LOG: Lovely
Date: Day 4, Month 12, Turn 23
Location: Headwoman's Office, High Reaches Weyr
Synopsis: Giorda is charmed by Misar, High Reaches' newest Candidate.
Headwoman's Office, High Reaches Weyr
This room is too small to really serve as anyone's room but a little too big to be relegated to closet status. Oval in shape, it has a large wooden door that grants or bars access and smooth walls carved with inset shelves that hold tidy rows of scrolls and ledgers. To the right of the door, a table large enough for six to squeeze in at is often occupied by the assistant headwomen during tithe season and a pitcher of water and glasses stand ready to serve in its center at all times.
Squarely in the center of the room is the headwoman's desk, a massive affair of well-polished wood and many drawers bearing neat stacks of hides, incoming and outgoing baskets, many paperweights and a glowbasket stand with several small baskets that allow the light level to be adjusted to suit the task at hand. The rear wall of the office, behind the desk bears a vividly hued tapestry depicting a tithing scene with wagons pulled into the Weyr being unloaded. To the left a small hearth shares a flue with the main fireplace in the common room and is capped with a stone mantel that currently holds a collection of small rocks, shells and other knick knacks that presumably belong to the Headwoman
Since Milani's maternity leave, and the departure that followed, her assistant, Giorda, has been filling her shoes - and her office. Not that the office has changed much: for now, everything seems to be staying in caretaker mode. This afternoon, the solid, unremarkable woman, now in her early-thirties, is sitting behind the desk, going through reports with the yawn-fueled efforts of a woman who would probably /dearly/ love an interruption.
Cue: an interruption. Not a huge one, or the likes of a duty-filled storm as to knock the woman off her chair -- just the timid bit of knocking at the door and the slithering way the young blond boy allows himself in what space it's left open. "Hello, hi," Misar greets doubly, his hands maneuvering behind him to eke that same door a little bit more /shut/ once he's in. It's a bit of subtle thing, more hidden even when he pushes off from the door to approach her desk. "You're busy," he observes graciously, now clasped hands separating briefly to gesture to the reports, "I respect that. Just a teeny, tiny little thing," and he proves it by pinching two fingers together to express just that amount.''
Giorda straightens, setting down her stylus and somehow transforming, as if even this slightest of interruptions has made all the difference to her day. Perhaps it's just as simple as being /needed/ for something; perhaps not. She fastens Misar with a considering glance, then tells him, "I think I can spare minute or two. If it's as teeny, tiny as all that. What do you need?" She stretches, twining fingers together and drawing her arms out, palms facing outwards.
"You're a doll," accompanies the grin Misar gifts her, flashing big (mostly) white teeth and gratitude as he sidles a bit closer to her desk. His gaze never seems to really leave Giorda, but somewhere in there, he got a good impression of the room and he makes an informed gesture to some drawers nearby. An overdone face of dismissal makes a comical impression of his face. "One of these, what are they, white? Knots? Sure there's a whole pile of them about you don't know what to do with. I'll just take one off your hands," to which he spreads his, jerking one thumb back towards the door, "And be out of your hair."
The compliment - even one so easily given as 'doll' - seems only to encourage Giorda, making her smile all the brighter for it. Her hands drop back to the top of the desk, though only for a moment before the right one lifts a finger as if to suggest 'just a moment', and then left one goes burrowing in one of the drawers of the desk. "Congratulations, then," she tells him, tone somewhere between business-like and conversational. "Sad to say, I've more of those things hanging around than I'd ideally like. I asked a couple of the kids who Stood last time about it, the other day, and they turned me down!" /Imagine/.
"Ahh, yes, congratulations to me..." Cheerfully enough said, Misar is somewhat distracted by his hovering. Rocking idly from heel to toe, he once in a while gets a better glimpse at Giorda's progress in the drawer without looking overly nosy. It's her words that startles him slightly into looking at her, chin lightly tilted away in contemplation. "Turned you down..." as though he doesn't understand the words, until: "Ah. Right. Because-- residents. Nope," his fingers lace contentedly in front of him after giving a sweeping reassurance in the air, "This is the real deal." And, then, with a bit of a beaming quality of his smile, he adds, "Imagine anyone turning you down!" /Imagine/, indeed! He can't fathom.
Giorda doesn't seem to pay much attention to the way she startles Misar, if she even notices it at all. In truth, she seems rather occupied being charmed by him, saying, as she does, "And aren't you being sweet," as if she's quite sure he's just being flattering and fake, but she's /absolutely/ going to enjoy it anyway. Her fumblings in the drawer bring out one of those aforementioned white knots, which she hands over with a more business-like bob of the head. "The real deal. Good for you. Now, I'll have to get you put down on the chore roster, too. What was your name?" She's apologetic, as though she feels she /ought/ to know this already.
Misar's fingers aren't exactly /anxious/, but he is rather happy to get them around that bit of white and it's vanished into a pocket like a precious thing within the blink of an eye. "It's just so hard for me," he admits, with a kind of heaviness too much for scrawny shoulders, heaving out in a sigh. It all would be grandly sincere, except for the following: "Not being sweet, you know," bashfully, he glances down, "Around someone so sweet." The moment ruined, perhaps, by his mischievous glance up to check how she liked that one -- a bit of a hopeful squint -- and one that covers his next hesitation some. "MmmmmMisar. A. One S." He tips his head; he's already gone /this/ far, "One R. One M. Not necessarily in that order."
Giorda, it seems, is /easily/ charmed - and easy to overlook anything that might take away from her being-charmedness. "You're /adorable/," she says, which is probably not, granted, the nicest thing to have said, all things considered, but she seems to mean only good things by it. "Misar with an A, an S, an R and an M. And, presumably, an I, as well?" She's writing it down, without waiting for an answer, and adds, cheerfully, "At any rate, you'll be on the rosters from tomorrow. Probably snow-shovelling-- I know it's not /exciting/, but it really is necessary. Now, you know where the barracks are, I assume?"
Misar is /totally fine/ being adorable; he even bats his eyes in such a way as the age he looks rather than is. "And an I. That's silly. Can't even spell my own name. Look at you, taking care of me like that. Otherwise, I'd be Msar... I suppose that's getting ahead of myself, isn't it? Real deal." His smile ever present, it's now a bit dreamy, as though distracted by the thoughts in his head. "Rosters. Riiight. Well, it's all about doing our part here in the Weyr... some of us," here he indicates her with those still expressive hands, "more than others," a degrading bit of thumping at his own chest, "Is it absolutely, /completely/ necessary to put me on there so soon? I mean, I've got this /aunt/ just over the mountains... she'd so love to hear this kind of thing in person, you understand... and it's late now. I surely wouldn't get to see her when they'd be expecting me to be shoveling-- I'd owe you. Double-time!"
"M'sar," says Giorda, as though she's trying the name on for size, her expression somehow appraising. "But-- you're quite right. Getting ahead of ourselves. Still, I suppose we'll see." She seems amused by the young man, genuinely so, leaning back in her chair with a lazy sigh of contentment, albeit one that turns reluctant in the wake of his request. "I really can't," she tells him, sorrowfully. "First rule of being a candidate: you can't leave the weyr without rider escort. Besides which, given the way it's been snowing today?" Head shake. Just no way. "I /can/ arrange a rider to take you in the next couple of days if you like, though. You'll have a restday-- let me see."
Although he puffed himself up some to try and fill the shoes of a 'M'sar', the still plainly named /Misar/ shrinks into the background as befitting his pale coloring and small size. "Nahhh, no. Don't you bother yourself more than necessary. She'll live, I suppose, my aunt. Sturdy. Now that I think about it, she'd be absolutely devastated, me shirking work given the way it's been snowing today." Clucking his tongue, it's revealed he's made it back to the door in the midst of his talking and he puts a hand to it once arrived there. "Maybe I'll come see you, instead, on that restday."
Giorda is sympathetic, but approving, nonetheless of this change of heart. "Why don't you write her a letter?" she suggests, promptly. "I can make sure it gets delivered." She seems a /little/ disappointed to see him edging towards the door, to have his hand on it, but she's clearly far too flattered by him to be too concerned: the afternoon has looked up, all is well. "You could! Or you could spend it with people your own age, of course-- but it's sweet of you, nonetheless. I'll see what I can do with your chore roster. Frankly, you look scarcely big enough to /hold/ a shovel, you poor thing. You /do/ eat properly, don't you?"
"Write her a letter," Misar repeats with clear approval, but a withering self-deprecation that shakes his head, "And here I was, unable to even give you enough letters for my name. Don't know if I've another to spare, but I shall try. And soldier on as merely Sar." The melancholy only continues, his hand fiddling nervously with the door but never really getting anywhere with it. "Eat, yes... I mean, mostly. There's a large boy. Shakes the meat-pies out of me every lunch and every other dinner. But you know what they say about too many meat-pies, so, really, I imagine he's only looking out for my good health."
Hesitant amusement at the first of what Misar says, as though she /thinks/ it's all a joke but isn't entirely sure of it, fades rather rapidly into outright horror, that hand returning to her breast in a gesture of shock and disapproval. "Oh, goodness me, no. You must tell me who it is, so that we can stop such antics. You need to /eat/, and there's plenty to go around-- he can't surely be missing out, can he? Oh, goodness. Never you mind: you're a Candidate, now. We'll make sure you get fed up. We can't have underfed things on those sands, not when there's so much work to be done, should you Impress." She's steadfast, head shaking rapidly: goodness me, no.
A spark in Misar's eyes when she calls him a Candidate is almost greedy, so different from the mournful way he heads off her horror with a wave of his hand. "You know what, I never /did/ manage to get an honest introduction out of him. Next time he's turning my pockets inside out, I'll let him know you was asking." All in all, it ends more practically than it began, almost in a good humor. It's a wryness he attempts to banish, but he never quite regains the weak sentiment, instead opting for an optimistic shine to his smile. "It's so good, you know. Knowing there's people like you looking out for people like me. Makes you see the Weyr's a good place."
"Oh!" Giorda breathes, apologetic. "No, no, of course. He wouldn't have. Still: we'll do what we can." Utterly fervent in this, she fastens an honest smile on the Candidate, and promises, "We are, you know. We care-- I certainly do, and I know other people do, too. There are good people, here; we won't let you come to any harm." She hesitates, as though there's more she'd like to say, or, perhaps, as though she'd really rather avoid getting back to those reports, but-- "I should let you settle in, shouldn't I? But if there's anything you need, anything at all-- Well. You know where my door is. Best of luck, Misar."
"Thank you-- thank you /so/ much. You've been lovely," Misar waxes on utterly sincerely the same gratitudes that might ring falsely less artfully said. "There's a rider out there quite eager to get done escorting me and back to his drink, I think, so. Back to work, the both of us." His hands working behind him, he opens the door much the way he closed it, and only so much as he needs to wiggle his poor dear underfed way out. What crack it's left open in his wake is not enough to see as he steps out of range, alone and unescorted, to swagger on his merry way.
Giorda, ever pleased, beams at Misar-- even beams after his retreating back, long after the door is closed (as much as it is closed). And then, ah, alas, it's back to those reports. Woe.
Location: Headwoman's Office, High Reaches Weyr
Synopsis: Giorda is charmed by Misar, High Reaches' newest Candidate.
Headwoman's Office, High Reaches Weyr
This room is too small to really serve as anyone's room but a little too big to be relegated to closet status. Oval in shape, it has a large wooden door that grants or bars access and smooth walls carved with inset shelves that hold tidy rows of scrolls and ledgers. To the right of the door, a table large enough for six to squeeze in at is often occupied by the assistant headwomen during tithe season and a pitcher of water and glasses stand ready to serve in its center at all times.
Squarely in the center of the room is the headwoman's desk, a massive affair of well-polished wood and many drawers bearing neat stacks of hides, incoming and outgoing baskets, many paperweights and a glowbasket stand with several small baskets that allow the light level to be adjusted to suit the task at hand. The rear wall of the office, behind the desk bears a vividly hued tapestry depicting a tithing scene with wagons pulled into the Weyr being unloaded. To the left a small hearth shares a flue with the main fireplace in the common room and is capped with a stone mantel that currently holds a collection of small rocks, shells and other knick knacks that presumably belong to the Headwoman
Since Milani's maternity leave, and the departure that followed, her assistant, Giorda, has been filling her shoes - and her office. Not that the office has changed much: for now, everything seems to be staying in caretaker mode. This afternoon, the solid, unremarkable woman, now in her early-thirties, is sitting behind the desk, going through reports with the yawn-fueled efforts of a woman who would probably /dearly/ love an interruption.
Cue: an interruption. Not a huge one, or the likes of a duty-filled storm as to knock the woman off her chair -- just the timid bit of knocking at the door and the slithering way the young blond boy allows himself in what space it's left open. "Hello, hi," Misar greets doubly, his hands maneuvering behind him to eke that same door a little bit more /shut/ once he's in. It's a bit of subtle thing, more hidden even when he pushes off from the door to approach her desk. "You're busy," he observes graciously, now clasped hands separating briefly to gesture to the reports, "I respect that. Just a teeny, tiny little thing," and he proves it by pinching two fingers together to express just that amount.''
Giorda straightens, setting down her stylus and somehow transforming, as if even this slightest of interruptions has made all the difference to her day. Perhaps it's just as simple as being /needed/ for something; perhaps not. She fastens Misar with a considering glance, then tells him, "I think I can spare minute or two. If it's as teeny, tiny as all that. What do you need?" She stretches, twining fingers together and drawing her arms out, palms facing outwards.
"You're a doll," accompanies the grin Misar gifts her, flashing big (mostly) white teeth and gratitude as he sidles a bit closer to her desk. His gaze never seems to really leave Giorda, but somewhere in there, he got a good impression of the room and he makes an informed gesture to some drawers nearby. An overdone face of dismissal makes a comical impression of his face. "One of these, what are they, white? Knots? Sure there's a whole pile of them about you don't know what to do with. I'll just take one off your hands," to which he spreads his, jerking one thumb back towards the door, "And be out of your hair."
The compliment - even one so easily given as 'doll' - seems only to encourage Giorda, making her smile all the brighter for it. Her hands drop back to the top of the desk, though only for a moment before the right one lifts a finger as if to suggest 'just a moment', and then left one goes burrowing in one of the drawers of the desk. "Congratulations, then," she tells him, tone somewhere between business-like and conversational. "Sad to say, I've more of those things hanging around than I'd ideally like. I asked a couple of the kids who Stood last time about it, the other day, and they turned me down!" /Imagine/.
"Ahh, yes, congratulations to me..." Cheerfully enough said, Misar is somewhat distracted by his hovering. Rocking idly from heel to toe, he once in a while gets a better glimpse at Giorda's progress in the drawer without looking overly nosy. It's her words that startles him slightly into looking at her, chin lightly tilted away in contemplation. "Turned you down..." as though he doesn't understand the words, until: "Ah. Right. Because-- residents. Nope," his fingers lace contentedly in front of him after giving a sweeping reassurance in the air, "This is the real deal." And, then, with a bit of a beaming quality of his smile, he adds, "Imagine anyone turning you down!" /Imagine/, indeed! He can't fathom.
Giorda doesn't seem to pay much attention to the way she startles Misar, if she even notices it at all. In truth, she seems rather occupied being charmed by him, saying, as she does, "And aren't you being sweet," as if she's quite sure he's just being flattering and fake, but she's /absolutely/ going to enjoy it anyway. Her fumblings in the drawer bring out one of those aforementioned white knots, which she hands over with a more business-like bob of the head. "The real deal. Good for you. Now, I'll have to get you put down on the chore roster, too. What was your name?" She's apologetic, as though she feels she /ought/ to know this already.
Misar's fingers aren't exactly /anxious/, but he is rather happy to get them around that bit of white and it's vanished into a pocket like a precious thing within the blink of an eye. "It's just so hard for me," he admits, with a kind of heaviness too much for scrawny shoulders, heaving out in a sigh. It all would be grandly sincere, except for the following: "Not being sweet, you know," bashfully, he glances down, "Around someone so sweet." The moment ruined, perhaps, by his mischievous glance up to check how she liked that one -- a bit of a hopeful squint -- and one that covers his next hesitation some. "MmmmmMisar. A. One S." He tips his head; he's already gone /this/ far, "One R. One M. Not necessarily in that order."
Giorda, it seems, is /easily/ charmed - and easy to overlook anything that might take away from her being-charmedness. "You're /adorable/," she says, which is probably not, granted, the nicest thing to have said, all things considered, but she seems to mean only good things by it. "Misar with an A, an S, an R and an M. And, presumably, an I, as well?" She's writing it down, without waiting for an answer, and adds, cheerfully, "At any rate, you'll be on the rosters from tomorrow. Probably snow-shovelling-- I know it's not /exciting/, but it really is necessary. Now, you know where the barracks are, I assume?"
Misar is /totally fine/ being adorable; he even bats his eyes in such a way as the age he looks rather than is. "And an I. That's silly. Can't even spell my own name. Look at you, taking care of me like that. Otherwise, I'd be Msar... I suppose that's getting ahead of myself, isn't it? Real deal." His smile ever present, it's now a bit dreamy, as though distracted by the thoughts in his head. "Rosters. Riiight. Well, it's all about doing our part here in the Weyr... some of us," here he indicates her with those still expressive hands, "more than others," a degrading bit of thumping at his own chest, "Is it absolutely, /completely/ necessary to put me on there so soon? I mean, I've got this /aunt/ just over the mountains... she'd so love to hear this kind of thing in person, you understand... and it's late now. I surely wouldn't get to see her when they'd be expecting me to be shoveling-- I'd owe you. Double-time!"
"M'sar," says Giorda, as though she's trying the name on for size, her expression somehow appraising. "But-- you're quite right. Getting ahead of ourselves. Still, I suppose we'll see." She seems amused by the young man, genuinely so, leaning back in her chair with a lazy sigh of contentment, albeit one that turns reluctant in the wake of his request. "I really can't," she tells him, sorrowfully. "First rule of being a candidate: you can't leave the weyr without rider escort. Besides which, given the way it's been snowing today?" Head shake. Just no way. "I /can/ arrange a rider to take you in the next couple of days if you like, though. You'll have a restday-- let me see."
Although he puffed himself up some to try and fill the shoes of a 'M'sar', the still plainly named /Misar/ shrinks into the background as befitting his pale coloring and small size. "Nahhh, no. Don't you bother yourself more than necessary. She'll live, I suppose, my aunt. Sturdy. Now that I think about it, she'd be absolutely devastated, me shirking work given the way it's been snowing today." Clucking his tongue, it's revealed he's made it back to the door in the midst of his talking and he puts a hand to it once arrived there. "Maybe I'll come see you, instead, on that restday."
Giorda is sympathetic, but approving, nonetheless of this change of heart. "Why don't you write her a letter?" she suggests, promptly. "I can make sure it gets delivered." She seems a /little/ disappointed to see him edging towards the door, to have his hand on it, but she's clearly far too flattered by him to be too concerned: the afternoon has looked up, all is well. "You could! Or you could spend it with people your own age, of course-- but it's sweet of you, nonetheless. I'll see what I can do with your chore roster. Frankly, you look scarcely big enough to /hold/ a shovel, you poor thing. You /do/ eat properly, don't you?"
"Write her a letter," Misar repeats with clear approval, but a withering self-deprecation that shakes his head, "And here I was, unable to even give you enough letters for my name. Don't know if I've another to spare, but I shall try. And soldier on as merely Sar." The melancholy only continues, his hand fiddling nervously with the door but never really getting anywhere with it. "Eat, yes... I mean, mostly. There's a large boy. Shakes the meat-pies out of me every lunch and every other dinner. But you know what they say about too many meat-pies, so, really, I imagine he's only looking out for my good health."
Hesitant amusement at the first of what Misar says, as though she /thinks/ it's all a joke but isn't entirely sure of it, fades rather rapidly into outright horror, that hand returning to her breast in a gesture of shock and disapproval. "Oh, goodness me, no. You must tell me who it is, so that we can stop such antics. You need to /eat/, and there's plenty to go around-- he can't surely be missing out, can he? Oh, goodness. Never you mind: you're a Candidate, now. We'll make sure you get fed up. We can't have underfed things on those sands, not when there's so much work to be done, should you Impress." She's steadfast, head shaking rapidly: goodness me, no.
A spark in Misar's eyes when she calls him a Candidate is almost greedy, so different from the mournful way he heads off her horror with a wave of his hand. "You know what, I never /did/ manage to get an honest introduction out of him. Next time he's turning my pockets inside out, I'll let him know you was asking." All in all, it ends more practically than it began, almost in a good humor. It's a wryness he attempts to banish, but he never quite regains the weak sentiment, instead opting for an optimistic shine to his smile. "It's so good, you know. Knowing there's people like you looking out for people like me. Makes you see the Weyr's a good place."
"Oh!" Giorda breathes, apologetic. "No, no, of course. He wouldn't have. Still: we'll do what we can." Utterly fervent in this, she fastens an honest smile on the Candidate, and promises, "We are, you know. We care-- I certainly do, and I know other people do, too. There are good people, here; we won't let you come to any harm." She hesitates, as though there's more she'd like to say, or, perhaps, as though she'd really rather avoid getting back to those reports, but-- "I should let you settle in, shouldn't I? But if there's anything you need, anything at all-- Well. You know where my door is. Best of luck, Misar."
"Thank you-- thank you /so/ much. You've been lovely," Misar waxes on utterly sincerely the same gratitudes that might ring falsely less artfully said. "There's a rider out there quite eager to get done escorting me and back to his drink, I think, so. Back to work, the both of us." His hands working behind him, he opens the door much the way he closed it, and only so much as he needs to wiggle his poor dear underfed way out. What crack it's left open in his wake is not enough to see as he steps out of range, alone and unescorted, to swagger on his merry way.
Giorda, ever pleased, beams at Misar-- even beams after his retreating back, long after the door is closed (as much as it is closed). And then, ah, alas, it's back to those reports. Woe.