LOG: Malleable
Date: Day 18, Month 10, Turn 20
Location: Records Room, High Reaches Weyr
Synopsis: K'del and Ezalea run into each other in the records room, and get to know each other just a little better.
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.
Evening has rolled around once again (as evening is wont to do) and once again Ezalea might be found deep in the records room. The recent time spent by the transfer goldrider poring over books, hides, scrolls, and ledgers has not gone unnoted, but her night so far has found her little in the way of distraction by conversation or nosy weyrwolk. A scroll is unrolled flush against the table, and the woman is bent over it, her elbows cupping her chin while a nearby glow bathes her - and her object of study - in warm light.
Little distraction, that is, until now. K'del's not a usual visitor to the records at this time of night, being in the habit of getting what he needs earlier, even if it goes home with him for evening perusal. Tonight, however, there is a hurriedness to his step as he all but runs down the stairs, pausing at their bottom only to orient himself, then lunge onwards for the shelves-- except that Ezalea catches his attention when he's halfway there, and he comes to a halt again. "Is it always your habit to work here so late, Ezalea?"
The woman's gaze is slow to tear away from her page, but eventually it turns up to K'del. Ezalea is slow to respond, her eyes still wide in the relative darkness outside of her pool of light, and she pauses a beat with a fingertip tapping at her cheek before she replies, "I - have been known on, on occasion, yes. I am familiarizing myself with your weyr's history. And you? Are you often so desperate for late-night readings that you tear so into the records?" Her tone is blithe, tinged with a touch of laughter.
Her slowness to respond is enough to give K'del a moment to catch his breath and recompose himself, though it always gives him time to look a little awkward for his intrusion, an apology written on his expression. His hands fine purchase on the back of a chair, wrapping about it carefully. "Makes sense to me, doing that. Kind of interesting, too, isn't it?" There's boyish enthusiasm to that remark, before he adds, only slightly abashed. "Had an idea of something I'd intended to look at. Weyr-hold arrangements from the last Interval. Wanted to grab it before I forgot again."
If Ezalea were overly concerned with his apology, she would remark upon it, but as things stand and K'del neatens himself she merely smiles a faint smile, lifts a hand of her own, palm-up in greeting to him. "I didn't want to seem unprepared," she notes, sparing a quick look down and shifting so that she might pin her place on the scroll with one finger, "for the quiz later. Weyr-hold?" The woman folds the other hand against the table and dips her chin towards the shelves yonder. "Please, don't let me keep you, although. It does sound fascinating."
Quiz. That makes K'del laugh outright, not quite managing to hide it behind the hand that raises to cover his mouth. "You must know some of it already, of course, having grown up in the area?" His expression, now that he's recovered from his laughter, is appraising and thoughtful, examining her face with obvious interest. "Though you must have Impressed quite young." He continues without pause, head shaking, to explain, "I want to know if they made any additional arrangements, for the Interval. Keep the holds happy. Perhaps, if it won't be too much of a distraction, we could share a table?"
For his laughter, Ezalea's smile widens, encouraging for all his apparent stiffness. Her voice is rich with unspoken question when she says, tipping her head first to one side and then to the other, birdlike, "I do. Some. Certainly not all. The records were neither so complete nor well kept, and I was not nearly so interested in them as a child. Yes. I was fifteen; my own studies afterward were primarily concerns with Igen's history and so I find this opportunity," she slows a beat to nod her agreement, and moves to spread the glow's sheath wider so it lights the whole table, "most beneficial. Please. Join me."
"I admit, although I've always enjoyed reading, my interest in history took some time to develop," says K'del, apparently becoming increasingly comfortable as the conversation progresses, though her unspoken question remains unrecognised. "Fifteen. Me, too. Though," he pauses only a beat, smile bland, "guess that was a little more recent for me." After which he swallows, as if suddenly registering that commenting on age is not always a good idea; hastily, he bobs his head, then hurries off towards the shelves to fetch the tome he's after, returning again a few moments later with, once again, a rather more composed expression.
While K'del darts off to fetch his own scroll, Ezalea busies herself with straightening the table, aligning neat stacks of hide as though they were not already precise and orderly. "What, then, did you read?" Her voice drifts after him, quiet and respectful for the silence of the tomb-like cavern, and K'del's comment on their shared age-of-Impression brings a dancing light to her eyes reflected by pale light. "Indeed. More recent. How long have you been with Cadejoth, then?" She does not duck around such talk of age (or youth) but instead tilts her chin up to him when he returns. "I am curious, of course. You are a young Weyrleader."
K'del does not answer that first question immediately, not while he's standing at the bookshelf, and not immediately upon his return, either; that's probably because as she tilts her chin up at him, he lowers his gaze to meet hers, turning his attention towards that more immediate of comments. "Cadejoth'll be three at the end of month twelve. Making me a really young Weyrleader, really. Guess you'll have heard, by now, how that happened? Iovniath and all?" Flicking his tome open, as he settles himself down into a seat, he adds, "My brother - one of my brothers, that is - is a harper. Used to read his scribblings, primarily."
Three. Although she makes no play at counting, Ezalea's fingertips tap daintily in place: one, two, three. Her slow, thoughtful nod brings, too, a light lifting of brows, an open invitation for K'del to continue as though no, she had no heard, although he was welcome to tell her if he so chose. If not... then she'll continue, klah-brown eyes fixed again on her scroll, that finger running across the page as she goes, "You have more than one brother, then?" And: "Were they good scribblings? Pleasing to read?"
His youth and inexperience don't seem to be a thing of outright embarrassment for K'del at this moment, because though his finger traces down the page he's on, searching for something, he elucidates in a relaxed, even amused, tone. "Iovniath - and Tiriana, I guess - had a bronze in mind, went straight for him. His rider, though, didn't want to be Weyrleader, so stabbed himself to get his bronze to drop out. In the confusion, Cadejoth just-- right place, I guess. Or wrong, depending on your perspective. So here we are." He flips his page, adding, "Six brothers. Two sisters, as well. And I guess they were pretty good; good enough that he sells them, now."
And with her new companion at ease, Ezalea will tip a look at him out of the corner of her eye, the side of her mouth lifted as she listens. "Mmm," her own air is of attentive interest, despite those eyes flicking quickly over the page, "that is... - he stabbed himself?" This brings up her full attention, bore across at K'del with a furrowed brow and slightly concerned regard. "And then Cadejoth. Yes. I see. And how have you found the mantle of weyrleadership? Is it a difficult load to bear?" Six brothers. Two sisters. Filed away with another small incline of Leah's head.
Hastily, as his gaze shoots up back towards Ezalea, all reassurance, "In the shoulder. It healed fine, wasn't life threatening or anything. Pretty desperate thing to do, though. But. He'd been Weyrleader before, at Ista." And by K'del's tone, that's reason enough not to want to do it again, though whether it's Weyrleader in general, or the experience of being Weyrleader at /Ista/. "Not an /easy/ one," admits the young man, with a sharp exhale. "Not for anyone, I imagine, and less so for me. Got some good advisors, though, and..." he trails off, though a smile betrays itself about his expression. "Reckon I'm doing better. Know it's early days, but... is it hard being Junior to a woman who Impressed turns after you?" And a woman like Tiriana, at that, but that much he doesn't say. Verbally, anyway.
"Ah." Relief cascades for a moment through her voice. "I had heard rumors, of course. But I didn't care to speculate." Ezalea passes a fleeting, grateful glance across the table for K'del's reassurances, and remarks lightly, "Then perhaps his decision was wise, if extreme." And she listens politely, approvingly as he speaks. "Everything is made easier with experience. Especially helpful if your advisors do right by you," the woman laughs softly, flicks her fingers towards the darkness with a breezy motion. "I ... am well-used to being a junior weyrwoman." Despite her airy dismissal, her brows dip for a moment together. "So far, it has not been too difficult."
Taken aback for a moment, K'del's pale blue eyes are serious as he considers, expression set in thought. "Suppose you're right," he allows, at length. "That it was wise, I mean. For him, at least, maybe the weyr, too; least I was willing, if not eager." His lips part to show his teeth as he admits, "Always was my ambition to be Weyrleader one day, just happened a bit sooner than any of us would like." Lightly, then, "Reckon we do all right. Between the Wingleaders, and our Headwoman, Tiriana and I-- well." His head tips forward; no doubt she'll make her own judgment on that now, or in time. "Hope it remains that way." Not too difficult. There's sympathy, there, too, in the pursing of his lips and the path of his gaze.
"Such unconventional means," Ezalea murmurs slowly. "But to each to know their own strengths. And his unwillingness becomes your opportunity," and the woman's curved mouth and abruptly bright tone indicates that this should be considered no small thing. "To be Weyrleader?" Again comes her quiet laughter. "All I aspired to was a peaceful, settled life. And I was rewarded with Nahalith." Her introspection is broken by a blink of brown eyes, flicking towards K'del. "A weyr is such a well-oiled machine. Each component, like so," her fingers lace for a moment, "to create a working whole." If she notes his sympathy, she responds to it only with a soft, "And I am only but a part of it. It is nothing to be ashamed of."
"And such an opportunity," agrees K'del, spreading his hands lightly atop the tome he's not really reading from at this point. "For the seventh son of a vineholder from Tillek." He'll be the first to note, further, tone self-deprecating in a way that makes it seem as though it was a frightfully long time ago, and not just a few turns, "Always was a little overconfident. You--" Beat. "Don't regret it, I'm sure. Her." More evenly, as he draws his hands away from the book again, using one to push stray curls away from his face, he adds, "You're right, of course. We each have our role to play; just got to make sure we do our jobs the best we can."
Ezalea lifts a single finger - ah! - and corrects mildly, not unkindly, "For the youngest Weyrleader in even the longest memory." Such a distinction! For emphasis, she ... returns to her scroll, tracing her thumb along the lines, although she continues soon enough, "No. Well. Only in my - or her - most strident and ill-tempered moments, but I would like to think we all have those, mm?" Nahalith, her Nahalith, for all what she might be saying, brings a warmer, more indulgent hint to her words. "Yes. The best job we can. And surely, with time, you will become the best man for the job. The young are always so malleable." Bearing in mind: they Impressed at the same age. Is that a crooked, wry grin playing at her lips?
K'del's smile twists ruefully under the weight of Ezalea's correction, despite the mildness of it. "Can only hope I'll have the honour of being remembered for more than just that - for High Reaches' sake." Not ego alone, of course. Of course. More smooth is his agreement to her next, a quiet, "We do," that is just firm enough to mark exactly how much he certainly does. Her smile only makes his grow larger still, ultimately adjoining the laugh that spills free. "We are at that." Beat. "I like you, Ezalea. Think you might fit in rather well here - while you're here. However long it is." High praise, indeed.
The woman's tracing motions freeze a beat, and she amends (perhaps as much for his sake as hers), "the youngest and most auspicious, then. Or any adjective of your choice, really." Ezalea's sidelong glance lasts only a hearbeat, and then all of the sudden she has leaned forward to scoop up her small stack of hides, tapping the bundle of them gently against the table so that the edges all align. "And I you, K'del. But -" and there is always such a but, "- it is terribly late, and I am due to rise early tomorrow morning. You should not stay up too long, yourself," she urges gently, with a parting smile, fingertips wiggling against scroll as she brings them to her chest, and bids as she slips out, "Good night, Weyrleader."
'Auspicious' makes K'del laugh again, though it may be said that he doesn't seem to mind the use of that particular adjective; does he sit up just slightly straighter? Does he smile just that little bit more brightly. Ezalea's movements, of course, draw his attention more seriously back to her, and, aside from a tip of the head in appreciation for her return of his compliment, he maintains an easy, unreadable expression. "Of course. Wasn't paying attention to the time, myself." His gaze angles off, as if he's aware of how late he is for something, but, after a shake of his head, he merely adds, "Good night, Ezalea. Hope you sleep well."
Location: Records Room, High Reaches Weyr
Synopsis: K'del and Ezalea run into each other in the records room, and get to know each other just a little better.
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.
Evening has rolled around once again (as evening is wont to do) and once again Ezalea might be found deep in the records room. The recent time spent by the transfer goldrider poring over books, hides, scrolls, and ledgers has not gone unnoted, but her night so far has found her little in the way of distraction by conversation or nosy weyrwolk. A scroll is unrolled flush against the table, and the woman is bent over it, her elbows cupping her chin while a nearby glow bathes her - and her object of study - in warm light.
Little distraction, that is, until now. K'del's not a usual visitor to the records at this time of night, being in the habit of getting what he needs earlier, even if it goes home with him for evening perusal. Tonight, however, there is a hurriedness to his step as he all but runs down the stairs, pausing at their bottom only to orient himself, then lunge onwards for the shelves-- except that Ezalea catches his attention when he's halfway there, and he comes to a halt again. "Is it always your habit to work here so late, Ezalea?"
The woman's gaze is slow to tear away from her page, but eventually it turns up to K'del. Ezalea is slow to respond, her eyes still wide in the relative darkness outside of her pool of light, and she pauses a beat with a fingertip tapping at her cheek before she replies, "I - have been known on, on occasion, yes. I am familiarizing myself with your weyr's history. And you? Are you often so desperate for late-night readings that you tear so into the records?" Her tone is blithe, tinged with a touch of laughter.
Her slowness to respond is enough to give K'del a moment to catch his breath and recompose himself, though it always gives him time to look a little awkward for his intrusion, an apology written on his expression. His hands fine purchase on the back of a chair, wrapping about it carefully. "Makes sense to me, doing that. Kind of interesting, too, isn't it?" There's boyish enthusiasm to that remark, before he adds, only slightly abashed. "Had an idea of something I'd intended to look at. Weyr-hold arrangements from the last Interval. Wanted to grab it before I forgot again."
If Ezalea were overly concerned with his apology, she would remark upon it, but as things stand and K'del neatens himself she merely smiles a faint smile, lifts a hand of her own, palm-up in greeting to him. "I didn't want to seem unprepared," she notes, sparing a quick look down and shifting so that she might pin her place on the scroll with one finger, "for the quiz later. Weyr-hold?" The woman folds the other hand against the table and dips her chin towards the shelves yonder. "Please, don't let me keep you, although. It does sound fascinating."
Quiz. That makes K'del laugh outright, not quite managing to hide it behind the hand that raises to cover his mouth. "You must know some of it already, of course, having grown up in the area?" His expression, now that he's recovered from his laughter, is appraising and thoughtful, examining her face with obvious interest. "Though you must have Impressed quite young." He continues without pause, head shaking, to explain, "I want to know if they made any additional arrangements, for the Interval. Keep the holds happy. Perhaps, if it won't be too much of a distraction, we could share a table?"
For his laughter, Ezalea's smile widens, encouraging for all his apparent stiffness. Her voice is rich with unspoken question when she says, tipping her head first to one side and then to the other, birdlike, "I do. Some. Certainly not all. The records were neither so complete nor well kept, and I was not nearly so interested in them as a child. Yes. I was fifteen; my own studies afterward were primarily concerns with Igen's history and so I find this opportunity," she slows a beat to nod her agreement, and moves to spread the glow's sheath wider so it lights the whole table, "most beneficial. Please. Join me."
"I admit, although I've always enjoyed reading, my interest in history took some time to develop," says K'del, apparently becoming increasingly comfortable as the conversation progresses, though her unspoken question remains unrecognised. "Fifteen. Me, too. Though," he pauses only a beat, smile bland, "guess that was a little more recent for me." After which he swallows, as if suddenly registering that commenting on age is not always a good idea; hastily, he bobs his head, then hurries off towards the shelves to fetch the tome he's after, returning again a few moments later with, once again, a rather more composed expression.
While K'del darts off to fetch his own scroll, Ezalea busies herself with straightening the table, aligning neat stacks of hide as though they were not already precise and orderly. "What, then, did you read?" Her voice drifts after him, quiet and respectful for the silence of the tomb-like cavern, and K'del's comment on their shared age-of-Impression brings a dancing light to her eyes reflected by pale light. "Indeed. More recent. How long have you been with Cadejoth, then?" She does not duck around such talk of age (or youth) but instead tilts her chin up to him when he returns. "I am curious, of course. You are a young Weyrleader."
K'del does not answer that first question immediately, not while he's standing at the bookshelf, and not immediately upon his return, either; that's probably because as she tilts her chin up at him, he lowers his gaze to meet hers, turning his attention towards that more immediate of comments. "Cadejoth'll be three at the end of month twelve. Making me a really young Weyrleader, really. Guess you'll have heard, by now, how that happened? Iovniath and all?" Flicking his tome open, as he settles himself down into a seat, he adds, "My brother - one of my brothers, that is - is a harper. Used to read his scribblings, primarily."
Three. Although she makes no play at counting, Ezalea's fingertips tap daintily in place: one, two, three. Her slow, thoughtful nod brings, too, a light lifting of brows, an open invitation for K'del to continue as though no, she had no heard, although he was welcome to tell her if he so chose. If not... then she'll continue, klah-brown eyes fixed again on her scroll, that finger running across the page as she goes, "You have more than one brother, then?" And: "Were they good scribblings? Pleasing to read?"
His youth and inexperience don't seem to be a thing of outright embarrassment for K'del at this moment, because though his finger traces down the page he's on, searching for something, he elucidates in a relaxed, even amused, tone. "Iovniath - and Tiriana, I guess - had a bronze in mind, went straight for him. His rider, though, didn't want to be Weyrleader, so stabbed himself to get his bronze to drop out. In the confusion, Cadejoth just-- right place, I guess. Or wrong, depending on your perspective. So here we are." He flips his page, adding, "Six brothers. Two sisters, as well. And I guess they were pretty good; good enough that he sells them, now."
And with her new companion at ease, Ezalea will tip a look at him out of the corner of her eye, the side of her mouth lifted as she listens. "Mmm," her own air is of attentive interest, despite those eyes flicking quickly over the page, "that is... - he stabbed himself?" This brings up her full attention, bore across at K'del with a furrowed brow and slightly concerned regard. "And then Cadejoth. Yes. I see. And how have you found the mantle of weyrleadership? Is it a difficult load to bear?" Six brothers. Two sisters. Filed away with another small incline of Leah's head.
Hastily, as his gaze shoots up back towards Ezalea, all reassurance, "In the shoulder. It healed fine, wasn't life threatening or anything. Pretty desperate thing to do, though. But. He'd been Weyrleader before, at Ista." And by K'del's tone, that's reason enough not to want to do it again, though whether it's Weyrleader in general, or the experience of being Weyrleader at /Ista/. "Not an /easy/ one," admits the young man, with a sharp exhale. "Not for anyone, I imagine, and less so for me. Got some good advisors, though, and..." he trails off, though a smile betrays itself about his expression. "Reckon I'm doing better. Know it's early days, but... is it hard being Junior to a woman who Impressed turns after you?" And a woman like Tiriana, at that, but that much he doesn't say. Verbally, anyway.
"Ah." Relief cascades for a moment through her voice. "I had heard rumors, of course. But I didn't care to speculate." Ezalea passes a fleeting, grateful glance across the table for K'del's reassurances, and remarks lightly, "Then perhaps his decision was wise, if extreme." And she listens politely, approvingly as he speaks. "Everything is made easier with experience. Especially helpful if your advisors do right by you," the woman laughs softly, flicks her fingers towards the darkness with a breezy motion. "I ... am well-used to being a junior weyrwoman." Despite her airy dismissal, her brows dip for a moment together. "So far, it has not been too difficult."
Taken aback for a moment, K'del's pale blue eyes are serious as he considers, expression set in thought. "Suppose you're right," he allows, at length. "That it was wise, I mean. For him, at least, maybe the weyr, too; least I was willing, if not eager." His lips part to show his teeth as he admits, "Always was my ambition to be Weyrleader one day, just happened a bit sooner than any of us would like." Lightly, then, "Reckon we do all right. Between the Wingleaders, and our Headwoman, Tiriana and I-- well." His head tips forward; no doubt she'll make her own judgment on that now, or in time. "Hope it remains that way." Not too difficult. There's sympathy, there, too, in the pursing of his lips and the path of his gaze.
"Such unconventional means," Ezalea murmurs slowly. "But to each to know their own strengths. And his unwillingness becomes your opportunity," and the woman's curved mouth and abruptly bright tone indicates that this should be considered no small thing. "To be Weyrleader?" Again comes her quiet laughter. "All I aspired to was a peaceful, settled life. And I was rewarded with Nahalith." Her introspection is broken by a blink of brown eyes, flicking towards K'del. "A weyr is such a well-oiled machine. Each component, like so," her fingers lace for a moment, "to create a working whole." If she notes his sympathy, she responds to it only with a soft, "And I am only but a part of it. It is nothing to be ashamed of."
"And such an opportunity," agrees K'del, spreading his hands lightly atop the tome he's not really reading from at this point. "For the seventh son of a vineholder from Tillek." He'll be the first to note, further, tone self-deprecating in a way that makes it seem as though it was a frightfully long time ago, and not just a few turns, "Always was a little overconfident. You--" Beat. "Don't regret it, I'm sure. Her." More evenly, as he draws his hands away from the book again, using one to push stray curls away from his face, he adds, "You're right, of course. We each have our role to play; just got to make sure we do our jobs the best we can."
Ezalea lifts a single finger - ah! - and corrects mildly, not unkindly, "For the youngest Weyrleader in even the longest memory." Such a distinction! For emphasis, she ... returns to her scroll, tracing her thumb along the lines, although she continues soon enough, "No. Well. Only in my - or her - most strident and ill-tempered moments, but I would like to think we all have those, mm?" Nahalith, her Nahalith, for all what she might be saying, brings a warmer, more indulgent hint to her words. "Yes. The best job we can. And surely, with time, you will become the best man for the job. The young are always so malleable." Bearing in mind: they Impressed at the same age. Is that a crooked, wry grin playing at her lips?
K'del's smile twists ruefully under the weight of Ezalea's correction, despite the mildness of it. "Can only hope I'll have the honour of being remembered for more than just that - for High Reaches' sake." Not ego alone, of course. Of course. More smooth is his agreement to her next, a quiet, "We do," that is just firm enough to mark exactly how much he certainly does. Her smile only makes his grow larger still, ultimately adjoining the laugh that spills free. "We are at that." Beat. "I like you, Ezalea. Think you might fit in rather well here - while you're here. However long it is." High praise, indeed.
The woman's tracing motions freeze a beat, and she amends (perhaps as much for his sake as hers), "the youngest and most auspicious, then. Or any adjective of your choice, really." Ezalea's sidelong glance lasts only a hearbeat, and then all of the sudden she has leaned forward to scoop up her small stack of hides, tapping the bundle of them gently against the table so that the edges all align. "And I you, K'del. But -" and there is always such a but, "- it is terribly late, and I am due to rise early tomorrow morning. You should not stay up too long, yourself," she urges gently, with a parting smile, fingertips wiggling against scroll as she brings them to her chest, and bids as she slips out, "Good night, Weyrleader."
'Auspicious' makes K'del laugh again, though it may be said that he doesn't seem to mind the use of that particular adjective; does he sit up just slightly straighter? Does he smile just that little bit more brightly. Ezalea's movements, of course, draw his attention more seriously back to her, and, aside from a tip of the head in appreciation for her return of his compliment, he maintains an easy, unreadable expression. "Of course. Wasn't paying attention to the time, myself." His gaze angles off, as if he's aware of how late he is for something, but, after a shake of his head, he merely adds, "Good night, Ezalea. Hope you sleep well."