[Maitrey] Blatantly curious about Dashaya.
RL Date: 10/7/09
IC Date: 12/16/20
Records Room, Fort Weyr(#773RJs$)
Dual entrances provide access to the Weyr's Records Room: the great doors that open out onto a short tunnel to the Bowl and a twisting set of stairs that descends from the Weyrleaders' Complex. Within the room itself rows of stone shelving are carved out of the walls and supplemented by free-standing shelving of dark, polished wood arranged in neat, well-lit aisles. Bright tapestries depicting scenes from around the Fort region decorate the walls, each with a glow basket in a sconce immediately above to provide light by which to see the details and to leaven the gloom that would otherwise permeate the chamber. Underfoot, a richly woven carpet in shades of pale cream to rich klah brown evoke in abstract, the colors of the Weyr, while a subtle patterning at its center replicates the fortification that is Fort's hallmark symbol. Even without seeing the contents of those shelves, one would know the purpose of the room, given the perpetual aroma of hides, scrolls, paper, books and ink.
A few small alcoves have been carved out of the stone and filled with desks and chairs, providing relatively quiet places for those using the records room to work without being disturbed. Immediately before the doors that lead out to the Bowl, several long tables are arranged to provide larger, communal workspaces. Scribes can find writing implements, ink, paper, and other tools of the trade in a couple of discreetly located cabinets behind the duty desk. This cabinet and the outer doors are typically kept locked when no recordskeeper is on duty.
Night's rolling on over Fort, and even after dinner, one might be surprised to find a certain holder's daughter holed up in the records room. Dashaya's found herself one of the many alcoves and now sits in one of the chairs with a book perched up on a table drawn up near to her. Ink stains her fingers alongside the tinge of other rich colors from paints and pencils lightened as she copies something from the book, to the parchment under her palm.
Night might be about the only time left to get the "personal" work done, what with all the crappy chores that occupy the daylight hours. So here comes Maitrey, unslinging his satchel off from his shoulder and sliding it almost immediately onto what must be /his/ table. He's already stepping in between the shelves, looking for a few things in particular, when he realizes and then recognizes Dashaya's presence, back-stepping with a small tome of bound-together hides in hand. "I thought I was the only one," he kinda-greets.
It might be the sound of the footsteps that enter the room, or it could have been the sliding of the satchel over cloth that marks the person coming in closer. Whichever it is, from the start, Dashaya's eyes have lifted from the book and her scribing to track the person's progress, following as he passes back and forth. "No, doesn't look that way. Not so many people pop up here at night. Easier to think." Finally, she drops her gaze back to the parchment and bends her head over her work. "Maitrey, isn't it?"
Approaching quietly, more noise from the jingle a moment ago when he sat down his satchel than from his footsteps now, Maitrey comes up near Dashaya's table with his narrow book held by its spine, pressed against his chest. "Right up until someone comes along to interrupt that thinking," he says with a self-teasing tone, a quirk at the corner of his mouth. His book-free hand offers over when he adds, "It is. Maitrey. Who would be lying if he said he didn't already know who you are, Dashaya. Am I taking you from something pressing?"
Dashaya lingers an extra moment over the scribing and lifts her head to follow him with the oddly colored gaze. "Ah, but that just shows who is of a like mind, can tell a good deal about a person." Her mouth twitches at the corners faintly, but she tucks her pages into a neater pile. "Nothing overly important. My mother always says that penmanship is a telling characteristic. Pleasure to finally see you outside of the barracks and chores, Maitrey. I must say you aren't unknown to me, either. I hear you're one to look up when things relate to the arts." Conversationally.
"My mother says much the same thing." Maitrey finds something about that humorous still, another trick at the edge of his mouth. "At length. For pages and pages. If you're ever excessively bored, let me know." Presumably, that's an offer to lend her said pages. "That depends on the art in question, Dashaya, though I suppose I could drum up something to say about most of them. As long as you had the requisite grain-of-salt with you." He looks around the table, her immediate vicinity; no grain of salt? "Not to cut directly to the chase, but may I ask you something?"
"What can I say. My mother, once a Harper, always a Harper," Dashaya offers with something akin to amusement in the dip of her lashes to her cheek. "I just might have to assess that knowledge some day." She lifts her head to a more alert degree, regarding him with a patient look in her eyes. "As you say, it depends on the subject in question. And what is that, Maitrey?"
Maitrey, with an enlightened ahhh, "Still a harper, mine." And his eyes wobble dauntedly, perhaps on Dashaya's behalf; if she wants to read it... Both hands clasped around the book now, one around the spine and one holding it closed, he gives the surrounding area a quick glance, finds it wholly abandoned, and looks back at those strange eyes of hers frankly. "What do your parents think of you being here? Leaving your home on what seems like a lark, thrown in with a handful of other Bloods, no less."
"Aah, harper blood, harper raised then." Dashaya might have something to gather from the look, but what she gets, she says naught but does grant him a smirking twitch at those corners again, glancing toward his book and back up. The look becomes more odd, if only because it's a pair of amber slits appraisingly. "My grandmother, you mean? She is, after all, the bloody matriarch of the family. She is very.. conservative, loyal. She is fine with this. I nor she had not known there were so many others of the Blooded lines." Her brows lift faintly. "And yours? What does your family think of you being a harper that's been swooped up by a searchrider and dropped into the barracks?"
Another ahhh, similar to the first, and Maitrey repeats, "Your grandmother, then. The bloody matriarch." Funny thought, yes. "Now that she knows? Now that you know?" With a sudden, explanatory frankness, he adds, "You see, there are rumors of complaints, people who think the Weyr is taking the good sons and daughters of fine, upstanding holds will-he, nil-he." As for his family, he lifts one hand off the book, his fingers flutter unsubstantially. "My family holds it against me, not against the Weyr."
Funny thought, but rather true, if the look in Dashaya's eyes is anything to judge by. "Surprised, that there were so many. Were one the kind to be paranoid about it, which I am not, they might say it is a very queer coincidence indeed." Very proper, her voice, while her eyes watch him carefully though with greater comprehension. "Grandmother Peyton would say that if the Weyr needs them, or me in specific, then it is our duty to see to it. After all, I did agree, so I've a duty. Holds it against you? Well, I do understand that. After all, we did have to agree."
"Indeed?" Maitrey may not be quite as ahhhh about that, but he certainly finds her latter remarks, the ones about duty, to be intriguing enough to shift his features into frank curiosity. "Your grandmother," and Dashaya? "Seems to be very open-minded and honor-bound about the matter. No second thoughts on your part? No questioning on hers?" Another flick of his fingers, mild and unfettered; "And there would be the central thesis of my family's arguments. I did agree. They will, I'm sure, get over it in time. Perhaps we could get your bloody matriarch grandmother and my well-meaning but long-winded mother together and have the latter convince the former."
"Indeed," Dashaya comments softly and muses on the point before poking a finger into the book that she's been copying from to keep on top of her handwriting. "Very honor and hidebound. She found out that I'd been searched and we only spoke briefly. She made sure I knew bmy duty. G'dri spoke to my father and my mother. I hadn't spoken to then before Khameth took us back here. Latter convince the former. You would your mother to convince my grandmother of that?" She ticks up an eyebrow, as if the words are very out of sorts to her ears. Or maybe she's teasing him about it.
Maitrey's about to say something to the matter of Dashaya's grandmother and her honor, judging by the point at which he opens his mouth... but then there's a furrow of his brows, a quick, confused narrowing of his eyes. "Switch those around?" he recommends, demonstrates with book hand moved left, empty hand moved right, changing the order of the words in reverse. "Then it accomplishes what I meant it to." Whether or not it has anything to do with bumbling his words, his excuse-me comes hot on its heels; "I really better get to this before it gets to me." He means the book. "And leave you to perfect your penmanship." With utter pity in his tone for that, poor girl. "If you do want to discuss art sometime..." Said while he's starting toward where he left his satchel, actually honestly intent on doing whatever it was he came here to do.
Dashaya, to her credit, doesn't laugh when she calls him on that bit of mixed-up phrasing. In fact, she doesn't allow much of anything in the way of mirth to show on her face, though her eyes are bright after it. "Of course, Maitrey. Enjoy your book, and be glad it is not the woes of scribing again and again." The pity she mirrors with a glance down to the book and her work and back. "Before it gets to be too late. And I will seek you out, now that I know they were correct. Good night, Harper." And she, true to her word, finds her page again and turns to the task at hand.
IC Date: 12/16/20
Records Room, Fort Weyr(#773RJs$)
Dual entrances provide access to the Weyr's Records Room: the great doors that open out onto a short tunnel to the Bowl and a twisting set of stairs that descends from the Weyrleaders' Complex. Within the room itself rows of stone shelving are carved out of the walls and supplemented by free-standing shelving of dark, polished wood arranged in neat, well-lit aisles. Bright tapestries depicting scenes from around the Fort region decorate the walls, each with a glow basket in a sconce immediately above to provide light by which to see the details and to leaven the gloom that would otherwise permeate the chamber. Underfoot, a richly woven carpet in shades of pale cream to rich klah brown evoke in abstract, the colors of the Weyr, while a subtle patterning at its center replicates the fortification that is Fort's hallmark symbol. Even without seeing the contents of those shelves, one would know the purpose of the room, given the perpetual aroma of hides, scrolls, paper, books and ink.
A few small alcoves have been carved out of the stone and filled with desks and chairs, providing relatively quiet places for those using the records room to work without being disturbed. Immediately before the doors that lead out to the Bowl, several long tables are arranged to provide larger, communal workspaces. Scribes can find writing implements, ink, paper, and other tools of the trade in a couple of discreetly located cabinets behind the duty desk. This cabinet and the outer doors are typically kept locked when no recordskeeper is on duty.
Night's rolling on over Fort, and even after dinner, one might be surprised to find a certain holder's daughter holed up in the records room. Dashaya's found herself one of the many alcoves and now sits in one of the chairs with a book perched up on a table drawn up near to her. Ink stains her fingers alongside the tinge of other rich colors from paints and pencils lightened as she copies something from the book, to the parchment under her palm.
Night might be about the only time left to get the "personal" work done, what with all the crappy chores that occupy the daylight hours. So here comes Maitrey, unslinging his satchel off from his shoulder and sliding it almost immediately onto what must be /his/ table. He's already stepping in between the shelves, looking for a few things in particular, when he realizes and then recognizes Dashaya's presence, back-stepping with a small tome of bound-together hides in hand. "I thought I was the only one," he kinda-greets.
It might be the sound of the footsteps that enter the room, or it could have been the sliding of the satchel over cloth that marks the person coming in closer. Whichever it is, from the start, Dashaya's eyes have lifted from the book and her scribing to track the person's progress, following as he passes back and forth. "No, doesn't look that way. Not so many people pop up here at night. Easier to think." Finally, she drops her gaze back to the parchment and bends her head over her work. "Maitrey, isn't it?"
Approaching quietly, more noise from the jingle a moment ago when he sat down his satchel than from his footsteps now, Maitrey comes up near Dashaya's table with his narrow book held by its spine, pressed against his chest. "Right up until someone comes along to interrupt that thinking," he says with a self-teasing tone, a quirk at the corner of his mouth. His book-free hand offers over when he adds, "It is. Maitrey. Who would be lying if he said he didn't already know who you are, Dashaya. Am I taking you from something pressing?"
Dashaya lingers an extra moment over the scribing and lifts her head to follow him with the oddly colored gaze. "Ah, but that just shows who is of a like mind, can tell a good deal about a person." Her mouth twitches at the corners faintly, but she tucks her pages into a neater pile. "Nothing overly important. My mother always says that penmanship is a telling characteristic. Pleasure to finally see you outside of the barracks and chores, Maitrey. I must say you aren't unknown to me, either. I hear you're one to look up when things relate to the arts." Conversationally.
"My mother says much the same thing." Maitrey finds something about that humorous still, another trick at the edge of his mouth. "At length. For pages and pages. If you're ever excessively bored, let me know." Presumably, that's an offer to lend her said pages. "That depends on the art in question, Dashaya, though I suppose I could drum up something to say about most of them. As long as you had the requisite grain-of-salt with you." He looks around the table, her immediate vicinity; no grain of salt? "Not to cut directly to the chase, but may I ask you something?"
"What can I say. My mother, once a Harper, always a Harper," Dashaya offers with something akin to amusement in the dip of her lashes to her cheek. "I just might have to assess that knowledge some day." She lifts her head to a more alert degree, regarding him with a patient look in her eyes. "As you say, it depends on the subject in question. And what is that, Maitrey?"
Maitrey, with an enlightened ahhh, "Still a harper, mine." And his eyes wobble dauntedly, perhaps on Dashaya's behalf; if she wants to read it... Both hands clasped around the book now, one around the spine and one holding it closed, he gives the surrounding area a quick glance, finds it wholly abandoned, and looks back at those strange eyes of hers frankly. "What do your parents think of you being here? Leaving your home on what seems like a lark, thrown in with a handful of other Bloods, no less."
"Aah, harper blood, harper raised then." Dashaya might have something to gather from the look, but what she gets, she says naught but does grant him a smirking twitch at those corners again, glancing toward his book and back up. The look becomes more odd, if only because it's a pair of amber slits appraisingly. "My grandmother, you mean? She is, after all, the bloody matriarch of the family. She is very.. conservative, loyal. She is fine with this. I nor she had not known there were so many others of the Blooded lines." Her brows lift faintly. "And yours? What does your family think of you being a harper that's been swooped up by a searchrider and dropped into the barracks?"
Another ahhh, similar to the first, and Maitrey repeats, "Your grandmother, then. The bloody matriarch." Funny thought, yes. "Now that she knows? Now that you know?" With a sudden, explanatory frankness, he adds, "You see, there are rumors of complaints, people who think the Weyr is taking the good sons and daughters of fine, upstanding holds will-he, nil-he." As for his family, he lifts one hand off the book, his fingers flutter unsubstantially. "My family holds it against me, not against the Weyr."
Funny thought, but rather true, if the look in Dashaya's eyes is anything to judge by. "Surprised, that there were so many. Were one the kind to be paranoid about it, which I am not, they might say it is a very queer coincidence indeed." Very proper, her voice, while her eyes watch him carefully though with greater comprehension. "Grandmother Peyton would say that if the Weyr needs them, or me in specific, then it is our duty to see to it. After all, I did agree, so I've a duty. Holds it against you? Well, I do understand that. After all, we did have to agree."
"Indeed?" Maitrey may not be quite as ahhhh about that, but he certainly finds her latter remarks, the ones about duty, to be intriguing enough to shift his features into frank curiosity. "Your grandmother," and Dashaya? "Seems to be very open-minded and honor-bound about the matter. No second thoughts on your part? No questioning on hers?" Another flick of his fingers, mild and unfettered; "And there would be the central thesis of my family's arguments. I did agree. They will, I'm sure, get over it in time. Perhaps we could get your bloody matriarch grandmother and my well-meaning but long-winded mother together and have the latter convince the former."
"Indeed," Dashaya comments softly and muses on the point before poking a finger into the book that she's been copying from to keep on top of her handwriting. "Very honor and hidebound. She found out that I'd been searched and we only spoke briefly. She made sure I knew bmy duty. G'dri spoke to my father and my mother. I hadn't spoken to then before Khameth took us back here. Latter convince the former. You would your mother to convince my grandmother of that?" She ticks up an eyebrow, as if the words are very out of sorts to her ears. Or maybe she's teasing him about it.
Maitrey's about to say something to the matter of Dashaya's grandmother and her honor, judging by the point at which he opens his mouth... but then there's a furrow of his brows, a quick, confused narrowing of his eyes. "Switch those around?" he recommends, demonstrates with book hand moved left, empty hand moved right, changing the order of the words in reverse. "Then it accomplishes what I meant it to." Whether or not it has anything to do with bumbling his words, his excuse-me comes hot on its heels; "I really better get to this before it gets to me." He means the book. "And leave you to perfect your penmanship." With utter pity in his tone for that, poor girl. "If you do want to discuss art sometime..." Said while he's starting toward where he left his satchel, actually honestly intent on doing whatever it was he came here to do.
Dashaya, to her credit, doesn't laugh when she calls him on that bit of mixed-up phrasing. In fact, she doesn't allow much of anything in the way of mirth to show on her face, though her eyes are bright after it. "Of course, Maitrey. Enjoy your book, and be glad it is not the woes of scribing again and again." The pity she mirrors with a glance down to the book and her work and back. "Before it gets to be too late. And I will seek you out, now that I know they were correct. Good night, Harper." And she, true to her word, finds her page again and turns to the task at hand.