Berit made Wesley uncomfortable.
RL Date: 10/26/08 (start date)
IC Date: Autumn/17 --This was an email scene I never had time to update. It's not really finished in that I should have posed out as Wesley, but it's too late now. :D
Paper and wooden pieces and glass baubles, along with many, many boxes, share one space in the stores in deft organization. So what is the Weyrwoman doing, sitting on the floor, trying to string beads onto a length of thread with a needle? Berit undoubtedly considers herself alone, enough that she is sitting cross-legged with her hair all disheveled and her tongue tucked between her teeth as she concentrates on the task she is applying herself to. It takes little use of the imagination to guess what she is attempting, and yet, it makes no sense for her to be doing such in a dimly lit section of the stores. She exhales heavily and pushes her hair to the side, taking a moment to look around at the stacked boxes and bins with little expression.
He's not necessarily light-footed, but Wesley manages to get a fair way through the stores without disturbing anything or anyone, without announcing his presence. He doesn't quite get so far as sneaking-up-behind Berit, but he does come to a stop at the end of a row of shelves adjacent to the goldrider's location, there to stop suddenly and behold the sight of the disheveled Weyrwoman doing-- "What /are/ you doing?" The question comes abruptly, voiced at the point that it crosses his mind to question her occupation, as if it never crossed his mind that just showing up in the middle of such a scene might startle the girl. His curiosity is genuine, neither accusing nor malicious, and he reaches up one hand to scratch at the back of his head, still trying to answer the question for himself. It might take little imagination to understand what she's doing, but the combination of things-- her, here, that-- leaves him wearing his bewildered expression without reserve. Duh?
Berit looks up at the voice, surprised by the presence of another, and someone she has never seen before too. “Excuse me?” she finally says after a lengthy pause, defensiveness creeping into her voice; she has a right to be here, what is *he* doing here? “I do not think that is any of your business or of your concern.” Miffed at his unintentional (or was it intentional) intrusion, she puts aside the needle, the thread, the beads, and stands to dust off her skirts. Her eyes narrow and she turns to address him, hands on her hips, and she manages to look regal and poised, if one does not count the off-center, messy bun drooping over her right ear. “What are *you* doing?” It is a valid question, laced will ill-repressed animosity and a touch of insecurity.
Wesley takes an intentional look over his shoulder-- all clear-- and turns back to Berit with his index finger pointed to his chest and his eyes and mouth very round and questioning. Him? "I'm standing here being confused, why? What does it look like I'm doing?" But not snide or anything, just honestly confused that she's asking. "Which still leaves us at-- I'm sorry." An abrupt change in tactics while he eyes Miss Regal, after he clears his throat and hides a short smile in the curl of his fingers to cover his mouth. "It's just that you look a little... Off? Down here?"
The innocent, questioning look does nothing for Berit. She stills looks aggravated in all her squared shoulder, arms akimbo, mouth pursed glory. "Yes, you, not that large stack of boxes behind you, no." She flourishes a hand towards him, but does not try to rein in her irritation. "It looks like you are spying or otherwise putting your nose where it is none of your business." Her lips press together in a thin, tight line as she gives him a considering look, from the top of his scraggly hair to the toes of his shoes. "Who, pray tell, are you, anyway?" Never seen him, cannot place him, which might be half of her irritation, at being caught by a complete stranger. "Off? Why? I spend a great deal of time here." Really. Really. Just not stringing beads.
The stack of boxes get a confused look, ragged eyebrows all knit up. "Thank you for clarifying," you nutter. Wesley blinks dazedly in light of Berit's obvious irritation, and he tries to stand up straighter, but he's no strapping specimen no matter how hard he tries. Again, "I'm sorry, but have I offended you in some way? You're awfully, erm, hostile." And that's why he stays back by the boxes, eyeing her, wearing his lips in a confused little circle. Even while he answers, "I'm Wesley. The Harper. Hence." Like he needs to prove his credentials, he holds up both hands, ink-stained fingers splayed
"I think I have said it twice now," Berit says intolerantly, popping her hip out and tapping her foot in the way of a teenager with an attitude. "I am not quite sure how my being here is any of your business, but you seem quite *nosey*." Never mind he has stopped asking why she is where she is; she is repetitive, if anything. "Besides, why does it matter what I am doing?" She moves her arms up, crossing them over her chest and staring at this harper, this Wesley, petulantly and defensively. "Harper? Named Wesley. Have you been here long?" He is on the receiving end of another long, slow, contemplative assessment, before her green eyes settle on his face. "Is there something you need?"
With a squint to one eye, trying to sort out the times and dates, Wesley answers one of those questions at the very least. "That depends on how you figure 'long,' madam? Not long enough to have met all the locals, clearly, but long enough to rummage in the stores all by myself." Again, he scratches scruffily at the back of his neck just below his hairline, his round face rumpled like he's giving it proper thought, but then the expression smooths into an easier smile and, with his hands, tucked in his pockets, he dares to leave the safety of the shelves and start forward. "Yes, but don't trouble yourself on my account. Just here for--" Some things he apparently intends to locate on his own, approaching a set of cubbies off to one side with a renewed peer for Berit and her occupation. "Please don't let me take you away from, well, whatever has you sitting on the floor like that."
“I cannot imagine how one can rummage the stores but not know the locals. Do you even know who to address if you were to *break* something?” Because Berit thinks he will; possibly, maybe. She takes a step back as he comes forward, her eyes accusative, but she gives her head a negative shake, hair flopping back and forth atop her head. “I am quite effectively interrupted, sir, so since I have nothing to occupy me of this moment, I insist.” To make up for the space lost, she takes two steps forward, tightening her arms snugly across her chest. “What is it, exactly, that you are looking for?”
Briefly widened eyes attest to Wesley's doubt when he answers, "/Break/ something? This is hardly a china shop..." And he's hardly a bull. Another backward step answers Berit's approach, only now his shoulders are against the wall, his lips pursed worriedly. "Can't you just go back to-- I'm sorry. I never caught what you were doing precisely." With a lift of his eyebrows, with his throat cleared. Berit makes him nervous, it would seem.
Suspicion narrows her eyes as she takes steps forward and he takes them back, to the wall. "Hardly, is all? There is plenty of damage one can do to the goods here, and no sir, you are not above such things." Berit watches him distrustfully, but then something changes in her eyes and her mouth curves into a too-smug smile as she takes another sauntering step forward; a game of cat and mouse. "Stringing beads. What is it that *you* are doing, and how may I assist? I will not take no for an answer." One more step, and her smile stretches wider.
There's nowhere else to go, back to the wall, and Wesley smiles with the full awareness of his precarious position while he latches his fingers around the shelf behind him. "You're a very strange little person, aren't you," he muses, trying on a wrinkle for his eyebrows and a twitch at the corner of his lips. "I was just looking for some clerkly supplies, madam, ink and hides and the like. Bet you're glad you asked now, hmmmn?" He blinks at her rapidly; on a handsome man, it would be a charming expression, but it just looks comical on him.
"Strange," Berit repeats, releasing him from the smugness of her smile for a brace of seconds as she looks to the side, "I would say of the two of us, you are by far the strangest." Her focus shifts back to Wesley and her smile stretches into a grin as she takes two more steps nearer, theatrically tapping her chin with a forefinger, and pretending not to notice the space between them, which is scant. "Clerkly supplies?" She reaches behind him, her hand finding something on the shelf, and that same something, a box, she pulls back and jingles in front of his face. "Ink, like these?" Sound is not needed when her eyes are laughing at him so.
Wesley provides her with entertainment, it is not hard to see, but her smile slips a notch when he rejects the ‘lesser’ ink. “I do see. Very well.” Berit sets the box of ink wells back on the shelf, pushes it backwards with two fingers, and gives her skirts a light tug. “I do hope you keep to your word and do not break a thing.” She gives him a coarse once-over, then turns and bends down to retrieve her things; beads, string, needle, and a basket filled with more of the same. It is not in her to bother him more than she already has, at least not this day. Some other time.
IC Date: Autumn/17 --This was an email scene I never had time to update. It's not really finished in that I should have posed out as Wesley, but it's too late now. :D
Paper and wooden pieces and glass baubles, along with many, many boxes, share one space in the stores in deft organization. So what is the Weyrwoman doing, sitting on the floor, trying to string beads onto a length of thread with a needle? Berit undoubtedly considers herself alone, enough that she is sitting cross-legged with her hair all disheveled and her tongue tucked between her teeth as she concentrates on the task she is applying herself to. It takes little use of the imagination to guess what she is attempting, and yet, it makes no sense for her to be doing such in a dimly lit section of the stores. She exhales heavily and pushes her hair to the side, taking a moment to look around at the stacked boxes and bins with little expression.
He's not necessarily light-footed, but Wesley manages to get a fair way through the stores without disturbing anything or anyone, without announcing his presence. He doesn't quite get so far as sneaking-up-behind Berit, but he does come to a stop at the end of a row of shelves adjacent to the goldrider's location, there to stop suddenly and behold the sight of the disheveled Weyrwoman doing-- "What /are/ you doing?" The question comes abruptly, voiced at the point that it crosses his mind to question her occupation, as if it never crossed his mind that just showing up in the middle of such a scene might startle the girl. His curiosity is genuine, neither accusing nor malicious, and he reaches up one hand to scratch at the back of his head, still trying to answer the question for himself. It might take little imagination to understand what she's doing, but the combination of things-- her, here, that-- leaves him wearing his bewildered expression without reserve. Duh?
Berit looks up at the voice, surprised by the presence of another, and someone she has never seen before too. “Excuse me?” she finally says after a lengthy pause, defensiveness creeping into her voice; she has a right to be here, what is *he* doing here? “I do not think that is any of your business or of your concern.” Miffed at his unintentional (or was it intentional) intrusion, she puts aside the needle, the thread, the beads, and stands to dust off her skirts. Her eyes narrow and she turns to address him, hands on her hips, and she manages to look regal and poised, if one does not count the off-center, messy bun drooping over her right ear. “What are *you* doing?” It is a valid question, laced will ill-repressed animosity and a touch of insecurity.
Wesley takes an intentional look over his shoulder-- all clear-- and turns back to Berit with his index finger pointed to his chest and his eyes and mouth very round and questioning. Him? "I'm standing here being confused, why? What does it look like I'm doing?" But not snide or anything, just honestly confused that she's asking. "Which still leaves us at-- I'm sorry." An abrupt change in tactics while he eyes Miss Regal, after he clears his throat and hides a short smile in the curl of his fingers to cover his mouth. "It's just that you look a little... Off? Down here?"
The innocent, questioning look does nothing for Berit. She stills looks aggravated in all her squared shoulder, arms akimbo, mouth pursed glory. "Yes, you, not that large stack of boxes behind you, no." She flourishes a hand towards him, but does not try to rein in her irritation. "It looks like you are spying or otherwise putting your nose where it is none of your business." Her lips press together in a thin, tight line as she gives him a considering look, from the top of his scraggly hair to the toes of his shoes. "Who, pray tell, are you, anyway?" Never seen him, cannot place him, which might be half of her irritation, at being caught by a complete stranger. "Off? Why? I spend a great deal of time here." Really. Really. Just not stringing beads.
The stack of boxes get a confused look, ragged eyebrows all knit up. "Thank you for clarifying," you nutter. Wesley blinks dazedly in light of Berit's obvious irritation, and he tries to stand up straighter, but he's no strapping specimen no matter how hard he tries. Again, "I'm sorry, but have I offended you in some way? You're awfully, erm, hostile." And that's why he stays back by the boxes, eyeing her, wearing his lips in a confused little circle. Even while he answers, "I'm Wesley. The Harper. Hence." Like he needs to prove his credentials, he holds up both hands, ink-stained fingers splayed
"I think I have said it twice now," Berit says intolerantly, popping her hip out and tapping her foot in the way of a teenager with an attitude. "I am not quite sure how my being here is any of your business, but you seem quite *nosey*." Never mind he has stopped asking why she is where she is; she is repetitive, if anything. "Besides, why does it matter what I am doing?" She moves her arms up, crossing them over her chest and staring at this harper, this Wesley, petulantly and defensively. "Harper? Named Wesley. Have you been here long?" He is on the receiving end of another long, slow, contemplative assessment, before her green eyes settle on his face. "Is there something you need?"
With a squint to one eye, trying to sort out the times and dates, Wesley answers one of those questions at the very least. "That depends on how you figure 'long,' madam? Not long enough to have met all the locals, clearly, but long enough to rummage in the stores all by myself." Again, he scratches scruffily at the back of his neck just below his hairline, his round face rumpled like he's giving it proper thought, but then the expression smooths into an easier smile and, with his hands, tucked in his pockets, he dares to leave the safety of the shelves and start forward. "Yes, but don't trouble yourself on my account. Just here for--" Some things he apparently intends to locate on his own, approaching a set of cubbies off to one side with a renewed peer for Berit and her occupation. "Please don't let me take you away from, well, whatever has you sitting on the floor like that."
“I cannot imagine how one can rummage the stores but not know the locals. Do you even know who to address if you were to *break* something?” Because Berit thinks he will; possibly, maybe. She takes a step back as he comes forward, her eyes accusative, but she gives her head a negative shake, hair flopping back and forth atop her head. “I am quite effectively interrupted, sir, so since I have nothing to occupy me of this moment, I insist.” To make up for the space lost, she takes two steps forward, tightening her arms snugly across her chest. “What is it, exactly, that you are looking for?”
Briefly widened eyes attest to Wesley's doubt when he answers, "/Break/ something? This is hardly a china shop..." And he's hardly a bull. Another backward step answers Berit's approach, only now his shoulders are against the wall, his lips pursed worriedly. "Can't you just go back to-- I'm sorry. I never caught what you were doing precisely." With a lift of his eyebrows, with his throat cleared. Berit makes him nervous, it would seem.
Suspicion narrows her eyes as she takes steps forward and he takes them back, to the wall. "Hardly, is all? There is plenty of damage one can do to the goods here, and no sir, you are not above such things." Berit watches him distrustfully, but then something changes in her eyes and her mouth curves into a too-smug smile as she takes another sauntering step forward; a game of cat and mouse. "Stringing beads. What is it that *you* are doing, and how may I assist? I will not take no for an answer." One more step, and her smile stretches wider.
There's nowhere else to go, back to the wall, and Wesley smiles with the full awareness of his precarious position while he latches his fingers around the shelf behind him. "You're a very strange little person, aren't you," he muses, trying on a wrinkle for his eyebrows and a twitch at the corner of his lips. "I was just looking for some clerkly supplies, madam, ink and hides and the like. Bet you're glad you asked now, hmmmn?" He blinks at her rapidly; on a handsome man, it would be a charming expression, but it just looks comical on him.
"Strange," Berit repeats, releasing him from the smugness of her smile for a brace of seconds as she looks to the side, "I would say of the two of us, you are by far the strangest." Her focus shifts back to Wesley and her smile stretches into a grin as she takes two more steps nearer, theatrically tapping her chin with a forefinger, and pretending not to notice the space between them, which is scant. "Clerkly supplies?" She reaches behind him, her hand finding something on the shelf, and that same something, a box, she pulls back and jingles in front of his face. "Ink, like these?" Sound is not needed when her eyes are laughing at him so.
Wesley provides her with entertainment, it is not hard to see, but her smile slips a notch when he rejects the ‘lesser’ ink. “I do see. Very well.” Berit sets the box of ink wells back on the shelf, pushes it backwards with two fingers, and gives her skirts a light tug. “I do hope you keep to your word and do not break a thing.” She gives him a coarse once-over, then turns and bends down to retrieve her things; beads, string, needle, and a basket filled with more of the same. It is not in her to bother him more than she already has, at least not this day. Some other time.