Log: Sight-Seeing
Who: Idraila, P'draig
When:
Where: Garden and Pool, Ista Weyr
What: Idraila can't sleep and comes across P'draig in the garden. They talk about getting to know Ista better and what being a Weyrlingmaster was like.
Sitting on one of the stone benches that dot the area, P'draig looks out over the edge of the not-so-distant cliff where a star-filled sky is lit faintly by moonlight. Reflecting off of the spray from the falls and the ocean vista beyond, there's often a faint aura of silver here at night, and so it is tonight. The brownrider has a piece of fruit at hand, likely plucked from within the orchards that lie further back in this garden area. It's a quiet night, the odd firelizard flitting by and the only sound is the distant rush of waves on the beach and the water falling ceaselessly into the pool below.
It's a shame to ruin such a beautiful and serene vista with the appearance of the drably garbed Idraila, shuffling along the cliffside path, kicking up bits of gravel as she goes. Her dirt-colored dress is darkened along its hem, suggesting the presence of actual dirt and the long walk that preceded her arriving here. She twines a cream-colored ribbon around her fingers as she walks, contemplating some distant thought. "Sir," she greets absently as she nears the older man on the bench, but when proximity and starlight make the features distinguishable, her smile goes from pleasantly polite to a wider and more friendly version. "P'draig. Hello." The scribe, now candidate by the white cord in her knot, hovers in his view, blocking a good section of those picturesque waves.
P'draig takes another bite from his fruit and placidly observes that arriving obstacle. Chewing and swallowing first, he's got an answering smile for the candidate. "Hey, Idraila. Looks like you're Standing again, eh?" He pats the bench beside him with one hand. "I'm just enjoying a little quiet time. How about you?"
Idraila nods slowly, pivoting to view the scene P'draig's plopped himself in front of before she confirms simply and straightforwardly, "Again." Perhaps realizing she's blotting out the silver-tipped waves, she meanders closer to the bench, standing by the corner farthest from the brownrider and turning to face the sea. "Can't sleep," she answers. The ribbon in her hand is barely visible as she curls it into the palm of her far hand, just it's tail falling out in between two fingers. "Though, I guess it could be said I'm looking for some quiet, too," she remarks dryly, smiling to herself as she looks at the dust she's digging at with the toe of her shoe. Even at bedtime, the barracks are hardly a picture of peace and quiet.
"That happen often?" P'draig asks curiously and takes a final bite from that fruit, lobs the pit over the edge of the cliff and licks juice off his fingers. "I could offer to sing you my daughter's favorite lullabye, but I'm not sure how well that might go over," he says good-humoredly and tips a look upward at the still-standing Candidate. "I can also just be quiet and let the waves do their work. I usually find the sound to be soothing. Have done ever since I was an apprentice at Tillek."
Idraila shakes her head, the gesture just as slow as her earlier nod. "Not that often. Usually right after I've switched beds. Or something like that." She waves her unburdened hand, dismissing her little problem. "No, no," the candidate reassures him gently, voice barely louder than the sound of those distant waves. "You're fine. I won't be tired anyway. Not until I've tired my legs out." She looks down at him then, hands tucked behind her back, and comments idly, "Ista's very pretty, isn't it?"
"Well that's good. I've rarely had trouble sleeping myself." P'draig regards Idraila curiously for a moment. "Do they get restless? Your legs?" And then he smiles, nods. "Yeah, it is. Especially at this time of the turn. I'm not as fond of summer, coming from Fort and before that the Reaches."
"Not often," Idraila answers dismissively in regards to her legs, adding a shrug for good measure. "I don't think I'd know how to handle cold like that," she comments in a mutter, "I'm an island girl. Through and through." She shifts idly for a moment more, silently nudging around more dirt with her toe and switching the grip of her hands, before asking, "May I?" and gesturing to the empty space of bench beside him. She waits, no expectation of his permission in her manner.
"Yeah, I don't know if I'll ever really be an islander, but it's worth putting up with the humidity to be with Mic," P'draig says with a little shrug. He grins over at Idraila though for that question. "Already offered once, please do." His gesture of invitation is a sweep of fingers this time, rather than a pat to the bench.
"Right," Idraila murmurs, as if it was a chastisement meant only for herself, then she sinks quickly to the seat, pressing her hands together and into her lap. "That's T'mic, right? The assistant weyrlingmaster?" she asks, uneasy in venturing on gossip and secondhand information, but willing to do so in his company. Her toes lay pigeon-toed in front of the spread of her skirt, unfidgeting for now.
"Yep, T'mic, formerly Tolemic, always Mic for short," P'draig answers with some amusement. "He helped out last clutch too. It's something we have in common, I used to be Weyrlingmaster at Fort." Paddy's gaze returns to the restless silvery sea, watching for a moment or two, then looking up as a shadow passes by overhead blocking out the stars. "Jekzith," he murmurs lowly for Idraila's benefit.
Idraila doesn't even notice the shadow until the rider draws attention to it; when he does, she directs her gaze upward, barely tilting her head in the process. Her dark eyes slide along, following the brown's trajectory. "Do you still want to be?" The question seems to come out of nowhere, even to Idraila, and her eyes dart back to him. "I mean... would you still want to help. Here. With the weyrlings, and all."
That question drops P'draig's gaze back down to the girl and he's quiet for a moment, considering. "I'm not sure anymore. It was hard to let it go at first, then I learned to appreciate being off-duty at the same time almost every night. Though, when there's no clutch, no Weyrlings, there's a lot of free time for a Weyrlingmaster. Still, it's something I know and I think I was good at. I still miss it."
"There's something to be said for a consistent schedule," Idraila agrees easily with him, turning her eyes back on the nighttime scene beyond the edge of the cliff's edge. It's a hesitant few seconds later, though, before she adds, "But then there's also something to be said for enjoying doing something you're good at." A fence sitter, this one. "I think you'd be a good one," she ventures slowly a good few seconds later, though she refrains from looking at him while she says it. "I mean," she retraces awkwardly, only then fluttering him a glance, "Not that you weren't. Just here. And I know, I don't know you, all that well. But. You're easy to talk to."
"Especially when you have young kids, though at the same time, having that large chunk of freedom often was good when Palia was young," P'draig says with an easy smile. Her assessment earns a simple nod. "Thanks. I'd like to think that overall, I did a good job over the last ten turns. I've heard few in the way of complaints, though I got off to a bit of a rocky start. Being easy to talk to ... I think that's part of the job actually. Having your ears open for the Weyrlings. Being a taskmaster, that's good for drills, but outside of that, it's all about supporting new riders through learning to be /riders/ and everything that that means." Beat. "That's my take on it anyway."
Idraila listens attentively. Her eyes stop darting about and focus on his face more steadily and the angle of her shoulders relaxes just enough to make a difference. "I don't really know much about all of that, really," Idraila admits her failure simply and with a shrug, looking forward once again. So clearly, she can't really agree or disagree with his take.
"Maybe you'll wind up knowing in a few weeks," P'draig replies, unfazed, undemanding. "I was pretty young when I caught the knot, just turned twenty." He shakes his head a little, self-deprecatingly. "Figured a lot of it out as I went along." Paddy slants another look over at Idraila. "What do you know a lot about?"
"Maybe," Idraila replies, equally as unfazed, almost indifferent in her pronunciation of the word. When he turns a question back at her, she seems almost surprised, blinking to look over at him, then forward again before she answers. "Inks, hides, books. All the things a scribe should know a lot about. About the plants and trees around here, too," she says, waving her hand to indicate not only the gardens but the larger grounds around the Weyr as well. "But that's not really all that useful. Not a lot of the time."
"Maybe," P'draig echoes and his smile is warm. "I'll wish you luck anyway, Idraila, if it's a rider's life you really want." He nods about inks and so on, but interest registers at mention of plants. "Where they all are, or how the actual plants and fruits and things are used? I've been doing a bit of exploring, looking for ingredients. Cooking more, down at the Sandbar. Kip is very patient with me," he says with a little laugh. "I'd think that kind of thing would be really useful, actually, but I guess it'd depend on to whom."
"Both, Idraila answers, humbly adding a, "Kind of," onto the end. "I don't really know how to cook with them. But I know which are edible. Which to stay away from. And then, for dyes and inks, of course. There are a lot of different types, but it's not that hard to learn, really." Of course, she's had twenty-two turns of living here to learn it all. "You stay here longer, you'll pick it up. You'll see."
"Don't need to know how to cook to know what tastes good," P'draig points out, "and what makes for good dyes, that can be useful for cooking too, for coloring dishes and sauces." There's a little pause and then one of his friendly smiles. "Maybe when you're not too busy with candidate chores, you could help me out a little? Point some things out?"
Smile breaking wide again, Idraila nods. "Maybe after the eggs hatch," she suggests on the assumption that she'll have more free time then, an assumption that's hard not to make from her ever-a-candidate-never-a-weyrling standpoint. "There's a few things I can think to point out," she mentions, her excitement a thin line below her quiet tone, emerging at the idea of sharing her little hobby with another. "Probably come by more once we get out there." With a little shrug for her less than stellar memory, she shrugs once again.
"All right then," P'draig says happily and nods about the timeframe. "If there's some easy things nearby, before then even, I'd still appreciate that too." He pushes up to his feet though and a moment later, Jekzith's shadow passes again only to resolve into the reality of the brown dragon landing a little ways away. "I'll look forward to going on a little walk-about eventually," Paddy says sincerely and gives a little wave. "For now, I've got Mic wondering why I'm not home yet, so I'm going to scoot. I hope you sleep well when you get back to the barracks. Good night, Idraila." And P'draig turns to join Jekzith, mounting up between neckridges. He waves again as they glide away towards the outside of the Weyr.
When:
Where: Garden and Pool, Ista Weyr
What: Idraila can't sleep and comes across P'draig in the garden. They talk about getting to know Ista better and what being a Weyrlingmaster was like.
Sitting on one of the stone benches that dot the area, P'draig looks out over the edge of the not-so-distant cliff where a star-filled sky is lit faintly by moonlight. Reflecting off of the spray from the falls and the ocean vista beyond, there's often a faint aura of silver here at night, and so it is tonight. The brownrider has a piece of fruit at hand, likely plucked from within the orchards that lie further back in this garden area. It's a quiet night, the odd firelizard flitting by and the only sound is the distant rush of waves on the beach and the water falling ceaselessly into the pool below.
It's a shame to ruin such a beautiful and serene vista with the appearance of the drably garbed Idraila, shuffling along the cliffside path, kicking up bits of gravel as she goes. Her dirt-colored dress is darkened along its hem, suggesting the presence of actual dirt and the long walk that preceded her arriving here. She twines a cream-colored ribbon around her fingers as she walks, contemplating some distant thought. "Sir," she greets absently as she nears the older man on the bench, but when proximity and starlight make the features distinguishable, her smile goes from pleasantly polite to a wider and more friendly version. "P'draig. Hello." The scribe, now candidate by the white cord in her knot, hovers in his view, blocking a good section of those picturesque waves.
P'draig takes another bite from his fruit and placidly observes that arriving obstacle. Chewing and swallowing first, he's got an answering smile for the candidate. "Hey, Idraila. Looks like you're Standing again, eh?" He pats the bench beside him with one hand. "I'm just enjoying a little quiet time. How about you?"
Idraila nods slowly, pivoting to view the scene P'draig's plopped himself in front of before she confirms simply and straightforwardly, "Again." Perhaps realizing she's blotting out the silver-tipped waves, she meanders closer to the bench, standing by the corner farthest from the brownrider and turning to face the sea. "Can't sleep," she answers. The ribbon in her hand is barely visible as she curls it into the palm of her far hand, just it's tail falling out in between two fingers. "Though, I guess it could be said I'm looking for some quiet, too," she remarks dryly, smiling to herself as she looks at the dust she's digging at with the toe of her shoe. Even at bedtime, the barracks are hardly a picture of peace and quiet.
"That happen often?" P'draig asks curiously and takes a final bite from that fruit, lobs the pit over the edge of the cliff and licks juice off his fingers. "I could offer to sing you my daughter's favorite lullabye, but I'm not sure how well that might go over," he says good-humoredly and tips a look upward at the still-standing Candidate. "I can also just be quiet and let the waves do their work. I usually find the sound to be soothing. Have done ever since I was an apprentice at Tillek."
Idraila shakes her head, the gesture just as slow as her earlier nod. "Not that often. Usually right after I've switched beds. Or something like that." She waves her unburdened hand, dismissing her little problem. "No, no," the candidate reassures him gently, voice barely louder than the sound of those distant waves. "You're fine. I won't be tired anyway. Not until I've tired my legs out." She looks down at him then, hands tucked behind her back, and comments idly, "Ista's very pretty, isn't it?"
"Well that's good. I've rarely had trouble sleeping myself." P'draig regards Idraila curiously for a moment. "Do they get restless? Your legs?" And then he smiles, nods. "Yeah, it is. Especially at this time of the turn. I'm not as fond of summer, coming from Fort and before that the Reaches."
"Not often," Idraila answers dismissively in regards to her legs, adding a shrug for good measure. "I don't think I'd know how to handle cold like that," she comments in a mutter, "I'm an island girl. Through and through." She shifts idly for a moment more, silently nudging around more dirt with her toe and switching the grip of her hands, before asking, "May I?" and gesturing to the empty space of bench beside him. She waits, no expectation of his permission in her manner.
"Yeah, I don't know if I'll ever really be an islander, but it's worth putting up with the humidity to be with Mic," P'draig says with a little shrug. He grins over at Idraila though for that question. "Already offered once, please do." His gesture of invitation is a sweep of fingers this time, rather than a pat to the bench.
"Right," Idraila murmurs, as if it was a chastisement meant only for herself, then she sinks quickly to the seat, pressing her hands together and into her lap. "That's T'mic, right? The assistant weyrlingmaster?" she asks, uneasy in venturing on gossip and secondhand information, but willing to do so in his company. Her toes lay pigeon-toed in front of the spread of her skirt, unfidgeting for now.
"Yep, T'mic, formerly Tolemic, always Mic for short," P'draig answers with some amusement. "He helped out last clutch too. It's something we have in common, I used to be Weyrlingmaster at Fort." Paddy's gaze returns to the restless silvery sea, watching for a moment or two, then looking up as a shadow passes by overhead blocking out the stars. "Jekzith," he murmurs lowly for Idraila's benefit.
Idraila doesn't even notice the shadow until the rider draws attention to it; when he does, she directs her gaze upward, barely tilting her head in the process. Her dark eyes slide along, following the brown's trajectory. "Do you still want to be?" The question seems to come out of nowhere, even to Idraila, and her eyes dart back to him. "I mean... would you still want to help. Here. With the weyrlings, and all."
That question drops P'draig's gaze back down to the girl and he's quiet for a moment, considering. "I'm not sure anymore. It was hard to let it go at first, then I learned to appreciate being off-duty at the same time almost every night. Though, when there's no clutch, no Weyrlings, there's a lot of free time for a Weyrlingmaster. Still, it's something I know and I think I was good at. I still miss it."
"There's something to be said for a consistent schedule," Idraila agrees easily with him, turning her eyes back on the nighttime scene beyond the edge of the cliff's edge. It's a hesitant few seconds later, though, before she adds, "But then there's also something to be said for enjoying doing something you're good at." A fence sitter, this one. "I think you'd be a good one," she ventures slowly a good few seconds later, though she refrains from looking at him while she says it. "I mean," she retraces awkwardly, only then fluttering him a glance, "Not that you weren't. Just here. And I know, I don't know you, all that well. But. You're easy to talk to."
"Especially when you have young kids, though at the same time, having that large chunk of freedom often was good when Palia was young," P'draig says with an easy smile. Her assessment earns a simple nod. "Thanks. I'd like to think that overall, I did a good job over the last ten turns. I've heard few in the way of complaints, though I got off to a bit of a rocky start. Being easy to talk to ... I think that's part of the job actually. Having your ears open for the Weyrlings. Being a taskmaster, that's good for drills, but outside of that, it's all about supporting new riders through learning to be /riders/ and everything that that means." Beat. "That's my take on it anyway."
Idraila listens attentively. Her eyes stop darting about and focus on his face more steadily and the angle of her shoulders relaxes just enough to make a difference. "I don't really know much about all of that, really," Idraila admits her failure simply and with a shrug, looking forward once again. So clearly, she can't really agree or disagree with his take.
"Maybe you'll wind up knowing in a few weeks," P'draig replies, unfazed, undemanding. "I was pretty young when I caught the knot, just turned twenty." He shakes his head a little, self-deprecatingly. "Figured a lot of it out as I went along." Paddy slants another look over at Idraila. "What do you know a lot about?"
"Maybe," Idraila replies, equally as unfazed, almost indifferent in her pronunciation of the word. When he turns a question back at her, she seems almost surprised, blinking to look over at him, then forward again before she answers. "Inks, hides, books. All the things a scribe should know a lot about. About the plants and trees around here, too," she says, waving her hand to indicate not only the gardens but the larger grounds around the Weyr as well. "But that's not really all that useful. Not a lot of the time."
"Maybe," P'draig echoes and his smile is warm. "I'll wish you luck anyway, Idraila, if it's a rider's life you really want." He nods about inks and so on, but interest registers at mention of plants. "Where they all are, or how the actual plants and fruits and things are used? I've been doing a bit of exploring, looking for ingredients. Cooking more, down at the Sandbar. Kip is very patient with me," he says with a little laugh. "I'd think that kind of thing would be really useful, actually, but I guess it'd depend on to whom."
"Both, Idraila answers, humbly adding a, "Kind of," onto the end. "I don't really know how to cook with them. But I know which are edible. Which to stay away from. And then, for dyes and inks, of course. There are a lot of different types, but it's not that hard to learn, really." Of course, she's had twenty-two turns of living here to learn it all. "You stay here longer, you'll pick it up. You'll see."
"Don't need to know how to cook to know what tastes good," P'draig points out, "and what makes for good dyes, that can be useful for cooking too, for coloring dishes and sauces." There's a little pause and then one of his friendly smiles. "Maybe when you're not too busy with candidate chores, you could help me out a little? Point some things out?"
Smile breaking wide again, Idraila nods. "Maybe after the eggs hatch," she suggests on the assumption that she'll have more free time then, an assumption that's hard not to make from her ever-a-candidate-never-a-weyrling standpoint. "There's a few things I can think to point out," she mentions, her excitement a thin line below her quiet tone, emerging at the idea of sharing her little hobby with another. "Probably come by more once we get out there." With a little shrug for her less than stellar memory, she shrugs once again.
"All right then," P'draig says happily and nods about the timeframe. "If there's some easy things nearby, before then even, I'd still appreciate that too." He pushes up to his feet though and a moment later, Jekzith's shadow passes again only to resolve into the reality of the brown dragon landing a little ways away. "I'll look forward to going on a little walk-about eventually," Paddy says sincerely and gives a little wave. "For now, I've got Mic wondering why I'm not home yet, so I'm going to scoot. I hope you sleep well when you get back to the barracks. Good night, Idraila." And P'draig turns to join Jekzith, mounting up between neckridges. He waves again as they glide away towards the outside of the Weyr.