckily, it's Amerie's door where the lights are on and someone's up. There's a /pretty good/ chance Maitrey's safe. The level of the knocking might have something to do with the long pause that comes before the door is unlocked and swings open, a slightly more casually dressed weaver framed by it. The light behind her is a little low, just enough to work by. A slight quirk of full lips before; "Good morning."
Maitrey answers her greeting with a quiet, "An early one, at least." There's every chance, given the paleness of his complexion and the shadows around his eyes this morning, that the harper's more on the late-night side of the early-morning, but it doesn't show much beyond that, especially after he clears the long-quiet from his throat. Leaning to look just around her, just beyond her into the dim room-- he would have to be a little nosy about her version of housekeeping and interior design, yes-- he lowers back to the flat of his feet with his hands finding their way into his pockets. "I'm not interrupting anything, I hope? Your light was on." He knows that /now/.
By contrast, Amerie looks as if she's gotten up fairly recently, though doesn't seem much more rested for it; it's difficult to tell, with dim light and her general demeanor - and of course, the fact that not a thing is out of place despite the early hour. The weaver likely wouldn't answer the door if it was. Sharp dark gaze might pick out those signs of a late night, but she says nothing - and with a barely perceptible roll of her eyes, she just steps out of the way to let Maitrey get a good look at her rooms. Everything is orderly, though the large table has a roll of fabric spread across it, a puzzle of pattern pieces laid out, but not yet pinned. Tone still low, "No, you're not. I've been up for a bit - getting a few things done."
A quickly confessed, "Sorry," leaves Maitrey even while he avails himself of the opportunity to look inside. It's one of those secret places young men seldom get to see, but at least his curiosity is quickly sated, now he can abandon the slight chagrin of his smile. Low, morning-voice still in use, "Can I convince you to leave your few-things, Amerie? It looks to be a fine morning, not yet chilly, though perhaps a little dewy." With his hands in his pockets, his elbow pries easily out from his side, offering a loop just appropriate for the fitting of a hand.
With a little shrug - she expects curiosity, particularly from a young man who is also a born-and-bred harper - Amerie waves off the apology with a slender hand. "Please. It's not as if it's particularly fascinating." Maybe not, but for the overlapped and layered sketches covering the tapestries on the wall. With a glance back to those few things, she gives a nod for her answer - and though the offered arm has her looking a touch wary when she turns back, she mostly covers it with her dubiousness for not-yet-chilly; "I'll get my wrap, even so." That takes but a moment until she's settling it about her shoulders, closing the door as silently as possible.
With straight-faced courage, "Just a wrap? You're sure you won't need the fur-lined gloves and wool socks?" Maitrey waits just on the workroom side of Amerie's threshold for this, only very briefly distracted from watching her move about in her room by the shuffling of steps behind him, a nod turned to a yawning woodworker on his way to where he left his supplies the night before. For her wariness, a little more emphasis put on the crooked elbow, he adds, "Grace should have me pretend I never offered it in the first place, but I'm compelled to point out that I don't bite." In case his utter, abject, intense harmlessness wasn't painfully obvious.
Flatly, "Funny." Meaning 'not at all funny'. Amerie doesn't really pay attention to any of the up-late or up-early crafters, but is anyone surprised by this? Certainly not anyone who's out and about right now. Once the door is dealt with, she turns her attention to Maitrey again, still offering his arm. Dammit. Looking as if she's none too sure about an intense sort of harmless - or as if she doesn't believe such a thing exists, she takes a few moments in which she measures her possible responses. Eventually, "I'm sure you don't. Why not pretend you never offered it in the first place?" And now that it's a whole thing, it's likely just easier to take his arm - so she does, a bit reluctant about it, curling slender fingers around the inside of his elbow.
Smart enough not to seem overly gratified, certainly smart enough not to show it beyond a here-and-gone deepening of his smile, Maitrey answers honestly, "Because, if I had, you wouldn't have taken it." Small victories. It's quiet; the Weyr is only barely stirring, most of the corridors and caverns still left with only the faint light of overnight glowbaskets so people don't kill themselves trying to get to the privvy in the dead of night. And he leads through it with all the confidence of a man who's taken the time to draw himself a map and get acquainted with it, stopping at a junction-- up one slanted tunnel, the living caverns; down another, the way to the bowl. "We can stop and get something for breakfast, if you prefer. I'm guessing," internal clock, "that it's only just gray outside."
Even if he's smart about it, Amerie's still mildly irritated, though it's only visible in the purse of her lips; audible in the arch comment, "Don't get used to it." Such a charmer. Only mild irritation doesn't really give her enough of an excuse to drop Maitrey's arm, so she falls silent for a time as they make their way up through the caverns, letting him lead the way - like she's bothered to make a map. At the junction, she tilts her head to consider even food, then shakes her head. Flipping dark hair back over one shoulder with her free hand, "I'm fine - I'd rather make sure I don't miss - whatever it is I'm supposed to see this early in favour of breakfast."
There's one more quick glance down at the fingers in his elbow, one flicker of twinkling if slightly bleary eyes cast toward Amerie, and Maitrey leaves the subject of his arm and her hand alone. "I may have built it up a little too much," he remarks when his steps resume, passing from the warmth of the inner caverns, up the slanted corridor where it grows cooler, cooler, and finally into the cold stillness of an early autumn morning, gray and clear under fading stars and a pair of partial moons. "But at least now I have company," with a smile that twitches his eyebrows to match the tug at his cheek. It's a good stroll from the caverns to the bowl, with him in no hurry after a deep breath of that dewy air.
Amerie is unimpressed by any twinkling - or at least, it looks that way. It's another of those difficult-to-tell things, her expression mostly unchanged. "I wouldn't worry about that," she assures dryly. "It's not as if I am expecting all that much." As the temperature drops and they walk out into the cold, she readjusts the dark red wrap - though she likewise breathes in the chill air, letting it out in a cloud that hovers about her before it dissipates into nothingness. With a sidelong glance, she asks Maitrey, "Were you in want of company? I thought the quiet was part of it." As if in deference to that pre-dawn quiet, her voice is still hushed.
Maitrey looks up for the space of a few steps, the smile held in periphery while he lets her question settle into that cold morning. "'Were you in want of company?' she asks the young man who dared to knock on her door before the sun was up." He peeks over at that, entertained in the subdued way that the hushed morning seems to mandate, not quite chuckling but right there on the verge of it. Slowly, careful to avoid criticism in the candid remark, he adds in a tone that just verges on questioning, "You're not good with people." As in-- why?
"And somehow, you got the idea that I would be good company." Amerie's a bit entertained herself now, a short curve of a smile playing about her lips. That's proven to be false on at least one occasion now. Also, "If your hours were a bit less extreme, I am sure company would not be an issue. I am not entirely up willingly." With a questioning arch of fine brows - is he? - she meets Maitrey's gaze, if briefly. Turning her attention to the grey of the skies, she considers that for what might seem far too long. At least she's not biting his head off. Eventually, she just agrees, "I'm not." There's a moment where that seems to be it, before, "I am not terribly fond of most people."
Au contraire, mademoiselle. "I don't remember saying that, actually," Maitrey points out after her remark about good company, even lower than the rest of the mild conversation, not without the same sort of idle mirth that's been clinging all morning, though. Her 'willingly' remark is not ignored, not if the climb of questioning eyebrows is any indicator, but it's something to come back to, something that will still be there even after they finish the trek along the lakeshore that will eventually terminate in the cold-damp-green of the garden. "It shows," he states simply, uncritically. "Does it ever make you feel bad, I wonder?"
"I don't think you did. That was an assumption; apparently incorrect." Amerie doesn't seem broken up about that, though. She's found a plus side in this whole being on Maitrey's arm thing - the ability to look pretty much wherever she likes without killing herself, so long as she's got a quick glance for the ground now and again. "Though that begs the question, if I'm not good company, why bother with the company in the first place?" Her dark gaze will stay pretty much anywhere but him, as long as he's choosing to discuss her particular issues, though to her credit (and his), she's not overly defensive. "Wonder if you like. Why would it make me feel bad?"
It may not be the most flattering explanation for seeking her company, but Maitrey admits frankly, "I have been up all night, Amerie, and it eventually gets very lonely. You don't seem like you keep a lot of company, so I thought, at the very least, you might be able to relate." Another couple of steps, another small smile. "Also, you're a very subdued person, and there are times when that's an appreciated trait." There's a long look at her for a moment, his pace slowed; "Pretty helps." In conclusion. With a breath, he lowers his head to indicate the path leading in among the greenery, just starting to brighten while gray sky turns bluish-white. "Why? I suppose because the girl left in tears the other day, and the natural human response is sympathy or guilt."
Fortunately, Amerie wasn't looking for flattery when she asked the question, so the candor seems to be appreciated. "I don't. Keep a lot of company. I don't know that I'd say it's lonely." Even if it was, would she say so? After a moment, "Why have you been up all night?" Subdued, she does understand, and it's well established that she knows she's pretty - though that conclusion has her smirking a touch. Of course it helps. Starting along the path, her gaze flickers over the autumn plantings, the colour that's beginning to creep into the landscape as daybreak comes closer. For a natural human responses, she has a grimace, then; "She asked, Maitrey. It was hardly my intention to upset her. I made an effort to /not/ say anything, and that was going well." But for the surreptitious staring.
"Working. Why are you up so early?" The quickness of the question in relation to the answer is a dead giveaway that he assumes a similar problem for Amerie-- especially considering that's what she was apparently doing when he came to collect her. Maitrey shrugs helplessly to cap off the issue of his insomnia, his path familiar and direct past some of the lingering dark-greens and the first slightly-browns. There's a bench at the edge, off on a side path, surrounded by now-spent lavender that's probably useful in the kitchen, facing hard east, and that's where he'll eventually deposit the two of them. "She had to ask. Your eyes seemed like they were trying to escape your head and go some place where they wouldn't be confronted with such vagaries." Even that: amused, not accusing.
Amerie prompts, "Working on...?" Maybe she'll get an answer, maybe not - but the question seems obvious to her. "I am up so early because I couldn't stay asleep, and tend to figure that the time should be spent productively, rather than lying there, staring at my ceiling." The weaver seems less than satisfied with the helpless shrug as an end to the discussion, but she's not about to press. Especially with a bench before her and the issue of crying redheads at hand. She sits - able to release his arm now - and crosses long legs, gaze fixed on the horizon. She has to give up something of a smile for Maitrey's description, admitting, "I suppose it might have been a little like that. It's a curse. Even when I make an effort to be decent, it ends off poorly. So why bother?"
Finally, timely, Maitrey's hands come out of his pockets once Amerie's settled on the bench, and he remains standing to turn them over in that gray light, smudged with paint. "It's consuming," he explains succinctly, then lowers himself down as well, leaving the bench entirely to the weaver in favor of sitting on the ground just in front of it, using only the edge of it as a place to recline his back. It makes it a little easier to tilt his head up toward that horizon, and it provides a little detachment as well, letting her enjoy in her way, him in his. Also, he seems much more comfortable with one leg stretched out on the ground and one bent to give a knee-perch for his elbow. "I think we, as people, bother because it's polite. I can't speak to why you specifically should bother, except perhaps that not to bother seems intentionally cruel."
'Consuming' is also something Amerie can understand. Her gaze flickers to paint-covered hands for a moment before to her own, in her lap. The thumbnail of her right hand scrapes lightly at the hardened skin of her index finger as she gives a slow nod. "Difficult to stop until it's finished," she offers quietly. After a beat, her attention shifts back to the lightening sky, features impassive. There's a furrow to her brow that is reluctant to smooth; eventually, she points out, "I /did/ make an effort in this case. Perhaps not the best way to put it, but it's difficult for me to imagine that's the worst thing that's ever been said to her. If it is, she's lucky."
The bent elbow makes it easy for his hand to reach his hair, to pull on it slightly in a way that well-matches his pained tone; "Even moreso when it's... not going well." There's a breath in the middle, then another shrug and Maitrey looks from beneath his palm toward the white-turning-gold rim of the mountains. It is pretty, to mother nature's credit, with the first promise of cold, clear light leaving the mountains even darker by comparison, black silhouettes. "Why couldn't you sleep, Amerie?" Because their opinions on Genefra's tears are so wildly divergent that insomnia may be a safer subject.
"Not going well," Amerie echoes, tone threaded through with sympathy. Amazing what she can and can't find it for. She eyes that shrug of Maitrey's, uncertain before, "Should I ask?" The weaver sits straight and tall by comparison, and when his attention shifts back to the mountains, hers does as well - and dark eyes widen a touch. The stark contrast of black mountains and light has her transfixed and silent for some time, just watching - seeming to relax, if only for those few moments. And though it seems that insomnia might be the safer of subjects, her expression darkens a touch; evenly, evasively, "If I knew, I imagine I could correct it."
Should she ask? "Only if you want to," Maitrey answers over another small grin, mostly seen by the way it changes the shape of his cheeks, since he's not looking toward Amerie except briefly, except to catch what expression of hers corresponds with the subtly perceived relaxation. "You don't have to answer," he begins in a quietly questioning tone, now back to looking at the line on the horizon that's widening, at the very faint pinkening of clouds. "But is it that you really don't know, or that you don't want to talk about it? I won't press you if it's the latter, I assure you."
In those few, unguarded moments, Amerie looks at peace, though edged - weighted - with something darker and heavier. She doesn't seem to notice that Maitrey's caught any of that; it's just pure instinct and habit that has her back to her usual neutral demeanor - but for an actual smile, if brief, for the reply. "What makes it go not-well, then?" she asks, still taking in the pink clouds, the deepening colours in the sky and in the garden. She sobers slowly, considering the question. Tentatively, "Perhaps a little of both. I have my theories as to why, though I don't know. And I'm not at all sure I want to discuss those with anyone. It's just been very - unsettled the past few months."
She asked. He sighs. Not bothered by the question, more by the pressure of the problem, something even the cold light of morning can't correct, though Maitrey keeps his eyes trained to the skyline now. "To start with, it's too small. Dissatisfaction with scale makes me view the whole thing through a lopsided lens, the colors aren't right, the composition isn't what I want, it goes on from there." But the sun comes up as a reddish-yellow sliver at the end of his words, a blinding crescent that grows and makes him close his eyes against it for a few moments. When they open, it's with his head tipping to look up at Amerie, the back of his head resting nearly on the seat of the bench next to her. "You have my sympathy, Amerie, and an open invitation to avenge yourself for my invasion of your morning the next time sleep leaves you."
Amerie has to give a little laugh at the laundry list of issues, perhaps somewhat familiar - the words are different, but the feeling is the same. "And you've not yet thought of starting over. I'm impressed. I've torn things apart entirely rather than work with something that doesn't feel quite right." Black and white; it works or it doesn't, for her at least. The quickly growing sliver of light has her blinking a few times before turning towards Maitrey, finding him looking up, rather than across to her. With an arched brow for the pose and the suggestion both, lightly, "I'm not fond of sympathy. And how might you suggest I do that? Pick through the dormitory, kick your cot?"
"It happens too often, when I paint, to start resulting to violence with my work. Besides," with a wry quirk to his smile, "resources are at a premium these days. Which begs the question, should you be quite so ruthless with your projects, do you think?" Strange as it might be, Maitrey seems comfortable enough in that posture to stay there, surely owing something to the lack of sleep making it nice just to rest his head for a moment. Also, there's pretty light and a pretty girl to look at from this angle. "I do not recommend you go through the dormitory, kicking at cots. Not everyone will be as happy to see you as I would be, loveliness aside. Plus." He takes a breath, releases it around a smirk. "I don't sleep in the dorms. I have a room."
Shifting sideways, Amerie leans an elbow on the back of the bench, which makes looking down at Maitrey a bit easier - she doesn't seem to expect him to move anytime soon. Resting her cheek in hand, she tells him, too seriously, "I'll have you know I'm quite resourceful. I have my ways. And when you tear something apart when you sew, it's a simple thing to start over or repurpose. I don't go burning dresses." In fact, the idea of the last seems a bit horrifying to her. For the matter of dormitories, dismissive, "I'd find someone to do it for me. And do you." Her tone has a good-for-you quality, nice work! "That will make banging on your door much simpler."
They're supposed to be out here watching the sunrise, but Maitrey has clearly abandoned the occupation, for all the pink-to-orange-to-gold going on over mountains that were black and are now a vague, cool blue, soon to be brown. "What ways?" he asks vaguely, little interested in the subject, vastly interested in an attractive woman talking to him. Especially one resting prettily on one arm in the middle of such idyllic surroundings. This is his genius at work. "I share it with a tanner, but he's an all right fellow. I'm almost positive, /almost/, that he won't mind if you come in to kick his cot. Though we'll both be disappointed if you're going to send a stand-in."
Amerie can watch both Maitrey and the sunrise, given she's in a good position for it; glancing towards the mountains now and again for a few moments, sharp dark gaze skipping across the ranges as the shadows over them begin to fade. As for pretty posing, it seems to happen more out of habit than any conscious effort to attract interest; to her, appearance, even in such a small thing, matters. "Most of them aren't terribly interesting of late. I've found things in stores for the apprentices to work with - old clothing, or similar. But I'm considering possibilities." She takes a moment to weigh the roommate information before, "Kicking of cots is fairly unnecessary when you have a door. So I won't have a stand-in, but I will neither make an unexpected appearance."
Pardon the observation, but-- in between the increasingly longer blinks, the tendency to rest his eyes even just briefly-- Maitrey says quietly, "You are so beautiful, Amerie." Then a calm exhale, a slow nod to acknowledge her resourcefulness. "You could set your apprentices the task of fitting some clothes for Genefra? Charity and practice all rolled into one." His brows twitch, though whether that's at his own clever suggestion or at her proclamation against darkening his doorstep. "I suppose the tanner and I will simply have to learn to live with disappointment, then. Or I'll keep it to myself, so he won't know what he's missing." More charity.
For a woman who must be used to hearing compliments, Amerie seems a little surprised at this one, betrayed in her blinking and initial mild bemusement. That's quick enough to fade as she assesses Maitrey's general state of wakefulness, perhaps chalking it up to that; curving a slight smile, as quietly, "Thank you. I think you need to get some sleep soon. And I should likely get back to the pattern soon." But then, the idea of making Genefra clothes has to come up, and with a tragic sigh, "I made something for B'kaiv, and he gave it back - as for the girl, I have to believe she likes her clothes. Otherwise, why be upset? I'll make the effort, though. I like people to look nice." Not a total lost cause then? With a smirk, "Don't be so defeatist. I said I'd come find you in the first place. Take that for what it is."
"I will," and Maitrey stretches as if to prove it, stirs after that fairly lengthy immobility, stretches with his hands curled around the edge of the bench to provide some leverage for pushing himself up. Afterward, just briefly shading his eyes with one fist, he adds a glance toward the sun and comments amusedly, "I missed the show." Oh well, says the way he drops his hand across now raised knees, stretching out his neck. The Genefra-subject, lightly as it was broached, didn't go over so well, so he abandons it for an amused, "What is it?" In response to her last comment there.
Amerie likely thinks the Genefra conversation went just fine. She said she'd make an effort, despite the last one not going so well. How could anything /possibly/ go wrong? Rising as well, she seems slightly amused herself, noting, "It was lovely. I can't say I'd do it often, but..." She didn't freeze to death, so that's something. Glancing back Maitrey's way, she flashes a brief, if lovely smile before: "More than most people get." With a tilt of her head back towards the lakeshore - show's over, after all - she starts down the path before he can go offering his arm again. In daylight! The horror.
IC Date: 9/25/20
It's actually just before the crack-of-dawn, that 'always darkest' time people like to talk about prophetically. Which means that 95% of the population of the Weyr is asleep, 4% is either cooking breakfast or out on sweeps, and 1% is prowling sleeplessly. Guess which percentage Maitrey falls into! After much wandering, some of it aimless, much of it deliberate, he winds up standing outside a certain door, peering for any indication of light from the cracks. Eventually, whether or not there is any, there's a real fortune-favors-the-bold moment followed by the rap rap rap of knuckles, just loud enough to not really be ignorable but quiet enough that anyone on the other side of the door could pretend not to have heard it.
Most of the crafter's doors are shut tight and dark beneath, though there's one where a bar of dim light tries to crawl out beneath, not strong enough to really cast its glow into the beyond. Given that, it's easy enough to be missed - but luckily, it's Amerie's door where the lights are on and someone's up. There's a /pretty good/ chance Maitrey's safe. The level of the knocking might have something to do with the long pause that comes before the door is unlocked and swings open, a slightly more casually dressed weaver framed by it. The light behind her is a little low, just enough to work by. A slight quirk of full lips before; "Good morning."
Maitrey answers her greeting with a quiet, "An early one, at least." There's every chance, given the paleness of his complexion and the shadows around his eyes this morning, that the harper's more on the late-night side of the early-morning, but it doesn't show much beyond that, especially after he clears the long-quiet from his throat. Leaning to look just around her, just beyond her into the dim room-- he would have to be a little nosy about her version of housekeeping and interior design, yes-- he lowers back to the flat of his feet with his hands finding their way into his pockets. "I'm not interrupting anything, I hope? Your light was on." He knows that /now/.
By contrast, Amerie looks as if she's gotten up fairly recently, though doesn't seem much more rested for it; it's difficult to tell, with dim light and her general demeanor - and of course, the fact that not a thing is out of place despite the early hour. The weaver likely wouldn't answer the door if it was. Sharp dark gaze might pick out those signs of a late night, but she says nothing - and with a barely perceptible roll of her eyes, she just steps out of the way to let Maitrey get a good look at her rooms. Everything is orderly, though the large table has a roll of fabric spread across it, a puzzle of pattern pieces laid out, but not yet pinned. Tone still low, "No, you're not. I've been up for a bit - getting a few things done."
A quickly confessed, "Sorry," leaves Maitrey even while he avails himself of the opportunity to look inside. It's one of those secret places young men seldom get to see, but at least his curiosity is quickly sated, now he can abandon the slight chagrin of his smile. Low, morning-voice still in use, "Can I convince you to leave your few-things, Amerie? It looks to be a fine morning, not yet chilly, though perhaps a little dewy." With his hands in his pockets, his elbow pries easily out from his side, offering a loop just appropriate for the fitting of a hand.
With a little shrug - she expects curiosity, particularly from a young man who is also a born-and-bred harper - Amerie waves off the apology with a slender hand. "Please. It's not as if it's particularly fascinating." Maybe not, but for the overlapped and layered sketches covering the tapestries on the wall. With a glance back to those few things, she gives a nod for her answer - and though the offered arm has her looking a touch wary when she turns back, she mostly covers it with her dubiousness for not-yet-chilly; "I'll get my wrap, even so." That takes but a moment until she's settling it about her shoulders, closing the door as silently as possible.
With straight-faced courage, "Just a wrap? You're sure you won't need the fur-lined gloves and wool socks?" Maitrey waits just on the workroom side of Amerie's threshold for this, only very briefly distracted from watching her move about in her room by the shuffling of steps behind him, a nod turned to a yawning woodworker on his way to where he left his supplies the night before. For her wariness, a little more emphasis put on the crooked elbow, he adds, "Grace should have me pretend I never offered it in the first place, but I'm compelled to point out that I don't bite." In case his utter, abject, intense harmlessness wasn't painfully obvious.
Flatly, "Funny." Meaning 'not at all funny'. Amerie doesn't really pay attention to any of the up-late or up-early crafters, but is anyone surprised by this? Certainly not anyone who's out and about right now. Once the door is dealt with, she turns her attention to Maitrey again, still offering his arm. Dammit. Looking as if she's none too sure about an intense sort of harmless - or as if she doesn't believe such a thing exists, she takes a few moments in which she measures her possible responses. Eventually, "I'm sure you don't. Why not pretend you never offered it in the first place?" And now that it's a whole thing, it's likely just easier to take his arm - so she does, a bit reluctant about it, curling slender fingers around the inside of his elbow.
Smart enough not to seem overly gratified, certainly smart enough not to show it beyond a here-and-gone deepening of his smile, Maitrey answers honestly, "Because, if I had, you wouldn't have taken it." Small victories. It's quiet; the Weyr is only barely stirring, most of the corridors and caverns still left with only the faint light of overnight glowbaskets so people don't kill themselves trying to get to the privvy in the dead of night. And he leads through it with all the confidence of a man who's taken the time to draw himself a map and get acquainted with it, stopping at a junction-- up one slanted tunnel, the living caverns; down another, the way to the bowl. "We can stop and get something for breakfast, if you prefer. I'm guessing," internal clock, "that it's only just gray outside."
Even if he's smart about it, Amerie's still mildly irritated, though it's only visible in the purse of her lips; audible in the arch comment, "Don't get used to it." Such a charmer. Only mild irritation doesn't really give her enough of an excuse to drop Maitrey's arm, so she falls silent for a time as they make their way up through the caverns, letting him lead the way - like she's bothered to make a map. At the junction, she tilts her head to consider even food, then shakes her head. Flipping dark hair back over one shoulder with her free hand, "I'm fine - I'd rather make sure I don't miss - whatever it is I'm supposed to see this early in favour of breakfast."
There's one more quick glance down at the fingers in his elbow, one flicker of twinkling if slightly bleary eyes cast toward Amerie, and Maitrey leaves the subject of his arm and her hand alone. "I may have built it up a little too much," he remarks when his steps resume, passing from the warmth of the inner caverns, up the slanted corridor where it grows cooler, cooler, and finally into the cold stillness of an early autumn morning, gray and clear under fading stars and a pair of partial moons. "But at least now I have company," with a smile that twitches his eyebrows to match the tug at his cheek. It's a good stroll from the caverns to the bowl, with him in no hurry after a deep breath of that dewy air.
Amerie is unimpressed by any twinkling - or at least, it looks that way. It's another of those difficult-to-tell things, her expression mostly unchanged. "I wouldn't worry about that," she assures dryly. "It's not as if I am expecting all that much." As the temperature drops and they walk out into the cold, she readjusts the dark red wrap - though she likewise breathes in the chill air, letting it out in a cloud that hovers about her before it dissipates into nothingness. With a sidelong glance, she asks Maitrey, "Were you in want of company? I thought the quiet was part of it." As if in deference to that pre-dawn quiet, her voice is still hushed.
Maitrey looks up for the space of a few steps, the smile held in periphery while he lets her question settle into that cold morning. "'Were you in want of company?' she asks the young man who dared to knock on her door before the sun was up." He peeks over at that, entertained in the subdued way that the hushed morning seems to mandate, not quite chuckling but right there on the verge of it. Slowly, careful to avoid criticism in the candid remark, he adds in a tone that just verges on questioning, "You're not good with people." As in-- why?
"And somehow, you got the idea that I would be good company." Amerie's a bit entertained herself now, a short curve of a smile playing about her lips. That's proven to be false on at least one occasion now. Also, "If your hours were a bit less extreme, I am sure company would not be an issue. I am not entirely up willingly." With a questioning arch of fine brows - is he? - she meets Maitrey's gaze, if briefly. Turning her attention to the grey of the skies, she considers that for what might seem far too long. At least she's not biting his head off. Eventually, she just agrees, "I'm not." There's a moment where that seems to be it, before, "I am not terribly fond of most people."
Au contraire, mademoiselle. "I don't remember saying that, actually," Maitrey points out after her remark about good company, even lower than the rest of the mild conversation, not without the same sort of idle mirth that's been clinging all morning, though. Her 'willingly' remark is not ignored, not if the climb of questioning eyebrows is any indicator, but it's something to come back to, something that will still be there even after they finish the trek along the lakeshore that will eventually terminate in the cold-damp-green of the garden. "It shows," he states simply, uncritically. "Does it ever make you feel bad, I wonder?"
"I don't think you did. That was an assumption; apparently incorrect." Amerie doesn't seem broken up about that, though. She's found a plus side in this whole being on Maitrey's arm thing - the ability to look pretty much wherever she likes without killing herself, so long as she's got a quick glance for the ground now and again. "Though that begs the question, if I'm not good company, why bother with the company in the first place?" Her dark gaze will stay pretty much anywhere but him, as long as he's choosing to discuss her particular issues, though to her credit (and his), she's not overly defensive. "Wonder if you like. Why would it make me feel bad?"
It may not be the most flattering explanation for seeking her company, but Maitrey admits frankly, "I have been up all night, Amerie, and it eventually gets very lonely. You don't seem like you keep a lot of company, so I thought, at the very least, you might be able to relate." Another couple of steps, another small smile. "Also, you're a very subdued person, and there are times when that's an appreciated trait." There's a long look at her for a moment, his pace slowed; "Pretty helps." In conclusion. With a breath, he lowers his head to indicate the path leading in among the greenery, just starting to brighten while gray sky turns bluish-white. "Why? I suppose because the girl left in tears the other day, and the natural human response is sympathy or guilt."
Fortunately, Amerie wasn't looking for flattery when she asked the question, so the candor seems to be appreciated. "I don't. Keep a lot of company. I don't know that I'd say it's lonely." Even if it was, would she say so? After a moment, "Why have you been up all night?" Subdued, she does understand, and it's well established that she knows she's pretty - though that conclusion has her smirking a touch. Of course it helps. Starting along the path, her gaze flickers over the autumn plantings, the colour that's beginning to creep into the landscape as daybreak comes closer. For a natural human responses, she has a grimace, then; "She asked, Maitrey. It was hardly my intention to upset her. I made an effort to /not/ say anything, and that was going well." But for the surreptitious staring.
"Working. Why are you up so early?" The quickness of the question in relation to the answer is a dead giveaway that he assumes a similar problem for Amerie-- especially considering that's what she was apparently doing when he came to collect her. Maitrey shrugs helplessly to cap off the issue of his insomnia, his path familiar and direct past some of the lingering dark-greens and the first slightly-browns. There's a bench at the edge, off on a side path, surrounded by now-spent lavender that's probably useful in the kitchen, facing hard east, and that's where he'll eventually deposit the two of them. "She had to ask. Your eyes seemed like they were trying to escape your head and go some place where they wouldn't be confronted with such vagaries." Even that: amused, not accusing.
Amerie prompts, "Working on...?" Maybe she'll get an answer, maybe not - but the question seems obvious to her. "I am up so early because I couldn't stay asleep, and tend to figure that the time should be spent productively, rather than lying there, staring at my ceiling." The weaver seems less than satisfied with the helpless shrug as an end to the discussion, but she's not about to press. Especially with a bench before her and the issue of crying redheads at hand. She sits - able to release his arm now - and crosses long legs, gaze fixed on the horizon. She has to give up something of a smile for Maitrey's description, admitting, "I suppose it might have been a little like that. It's a curse. Even when I make an effort to be decent, it ends off poorly. So why bother?"
Finally, timely, Maitrey's hands come out of his pockets once Amerie's settled on the bench, and he remains standing to turn them over in that gray light, smudged with paint. "It's consuming," he explains succinctly, then lowers himself down as well, leaving the bench entirely to the weaver in favor of sitting on the ground just in front of it, using only the edge of it as a place to recline his back. It makes it a little easier to tilt his head up toward that horizon, and it provides a little detachment as well, letting her enjoy in her way, him in his. Also, he seems much more comfortable with one leg stretched out on the ground and one bent to give a knee-perch for his elbow. "I think we, as people, bother because it's polite. I can't speak to why you specifically should bother, except perhaps that not to bother seems intentionally cruel."
'Consuming' is also something Amerie can understand. Her gaze flickers to paint-covered hands for a moment before to her own, in her lap. The thumbnail of her right hand scrapes lightly at the hardened skin of her index finger as she gives a slow nod. "Difficult to stop until it's finished," she offers quietly. After a beat, her attention shifts back to the lightening sky, features impassive. There's a furrow to her brow that is reluctant to smooth; eventually, she points out, "I /did/ make an effort in this case. Perhaps not the best way to put it, but it's difficult for me to imagine that's the worst thing that's ever been said to her. If it is, she's lucky."
The bent elbow makes it easy for his hand to reach his hair, to pull on it slightly in a way that well-matches his pained tone; "Even moreso when it's... not going well." There's a breath in the middle, then another shrug and Maitrey looks from beneath his palm toward the white-turning-gold rim of the mountains. It is pretty, to mother nature's credit, with the first promise of cold, clear light leaving the mountains even darker by comparison, black silhouettes. "Why couldn't you sleep, Amerie?" Because their opinions on Genefra's tears are so wildly divergent that insomnia may be a safer subject.
"Not going well," Amerie echoes, tone threaded through with sympathy. Amazing what she can and can't find it for. She eyes that shrug of Maitrey's, uncertain before, "Should I ask?" The weaver sits straight and tall by comparison, and when his attention shifts back to the mountains, hers does as well - and dark eyes widen a touch. The stark contrast of black mountains and light has her transfixed and silent for some time, just watching - seeming to relax, if only for those few moments. And though it seems that insomnia might be the safer of subjects, her expression darkens a touch; evenly, evasively, "If I knew, I imagine I could correct it."
Should she ask? "Only if you want to," Maitrey answers over another small grin, mostly seen by the way it changes the shape of his cheeks, since he's not looking toward Amerie except briefly, except to catch what expression of hers corresponds with the subtly perceived relaxation. "You don't have to answer," he begins in a quietly questioning tone, now back to looking at the line on the horizon that's widening, at the very faint pinkening of clouds. "But is it that you really don't know, or that you don't want to talk about it? I won't press you if it's the latter, I assure you."
In those few, unguarded moments, Amerie looks at peace, though edged - weighted - with something darker and heavier. She doesn't seem to notice that Maitrey's caught any of that; it's just pure instinct and habit that has her back to her usual neutral demeanor - but for an actual smile, if brief, for the reply. "What makes it go not-well, then?" she asks, still taking in the pink clouds, the deepening colours in the sky and in the garden. She sobers slowly, considering the question. Tentatively, "Perhaps a little of both. I have my theories as to why, though I don't know. And I'm not at all sure I want to discuss those with anyone. It's just been very - unsettled the past few months."
She asked. He sighs. Not bothered by the question, more by the pressure of the problem, something even the cold light of morning can't correct, though Maitrey keeps his eyes trained to the skyline now. "To start with, it's too small. Dissatisfaction with scale makes me view the whole thing through a lopsided lens, the colors aren't right, the composition isn't what I want, it goes on from there." But the sun comes up as a reddish-yellow sliver at the end of his words, a blinding crescent that grows and makes him close his eyes against it for a few moments. When they open, it's with his head tipping to look up at Amerie, the back of his head resting nearly on the seat of the bench next to her. "You have my sympathy, Amerie, and an open invitation to avenge yourself for my invasion of your morning the next time sleep leaves you."
Amerie has to give a little laugh at the laundry list of issues, perhaps somewhat familiar - the words are different, but the feeling is the same. "And you've not yet thought of starting over. I'm impressed. I've torn things apart entirely rather than work with something that doesn't feel quite right." Black and white; it works or it doesn't, for her at least. The quickly growing sliver of light has her blinking a few times before turning towards Maitrey, finding him looking up, rather than across to her. With an arched brow for the pose and the suggestion both, lightly, "I'm not fond of sympathy. And how might you suggest I do that? Pick through the dormitory, kick your cot?"
"It happens too often, when I paint, to start resulting to violence with my work. Besides," with a wry quirk to his smile, "resources are at a premium these days. Which begs the question, should you be quite so ruthless with your projects, do you think?" Strange as it might be, Maitrey seems comfortable enough in that posture to stay there, surely owing something to the lack of sleep making it nice just to rest his head for a moment. Also, there's pretty light and a pretty girl to look at from this angle. "I do not recommend you go through the dormitory, kicking at cots. Not everyone will be as happy to see you as I would be, loveliness aside. Plus." He takes a breath, releases it around a smirk. "I don't sleep in the dorms. I have a room."
Shifting sideways, Amerie leans an elbow on the back of the bench, which makes looking down at Maitrey a bit easier - she doesn't seem to expect him to move anytime soon. Resting her cheek in hand, she tells him, too seriously, "I'll have you know I'm quite resourceful. I have my ways. And when you tear something apart when you sew, it's a simple thing to start over or repurpose. I don't go burning dresses." In fact, the idea of the last seems a bit horrifying to her. For the matter of dormitories, dismissive, "I'd find someone to do it for me. And do you." Her tone has a good-for-you quality, nice work! "That will make banging on your door much simpler."
They're supposed to be out here watching the sunrise, but Maitrey has clearly abandoned the occupation, for all the pink-to-orange-to-gold going on over mountains that were black and are now a vague, cool blue, soon to be brown. "What ways?" he asks vaguely, little interested in the subject, vastly interested in an attractive woman talking to him. Especially one resting prettily on one arm in the middle of such idyllic surroundings. This is his genius at work. "I share it with a tanner, but he's an all right fellow. I'm almost positive, /almost/, that he won't mind if you come in to kick his cot. Though we'll both be disappointed if you're going to send a stand-in."
Amerie can watch both Maitrey and the sunrise, given she's in a good position for it; glancing towards the mountains now and again for a few moments, sharp dark gaze skipping across the ranges as the shadows over them begin to fade. As for pretty posing, it seems to happen more out of habit than any conscious effort to attract interest; to her, appearance, even in such a small thing, matters. "Most of them aren't terribly interesting of late. I've found things in stores for the apprentices to work with - old clothing, or similar. But I'm considering possibilities." She takes a moment to weigh the roommate information before, "Kicking of cots is fairly unnecessary when you have a door. So I won't have a stand-in, but I will neither make an unexpected appearance."
Pardon the observation, but-- in between the increasingly longer blinks, the tendency to rest his eyes even just briefly-- Maitrey says quietly, "You are so beautiful, Amerie." Then a calm exhale, a slow nod to acknowledge her resourcefulness. "You could set your apprentices the task of fitting some clothes for Genefra? Charity and practice all rolled into one." His brows twitch, though whether that's at his own clever suggestion or at her proclamation against darkening his doorstep. "I suppose the tanner and I will simply have to learn to live with disappointment, then. Or I'll keep it to myself, so he won't know what he's missing." More charity.
For a woman who must be used to hearing compliments, Amerie seems a little surprised at this one, betrayed in her blinking and initial mild bemusement. That's quick enough to fade as she assesses Maitrey's general state of wakefulness, perhaps chalking it up to that; curving a slight smile, as quietly, "Thank you. I think you need to get some sleep soon. And I should likely get back to the pattern soon." But then, the idea of making Genefra clothes has to come up, and with a tragic sigh, "I made something for B'kaiv, and he gave it back - as for the girl, I have to believe she likes her clothes. Otherwise, why be upset? I'll make the effort, though. I like people to look nice." Not a total lost cause then? With a smirk, "Don't be so defeatist. I said I'd come find you in the first place. Take that for what it is."
"I will," and Maitrey stretches as if to prove it, stirs after that fairly lengthy immobility, stretches with his hands curled around the edge of the bench to provide some leverage for pushing himself up. Afterward, just briefly shading his eyes with one fist, he adds a glance toward the sun and comments amusedly, "I missed the show." Oh well, says the way he drops his hand across now raised knees, stretching out his neck. The Genefra-subject, lightly as it was broached, didn't go over so well, so he abandons it for an amused, "What is it?" In response to her last comment there.
Amerie likely thinks the Genefra conversation went just fine. She said she'd make an effort, despite the last one not going so well. How could anything /possibly/ go wrong? Rising as well, she seems slightly amused herself, noting, "It was lovely. I can't say I'd do it often, but..." She didn't freeze to death, so that's something. Glancing back Maitrey's way, she flashes a brief, if lovely smile before: "More than most people get." With a tilt of her head back towards the lakeshore - show's over, after all - she starts down the path before he can go offering his arm again. In daylight! The horror.