[LOG] - Ulyana: Conflicted
Title: Conflicted
Summary: Ulyana is confronted by N'muir and meets N'rov. For a while, she's not a not-Candidate. Then she is again.
Characters: Bijedth, N'muir, N'rov, Ulyana, Vhaeryth
Location: Living Cavern, Fort Weyr
Time: Day 11, month 11, turn 35 of Interval 10
RL Date: 09/20/2014
It's a bit late for lunch, but the weather outside seems to have forced the lunch crowd to linger just a bit later than usual. A gaggle of riders chat near the entrance, while a nanny is busy herding a bunch of children toward the inner caverns to find them something else to do. Other people are there, of course, knotted up in conversational groupings or otherwise occupied with work of some sort to give them an excuse to not be out in the storm or otherwise working. And then there's Ulyana, sitting alone as she's prone to do. The girl is tucked in at a table relatively close to the kitchens, with a book laid open in her lap and a plate of thin, ginger crisps in front of her. The crisps appear untouched, much like the long-cooled tea in front of her. She's lost in whatever she's reading, oblivious - or simply uncaring - of what's happening around her.
The weather is reflected in the dark expression worn by the Weyrleader as he heads in from the Bowl. He is soaked to the bone, water dribbling off of him and spattering the ground around his muddy footprints. He has the decency to pause at the door and remove his muddy boots but there are others who have been less considerate for those assigned to keep the floors clean, and muddy footprints trail off in every direction while some poor soul with a mop attempts to keep up with the mess. N'muir mutters a string of curses as he attempts to navigate around the footprints in socked feet, eventually finding his way to the klah pot to pour himself half a mug of steaming klah. It's from this vantage that he scans the room, dark eyes searching beneath his annoyed, arched brows, and Ulyana is spotted with her book. His steps are not their usual crisp march, boot-heels missing in action, and so it is with unintentional stealth that he walks over to Ulyana and tries to peer over her shoulder at the book. "Weren't you a Candidate last time?" Last time. That's what he's calling it.
The pages on display are packed with a cramped script; it appears to be a rather dense history of Healing, of all things, but there are - perhaps fortunately - no illustrations. Ulyana doesn't seem to notice the Weyrleader's approach in the slightest, either, not until he speaks. She's not the jumpy sort. Nor is she the sort to feel inclined to look over her shoulder to confirm who it is. Instead, the girl - who is dry and barefoot; the latter out of consideration for the cleaning staff - intones a flat, "I was asked to Stand when the search riders were sent out after Eliyaveith's flight. I accepted." Her head tilts slightly to one side. "I am still a Candidate. I have not Stood."
N'muir squints at the pages for a moment over the young girl's shoulder but inevitably he resigns himself to move around the table to stand facing her with his mug of klah. He loosens his hat and tears it off of his head, and even with his hair tied back there are still a flurry of strands sent awry from the action. N'muir sets down his hat and mug and begins the task of taking out his hair tie in an attempt to tame his hair. His attention absently settles on that old, makeshift white knot. "So then I don't need to ask if you've spoken to a rider and everything's been done properly through the Headwoman like it's supposed to be?"
She doesn't look up from the book while N'muir takes his new place across from her - not right away, anyway. Ulyana finishes the page she's on while he wrangles with his hair, only to close the book without a need to mark it in anyway. Her hands fold over the cover of it - it is, indeed, some wrechedly dull tome on Healing history - her head lifts, and there's a slow, slow blink at him when he asks his questions. The girl's impassive expression doesn't shift as she counters one question with another: "Why is the requirement in place for those of us that were Searched before?" There's a drawn out beat, then, lest he become concerned she's not going to answer at all: "I will speak to another rider when I am prepared to answer the questions."
N'muir combs his hair back and away from his face with methodical brushes of his finger tips, collecting the salt-and-pepper curls at the nape of his neck. "Because that is what has been decided," is his quick answer; maybe he's had to answer this question a few times before. "Why do you want to know? Don't you want to Stand?" He knots the piece of leather into place and letting his arms drop back down to his sides. His expression doesn't change, annoyed arches remaining in place even though it's more of an apathetic tone he addresses the young girl with. Whatever caused his annoyance, it isn't her. Or it isn't her /yet/. "Which questions do you suppose you're going to be asked? The /rider/ is the one that will be answering the questions. Unless you've become an expert on dragonriding somehow in your brief time here?"
It's an answer, if unsatisfactory. The momentary flattening of Ulyana's mouth is betrayal enough of her thoughts on the matter. Still, the girl remains still, with her proper posture and nigh-unblinking gaze - a gaze that sits, heavy and inscrutable on N'muir for the duration. "I want to know because it seems irrational to ask one group to speak with a rider to discern whether or not they wish to Stand - but not another." The question is met with a bland, "I was asked to Stand. I accepted. I will remain here until I have fulfilled my promise. Whether I want to or not is unimportant. It is a matter of principle." His annoyance at whatever it is has yet to crack into her awareness; she might not be able to gauge as much, given givens. It's his last, however, that has her brow knotted up. All the same, her voice remains flat - a familiar, dull affect without inflection or weight. "It is very unclear to me what I am to talk to the rider about. It sounded as if the rider was to ask us questions about our intentions. If that is not the case, then I am curious as to what we are to talk to the rider about in the first place. What questions am I to ask them? What purpose is this conversation meant to serve? I am not even sure if the conversation is meant to serve a purpose beyond being something that exists 'just because'."
"The wonderful part about being a weyrleader is that we get to make and uphold all the seemingly irrational decisions we want to where it pertains to dragonriders - or want-to-be dragonriders - in this Weyr," N'muir informs Ulyana with an almost cheerful tone were it not also slightly acidic. "And we don't have to answer to little girls if we don't want to. But even if the only purpose to our condition is simply 'just because', your only reason for Standing appears to be 'just because', isn't that true? Or am I missing something?" He holds out his hand and nods his head at her makeshift knot. "You don't have to worry about fulfilling your promise if you don't trust that we're making decisions to provide for the stability and security of our Weyr. I absolve you of your commitment; you can return to where you're from and continue whatever life it was you were living prior to coming here." That hand remains held out, waiting.
"My reason for standing is out of obligation and duty," is Ulyana's reply. "If that is interpreted to 'just because', then I will not explain further." The book is placed on the table and she stands, palms resting on the cover. "I said nothing about trust. You also failed to answer any of my questions. If that is what I am to expect of other riders, then perhaps I should have a reason not to trust you or the Weyr." A point that aggravates her, but for reasons that defy articulation. The request, however, might yield a rather surprising - or not, really, given her views - response. Both knots are unpinned from her person and dropped unceremoniously into N'muir's hand. "So be it," the girl intones. The book is then taken up and she pivots on a bare heel in preparation to hunt down and retrieve her shoes.
N'muir holds out his hand to take the knots and collects his hat from the table without giving the girl a second look. Then he moves on to join some older dragonriders at another table. But out in the Bowl and rather uncharacteristically for Bijedth, the big bronze crouches down in the pouring rain next to the entrance to the cavern, holding himself above the mud but low enough for his big head to swivel towards the cavern's entrance, waiting.
As for the girl, she's occupied for a short time after her encounter with N'muir - long enough to retrieve a satchel and a heavy, hooded cloak. Ulyana's booted steps are still relatively quiet, with her passage betrayed more by the creak of leather and whispering of her cloak than any active effort on her part. The bag is slung cross-wise over her person, the book is safely tucked under an arm - and wrapped in protective oilcloth to spare it from the weather outside. Her progress toward the entrance is temporarily halted, however, as she stops and rolls up on the balls of her feet in search of something - or someone. The line of her mouth flattens out during that visual quest, irritation made momentarily manifest.
Timing: Vhaeryth himself lands out in the rainy bowl, by necessity far enough from Bijedth to not have /deliberately/ splashed; his rider's bent over a neckridge, muttering at the seemingly incessant rain.
Outside in the rain, Bijedth's head swivels away from the cavern's entrance at Vhaeryth's landing, rising from the ground to rustle his wings, bristling at... something. The rain? Vhaeryth? Probably not, since the older bronze rumbles at Vhaeryth in something of a happy tone. Under the cover of the cavern, N'muir remains seated at the table with the older dragonriders, his socked feet folded one over the other to ward off the cold from the hard stone underfoot. But there's one stolen look around the old bronzerider N'ran to spy on Ulyana's progress.
As for Ulyana, she's not exactly privy to what's happening just outside the entrance. She's single-mindedly searching for something - and clearly not finding it. The girl's mouth wrenches just a little to one side and she drops down to a flat-footed stance, only to turn and catch one of the cooks as she leaves the kitchens. A short conversation is had, the cook shakes her head, and Cromese girl draws in a deep breath - only to let it out as a slow hiss of a thing through her nose. A final look is angled around the cavern - one that lingers in all places save for where N'muir sits - and then she's headed for the entrance in earnest and without a backwards look, bundled up and moving purposefully despite her burden.
Outside in the very, very wet rain, Vhaeryth rumbles to meet the elder bronze, stretching in such a way that even more water slides off his wingsail... onto the now-wetter N'rov, who curses his dragon and his lineage back to Faranth, no, /firelizards/. Vhaeryth snorts. N'rov grumps his way down to land... in the mud. He's heading towards the entrance to warm non-wet land, but slowly, the mud clinging to each bootstep and making a sucking pop when he frees it.
Bijedth /could/ lift a wing to shelter N'rov from the rain as he draws closer, but the bronze rather unhelpfully just extends his nose to the man, intending to sniff at him. Do dragons have noses like canines, to sniff out all the places and people that have come into contact with N'rov? Probably not, but that big head lingers near the bronzerider all the same.
Convergence is inevitable. Ulyana makes her way outside at approximately the same time that N'rov seems to be making his way in. There's only a flicked, sidelong look to the rider as she passes - a fleeting glance angled toward his shoulder in search of a familiar thing, rather than a face - and then she moves on without a word. It's only at the sight of a big, unfamiliar - to her - bronze dragon and another perhaps not so far off that give the girl pause. Her grip on the book and the strap of her bag go white-knuckled and her mouth draws itself into a bloodless line. Rather than walk right on by, she angles her exit to a side - desperately hoping to slip past without notice on her way to the records room.
N'rov's head lifts at Bijedth's attention, and he pauses, cinching the ties to his hood tighter; his shoulder's only adorned with his knot and his wing's badge. He smells of coal smoke and his dragon and something or other that would only be tasty to humans. To Bijedth, in a growl, "I can see /up your nose/." Vhaeryth's eyes, meanwhile, whirl an untrustworthily placid shade of blue. His rider makes no move to slow Ulyana, much less stop her (or possibly even notice her to begin with), but the younger bronze's gaze slowly focuses on the bundled-up human. This rumble is even deeper, almost too deep to be audible and not just felt.
If Ulyana's intention is to not go noticed, then she fails. Bijedth breathes out at N'rov, almost defiantly, but then the bronze ditches the bronzerider in exchange for following after Ulyana, which may mean either walking /over/ N'rov or around him. Inside the Living Cavern, N'muir pushes himself up from the table and excuses himself, tugging on his riding hat. It's an odd march that he makes across the room to the door leading out to the Bowl in just his socked feet, pausing to stuff his feet into his boots before peeking out into the rain. He squints at N'rov but remains silent, just his head poking out.
None of this bodes well - least of all to Ulyana. She bristles just a little at the sensation and sound of that barely perceptible - but all-too-consuming - rumble. If it was possible for her mouth to vanish, it would have been gone seconds ago. The girl's throat works hard, but a faint click sounds at the back of her throat. The world outside might be drowning, but her mouth is dry and her throat is painfully tight. Her shoulders tense up, her head ducks down and, with the beasts kept in her peripheral vision, she continues her march onward. Or tries to, rather. The bronze stalking after her does little to put her at ease and she's torn between looking back or keeping her eyes locked on a point of perceived safety. Inertia wins the day and her steps quicken - relatively speaking, given the mire that the bowl's become.
"Shells. That /stinks/," N'rov complains, waving one arm... which may just further the likeness to a tall and somewhat scruffy beetle as he ducks out of Bijedth's way and towards the entrance and thus Bijedth's rider. His glopping steps slow, then. "N'muir. Tell your dragon to eat a bale of mint, already." If Vhaeryth senses the bristling, he doesn't seem discommoded; indeed, he does it again, this time leaning towards her in a way that saves his belly or, indeed, his hocks from touching the muck. His headknobs have pricked forward, Bijedth reflected in his eyes' whirling facets.
N'muir holds a finger to his lips, silently trying to stall his wingmate. But the words are out and that hand that was a finger against his lips becomes a hand that lays over his face. He inches out of the cover of the cavern, trying to remain out of the rain under the lip of the cavern's entrance. He leans out enough to try to look around the corner, squinting against the rain. "You're lucky he didn't just eat fish," N'muir mutters. "Are you in for the night?" Bijedth doesn't really need to pick up his pace to keep up with Ulyana; he's a big enough dragon. N'muir growls to himself before calling out towards the girl and his dragon. "Was what you had better than this? Honestly." Then, adding: "Weyrleader besides."
Somewhere along the way, a line is crossed and something snaps. Ulyana's burgeoning anxiety fully blossoms into panic - and running is unfathomable when breathing has become nearly impossible. She stops dead in her tracks, with a grip so tight on the book that she's shaking. It's only a moment later that she's sinking into an uncomfortable crouch, turtling herself up under the hood. The girl struggles to draw breath and fight the upwelling of nausea that's seized her stomach - but it's not likely to end well. "Go. Away." The two, tattered words are the only ones she can squeeze past her seized throat and they're repeated between desperate attempts at gulping down air. Can the beasts even hear her? And if they can, would they care? Unfortunately for N'muir, the pounding of blood in her ears drowns out whatever was called and leaves his question unanswered.
Fortunately for N'rov, perhaps it also drowned the name he greeted N'muir with... though if N'muir doesn't know, it may not matter. "Fine, fine, I'm lucky. Take it to the poker table, why don't you," he says now that he, too, is under the overhang where he can drip in peace. Or, not quite peace. With a glance back to the bowl, "'What she had,' what? And anything good on the menu? Yeah, I'm in." He brushes water off his oiled leathers with gloved hands, more careful to not splash N'muir than Vhaeryth had been of Bijedth. Vhaeryth, as it happens, sinks back to his haunches; perhaps it's less interesting, now.
N'muir ducks back under the cover of the overhang and nods his head in the general direction of his own dragon and the girl. "What she had before she- nevermind. You're a little late for lunch but there's probably some buns-" He stops mid-sentence just as Ulyana turtles into herself, and Bijedth makes a sharp turn away from the girl as if burned. "Oh shit." While Bijedth is swiftly wandering out towards the middle of the Bowl and away from Ulyana, and N'muir jogs a little ways towards Ulyana while giving her a wide berth of room. "Easy there. He's gone." N'muir looks back over his shoulder towards the overhang.
The 'go away' mantra is still going when N'muir approaches; gone or not, the words are the only thing Ulyana clings to for the sake of stability. She doesn't answer, nor does she seem capable of it for a good long moment or three - even after that attempt at reassurance is given. Her hyperventilation begins to settle out after that - but it will take some minutes before things are back to normal enough for her to say anything. The girl spits into the muck once or twice before she's able to intone a thin, strained, "I need to return this book and then I will leave. I was not aware that dismissal meant being chased off by dragons."
Only for N'muir. Rather than going inside and getting warm and dry and having some tasty buns before they're all gone, like a smart man, N'rov follows his wingleader out into the downpour. Not that he goes so far as to jog, but perhaps it's unnecessary given that it's not such a great distance, with her minutes of recovery on top of that; he moves to stand at N'muir's elbow, silent. Silent, anyway, until she speaks and he says to her, "I'm not sure that counts as 'chased off.'" It's in a moderately good-humored, if sardonic, Boll accent. "Not that I'd expect you," whoever she is under those wrappings, "to know that."
N'muir stares at the girl with startled confusion, eyes sliding momentarily sideways at N'rov before flicking back to the young girl. "I'm sorry, he really didn't mean any harm," he adds on the heels of N'rov's words. "He didn't think you should leave... is all." His voice begins to fade and he takes a step back.
The girl finally uncoils from her crouch, leaving her to stand at her wholly unimpressive, just-shy-of-five-feet, height. Ulyana's gray eyes are cool, perhaps made moreso from the sickly pallor that still clings to her. Her jaw twitches just a little, her throat works vigorously against either words or something else, and she ultimately utters with that queer, flat affect of hers: "I would not have known it, not with that response. Am I permitted to leave? Or are you retracting your dismissal?" Though her attention briefly strays to N'rov in a brief wash of scrutiny, the weight of her strange, intense regard settles on N'muir.
The younger bronzerider mutters, eyeing the girl, "She looks like she's going to throw up." Quieter, though perhaps not quiet enough for her not to hear any of it, "Does she talk like that all the time?" This, while the rain keeps falling and falling, tapping a tattoo on N'rov's head and shoulders and wherever else the wind blows it.
N'muir stops his deer-in-the-headlights staring at Ulyana to steal a look towards Bijedth and N'rov in turn. "I've only talked to her once before, and it went a lot better than this," he murmurs to his wingmate. He takes a step forward, tentatively at first. He opens his mouth to respond and then reconsiders his words. He walks closer, holding out the two knots. "You're permitted to do what you want, stay or go. But you do have to talk to a dragonrider about what it means to Impress a dragon." He holds out his hand again, the knots this time offered out to her.
A glance askance is cut toward N'rov. "If they had stayed," she issues matter-of-factly, "I would have. Deep breathing is only so effective." If Ulyana hears the rest, she does not comment on it. The set of her jaw and the line of her mouth are both hard - and not entirely because her stomach's still a knot. "Twice before," she corrects, but no elaboration is given. The rest of his words are weighed, measured, and parsed - but the knots will remain in the Weyrleader's hand for a few seconds longer than they probably should. When she does reach to take them, it's with the same, dull, "So be it," that she'd intoned before when she gave them up. They are not put on but, for the moment, shoved into a pocket of her satchel for safekeeping. The eventual, "Thank you," is awkwardly delayed and chased with an equally awkwardly placed, "If you will excuse me, I need to get my tea."
"It must've," N'rov mutters back to N'muir. He does add to the girl, "Good to know," but otherwise keeps out of the knot-exchanging though he watches the process somewhat warily. /He's/ not going to stop her from tea-gathering, and indeed adds to N'muir a little before she seems out of earshot, "What happened to the days of candidates falling on their knees in, yes, the mud, composing poems in humble gratitude for the glory that is standing on hot sands burning your feet off? Did the laundry workers complain? Shells."
Summary: Ulyana is confronted by N'muir and meets N'rov. For a while, she's not a not-Candidate. Then she is again.
Characters: Bijedth, N'muir, N'rov, Ulyana, Vhaeryth
Location: Living Cavern, Fort Weyr
Time: Day 11, month 11, turn 35 of Interval 10
RL Date: 09/20/2014
It's a bit late for lunch, but the weather outside seems to have forced the lunch crowd to linger just a bit later than usual. A gaggle of riders chat near the entrance, while a nanny is busy herding a bunch of children toward the inner caverns to find them something else to do. Other people are there, of course, knotted up in conversational groupings or otherwise occupied with work of some sort to give them an excuse to not be out in the storm or otherwise working. And then there's Ulyana, sitting alone as she's prone to do. The girl is tucked in at a table relatively close to the kitchens, with a book laid open in her lap and a plate of thin, ginger crisps in front of her. The crisps appear untouched, much like the long-cooled tea in front of her. She's lost in whatever she's reading, oblivious - or simply uncaring - of what's happening around her.
The weather is reflected in the dark expression worn by the Weyrleader as he heads in from the Bowl. He is soaked to the bone, water dribbling off of him and spattering the ground around his muddy footprints. He has the decency to pause at the door and remove his muddy boots but there are others who have been less considerate for those assigned to keep the floors clean, and muddy footprints trail off in every direction while some poor soul with a mop attempts to keep up with the mess. N'muir mutters a string of curses as he attempts to navigate around the footprints in socked feet, eventually finding his way to the klah pot to pour himself half a mug of steaming klah. It's from this vantage that he scans the room, dark eyes searching beneath his annoyed, arched brows, and Ulyana is spotted with her book. His steps are not their usual crisp march, boot-heels missing in action, and so it is with unintentional stealth that he walks over to Ulyana and tries to peer over her shoulder at the book. "Weren't you a Candidate last time?" Last time. That's what he's calling it.
The pages on display are packed with a cramped script; it appears to be a rather dense history of Healing, of all things, but there are - perhaps fortunately - no illustrations. Ulyana doesn't seem to notice the Weyrleader's approach in the slightest, either, not until he speaks. She's not the jumpy sort. Nor is she the sort to feel inclined to look over her shoulder to confirm who it is. Instead, the girl - who is dry and barefoot; the latter out of consideration for the cleaning staff - intones a flat, "I was asked to Stand when the search riders were sent out after Eliyaveith's flight. I accepted." Her head tilts slightly to one side. "I am still a Candidate. I have not Stood."
N'muir squints at the pages for a moment over the young girl's shoulder but inevitably he resigns himself to move around the table to stand facing her with his mug of klah. He loosens his hat and tears it off of his head, and even with his hair tied back there are still a flurry of strands sent awry from the action. N'muir sets down his hat and mug and begins the task of taking out his hair tie in an attempt to tame his hair. His attention absently settles on that old, makeshift white knot. "So then I don't need to ask if you've spoken to a rider and everything's been done properly through the Headwoman like it's supposed to be?"
She doesn't look up from the book while N'muir takes his new place across from her - not right away, anyway. Ulyana finishes the page she's on while he wrangles with his hair, only to close the book without a need to mark it in anyway. Her hands fold over the cover of it - it is, indeed, some wrechedly dull tome on Healing history - her head lifts, and there's a slow, slow blink at him when he asks his questions. The girl's impassive expression doesn't shift as she counters one question with another: "Why is the requirement in place for those of us that were Searched before?" There's a drawn out beat, then, lest he become concerned she's not going to answer at all: "I will speak to another rider when I am prepared to answer the questions."
N'muir combs his hair back and away from his face with methodical brushes of his finger tips, collecting the salt-and-pepper curls at the nape of his neck. "Because that is what has been decided," is his quick answer; maybe he's had to answer this question a few times before. "Why do you want to know? Don't you want to Stand?" He knots the piece of leather into place and letting his arms drop back down to his sides. His expression doesn't change, annoyed arches remaining in place even though it's more of an apathetic tone he addresses the young girl with. Whatever caused his annoyance, it isn't her. Or it isn't her /yet/. "Which questions do you suppose you're going to be asked? The /rider/ is the one that will be answering the questions. Unless you've become an expert on dragonriding somehow in your brief time here?"
It's an answer, if unsatisfactory. The momentary flattening of Ulyana's mouth is betrayal enough of her thoughts on the matter. Still, the girl remains still, with her proper posture and nigh-unblinking gaze - a gaze that sits, heavy and inscrutable on N'muir for the duration. "I want to know because it seems irrational to ask one group to speak with a rider to discern whether or not they wish to Stand - but not another." The question is met with a bland, "I was asked to Stand. I accepted. I will remain here until I have fulfilled my promise. Whether I want to or not is unimportant. It is a matter of principle." His annoyance at whatever it is has yet to crack into her awareness; she might not be able to gauge as much, given givens. It's his last, however, that has her brow knotted up. All the same, her voice remains flat - a familiar, dull affect without inflection or weight. "It is very unclear to me what I am to talk to the rider about. It sounded as if the rider was to ask us questions about our intentions. If that is not the case, then I am curious as to what we are to talk to the rider about in the first place. What questions am I to ask them? What purpose is this conversation meant to serve? I am not even sure if the conversation is meant to serve a purpose beyond being something that exists 'just because'."
"The wonderful part about being a weyrleader is that we get to make and uphold all the seemingly irrational decisions we want to where it pertains to dragonriders - or want-to-be dragonriders - in this Weyr," N'muir informs Ulyana with an almost cheerful tone were it not also slightly acidic. "And we don't have to answer to little girls if we don't want to. But even if the only purpose to our condition is simply 'just because', your only reason for Standing appears to be 'just because', isn't that true? Or am I missing something?" He holds out his hand and nods his head at her makeshift knot. "You don't have to worry about fulfilling your promise if you don't trust that we're making decisions to provide for the stability and security of our Weyr. I absolve you of your commitment; you can return to where you're from and continue whatever life it was you were living prior to coming here." That hand remains held out, waiting.
"My reason for standing is out of obligation and duty," is Ulyana's reply. "If that is interpreted to 'just because', then I will not explain further." The book is placed on the table and she stands, palms resting on the cover. "I said nothing about trust. You also failed to answer any of my questions. If that is what I am to expect of other riders, then perhaps I should have a reason not to trust you or the Weyr." A point that aggravates her, but for reasons that defy articulation. The request, however, might yield a rather surprising - or not, really, given her views - response. Both knots are unpinned from her person and dropped unceremoniously into N'muir's hand. "So be it," the girl intones. The book is then taken up and she pivots on a bare heel in preparation to hunt down and retrieve her shoes.
N'muir holds out his hand to take the knots and collects his hat from the table without giving the girl a second look. Then he moves on to join some older dragonriders at another table. But out in the Bowl and rather uncharacteristically for Bijedth, the big bronze crouches down in the pouring rain next to the entrance to the cavern, holding himself above the mud but low enough for his big head to swivel towards the cavern's entrance, waiting.
As for the girl, she's occupied for a short time after her encounter with N'muir - long enough to retrieve a satchel and a heavy, hooded cloak. Ulyana's booted steps are still relatively quiet, with her passage betrayed more by the creak of leather and whispering of her cloak than any active effort on her part. The bag is slung cross-wise over her person, the book is safely tucked under an arm - and wrapped in protective oilcloth to spare it from the weather outside. Her progress toward the entrance is temporarily halted, however, as she stops and rolls up on the balls of her feet in search of something - or someone. The line of her mouth flattens out during that visual quest, irritation made momentarily manifest.
Timing: Vhaeryth himself lands out in the rainy bowl, by necessity far enough from Bijedth to not have /deliberately/ splashed; his rider's bent over a neckridge, muttering at the seemingly incessant rain.
Outside in the rain, Bijedth's head swivels away from the cavern's entrance at Vhaeryth's landing, rising from the ground to rustle his wings, bristling at... something. The rain? Vhaeryth? Probably not, since the older bronze rumbles at Vhaeryth in something of a happy tone. Under the cover of the cavern, N'muir remains seated at the table with the older dragonriders, his socked feet folded one over the other to ward off the cold from the hard stone underfoot. But there's one stolen look around the old bronzerider N'ran to spy on Ulyana's progress.
As for Ulyana, she's not exactly privy to what's happening just outside the entrance. She's single-mindedly searching for something - and clearly not finding it. The girl's mouth wrenches just a little to one side and she drops down to a flat-footed stance, only to turn and catch one of the cooks as she leaves the kitchens. A short conversation is had, the cook shakes her head, and Cromese girl draws in a deep breath - only to let it out as a slow hiss of a thing through her nose. A final look is angled around the cavern - one that lingers in all places save for where N'muir sits - and then she's headed for the entrance in earnest and without a backwards look, bundled up and moving purposefully despite her burden.
Outside in the very, very wet rain, Vhaeryth rumbles to meet the elder bronze, stretching in such a way that even more water slides off his wingsail... onto the now-wetter N'rov, who curses his dragon and his lineage back to Faranth, no, /firelizards/. Vhaeryth snorts. N'rov grumps his way down to land... in the mud. He's heading towards the entrance to warm non-wet land, but slowly, the mud clinging to each bootstep and making a sucking pop when he frees it.
Bijedth /could/ lift a wing to shelter N'rov from the rain as he draws closer, but the bronze rather unhelpfully just extends his nose to the man, intending to sniff at him. Do dragons have noses like canines, to sniff out all the places and people that have come into contact with N'rov? Probably not, but that big head lingers near the bronzerider all the same.
Convergence is inevitable. Ulyana makes her way outside at approximately the same time that N'rov seems to be making his way in. There's only a flicked, sidelong look to the rider as she passes - a fleeting glance angled toward his shoulder in search of a familiar thing, rather than a face - and then she moves on without a word. It's only at the sight of a big, unfamiliar - to her - bronze dragon and another perhaps not so far off that give the girl pause. Her grip on the book and the strap of her bag go white-knuckled and her mouth draws itself into a bloodless line. Rather than walk right on by, she angles her exit to a side - desperately hoping to slip past without notice on her way to the records room.
N'rov's head lifts at Bijedth's attention, and he pauses, cinching the ties to his hood tighter; his shoulder's only adorned with his knot and his wing's badge. He smells of coal smoke and his dragon and something or other that would only be tasty to humans. To Bijedth, in a growl, "I can see /up your nose/." Vhaeryth's eyes, meanwhile, whirl an untrustworthily placid shade of blue. His rider makes no move to slow Ulyana, much less stop her (or possibly even notice her to begin with), but the younger bronze's gaze slowly focuses on the bundled-up human. This rumble is even deeper, almost too deep to be audible and not just felt.
If Ulyana's intention is to not go noticed, then she fails. Bijedth breathes out at N'rov, almost defiantly, but then the bronze ditches the bronzerider in exchange for following after Ulyana, which may mean either walking /over/ N'rov or around him. Inside the Living Cavern, N'muir pushes himself up from the table and excuses himself, tugging on his riding hat. It's an odd march that he makes across the room to the door leading out to the Bowl in just his socked feet, pausing to stuff his feet into his boots before peeking out into the rain. He squints at N'rov but remains silent, just his head poking out.
None of this bodes well - least of all to Ulyana. She bristles just a little at the sensation and sound of that barely perceptible - but all-too-consuming - rumble. If it was possible for her mouth to vanish, it would have been gone seconds ago. The girl's throat works hard, but a faint click sounds at the back of her throat. The world outside might be drowning, but her mouth is dry and her throat is painfully tight. Her shoulders tense up, her head ducks down and, with the beasts kept in her peripheral vision, she continues her march onward. Or tries to, rather. The bronze stalking after her does little to put her at ease and she's torn between looking back or keeping her eyes locked on a point of perceived safety. Inertia wins the day and her steps quicken - relatively speaking, given the mire that the bowl's become.
"Shells. That /stinks/," N'rov complains, waving one arm... which may just further the likeness to a tall and somewhat scruffy beetle as he ducks out of Bijedth's way and towards the entrance and thus Bijedth's rider. His glopping steps slow, then. "N'muir. Tell your dragon to eat a bale of mint, already." If Vhaeryth senses the bristling, he doesn't seem discommoded; indeed, he does it again, this time leaning towards her in a way that saves his belly or, indeed, his hocks from touching the muck. His headknobs have pricked forward, Bijedth reflected in his eyes' whirling facets.
N'muir holds a finger to his lips, silently trying to stall his wingmate. But the words are out and that hand that was a finger against his lips becomes a hand that lays over his face. He inches out of the cover of the cavern, trying to remain out of the rain under the lip of the cavern's entrance. He leans out enough to try to look around the corner, squinting against the rain. "You're lucky he didn't just eat fish," N'muir mutters. "Are you in for the night?" Bijedth doesn't really need to pick up his pace to keep up with Ulyana; he's a big enough dragon. N'muir growls to himself before calling out towards the girl and his dragon. "Was what you had better than this? Honestly." Then, adding: "Weyrleader besides."
Somewhere along the way, a line is crossed and something snaps. Ulyana's burgeoning anxiety fully blossoms into panic - and running is unfathomable when breathing has become nearly impossible. She stops dead in her tracks, with a grip so tight on the book that she's shaking. It's only a moment later that she's sinking into an uncomfortable crouch, turtling herself up under the hood. The girl struggles to draw breath and fight the upwelling of nausea that's seized her stomach - but it's not likely to end well. "Go. Away." The two, tattered words are the only ones she can squeeze past her seized throat and they're repeated between desperate attempts at gulping down air. Can the beasts even hear her? And if they can, would they care? Unfortunately for N'muir, the pounding of blood in her ears drowns out whatever was called and leaves his question unanswered.
Fortunately for N'rov, perhaps it also drowned the name he greeted N'muir with... though if N'muir doesn't know, it may not matter. "Fine, fine, I'm lucky. Take it to the poker table, why don't you," he says now that he, too, is under the overhang where he can drip in peace. Or, not quite peace. With a glance back to the bowl, "'What she had,' what? And anything good on the menu? Yeah, I'm in." He brushes water off his oiled leathers with gloved hands, more careful to not splash N'muir than Vhaeryth had been of Bijedth. Vhaeryth, as it happens, sinks back to his haunches; perhaps it's less interesting, now.
N'muir ducks back under the cover of the overhang and nods his head in the general direction of his own dragon and the girl. "What she had before she- nevermind. You're a little late for lunch but there's probably some buns-" He stops mid-sentence just as Ulyana turtles into herself, and Bijedth makes a sharp turn away from the girl as if burned. "Oh shit." While Bijedth is swiftly wandering out towards the middle of the Bowl and away from Ulyana, and N'muir jogs a little ways towards Ulyana while giving her a wide berth of room. "Easy there. He's gone." N'muir looks back over his shoulder towards the overhang.
The 'go away' mantra is still going when N'muir approaches; gone or not, the words are the only thing Ulyana clings to for the sake of stability. She doesn't answer, nor does she seem capable of it for a good long moment or three - even after that attempt at reassurance is given. Her hyperventilation begins to settle out after that - but it will take some minutes before things are back to normal enough for her to say anything. The girl spits into the muck once or twice before she's able to intone a thin, strained, "I need to return this book and then I will leave. I was not aware that dismissal meant being chased off by dragons."
Only for N'muir. Rather than going inside and getting warm and dry and having some tasty buns before they're all gone, like a smart man, N'rov follows his wingleader out into the downpour. Not that he goes so far as to jog, but perhaps it's unnecessary given that it's not such a great distance, with her minutes of recovery on top of that; he moves to stand at N'muir's elbow, silent. Silent, anyway, until she speaks and he says to her, "I'm not sure that counts as 'chased off.'" It's in a moderately good-humored, if sardonic, Boll accent. "Not that I'd expect you," whoever she is under those wrappings, "to know that."
N'muir stares at the girl with startled confusion, eyes sliding momentarily sideways at N'rov before flicking back to the young girl. "I'm sorry, he really didn't mean any harm," he adds on the heels of N'rov's words. "He didn't think you should leave... is all." His voice begins to fade and he takes a step back.
The girl finally uncoils from her crouch, leaving her to stand at her wholly unimpressive, just-shy-of-five-feet, height. Ulyana's gray eyes are cool, perhaps made moreso from the sickly pallor that still clings to her. Her jaw twitches just a little, her throat works vigorously against either words or something else, and she ultimately utters with that queer, flat affect of hers: "I would not have known it, not with that response. Am I permitted to leave? Or are you retracting your dismissal?" Though her attention briefly strays to N'rov in a brief wash of scrutiny, the weight of her strange, intense regard settles on N'muir.
The younger bronzerider mutters, eyeing the girl, "She looks like she's going to throw up." Quieter, though perhaps not quiet enough for her not to hear any of it, "Does she talk like that all the time?" This, while the rain keeps falling and falling, tapping a tattoo on N'rov's head and shoulders and wherever else the wind blows it.
N'muir stops his deer-in-the-headlights staring at Ulyana to steal a look towards Bijedth and N'rov in turn. "I've only talked to her once before, and it went a lot better than this," he murmurs to his wingmate. He takes a step forward, tentatively at first. He opens his mouth to respond and then reconsiders his words. He walks closer, holding out the two knots. "You're permitted to do what you want, stay or go. But you do have to talk to a dragonrider about what it means to Impress a dragon." He holds out his hand again, the knots this time offered out to her.
A glance askance is cut toward N'rov. "If they had stayed," she issues matter-of-factly, "I would have. Deep breathing is only so effective." If Ulyana hears the rest, she does not comment on it. The set of her jaw and the line of her mouth are both hard - and not entirely because her stomach's still a knot. "Twice before," she corrects, but no elaboration is given. The rest of his words are weighed, measured, and parsed - but the knots will remain in the Weyrleader's hand for a few seconds longer than they probably should. When she does reach to take them, it's with the same, dull, "So be it," that she'd intoned before when she gave them up. They are not put on but, for the moment, shoved into a pocket of her satchel for safekeeping. The eventual, "Thank you," is awkwardly delayed and chased with an equally awkwardly placed, "If you will excuse me, I need to get my tea."
"It must've," N'rov mutters back to N'muir. He does add to the girl, "Good to know," but otherwise keeps out of the knot-exchanging though he watches the process somewhat warily. /He's/ not going to stop her from tea-gathering, and indeed adds to N'muir a little before she seems out of earshot, "What happened to the days of candidates falling on their knees in, yes, the mud, composing poems in humble gratitude for the glory that is standing on hot sands burning your feet off? Did the laundry workers complain? Shells."