LOG: Fewer Masters.
Date: Day 24, Month 7, Turn 23
Location: Woodcrafter Workroom, High Reaches Weyr
Synopsis: K'del wanders through the craft complex, and gets a lesson in soap-making from Woodcraft Apprentice Leda.
Woodcrafter Workroom, High Reaches Weyr
The workroom set aside for the Woodcrafters is one of the largest, taking up a large section of the interior side of the corridor. This means that there are no windows, but with high ceilings and an impressive array of glows, it comes across as light and open in a way that it otherwise might not. Long workbenches line the wall closest to the door, with stools lined up to allow space for several people to work at one time. Cupboards and racks attached to the wall above the benches provide storage for tools and supplies, all in ready reach. Beyond the benches, in the far corner, a large alcove provides storage for wood both finished and unfinished.
The rest of the room is more open, though it has been well-filled with larger equipment and workstations dedicated to more specific tasks. There's a soap-making station at the back, complete with a permanent, built-in heat source; the other workstations are more focused upon traditional woodcrafting, with areas set aside for staining, for sawing, and so on.
Two hours. That's how much longer Leda has until she'll be allowed to leave the confines of the workroom. That's how long she /has/ to stay, lest she risk the wrath of the tyrant Master who took issue with her tracking sawdust around everywhere on a previous date. Two hours spent watching a rack of soap harden from gel to something approaching a usable form. It's fascinating work, almost enough to distract from the clamor arising from the corner, where a pair of far more industrious apprentices are hammering something or other together. As for Leda, she's perched on a stool in the back, twirling a broomstick between her palms and humming a bubbly little ditty beneath her breath. The words may or may not be appropriate to a work setting, and that broom may or may not be better served in cleaning but for now, she does as she's told: sit there, and make certain that the soap doesn't sour. Yes /sir/.
Not many people will question the presence of the Weyrleader - after all, /he/ (and, all right, his weyr in general) spent a lot of money on these workrooms, and as long as he doesn't get in the way, that probably entitles him to take a wander through them every so often. That's what he's doing this afternoon: he enters the workroom, nods formally but not in a way that invites questions, to the nearest person with any kind of authority, and then begins meandering through the room, pausing every so often to exchange a few words with a Journeyman, an Apprentice. At length, though his nose wrinkles, it's Leda and her soap he draws up beside, a distinct smile hinted at in his expression, quite possibly related to her little ditty. "That as boring as it looks, Apprentice?"
Even with the privilege to wander that goes hand in hand with rank, a visit by the Weyrleader isn't going to go go unnoticed. The /horrible/ racket in the corner comes to a halt, both of those apprentices coming to attention and doing their utmost to look mature, responsible, impressive, etc. as they exchange nods with the visiting dignitary. The journeymen are less about being suck-ups but they too are put on notice, and the air of formality that infects the workroom would be noticeable. If, that is, one is not Leda. She's watching soap season, after all. After awhile, the sheer mind-numbing nature of the task tends to get to a person, which may explain why she's a little more casual in the way she glances up at the fellow who's appeared at her elbow. "Oh aye, sir. Think my brain might've checked out a candlemark ago, but if you'd like to leave a message, I'll make sure to get back to you soon as it returns."
Poor K'del, he seems a bit put out by all those sudden, dramatic changes upon his arrival. His conversation with others throughout the room are full of, "No, no, please, continue. Don't want to interrupt anything." Perhaps that's why Leda's response to him makes him smile so wholeheartedly, and why he actually comes to a complete stop, as though he intends to stay for more than a moment or two. He leans in to give the soap a closer glance, and a hesitant sniff, then turns his attention back to Leda. "Shells. Reckon it'd drive me to distraction. Soap, right? Which... guess it's useful. This what you signed up for, Apprenticeing?"
The soap, which at this moment is simply an immense tray filled with something that bears a resemblance to translucent and uncut brownies, has a spicy-sweet scent. Something like cinnamon, something like cloves. There are flecks in the mix, possibly some exfoliating ingredient, or the source of the scent itself. The unrestrained smile from the man leaves Leda to blink at him, just the once and slowly, before she shifts a dubious glance at the product which has inspired his attention. Her own smile is not long in following, though there's no missing the bemusement therein. "That it is, sir, aye. Soap. Not what I'd signed on for but if it goes milky, it has to be melted down right quickly or the whole of it's ruined," she explains, using the opportunity as an excuse to give K'del a good once over. The broomstick, which had still been rolling aimlessly between her palms, comes to a slow halt. "Mostly I thought I'd be spending my time carving. They didn't mention soap 'til after Da had his mark on the papers."
"Remember my mother making it," says K'del, with the idle wave of one hand towards the soap. "Reckon yours smells a whole bunch better than hers ever did, but I suppose that's fair enough. Difference between your average holder's wife and a crafter, right?" Nose wrinkling, he admits, "Wouldn't be something I'd've expected, either. Woodcraft. Wood. Making things out of it. Not so much the soap, though no doubt we appreciate it, all the same." He extends one of his hands, the surface of it rough with callouses. "K'del. Though I suppose that's probably something you worked out already. Can't seem to get the 'blending in' thing going for me. Reckon you're one of our newer arrivals?"
Oh, a handshake. For that, Leda will stand and pretend at some semblance of good manners. The broom is transferred from right hand to left, leaving her free to set her own terribly ugly hand in his. "It isn't my recipe," she admits, untroubled with voicing this truth, "And I suppose they had to find something to do with all of the ash. Beastcraft gives us the fat, we share the profits. Ladies seem to like it well enough." K'del's hand is given a proper squeeze and a shake. Less proper is the way she tilts her head to look up at him, engaged in a blatant study of the bronzerider's face. "You're young enough you could pass if you took the knot off, sir. Don't know many who would once they had it though...aye. Came up from Lemos. I like what you've done with the place."
K'del's handshake is a solid one-- firm, without being too hard. As he draws it back again, he sinks both hands into the pockets of his trousers, letting them loll idly in a droopy kind of way. "Makes sense," he agrees cheerfully. Her study of him he accepts without more than a hint of amusement, though her suggestion makes him laugh. "Could-- and do, sometimes. Kind of fun, going to gathers on the other side of the continent without my knot. Doesn't work so well around here." He is rather distinctive - the height, the hair. "Glad you like it, anyway," he continues, sounding pleased. "Reckon we're all pretty pleased with it. Nothing you wished you had in here?"
A dangerous question to ask an apprentice. Leda curls both hands around the broom once hers is free, affecting a casual stance with some of her weight resting against the cleaning implement. Her grin is sudden, dimpled and decidedly crooked. "Fewer Masters, maybe? Or a tunnel behind a hidden door that goes to the kitchens. That should have been in the original plans, seems like a terrible oversight not to have one of those. I'll understand if it takes you awhile to see to it," she quips in her coastal drawl. "Should've figured you'd be one who likes to go about without being spotted. Came to it young, aye?" That last is accompanied with a tip of her head towards his shoulder, meant to indicate the knot. That the question might be out of bounds doesn't appear to occur to her.
Merry laughter marks K'del's reaction to Leda's demands; his verbal response is mock-grand, and accompanied with a sweeping bob of the head. "I'll see it gets taken under advisement." He can't keep a straight face for it, though, and ends up grinning all the more. If he's offended by her question, there's no sign of it in his response, which remains as easy as the rest of the conversation thus far. "Younger than you are now, I'd wager. It was hard enough being a /bronzerider/ around Apprentices older than I was-- the whole Weyrleader thing? Reckon anyone'd want to escape from time to time."
Leda's grin quirks its way into something more restrained, a close-lipped smile that continues on in crooked fashion as she observes the Weyrleader's performance. "That's kind of you, sir, I appreciate it." She pauses for a beat, the silence delicate. Casual creature that she is, even she hesitates to voice the thought that springs to mind after hearing his latter remarks. Still... "It seems an odd way to make a leader of a man," she confesses, "Even moreso of a woman, no matter how grown they might seem. But I expect you learned quickly, with that fire under you, and escaping's not so hard a thing with wings to turn to when you feel the need."
K'del, however, only shrugs his shoulders. "Won't catch me arguing with that," he tells Leda, without hesitating. "Cadejoth - my bronze - he only caught Iovniath the first time because another rider stabbed himself to make his dragon drop out. Pure chance, in the end, that he was in the right place. Reckon that seems like a pretty strange way to make a leader. On the other hand... Fort Hold has a fifteen-turn-old Lord Holder, doesn't it? So maybe the crafters are the only ones with any sense." Grinning, he adds, "Reckon most things're easier when you've dragon wings to use to escape. And you /do/ learn. And you get help. And it-- works. More or less."
That's a fine piece of gossip, and new to Leda. Her eyebrows creep up and her forehead rumples. It isn't skepticism, not exactly. "Truth?" The query is followed by another brief silence before she breaks it with a chuckle. "Ayuh, I'd think the crafts have it right. Keep such things out of the bedchambers," she decides, shaking her head and pushing off of the broom to stand straight. The bristles crunch and scratch against the floor as she idly bounces the tool, tipping her face up again to resume that previous study. "Not that it isn't unheard of in the Halls either, mind you. If you listen to the talk. Your mother ever have you help her cut the soap, sir?"
"Swear it on Cadejoth's egg," promises K'del, straight-faced and apparently genuine. "Ask anyone who was around 'bout four turns ago, they'll tell you all about it, probably. It was my seventeenth turnday." He looks even more boyish in his amusement as he adds, "Reckon it's that way the world 'round: sex influences lots of things. Still. Better if you can /try/ and avoid it, maybe. I-- er, may have avoided that kind of chore as much as possible, when I was a boy," he continues, not missing a beat, but looking a little sheepish nonetheless. "Want to show me how? Since I missed out on it when I was a kid."
Leda likewise does not miss a beat as she lifts her brows again and asks, "Avoided which as much as possible?" Whether he answers or not, she'll give him a quick and twinkling smile before turning away. The broom is set to rest against the counter, leaving her hands free for the task of rummaging beneath it. "Since you asked, I suppose I can. Only because you asked though," she tells him, good humor somewhat muffled by being crouched down as she is. "Wouldn't want the Masters to think I was netting the Weyrleader to do my chores for me...mind your fingers, naked blade." The warning is followed by a long, narrow knife being set on the counter, both ends of it decorated with thick dowels for the hands. A cutting tray appears not long after, sized to the soap still resting in its mold.
The smugness in K'del's expression, and the dancing merriment of his gaze may give a decent indication of which he avoided - or avoids - but he doesn't actually answer the question in words. Besides, there's soap-cutting to be considered, and, "Used to watch the convicts make their cement, while they were building this place. Kind of nice, seeing a different kind of thing being made." And by - somewhat - less reluctant people, perhaps. "I'll swear to 'em myself that I asked, if they make an issue of it, promise. Won't have anyone in trouble for my sake." Beat. "My hanging around here isn't going to concern them, is it?" He glances around, rapidly, seeking the more senior crafters for a thoughtful and innocent smile.
"Concern? No." With the tools of this particular trade laid out, Leda hauls herself back to her feet aided by a hand on the counter's edge. "There'll be talk but there's always talk, aye?" Indeed, that glance will mark the surreptitious looks being cast at the pair but no one, not apprentice and not journeyman, appear intent on doing more than stealing peeks. Leda, though aware of it, just smiles as she lays out a couple of larged sheets of oiled paper. The tray of soap is taken and carefully eased over, its bottom tapped until the slab inside falls to the papered counter with a thunk. As she works, lifting and turning, poking and prodding, and then finally placing the stuff in the cutting tray, she asks, "Why convicts?"
K'del's, "Hm," seems to be about all he intends to say on the other woodcrafters, but after that one sweeping glance, he keeps his attention lazily on Leda and her work. It's not hard to imagine that she's getting more attention than his mother ever did, when /she/ was performing the task. "Wasn't really our choice. Or /a/ choice, for that matter. Whole bunch of them just showed up one day with the Smiths and Miners and guards and whatever. They thought we knew that's how this kind of work got completed - we'd had no idea. Guess it makes more sense than paying that many workers, but it was far from ideal." His exhalation is a tired sounding one. "Turn and a half, we had 'em around. And some of them got Searched, two even /Impressed/-- was glad to see 'em all gone, I admit."
"Oh, aye?" Honest laborer that she is, from a long line of the same, Leda can't help but pause at that. Busy hands grow still in their patting of the soap log to set it in the tray. The glance sent up at the Weyrleader is for the first time a hesitant thing. "Seems a poor thing, stealing the sweat of men in chains when those without them might've needed and wanted the work," she eventually says, looking back to her own work. "It's a wonder those Halls set their heads so high. Here, sir...see the slots? The knife fits there." The odd blade is taken up; it looks like a small cross-cut saw, without the toothy edge. When it's fitted into the notches, a press of shoulders to arms to wrists rocks it down through the soap to create a single bar. The motion is smooth but the tendons stand out on the back of her hands as she performs the cut.
K'del considers what Leda says in silence for several long moments, though it doesn't stop him from keeping a close eye on what the Apprentice does. "Looks," he offers, mildly, "Like it's harder work than you make it seem, somehow. As for-- the rest. You might not be wrong. Guess I'd never thought of it that way. It's certainly not the weyr's intent to rob those who need the work." But the idea seems to have caused him some concern; his smile is distinctly less bright, now, more inclined towards a thoughtful consideration.
A second stroke is demonstrated, slower than the first so that the finer movements can be seen, the way the knife rolls through the soap. Then Leda lifts the blade and turns to offer it to the bronzerider. "You're two of me, if you can't take the trick of it, I'll despair of ever teaching apprentices of my own," she tells him, lips pursed in amusement. The quip is quick, and spoken before she's had a chance to get a good look at K'del's expression. When that opportunity comes, her brows knit down over her eyes in a show of confusion. "I'd think if they simply presented themselves to you and claimed it to be the way of things, the intention wasn't there no. My apologies if I misspoke."
"No," says K'del, hastily, pushing a smile back onto his face. "No, you didn't. Just made me think, is all, and there's nothing wrong with that." Taking the blade, he gives it a brief inspection before stepping into position to attempt to replicate the woodcrafter's efforts. His stroke is not quite so smooth and straight as hers, but he certainly does have the strength to make it clean - over all, he does about as good a job as one might expect from a man like him with no previous experience. "Reckon you'll manage to teach your apprentices just fine, one day. And then never touch soap again?" The blade is offered back: she can keep the task.
Leda steps back to observe, arms folding across her chest and smile deepening. If she's critical of the effort, there's no sign of it and her sense of humor is restored with his last comment. "Aye, maybe once I'm old and grey, and have no need of impressing anyone," she chuckles, reaching out to accept the knife. "There's always the one who seems to avoid the stuff but I'm in no hurry to /be/ that one, much as I love my carving." Joke delivered, she steps in again to complete the cutting. It's done quickly, blade's edge making waxy thumps as it slices through the log on the way to the last line of notches. That final bar is plucked free of the tray and transferred to the second sheet she'd set aside, folded up snugly in order to present to the Weyrleader. "In thanks for the help, and with the compliments of the Hall, sir. You'll want to let that cure for a day or three before using it."
"Reckon it's a good way to be: willing to do even the tasks you don't much enjoy. Me, I figure if /I'm/ not willing to do something, why should I make one of my wingriders do it?" K'del gives a firm nod to mark this statement, though he falls into silence once more as Leda continues her work, eyes trained on her hands and the blade. The soap she presents to him seems to pleased him enormously: he accepts it as though it were something rare, fine and precious. "Thank you," he tells her, genuinely. "Appreciate that. Reckon I'll take pleasure out of using this. Suppose," and he glances around again, pausing for a moment in the middle of his train of thought, "it's probably time for me to move on again."
"I reckon," Leda echoes, the mimicry a conscious and light-hearted thing. This time she follows the glance, taking in the bent heads and the sidelong glances. Her lips purse briefly, twist as if she were restraining either a smile or a grimace. "No rest for the wicked or the weary, Mam always said. My duties to your Cadejoth, sir." It might seem a rude thing then, as rude as the lack of introduction made at the beginning of their conversation, that she presents her shoulder to the Weyrleader and bows her own head to focus on setting out the remaining bars in a single layer over a fresh sheet.
"Yours and mine both," concludes K'del, with a bob of the head. "My thanks, Apprentice." He doesn't linger, not when Leda so obviously has things to do: instead, having made his farewells, he gets back to wandering, heading onwards towards the exit of this workroom, and, no doubt, on to the next. More crafters to visit, more things to try out.
Location: Woodcrafter Workroom, High Reaches Weyr
Synopsis: K'del wanders through the craft complex, and gets a lesson in soap-making from Woodcraft Apprentice Leda.
Woodcrafter Workroom, High Reaches Weyr
The workroom set aside for the Woodcrafters is one of the largest, taking up a large section of the interior side of the corridor. This means that there are no windows, but with high ceilings and an impressive array of glows, it comes across as light and open in a way that it otherwise might not. Long workbenches line the wall closest to the door, with stools lined up to allow space for several people to work at one time. Cupboards and racks attached to the wall above the benches provide storage for tools and supplies, all in ready reach. Beyond the benches, in the far corner, a large alcove provides storage for wood both finished and unfinished.
The rest of the room is more open, though it has been well-filled with larger equipment and workstations dedicated to more specific tasks. There's a soap-making station at the back, complete with a permanent, built-in heat source; the other workstations are more focused upon traditional woodcrafting, with areas set aside for staining, for sawing, and so on.
Two hours. That's how much longer Leda has until she'll be allowed to leave the confines of the workroom. That's how long she /has/ to stay, lest she risk the wrath of the tyrant Master who took issue with her tracking sawdust around everywhere on a previous date. Two hours spent watching a rack of soap harden from gel to something approaching a usable form. It's fascinating work, almost enough to distract from the clamor arising from the corner, where a pair of far more industrious apprentices are hammering something or other together. As for Leda, she's perched on a stool in the back, twirling a broomstick between her palms and humming a bubbly little ditty beneath her breath. The words may or may not be appropriate to a work setting, and that broom may or may not be better served in cleaning but for now, she does as she's told: sit there, and make certain that the soap doesn't sour. Yes /sir/.
Not many people will question the presence of the Weyrleader - after all, /he/ (and, all right, his weyr in general) spent a lot of money on these workrooms, and as long as he doesn't get in the way, that probably entitles him to take a wander through them every so often. That's what he's doing this afternoon: he enters the workroom, nods formally but not in a way that invites questions, to the nearest person with any kind of authority, and then begins meandering through the room, pausing every so often to exchange a few words with a Journeyman, an Apprentice. At length, though his nose wrinkles, it's Leda and her soap he draws up beside, a distinct smile hinted at in his expression, quite possibly related to her little ditty. "That as boring as it looks, Apprentice?"
Even with the privilege to wander that goes hand in hand with rank, a visit by the Weyrleader isn't going to go go unnoticed. The /horrible/ racket in the corner comes to a halt, both of those apprentices coming to attention and doing their utmost to look mature, responsible, impressive, etc. as they exchange nods with the visiting dignitary. The journeymen are less about being suck-ups but they too are put on notice, and the air of formality that infects the workroom would be noticeable. If, that is, one is not Leda. She's watching soap season, after all. After awhile, the sheer mind-numbing nature of the task tends to get to a person, which may explain why she's a little more casual in the way she glances up at the fellow who's appeared at her elbow. "Oh aye, sir. Think my brain might've checked out a candlemark ago, but if you'd like to leave a message, I'll make sure to get back to you soon as it returns."
Poor K'del, he seems a bit put out by all those sudden, dramatic changes upon his arrival. His conversation with others throughout the room are full of, "No, no, please, continue. Don't want to interrupt anything." Perhaps that's why Leda's response to him makes him smile so wholeheartedly, and why he actually comes to a complete stop, as though he intends to stay for more than a moment or two. He leans in to give the soap a closer glance, and a hesitant sniff, then turns his attention back to Leda. "Shells. Reckon it'd drive me to distraction. Soap, right? Which... guess it's useful. This what you signed up for, Apprenticeing?"
The soap, which at this moment is simply an immense tray filled with something that bears a resemblance to translucent and uncut brownies, has a spicy-sweet scent. Something like cinnamon, something like cloves. There are flecks in the mix, possibly some exfoliating ingredient, or the source of the scent itself. The unrestrained smile from the man leaves Leda to blink at him, just the once and slowly, before she shifts a dubious glance at the product which has inspired his attention. Her own smile is not long in following, though there's no missing the bemusement therein. "That it is, sir, aye. Soap. Not what I'd signed on for but if it goes milky, it has to be melted down right quickly or the whole of it's ruined," she explains, using the opportunity as an excuse to give K'del a good once over. The broomstick, which had still been rolling aimlessly between her palms, comes to a slow halt. "Mostly I thought I'd be spending my time carving. They didn't mention soap 'til after Da had his mark on the papers."
"Remember my mother making it," says K'del, with the idle wave of one hand towards the soap. "Reckon yours smells a whole bunch better than hers ever did, but I suppose that's fair enough. Difference between your average holder's wife and a crafter, right?" Nose wrinkling, he admits, "Wouldn't be something I'd've expected, either. Woodcraft. Wood. Making things out of it. Not so much the soap, though no doubt we appreciate it, all the same." He extends one of his hands, the surface of it rough with callouses. "K'del. Though I suppose that's probably something you worked out already. Can't seem to get the 'blending in' thing going for me. Reckon you're one of our newer arrivals?"
Oh, a handshake. For that, Leda will stand and pretend at some semblance of good manners. The broom is transferred from right hand to left, leaving her free to set her own terribly ugly hand in his. "It isn't my recipe," she admits, untroubled with voicing this truth, "And I suppose they had to find something to do with all of the ash. Beastcraft gives us the fat, we share the profits. Ladies seem to like it well enough." K'del's hand is given a proper squeeze and a shake. Less proper is the way she tilts her head to look up at him, engaged in a blatant study of the bronzerider's face. "You're young enough you could pass if you took the knot off, sir. Don't know many who would once they had it though...aye. Came up from Lemos. I like what you've done with the place."
K'del's handshake is a solid one-- firm, without being too hard. As he draws it back again, he sinks both hands into the pockets of his trousers, letting them loll idly in a droopy kind of way. "Makes sense," he agrees cheerfully. Her study of him he accepts without more than a hint of amusement, though her suggestion makes him laugh. "Could-- and do, sometimes. Kind of fun, going to gathers on the other side of the continent without my knot. Doesn't work so well around here." He is rather distinctive - the height, the hair. "Glad you like it, anyway," he continues, sounding pleased. "Reckon we're all pretty pleased with it. Nothing you wished you had in here?"
A dangerous question to ask an apprentice. Leda curls both hands around the broom once hers is free, affecting a casual stance with some of her weight resting against the cleaning implement. Her grin is sudden, dimpled and decidedly crooked. "Fewer Masters, maybe? Or a tunnel behind a hidden door that goes to the kitchens. That should have been in the original plans, seems like a terrible oversight not to have one of those. I'll understand if it takes you awhile to see to it," she quips in her coastal drawl. "Should've figured you'd be one who likes to go about without being spotted. Came to it young, aye?" That last is accompanied with a tip of her head towards his shoulder, meant to indicate the knot. That the question might be out of bounds doesn't appear to occur to her.
Merry laughter marks K'del's reaction to Leda's demands; his verbal response is mock-grand, and accompanied with a sweeping bob of the head. "I'll see it gets taken under advisement." He can't keep a straight face for it, though, and ends up grinning all the more. If he's offended by her question, there's no sign of it in his response, which remains as easy as the rest of the conversation thus far. "Younger than you are now, I'd wager. It was hard enough being a /bronzerider/ around Apprentices older than I was-- the whole Weyrleader thing? Reckon anyone'd want to escape from time to time."
Leda's grin quirks its way into something more restrained, a close-lipped smile that continues on in crooked fashion as she observes the Weyrleader's performance. "That's kind of you, sir, I appreciate it." She pauses for a beat, the silence delicate. Casual creature that she is, even she hesitates to voice the thought that springs to mind after hearing his latter remarks. Still... "It seems an odd way to make a leader of a man," she confesses, "Even moreso of a woman, no matter how grown they might seem. But I expect you learned quickly, with that fire under you, and escaping's not so hard a thing with wings to turn to when you feel the need."
K'del, however, only shrugs his shoulders. "Won't catch me arguing with that," he tells Leda, without hesitating. "Cadejoth - my bronze - he only caught Iovniath the first time because another rider stabbed himself to make his dragon drop out. Pure chance, in the end, that he was in the right place. Reckon that seems like a pretty strange way to make a leader. On the other hand... Fort Hold has a fifteen-turn-old Lord Holder, doesn't it? So maybe the crafters are the only ones with any sense." Grinning, he adds, "Reckon most things're easier when you've dragon wings to use to escape. And you /do/ learn. And you get help. And it-- works. More or less."
That's a fine piece of gossip, and new to Leda. Her eyebrows creep up and her forehead rumples. It isn't skepticism, not exactly. "Truth?" The query is followed by another brief silence before she breaks it with a chuckle. "Ayuh, I'd think the crafts have it right. Keep such things out of the bedchambers," she decides, shaking her head and pushing off of the broom to stand straight. The bristles crunch and scratch against the floor as she idly bounces the tool, tipping her face up again to resume that previous study. "Not that it isn't unheard of in the Halls either, mind you. If you listen to the talk. Your mother ever have you help her cut the soap, sir?"
"Swear it on Cadejoth's egg," promises K'del, straight-faced and apparently genuine. "Ask anyone who was around 'bout four turns ago, they'll tell you all about it, probably. It was my seventeenth turnday." He looks even more boyish in his amusement as he adds, "Reckon it's that way the world 'round: sex influences lots of things. Still. Better if you can /try/ and avoid it, maybe. I-- er, may have avoided that kind of chore as much as possible, when I was a boy," he continues, not missing a beat, but looking a little sheepish nonetheless. "Want to show me how? Since I missed out on it when I was a kid."
Leda likewise does not miss a beat as she lifts her brows again and asks, "Avoided which as much as possible?" Whether he answers or not, she'll give him a quick and twinkling smile before turning away. The broom is set to rest against the counter, leaving her hands free for the task of rummaging beneath it. "Since you asked, I suppose I can. Only because you asked though," she tells him, good humor somewhat muffled by being crouched down as she is. "Wouldn't want the Masters to think I was netting the Weyrleader to do my chores for me...mind your fingers, naked blade." The warning is followed by a long, narrow knife being set on the counter, both ends of it decorated with thick dowels for the hands. A cutting tray appears not long after, sized to the soap still resting in its mold.
The smugness in K'del's expression, and the dancing merriment of his gaze may give a decent indication of which he avoided - or avoids - but he doesn't actually answer the question in words. Besides, there's soap-cutting to be considered, and, "Used to watch the convicts make their cement, while they were building this place. Kind of nice, seeing a different kind of thing being made." And by - somewhat - less reluctant people, perhaps. "I'll swear to 'em myself that I asked, if they make an issue of it, promise. Won't have anyone in trouble for my sake." Beat. "My hanging around here isn't going to concern them, is it?" He glances around, rapidly, seeking the more senior crafters for a thoughtful and innocent smile.
"Concern? No." With the tools of this particular trade laid out, Leda hauls herself back to her feet aided by a hand on the counter's edge. "There'll be talk but there's always talk, aye?" Indeed, that glance will mark the surreptitious looks being cast at the pair but no one, not apprentice and not journeyman, appear intent on doing more than stealing peeks. Leda, though aware of it, just smiles as she lays out a couple of larged sheets of oiled paper. The tray of soap is taken and carefully eased over, its bottom tapped until the slab inside falls to the papered counter with a thunk. As she works, lifting and turning, poking and prodding, and then finally placing the stuff in the cutting tray, she asks, "Why convicts?"
K'del's, "Hm," seems to be about all he intends to say on the other woodcrafters, but after that one sweeping glance, he keeps his attention lazily on Leda and her work. It's not hard to imagine that she's getting more attention than his mother ever did, when /she/ was performing the task. "Wasn't really our choice. Or /a/ choice, for that matter. Whole bunch of them just showed up one day with the Smiths and Miners and guards and whatever. They thought we knew that's how this kind of work got completed - we'd had no idea. Guess it makes more sense than paying that many workers, but it was far from ideal." His exhalation is a tired sounding one. "Turn and a half, we had 'em around. And some of them got Searched, two even /Impressed/-- was glad to see 'em all gone, I admit."
"Oh, aye?" Honest laborer that she is, from a long line of the same, Leda can't help but pause at that. Busy hands grow still in their patting of the soap log to set it in the tray. The glance sent up at the Weyrleader is for the first time a hesitant thing. "Seems a poor thing, stealing the sweat of men in chains when those without them might've needed and wanted the work," she eventually says, looking back to her own work. "It's a wonder those Halls set their heads so high. Here, sir...see the slots? The knife fits there." The odd blade is taken up; it looks like a small cross-cut saw, without the toothy edge. When it's fitted into the notches, a press of shoulders to arms to wrists rocks it down through the soap to create a single bar. The motion is smooth but the tendons stand out on the back of her hands as she performs the cut.
K'del considers what Leda says in silence for several long moments, though it doesn't stop him from keeping a close eye on what the Apprentice does. "Looks," he offers, mildly, "Like it's harder work than you make it seem, somehow. As for-- the rest. You might not be wrong. Guess I'd never thought of it that way. It's certainly not the weyr's intent to rob those who need the work." But the idea seems to have caused him some concern; his smile is distinctly less bright, now, more inclined towards a thoughtful consideration.
A second stroke is demonstrated, slower than the first so that the finer movements can be seen, the way the knife rolls through the soap. Then Leda lifts the blade and turns to offer it to the bronzerider. "You're two of me, if you can't take the trick of it, I'll despair of ever teaching apprentices of my own," she tells him, lips pursed in amusement. The quip is quick, and spoken before she's had a chance to get a good look at K'del's expression. When that opportunity comes, her brows knit down over her eyes in a show of confusion. "I'd think if they simply presented themselves to you and claimed it to be the way of things, the intention wasn't there no. My apologies if I misspoke."
"No," says K'del, hastily, pushing a smile back onto his face. "No, you didn't. Just made me think, is all, and there's nothing wrong with that." Taking the blade, he gives it a brief inspection before stepping into position to attempt to replicate the woodcrafter's efforts. His stroke is not quite so smooth and straight as hers, but he certainly does have the strength to make it clean - over all, he does about as good a job as one might expect from a man like him with no previous experience. "Reckon you'll manage to teach your apprentices just fine, one day. And then never touch soap again?" The blade is offered back: she can keep the task.
Leda steps back to observe, arms folding across her chest and smile deepening. If she's critical of the effort, there's no sign of it and her sense of humor is restored with his last comment. "Aye, maybe once I'm old and grey, and have no need of impressing anyone," she chuckles, reaching out to accept the knife. "There's always the one who seems to avoid the stuff but I'm in no hurry to /be/ that one, much as I love my carving." Joke delivered, she steps in again to complete the cutting. It's done quickly, blade's edge making waxy thumps as it slices through the log on the way to the last line of notches. That final bar is plucked free of the tray and transferred to the second sheet she'd set aside, folded up snugly in order to present to the Weyrleader. "In thanks for the help, and with the compliments of the Hall, sir. You'll want to let that cure for a day or three before using it."
"Reckon it's a good way to be: willing to do even the tasks you don't much enjoy. Me, I figure if /I'm/ not willing to do something, why should I make one of my wingriders do it?" K'del gives a firm nod to mark this statement, though he falls into silence once more as Leda continues her work, eyes trained on her hands and the blade. The soap she presents to him seems to pleased him enormously: he accepts it as though it were something rare, fine and precious. "Thank you," he tells her, genuinely. "Appreciate that. Reckon I'll take pleasure out of using this. Suppose," and he glances around again, pausing for a moment in the middle of his train of thought, "it's probably time for me to move on again."
"I reckon," Leda echoes, the mimicry a conscious and light-hearted thing. This time she follows the glance, taking in the bent heads and the sidelong glances. Her lips purse briefly, twist as if she were restraining either a smile or a grimace. "No rest for the wicked or the weary, Mam always said. My duties to your Cadejoth, sir." It might seem a rude thing then, as rude as the lack of introduction made at the beginning of their conversation, that she presents her shoulder to the Weyrleader and bows her own head to focus on setting out the remaining bars in a single layer over a fresh sheet.
"Yours and mine both," concludes K'del, with a bob of the head. "My thanks, Apprentice." He doesn't linger, not when Leda so obviously has things to do: instead, having made his farewells, he gets back to wandering, heading onwards towards the exit of this workroom, and, no doubt, on to the next. More crafters to visit, more things to try out.