[Log] Uses
Who: Suireh, Tiriana
When: Day 12, Month 5, Turn 25
Where: Records Room
What: Suireh has none. Arguably.
Records Room, High Reaches Weyr
Books. Scrolls. Bound hides. Maps. If it's a record pertaining to the Weyr, it's likely to be in this roughly oval room with its floor-to-ceiling cherrywood shelves, its multitude of slots for scrolls, and its wide drawers for materials that shouldn't be rolled up or folded. A scribe is usually on duty at the tall desk up front with its good view of the room, and is able to help visitors find what they're looking for via the big bound index on its rotating stand. Past the desk, several tables stand in neat rows for note-taking, each stocked with glowbaskets, scrap hide, paper and pencils. Additional lighting is provided by a many-armed wrought-iron light fixture, its glows gleaming through luxurious glass containers in fluted shapes instead of baskets.
To one side of the room, a gap between two sets of shelves outlines where another set once stood, now replaced by a tapestry-covered aperture. Peeking behind the tapestry reveals another cavern, this one likewise full of shelves, but occupied by only a few boxes of older records and a somewhat musty air of disuse. As well, two narrow but solid doors are locked when the room is unattended and a discreet staircase provides direct access from the Weyrleaders' weyrs.
Contents:
Suireh
Obvious exits:
Weyr Entrance Council Chambers
Suireh
A thin girl, that one that's just above five feet, moves into the records room with purpose in her stride; as if she owns this realm, as if it's all hers. As such, there's an air of expectancy for those other people puttering about to part before her, and some do, with a bemused glance, while others are less than pleased but find themselves shifting anyway. It's to Tiriana, seated at that table with all those glows, that the young teenager moves towards -- perhaps a little birdie in the way of a disposable rider or faceless assistant headwoman told her where to look for the Weyrwoman. Stepping up and stopping just shy of the other end of the table, Suireh stands, her two plaited braids hanging in front of her shoulders and with level gray eyes, the young girl looks upon Tiriana, quiet for now.
It's spring but that doesn't always mean pretty, and today's one of those cold, drippy sort of days where everybody just hides out during the gray period that passes for daylight. As such, Tiriana's got glows aplenty clustered around the records room table she's occupying, if not particularly using. She instead drums her fingers on the table and watches the host of other people puttering around indoors, much like she is.
For all her looking, Tiriana's slow to notice Suireh, or at least to recognize import. When she does, the Weyrwoman blinks, shakes her head a moment, and then frowns when it's clear the young girl is definitely headed her way. Dispensing, as she's wont to do, with all the pleasantries, she just asks, "What do you want?" Because clearly, Suireh does.
Suireh merely smiles, a little thing that stretches thin across her mouth, curving ever so slightly at the corners. But the light of it does reach her eyes, sparking life into their grayness. "You look pensive," says the teenager, ignoring, or mis-translating Tiriana's inquiry into a beckon to sit, for that's what she does. Her hands lay across each other on her lap and she continues to smile politely at the Weyrwoman. "Did you miss me?" As if a thirteen year old girl and an almost 30 year old one might have enough in common to actually miss each other. "I quit the Hall."
"I look--me?" Tiriana doesn't seem to expect that word applied to her, and it just makes her frown more. Which possibly equals more pensive, in turn. "You... did. I see." But not really. "Why'd you go and do a thing like that? Kinda stupid, isn't it, after all that trouble getting apprenticed and leaving and--you know. Stuff?"
Looking more than just a little pleased, her brows pucker together and that smile deepens into a childlike sweetness. "It was, wasn't it?" Suireh remarks, the indolence of her return turning thoughtful in her next, "Stupid, I mean. I don't think I was raised to live in a craft hall though. Not there anyway." Her life is so hard. There's a short exhalation, a small little sigh, unremarkable in and of itself but when paired with the hand that reaches across the table to try and caress Tiriana's hand seems culminates to wistful. But before the fingers reach far enough, the arm rethinks what the hand desires and withdraws back to being polite in her lap, laid upon each other. When she says, "Weyrwoman," the wistfulness lingers, the title sounding more like a name, "I'd like to take private lessons with journeyman Rorkes. Uncle Anvori said he could pay with what-," a beat, leaves it at just that. "If you don't mind his time being taken up by me."
Her frown's not going anywhere, unlike her fingers: Tiriana withdraws those hastily when Suireh reaches for them. "Don't know why you're asking me for," she retorts. "You want private lessons, you can work that out with him on your own time. You're a big girl." And she, trying to regain some semblance of authority, she cocks her head and eyes Suireh; isn't she? "Course," adds Tiriana, after a beat, "still don't settle what you'd actually do to earn your keep around here, these days. --Where's the other one?" The unloved one.
Those gray eyes lift solemnly, measuring Tiriana's worth in their depth -- her look is far too old for her naive features. "And what would you have me do, Weyrwoman?" It's no longer a name to be spoken with the possibility of adoration. "To earn my keep." As if Tiriana might not remember what she just said to Suireh. She'll ignore the comment about the other one.
Tiriana counters with, "What /can/ you do?"
Look creepy. Like some girl in a poltergeist film. But that's not what she says. "If I say nothing, does that mean I get a pass?"
"Out of my Weyr, maybe." Behold the power.
There's crestfallen and then there's just miserable. "Would you really make me leave again?" As if that first leaving was Tiriana's fault as well. Suireh is, after all, only thirteen. Those thin shoulders roll forward and the little chin drops.
Is it real? Is it trickery? Tiriana wavers for a moment, visibly uncertain, before she shrugs and looks away, at all those other so-much-more interesting people. "Not a kid," she points out. "Can't let somebody sit around, not pull their own weight. No matter who spawned 'em. Hell, /I/ certainly never did that." Being the respectable member of the community she is.
She's still a picture of misery, the mere threat (even if it's from Tiriana) of being cast out of the Weyr making it seem impossible for that smile to ever emerge again. Teenage emo at one of its finest. To her lap, she asks, "What did you do?" Maybe Tiriana can't hear that note of incredulousness; that anyone got Tiriana to do anything productive. Maybe.
Tiriana can hear it, but she apparently interprets it as being in regards to something entirely different. The merit of a Weyrleader's daughter working, to judge by the flicker of good old smugness that returns, her posture straightening while Suireh withdraws. "I worked in the stables," she announces, quite proudly. "For turns. And I was damn good at it, too."
There's the most delicate shudder. Suireh with midst massive animals. Suireh getting stomped on or worse, pooped on. Her face transforms with each successive thought, unmasked, visible to even the most dense. This battle, she'll cede. "If you'll give me time to think on it, I'll figure something out, unless you have another task you'd find me more suited for, Weyrwoman." That is, if-, "If you'll give the journeyman permission to spend some of his time giving me private lessons."
"Nothing in mind," and here Tiriana sounds almost cheerful, now that she's won. "But I'm open to suggestions, of course. I'll send the harper a note, let 'im know he's supposed to--wait. Why exactly is he supposed to teach somebody that already quit the hall?" This only just occurs to her.
"Because." That's it. Nothing more. Suireh's gotten what she came for, which is the Weyrwoman's approval of her plan. Not the Headwoman's. Not any assistant's. Smiling now, though careful to remain just a little morose still for the threat Tiriana held briefly over her head, the young girl gets to her feet and does an inwards stretch where her shoulders lift and her chest heaves out and then releases. "Thank you for your time, Weyrwoman. Good luck with your drumming."
Tiriana still looks suspicious, for the record, but she nods to Suireh and waves her on her way. "Yeah, sure. Anytime," she drawls, starting to turn away--but just until Suireh is actually leaving. That, she'll watch with narrowed eyes and a frown, not so subtly after all.