Gift Delivery
Who: Ch'dais, Diya, Sinopa, Yevide
When: Day 18, month 2, turn 1 of the 7th Pass
Where: Living Caverns
What: Yevide discovers that late night in the living cavern isn't as solitary as one might expect. Chance encounters allow her to deliver what she calls guest-gifts as well as provide some distraction from recent events.
You venture down the tunnel that leads into the living cavern.
Living Cavern
Large enough to hold the majority of the Weyr's human population, this cavern can become loud enough to deafen thanks to the acoustics caused by its size. The ceiling is so far overhead that it's cast into shadow, a darkness that is broken only by the spark and glitter of a lucky beam of light striking the minerals found in the rock walls. Below, most of the floor is covered with an assortment of long tables and benches. There are some smaller tables, surrounded by chairs, but privacy appears to be a rare thing in this bustling cavern. Large hearths line the west wall, with fires burning day and night to warm the food and drink that keep the Weyr's inhabitants fueled. The serving tables are near the hearth, opposite the dais that holds the single table reserved for the Weyr leadership and honored guests.
This room may be +watched (+help watch).
Upper Caverns (UC) Lower Caverns (LC) Kitchen (K)
Infirmary (INF) Bowl (B)
Diya arrives through the long tunnel that comes from the lower caverns.
Diya has arrived.
It is 23:14 on day 18, month 2, turn 1 of the 7th Pass.
It is currently late winter. It's a clear winter day and though the sun is clear and bright in a pale blue sky, it's still cold enough that breath will fog in the air. When the wind kicks up, it's icy and mean, nipping at any exposed skin.
Anyone with any sense has long since retreated to their bed. A few folk still brave the cold, dark hours: several members of the kitchen staff, cleaning or preparing for the pre-breakfast routine, a handful of riders returning from late patrol or heading out to relieve brothers at their watch, and one foreign goldrider who's established herself at the table nearest the hearth. Yevide sits with elbows braced on that table, a short glass filled with some dark honey liquid cradled in one hand. Arranged before her are several small packages, bundled in clean white cloth. She eyes these moodily while sipping at her drink.
The few days since the disastrous fall have left many people somber, and the entrance to the infirmary busy. Though, as the days passed, this stream of both well-meaning visitors, those with genuine concerns, and healers have dwindled. Dressed in dusty attire that reflects at least one sleepless night spent out of her own weyr, Diya makes what she hopes is an inconspicuous exit into the living caverns, and after a brief glance to assess the state of this central hub of activity, makes her way to the serving tables to garner herself a long cooled drink. Drink in hand, her typical calm warmth fixed on her features, she takes a casual sip, draws her shoulders back, and makes her way towards the hearth where Yevide is seated. "It's late for Caucus members to be about, isn't it?" Her faint smile is heard before it can be seen as she rounds from behind the woman, taking the seat across uninvited.
Ch'dais enters from the bowl outside.
Ch'dais has arrived.
"I was always an early riser. Goats and hidework wait for no man. Or woman." Yevide's head turns so that her chin finds her shoulder and her eyes find the other junior. A smile plays about her lips. "Here, sit Diya. There's been precious little quiet around here, these past days, and you're welcome to enjoy it with me." Her drink slops about in the glass when she gestures with that hand, indicating the chair across the table from her, on the other side of those cloth-wrapped bundles. "Do you know that your kitchens have no idea of how to make a proper glass of cold tea? You've ice enough here, but they're shy with the sweetener and don't let it steep long enough," she goes on once the invitation has been extending. The glass is held to her mouth in spite of this complaint, tipping a little of the liquid past her lips.
"We also neglect to st-, ah, but you're a few steps ahead of me." Once the invitation is made, Diya's seated stance goes lax, her shoulders relaxing into the worn wood of her chair, and the sudden drop of her chin taking Yevide's advice in stride -- she'll enjoy the quiet while she can. Thankfully, the mug's found its way onto the table, the long length of the goldrider's arm resting there. "There's never a need for cold tea, and outside of Igen and possibly Ista, I can't imagine a climate hospitable for your odd desert fares." As her face rises, the careless smile that fashions is lopsided, teasingly secretive in the way only long-enduring familiarity can breed. "My apologies for not being available when you arrived. I ... /shells/ but is this awkward."
Diya
Short and layered, Diya's chin to shoulder-length crop is stylishly flattering to her long face. A few loose strands fall in a diagonal across her forehead towards her left eye and ear, but generally the tousle is left alone in fly away curls of an auburn-blonde. Her angular features retain some flickering residue of once youthful good looks, though her jaw has succumbed to deep lines that are particularly prominent when her face is animated. The stress of turns have taken shape along the corners of her eyes and in lighter etchings just above the balls of her high cheekbones. What would be an awkwardly tall height is marked by the poise of an adult woman, her frame predominately thin from work, with the soft, unshakeable flab of childbirth.
Befitting her rank and flattering her figure, fine materials make up the clothing Diya's attired in, from the soft suede leather of her pants and matching winter vest-jacket, to the serviceable thermal shirt of fine linen. Even the brilliant white of the warm wool that lines her sleeveless jacket indicates a taste for the finer things in life, including the personnel necessary to keep such articles pristine. Bluish-green, with delicate buttons along the front and at her cuffs, her shirt is made of a material particular to the Reaches region: thin but still warm. The boots on her feet are a shade darker than her pants, scuffed along the sole and taken care of. Her knot and flight badge indicates her as a junior queenrider at High Reaches.
Ch'dais steps in from the bowl, sure-footed for man his size and moving, this evening, with a sense of purpose. Grey-green eyes flick over those few weyrfolk still awake at such an hour, pause with a raised eyebrow upon the two weyrwomen in conversation; perhaps in a moment, that looks says. His first goal is the night hearth, where the bronzerider carefully selects a large mug for himself. He bends at the waist, wedges in his shoulder to fetch a hot kettle of klah from its hook. Planning for a late night, it would seem.
Yevide matches Diya smile for smile as she lowers her own glass to the table. Her hands curl around it and smear the condensation beaded along its sides. "There are times when you don't have to be the perfect hostess. I'd count these past days as one of those times. Awkward...that's a word for it." Her head dips forward over the glass, giving her a chance to school her expression into something less careless. Sympathy, maybe. What shows when her head lifts again is a flicker of resignation, a touch of reluctance. "That was for you." The topic suffers a stuttering shift when she reaches out to push forward the longest of the packages. It's low and round, wrapped in its concealing cloth. "A guest gift," she explains as her gaze strays absently to the fellow by the hearth.
"Hardly-," but any further commentary by the auburn-haired woman is cut short by the arrival - there are so few this hour - that captures her attention. "Ch'dais, I'd hail you further if you could be dear enough to bring that hot kettle over? I'm afraid," she slips her mug a rueful look, "I've garnered one that's been sitting on the tables far longer than it's useful." Softer, for Yevide's ears, Diya remarks on the tails of an exhale, "Can't have too much klah these days. And thank you." Interested, but not inclined to make more movement than the general gesture of appreciation, a pat to acknowledge the gift, dark blue eyes flicker over the shape of the wrapped parcel. "I... I can't imagine the conversation in the barracks can hold your attention longer than a moment, though Fort's junior, Magaly, she's one to keep an eye out for. You're far from a guest here. You should know that." Low, before the bronzerider can make his way over, her quiet statement carries with it rigid fierceness.
"Have you hailed me before, Weyrwoman?" Ch'dais calls back without turning from his business, low-toned but with timbre enough to carry to the place where the women sit. Good-natured, this, or so it seems. Still, the bronzerider takes his time pouring into this own mug, steam curling about the kettle's spout as he fills near to the brim. Only then does the man swing round; he brings both vessels to the table and sets the larger down by his weyrwoman's mug. The foreigner gets a curious appraisal, too steady to be entirely polite, and he waits for the conversation to resume.
"Tch. It's a small thing. I take it back...you should play the proper hostess and thank me as you accept it." The wrapped tube is nudged again to roll it closer to the other goldrider. Yevide's smile has returned, provoked by the edge heard in Diya's tone and strengthened by the wood-on-wood rattle of something inside of the bundle she's named as gift. This fills the time while Ch'dais approaches and arranges the kettle for the junior's convenience. With her gently teasing statement delivered, along with the klah, she finds opportunity to conduct an equally curious study of the fellow before her. "That hair...you look half-wild. What did you call him, Diya? Ch'dais? Sit, sit, please sit. You're built for looming but I can't abide sitting in shadow. You mountain folk and your lack of sun..."
Ch'dais
Tall and robust, the young man seems well-suited to northern climes. He stands like a sea-swept promontory, hardened even as he is smoothed by the battering of wind and wave; his body is labor-firm, his arms sheathed in the corded curve of muscle. Harsh features make him look more rugged than handsome, from the awkward break of his nose to the pronounced hollow of his cheeks. Still in all, some thought lurks beneath the turbid waters of his grey-green eyes, and his hair is a wild profusion of auburn, falling about his shoulders where it isn't haphazardly braided in order to clear his vision. The same ruddy color descends in sideburns, gathers about his lips in a stubbled beard. The man moves easily, balanced regardless of his ground or seat.
His flying leathers may once have been black, but they've long since weathered to a spider's web of cracked charcoal. Wan grey surmounts the elbows and shoulders of the jacket, takes on a silver sheen in the animal fur sewn into the neck; the same hue shows in his pants at the knees and on the insides of his thighs. Heavy boots and a broad riding belt-- worn when needed, and as often draped absently over one shoulder-- complete the ensemble. The sole article of color is provided by his shoulder knot: one braided loop of vibrant blue and black, interwoven with a thin cord of bronze.
Diya shakes her head, fingers playing across the rim of her mug. "Then, as a perfect hostess, I accept and thank you kindly for your thoughtfulness." She dallies no further and takes the gift, considering it's wrappings and shaking it lightly. "Shall I open it now?" Quizzical arcs of her brow tell nothing of her prior reaction to Yevide's comments, but as Ch'dais arrives, she uses the present, rattling and all, to gesture to the other goldrider vaguely. "Yevide of Igen, Ulyath's rider if Arinth hasn't already tattled. Ch'dais, bronze Arinth's. And I do believe, I _have_ hailed you before, perhaps, twice." Her free hand lifts two fingers to the air, the thoughtful tilt of her head betrayed by mischief that hints on her lips. "In candidacy." The worn lines of her face find a relieved home for this amusement, kept at bay in light of recent events.
Ch'dais gives an amused snort into the hollow of his mug as he lifts it to his lips, draining a healthy swallow. "Doubtless for something I polished. Fallen out of the habit since, I'm afraid." There's a touch of trouble in the glance he flicks over his weyrwoman, an eddy in the sea-green of his gaze, but he twitches a smile at her all the same. And then it's Yevide's turn for the bronzerider's stab at politeness, a wan curve of the lips and a rumbled, "My duty to Ulyath." After a pause he continues, quite casually, "You're here to teach, I expect?" Silence hangs before the man thinks to tack on the requisite, "Weyrwoman."
"Keep your duties, I won't convey them and she'll never notice the lack. Too busy seeing doom in every shadow, and the sky falling with every pass of Thread." Her laughter, a short burst but entirely unrestrained, seems louder in the near-empty cavern. The glass Yevide had been toying with is slid off to the side, allowing her to fold her arms on the table before her. Leaning forward that way, it would be easy to read her body language as enthusiasm for the prospect of gift-opening. In reality, this angle allows her to better regard Diya's face and if sympathy has crept in again around the edges of her own expression, surely it's to be expected. Inspired, she allows a lighter tone to overcome, humor and challenge both in the look she directs across the table. "I'm here to keep out from underfoot, I believe. Didn't I ask you to sit? Diya, see to it your fellow remembers his manners and *then* open your present. It makes for a handy club."
The gift: It's a scroll-tube, carved from light wood and covered with scrollwork. Inside there are two styluses, also in wood, with a matching base that has a hole in it for an inkwell and two holes for the pens.
The Reachian woman hides a smile for Yevide's mocking of her own lifemate. Invigorated by the presence of the Igenite, Diya hefts the object in her left hand and then passes it with ease to her right. "I don't think I need to see to anything, the threat of a clubbing, and your own infectious sort of commanding spirit can hustle any rider into obeying your will. By all means, sit, if it pleases you, Ch'dais." Her own request is added to the more inspired tone of the other goldrider, inviting, but not overwhelmingly concerned. He's brought her fresh klah, and really, what else matters? The middle-aged woman makes short work of the package that is lain across her knees, neatly discarding the wrappings and withdrawing the scroll tube carried within. "You do realize I'll have to find something that'll match its worth, with wood production dwindling with 'fall."
"You couldn't keep out from underfoot at Igen, then?" Ch'dais summons a more solid smile this time, a brief baring of the teeth beneath the red-kissed stubble of his beard. "Here's to new beginnings, Weyrwoman." He gives the robed goldrider an absent toast with his mug before taking another long draught, his attention shifting from the Igenite to the nearest empty chair. Yes, he's still looming. "I can't stay, I'm afraid," he continues, with very little evidence of fear. "There's something I have to attend to." What that might be at this hour is anyone's guess.
"You'll do nothing of the sort, Diya," Yevide counters, sparking with pleasure as her gift is exposed. "It was a lucky find, one that I knew--" Her modest objections are interrupted when the cinnamon-maned bronzerider continues to block her light. "You are going to make me very cross, Ch'dais." An idle threat, surely, given her jovial tone of voice. A finger is stabbed at the selfsame chair he's glanced at. "Sit. You can't stay but you're in no hurry either and you are making me nervous." With that explained, pale eyes return-- sky-bright and deeply wrinkled at the corners when she smiles-- to the other goldrider. "My uncle, the collector...he happened across it and set it aside for me. Inside, look...look in there, there's more."
Sinopa enters from the bowl outside.
Sinopa has arrived.
The hour is late, the living caverns sparsely populated and by one of the hearths sits two woman of similar age with a native bronzerider looming over them. Diya, with more caution to her movements, gently rattles the contents of the tube, and after screwing the top off, withdraws two styluses, or at least the casings of them with the appropriate slots for ink and sharpened tips. Her fingers luxuriate over the wood, feeling the fine carving of it and then she lifts her face to flash Yevide a look that wrinkles into checked laughter, though her eyes twinkle a bit. "You always know the perfect gift when visiting." Whether Ch'dais departs or stays, for a moment Diya seems not to care, but as her gaze strays upward towards the bronzerider, the glint of amusement fades, and looking almost wary she regards Arinth's rider. "Surely you can spare a few moments, unless Arinth-?"
Despite the late hour, Sinopa is awake and on the loose. Pausing at the entrance of the living caverns, she carefully glances about with dark eyes, lingering a moment on the two goldriders by the hearths, one foreign and one all too familiar. After a slight sniffle, she resumes her progress, heading over to the hearths herself on a trajectory that brings her close to the gathering of riders as she heads for some klah and late night snacks. "Evening," she greets brightly upon approach.
Everything about the man cries that he'd rather not remain-- his neutral expression, the faint narrowing of the eyes, the silent sigh that flares his nostrils. But Ch'dais rallies sufficiently to answer Diya with a reassuring curve of the lips. "He's fine, Weyrwoman. Just until I've had my klah, then." And the bronzerider settles ponderously into the seat he's been considering, putting his mug on the table as he does so. He casts a speculative glance across the Igen weyrwoman's parcels, queries mildly, "So, which one is mine?" So serious is the bronzerider's tone that one might miss the care with which he maintains it.
Sinopa
Tight curls of black are cropped to rest just above the young woman's shoulders. The voluminous mass of curls helps to soften the angular lines of her jaw bone. Large dark brown, nearly black, eyes dominate her face. Set between these expressive dark eyes is a slightly crooked nose with that peculiar look of having been broken many Turns ago. A smattering of freckles decorates her nose and cheekbones, disrupting an otherwise fair complexion. She is of average height, but not so average build. Rather than possessing a womanly, curvy body, her frame consists of diminuitive curves and a small chest.
Silky smooth fabric the color of rich red wine has been cut into a simple dress made elegant by embellishments and the quality of the cloth. A scooped neck, with off the shoulder sleeves, reveal freckled shoulders and the goldrider's collarbone. Fitting well to her figure, the skirt falls loosely in gentle pleats from mid-hip. Drapped loosely about her hips is a thin golden chain. Long sleeves that reach the wrist are hemmed with golden thread in an intricate geometric design. Ending a few inches above her ankles, the richly colored fabric swishes above a pair of dainty black shoes. Lightly draped about her neck are two scarves knitted of fine, silk wool that cascade to the middle of her thigh, one ebony in color and the other a medium ash gray.
Threads of dark blue and black, wrapped with shining gold, form the intricate and betassled knot of a junior weyrwoman at High Reaches Weyr.
She appears to be about 19 turns, 0 months, and 14 days old.
Yevide waves Diya's compliments away, although the look on her face speaks plainly of her being pleased at the present's reception. "It's our way. I trust you'll get good use, Diya, and enjoyment as well...ah, Sinopa." With movement spotted, Ch'dais is spared further faux-scolding when the Igen goldrider transfers her attention to the woman she just named. "Come join us, please, I'm being delightful and charming, it's great fun. I have a present for you as well, but you can't have it until you bring me an empty mug so I can sample some of this klah." There are two packages left, and the larger and softer of these two is drawn closer. She cradles it protectively in her arms, smile shining out above. "Ah, I never give bronzeriders presents. They always mistake them for tokens, an invitation to woo."
"You do realize the klah isn't cold there." Diya imparts, indulging Yevide and visibly relaxing in the Igenite's charm. But relaxation can only be momentary, and since she's had her klah, received her gifts, and spied and presumably heard Sinopa's approach, the statuesque woman rises slowly, reluctance to depart the dark-skinned woman's company. "I'm afraid my duties call." Reproof emphasizes duty above all, especially as the younger goldrider gets closer in her trajectory. "Yev, I'll drop by the barracks when I can, and you would do well to release Ch'dais from the onus of your company soon. He might very well burst from not being able to take off." As he's allayed her fears about his dragon, or any other such calamity on the horizon, the older woman can spare the bronzerider a half smile that's mostly genuine. "Hello, Sinopa. Good night, all."
Sinopa halts her progress and turns her head to look at Yevide as her name is called, though there's a touch of lag time on her part to recall the woman's name, perhaps due to a quick consultation of her own golden counterpart. "It would be weyrwoman Yevide from Igen, no?" A twinkle comes to her eyes at the mention of how bronzeriders receive gifts before she outright smirks, glancing briefly at Ch'dais before she continues to retrieve two mugs from near the hearth. Turning she catches Diya's excuse for departure. "Good night, Diya," she returns in pleasant tones, taking a seat and offering the empty mugs to Yevide.
Ulyath> Gentle sweeps of amber light up a smoky mental touch, one that draws on the memory of her lifemate to imbue Nenuith's voice with a almost forgotten desert heat. << You are most welcome here, Ulyath. Despite the weyrling accommodations you may have been presented. >>
"As if we wait to be invited," Ch'dais puts in, settling back in his chosen seat. The wood objects, creaking very softly as the big man shifts his weight. His smile for Yevide thinner than it probably ought to be for the jest, the look in his green eye less mirthful, and Sinopa's arrival registers on his seamed visage only as a renewed determination to be pleasant. Or something near it. "Weyrwoman," he rumbles in greeting, reaching with one paw for his own mug to polish off the dregs. "Well-rested after the Fall, I hope."
Ulyath> To Nenuith: Ulyath rouses from an uneasy slumber, waking voice thick with grit. Sand over scales, that tone rumbles a less than gracious response. << They think us fresh-hatched, to tolerate these lodgings. No ledge, no view... >> She fades a moment, pulled aside without warning only to return for a more polite end. << Thank you for your welcome though, Nenuith. Truly, your Weyr is...large. And strong. >>
"Always duties." Yevide adopts a sincerely regretful tone, rising to see Diya off. Some of the sparkle fades as she inclines her head to the other woman, smile gentling. "See, he's enjoying my company! Be well, Diya, you'd best not be a stranger..." Her own duty done there, she drops into her chair just in time to perform a trade with Sinopa: a mug for the slippery cloth-wrapped gift she'd threatened the junior with. "Yevide, yes. Come to my dreary exile. If they only knew how much I'm enjoying myself..." Even she has to struggle to maintain that sunlit expression, her own words reminding her of less happy topics, forcing a pause while she gathers her reserves of good cheer about her.
"Always," Diya replies. The scroll tube of styluses are safe under her arms, the mug of klah clasped onto for dear life in one hand, and the other reaches out, as if to smooth down the Igenite's hair and withdraws before she even gets close. "Should you need anything, my time's in the infirmary these days." Long strides give her shoulders ample time to go tense once more, before she disappears into the quiet of the infirmary.
Diya moves into the infirmary.
Diya has left.
Sinopa gives an affirmative nod to Ch'dais, "Yes. Yourself and Arinth as well, I hope?" After this brief exchange of pleasantries she accepts the gift from Yevide with a touch of eagerness. Her glance flickers up from the wrapped item to the Igen weyrwoman and she offers the woman a smile. "Why thank you. I'm glad you're enjoying your pleasant exile here," she teases in kind. Then her hands go to poke at the paper to unwrap the gift.
Inside is a length of cloth, a deep blue shot through with threads of copper. The texture is like a nubby silk and the ends are decorated with a wide band of more copper, geometric patterns, and delicate fringe. "It's all the rage in Igen now. A whole dress in a single length of cloth...I can show you how to wrap it about yourself. You'll need a blouse, but I have it on the best authority you're likely to have something in your wardrobe that will suit." This Yevide confides in a softer tone. Then she settles back in her chair, folding her arms before her and turning a speculative gaze upon Ch'dais. "I'll attend to finding the perfect gift for you then, Ch'dais. Perhaps silver-tooled scissors, or a sandalwood comb..."
Ch'dais scrapes back his chair and uncoils to his feet, a gesture that leaves him once more in the Igenite's light-- and well above her field of vision. "Flatterer," he rejoins simply, with a twitch of the lips. The dark-haired goldrider gets a last, speculative look-- uncomfortably long for such light conversation-- and then he sweeps his sea-gaze over Sinopa as he carries his empty mug from the table. "Hale and hardy as we're likely to be, Weyrwoman. But I should be about my business. Much as I hate to miss all of this... unwrapping." He puts his broad back to the same, tosses his mug among the dirties by the hearth with a clatter, and heads for the shadows of the lower caverns tunnel, brushing the braids from his face as he goes.
Ch'dais ventures down the long tunnel that leads to the lower caverns.
Ch'dais has left.
Sinopa gently runs her fingers over the fine cloth, not yet lifting it out to fully reveal itself lest it fall upon the floor of the caverns and become dirty. While appraising the garment, a content smile spreads across her lips and then she looks up to the gift-bearing weyrwoman, "It's very lovely, thank you, weyrwoman," Gently fingering it she nods slightly, "Why yes, I have plenty of blouses. You're welcome to come help me coordinate and show me how this lovely Igenite dress is properly worn." There's sincerity in that, although perhaps a bit much formality and stiffness in the younger woman's words as she leans back into the chair and settles. "Just come to High Reaches, have you?" she queries, glancing up to catch the departure of the bronzerider with a smirk. Someone doesn't take teasing too well.
"I believe he likes me." Yevide chases the bronzerider from the cavern with this opinion, cocking a finger in the direction of his retreating back. "I do like the large ones. The big silent types. They know when to go away," she finishes. Then it's back to sitting forward in her chair again, delight etched plain over her features as she studies the younger goldrider's features. "You're most welcome, weyrwoman." Stiffness seems anathema to the Igen woman but formality she managed with a tipping of the head and a more subdued smile. "Just come...just come as in just arrived, oh yes. The day before your first 'fall, and don't think I don't regret my timing."
"And when to put their feet in their mouths," is Sinopa's addition to Yevide's listing of the qualities that particular bronzerider possessses. "The day before the first Fall, was it?" Sinopa echoes, finishing with a wrinkling of her nose to demonstrate her sentiments on that choice arrival time. "No doubt you saw things at their worst," she says grimly before her eyes flick from the bright blue fabric sitting in her lap to Yevide. "And how has the situation at Igen fared?"
Yevide finally thinks to take the empty mug she'd earned in fair trade and fill it from the kettle Ch'dais had set earlier on the table. It's lukewarm but she hardly seems to notice. "At their best, actually. G'thon was there to greet me. I'm glad to have had the time with him, however brief." And there, it's out. The shadow that's hovered over the Weyr these past days. She sighs under the weight the speaking of his name conjures up. "Ganathon now, if he lives. Igen's fared a far cry better than Reaches has. Our casualties were heavy early on but we've adapted. You will as well."
The topic of an injured weyrleader without his dragon should certainly be taboo. At least, that's the effect it has on the youngest of High Reaches' goldriders, as her face goes blank and she fidgets momentarily in her chair. "Well, I'm glad you were properly greeted," she says, finally finding some words. "And indeed, I'm sure we will do better in both the air and on the ground in taking care of our wounded." With the conversation having taken this awkward turn, Sinopa's part of the talking drops off.
"And if there's anything I can do to help with that, I trust you'll be sure to let me know." Yevide brushes off her brighter smile and injects that note of cheer into her voice again. "But life goes on. I'll find you tomorrow and we can have a look at your blouses to see what will best suit you. I'm glad I chose the blue, I think it will make your skin glow. You'll see." With her lukewarm klah, the Igen weyrwoman stands, preparing to take her leave. "I've some pieces of jewelry I might be talked into parting with too, while you're wearing the dress."
It's amazing how easily one can become distracted. You wander into the caverns to find a late night snack and some klah, and are instead waylaid by a gift-bearing weyrwoman from Igen. Sinopa smiles at the woman, absently running another hand over the lovely fabric. "It's been a pleasure to make your acquaintance," she says, laying into stiff formalities once more. "Thank you very much for the lovely dress. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow for some fashion advice." This little spiel is finished with a flashy grin as she, too stands up, carefully holding the present. "Sleep well," she wishes the older woman.
When: Day 18, month 2, turn 1 of the 7th Pass
Where: Living Caverns
What: Yevide discovers that late night in the living cavern isn't as solitary as one might expect. Chance encounters allow her to deliver what she calls guest-gifts as well as provide some distraction from recent events.
You venture down the tunnel that leads into the living cavern.
Living Cavern
Large enough to hold the majority of the Weyr's human population, this cavern can become loud enough to deafen thanks to the acoustics caused by its size. The ceiling is so far overhead that it's cast into shadow, a darkness that is broken only by the spark and glitter of a lucky beam of light striking the minerals found in the rock walls. Below, most of the floor is covered with an assortment of long tables and benches. There are some smaller tables, surrounded by chairs, but privacy appears to be a rare thing in this bustling cavern. Large hearths line the west wall, with fires burning day and night to warm the food and drink that keep the Weyr's inhabitants fueled. The serving tables are near the hearth, opposite the dais that holds the single table reserved for the Weyr leadership and honored guests.
This room may be +watched (+help watch).
Upper Caverns (UC) Lower Caverns (LC) Kitchen (K)
Infirmary (INF) Bowl (B)
Diya arrives through the long tunnel that comes from the lower caverns.
Diya has arrived.
It is 23:14 on day 18, month 2, turn 1 of the 7th Pass.
It is currently late winter. It's a clear winter day and though the sun is clear and bright in a pale blue sky, it's still cold enough that breath will fog in the air. When the wind kicks up, it's icy and mean, nipping at any exposed skin.
Anyone with any sense has long since retreated to their bed. A few folk still brave the cold, dark hours: several members of the kitchen staff, cleaning or preparing for the pre-breakfast routine, a handful of riders returning from late patrol or heading out to relieve brothers at their watch, and one foreign goldrider who's established herself at the table nearest the hearth. Yevide sits with elbows braced on that table, a short glass filled with some dark honey liquid cradled in one hand. Arranged before her are several small packages, bundled in clean white cloth. She eyes these moodily while sipping at her drink.
The few days since the disastrous fall have left many people somber, and the entrance to the infirmary busy. Though, as the days passed, this stream of both well-meaning visitors, those with genuine concerns, and healers have dwindled. Dressed in dusty attire that reflects at least one sleepless night spent out of her own weyr, Diya makes what she hopes is an inconspicuous exit into the living caverns, and after a brief glance to assess the state of this central hub of activity, makes her way to the serving tables to garner herself a long cooled drink. Drink in hand, her typical calm warmth fixed on her features, she takes a casual sip, draws her shoulders back, and makes her way towards the hearth where Yevide is seated. "It's late for Caucus members to be about, isn't it?" Her faint smile is heard before it can be seen as she rounds from behind the woman, taking the seat across uninvited.
Ch'dais enters from the bowl outside.
Ch'dais has arrived.
"I was always an early riser. Goats and hidework wait for no man. Or woman." Yevide's head turns so that her chin finds her shoulder and her eyes find the other junior. A smile plays about her lips. "Here, sit Diya. There's been precious little quiet around here, these past days, and you're welcome to enjoy it with me." Her drink slops about in the glass when she gestures with that hand, indicating the chair across the table from her, on the other side of those cloth-wrapped bundles. "Do you know that your kitchens have no idea of how to make a proper glass of cold tea? You've ice enough here, but they're shy with the sweetener and don't let it steep long enough," she goes on once the invitation has been extending. The glass is held to her mouth in spite of this complaint, tipping a little of the liquid past her lips.
"We also neglect to st-, ah, but you're a few steps ahead of me." Once the invitation is made, Diya's seated stance goes lax, her shoulders relaxing into the worn wood of her chair, and the sudden drop of her chin taking Yevide's advice in stride -- she'll enjoy the quiet while she can. Thankfully, the mug's found its way onto the table, the long length of the goldrider's arm resting there. "There's never a need for cold tea, and outside of Igen and possibly Ista, I can't imagine a climate hospitable for your odd desert fares." As her face rises, the careless smile that fashions is lopsided, teasingly secretive in the way only long-enduring familiarity can breed. "My apologies for not being available when you arrived. I ... /shells/ but is this awkward."
Diya
Short and layered, Diya's chin to shoulder-length crop is stylishly flattering to her long face. A few loose strands fall in a diagonal across her forehead towards her left eye and ear, but generally the tousle is left alone in fly away curls of an auburn-blonde. Her angular features retain some flickering residue of once youthful good looks, though her jaw has succumbed to deep lines that are particularly prominent when her face is animated. The stress of turns have taken shape along the corners of her eyes and in lighter etchings just above the balls of her high cheekbones. What would be an awkwardly tall height is marked by the poise of an adult woman, her frame predominately thin from work, with the soft, unshakeable flab of childbirth.
Befitting her rank and flattering her figure, fine materials make up the clothing Diya's attired in, from the soft suede leather of her pants and matching winter vest-jacket, to the serviceable thermal shirt of fine linen. Even the brilliant white of the warm wool that lines her sleeveless jacket indicates a taste for the finer things in life, including the personnel necessary to keep such articles pristine. Bluish-green, with delicate buttons along the front and at her cuffs, her shirt is made of a material particular to the Reaches region: thin but still warm. The boots on her feet are a shade darker than her pants, scuffed along the sole and taken care of. Her knot and flight badge indicates her as a junior queenrider at High Reaches.
Ch'dais steps in from the bowl, sure-footed for man his size and moving, this evening, with a sense of purpose. Grey-green eyes flick over those few weyrfolk still awake at such an hour, pause with a raised eyebrow upon the two weyrwomen in conversation; perhaps in a moment, that looks says. His first goal is the night hearth, where the bronzerider carefully selects a large mug for himself. He bends at the waist, wedges in his shoulder to fetch a hot kettle of klah from its hook. Planning for a late night, it would seem.
Yevide matches Diya smile for smile as she lowers her own glass to the table. Her hands curl around it and smear the condensation beaded along its sides. "There are times when you don't have to be the perfect hostess. I'd count these past days as one of those times. Awkward...that's a word for it." Her head dips forward over the glass, giving her a chance to school her expression into something less careless. Sympathy, maybe. What shows when her head lifts again is a flicker of resignation, a touch of reluctance. "That was for you." The topic suffers a stuttering shift when she reaches out to push forward the longest of the packages. It's low and round, wrapped in its concealing cloth. "A guest gift," she explains as her gaze strays absently to the fellow by the hearth.
"Hardly-," but any further commentary by the auburn-haired woman is cut short by the arrival - there are so few this hour - that captures her attention. "Ch'dais, I'd hail you further if you could be dear enough to bring that hot kettle over? I'm afraid," she slips her mug a rueful look, "I've garnered one that's been sitting on the tables far longer than it's useful." Softer, for Yevide's ears, Diya remarks on the tails of an exhale, "Can't have too much klah these days. And thank you." Interested, but not inclined to make more movement than the general gesture of appreciation, a pat to acknowledge the gift, dark blue eyes flicker over the shape of the wrapped parcel. "I... I can't imagine the conversation in the barracks can hold your attention longer than a moment, though Fort's junior, Magaly, she's one to keep an eye out for. You're far from a guest here. You should know that." Low, before the bronzerider can make his way over, her quiet statement carries with it rigid fierceness.
"Have you hailed me before, Weyrwoman?" Ch'dais calls back without turning from his business, low-toned but with timbre enough to carry to the place where the women sit. Good-natured, this, or so it seems. Still, the bronzerider takes his time pouring into this own mug, steam curling about the kettle's spout as he fills near to the brim. Only then does the man swing round; he brings both vessels to the table and sets the larger down by his weyrwoman's mug. The foreigner gets a curious appraisal, too steady to be entirely polite, and he waits for the conversation to resume.
"Tch. It's a small thing. I take it back...you should play the proper hostess and thank me as you accept it." The wrapped tube is nudged again to roll it closer to the other goldrider. Yevide's smile has returned, provoked by the edge heard in Diya's tone and strengthened by the wood-on-wood rattle of something inside of the bundle she's named as gift. This fills the time while Ch'dais approaches and arranges the kettle for the junior's convenience. With her gently teasing statement delivered, along with the klah, she finds opportunity to conduct an equally curious study of the fellow before her. "That hair...you look half-wild. What did you call him, Diya? Ch'dais? Sit, sit, please sit. You're built for looming but I can't abide sitting in shadow. You mountain folk and your lack of sun..."
Ch'dais
Tall and robust, the young man seems well-suited to northern climes. He stands like a sea-swept promontory, hardened even as he is smoothed by the battering of wind and wave; his body is labor-firm, his arms sheathed in the corded curve of muscle. Harsh features make him look more rugged than handsome, from the awkward break of his nose to the pronounced hollow of his cheeks. Still in all, some thought lurks beneath the turbid waters of his grey-green eyes, and his hair is a wild profusion of auburn, falling about his shoulders where it isn't haphazardly braided in order to clear his vision. The same ruddy color descends in sideburns, gathers about his lips in a stubbled beard. The man moves easily, balanced regardless of his ground or seat.
His flying leathers may once have been black, but they've long since weathered to a spider's web of cracked charcoal. Wan grey surmounts the elbows and shoulders of the jacket, takes on a silver sheen in the animal fur sewn into the neck; the same hue shows in his pants at the knees and on the insides of his thighs. Heavy boots and a broad riding belt-- worn when needed, and as often draped absently over one shoulder-- complete the ensemble. The sole article of color is provided by his shoulder knot: one braided loop of vibrant blue and black, interwoven with a thin cord of bronze.
Diya shakes her head, fingers playing across the rim of her mug. "Then, as a perfect hostess, I accept and thank you kindly for your thoughtfulness." She dallies no further and takes the gift, considering it's wrappings and shaking it lightly. "Shall I open it now?" Quizzical arcs of her brow tell nothing of her prior reaction to Yevide's comments, but as Ch'dais arrives, she uses the present, rattling and all, to gesture to the other goldrider vaguely. "Yevide of Igen, Ulyath's rider if Arinth hasn't already tattled. Ch'dais, bronze Arinth's. And I do believe, I _have_ hailed you before, perhaps, twice." Her free hand lifts two fingers to the air, the thoughtful tilt of her head betrayed by mischief that hints on her lips. "In candidacy." The worn lines of her face find a relieved home for this amusement, kept at bay in light of recent events.
Ch'dais gives an amused snort into the hollow of his mug as he lifts it to his lips, draining a healthy swallow. "Doubtless for something I polished. Fallen out of the habit since, I'm afraid." There's a touch of trouble in the glance he flicks over his weyrwoman, an eddy in the sea-green of his gaze, but he twitches a smile at her all the same. And then it's Yevide's turn for the bronzerider's stab at politeness, a wan curve of the lips and a rumbled, "My duty to Ulyath." After a pause he continues, quite casually, "You're here to teach, I expect?" Silence hangs before the man thinks to tack on the requisite, "Weyrwoman."
"Keep your duties, I won't convey them and she'll never notice the lack. Too busy seeing doom in every shadow, and the sky falling with every pass of Thread." Her laughter, a short burst but entirely unrestrained, seems louder in the near-empty cavern. The glass Yevide had been toying with is slid off to the side, allowing her to fold her arms on the table before her. Leaning forward that way, it would be easy to read her body language as enthusiasm for the prospect of gift-opening. In reality, this angle allows her to better regard Diya's face and if sympathy has crept in again around the edges of her own expression, surely it's to be expected. Inspired, she allows a lighter tone to overcome, humor and challenge both in the look she directs across the table. "I'm here to keep out from underfoot, I believe. Didn't I ask you to sit? Diya, see to it your fellow remembers his manners and *then* open your present. It makes for a handy club."
The gift: It's a scroll-tube, carved from light wood and covered with scrollwork. Inside there are two styluses, also in wood, with a matching base that has a hole in it for an inkwell and two holes for the pens.
The Reachian woman hides a smile for Yevide's mocking of her own lifemate. Invigorated by the presence of the Igenite, Diya hefts the object in her left hand and then passes it with ease to her right. "I don't think I need to see to anything, the threat of a clubbing, and your own infectious sort of commanding spirit can hustle any rider into obeying your will. By all means, sit, if it pleases you, Ch'dais." Her own request is added to the more inspired tone of the other goldrider, inviting, but not overwhelmingly concerned. He's brought her fresh klah, and really, what else matters? The middle-aged woman makes short work of the package that is lain across her knees, neatly discarding the wrappings and withdrawing the scroll tube carried within. "You do realize I'll have to find something that'll match its worth, with wood production dwindling with 'fall."
"You couldn't keep out from underfoot at Igen, then?" Ch'dais summons a more solid smile this time, a brief baring of the teeth beneath the red-kissed stubble of his beard. "Here's to new beginnings, Weyrwoman." He gives the robed goldrider an absent toast with his mug before taking another long draught, his attention shifting from the Igenite to the nearest empty chair. Yes, he's still looming. "I can't stay, I'm afraid," he continues, with very little evidence of fear. "There's something I have to attend to." What that might be at this hour is anyone's guess.
"You'll do nothing of the sort, Diya," Yevide counters, sparking with pleasure as her gift is exposed. "It was a lucky find, one that I knew--" Her modest objections are interrupted when the cinnamon-maned bronzerider continues to block her light. "You are going to make me very cross, Ch'dais." An idle threat, surely, given her jovial tone of voice. A finger is stabbed at the selfsame chair he's glanced at. "Sit. You can't stay but you're in no hurry either and you are making me nervous." With that explained, pale eyes return-- sky-bright and deeply wrinkled at the corners when she smiles-- to the other goldrider. "My uncle, the collector...he happened across it and set it aside for me. Inside, look...look in there, there's more."
Sinopa enters from the bowl outside.
Sinopa has arrived.
The hour is late, the living caverns sparsely populated and by one of the hearths sits two woman of similar age with a native bronzerider looming over them. Diya, with more caution to her movements, gently rattles the contents of the tube, and after screwing the top off, withdraws two styluses, or at least the casings of them with the appropriate slots for ink and sharpened tips. Her fingers luxuriate over the wood, feeling the fine carving of it and then she lifts her face to flash Yevide a look that wrinkles into checked laughter, though her eyes twinkle a bit. "You always know the perfect gift when visiting." Whether Ch'dais departs or stays, for a moment Diya seems not to care, but as her gaze strays upward towards the bronzerider, the glint of amusement fades, and looking almost wary she regards Arinth's rider. "Surely you can spare a few moments, unless Arinth-?"
Despite the late hour, Sinopa is awake and on the loose. Pausing at the entrance of the living caverns, she carefully glances about with dark eyes, lingering a moment on the two goldriders by the hearths, one foreign and one all too familiar. After a slight sniffle, she resumes her progress, heading over to the hearths herself on a trajectory that brings her close to the gathering of riders as she heads for some klah and late night snacks. "Evening," she greets brightly upon approach.
Everything about the man cries that he'd rather not remain-- his neutral expression, the faint narrowing of the eyes, the silent sigh that flares his nostrils. But Ch'dais rallies sufficiently to answer Diya with a reassuring curve of the lips. "He's fine, Weyrwoman. Just until I've had my klah, then." And the bronzerider settles ponderously into the seat he's been considering, putting his mug on the table as he does so. He casts a speculative glance across the Igen weyrwoman's parcels, queries mildly, "So, which one is mine?" So serious is the bronzerider's tone that one might miss the care with which he maintains it.
Sinopa
Tight curls of black are cropped to rest just above the young woman's shoulders. The voluminous mass of curls helps to soften the angular lines of her jaw bone. Large dark brown, nearly black, eyes dominate her face. Set between these expressive dark eyes is a slightly crooked nose with that peculiar look of having been broken many Turns ago. A smattering of freckles decorates her nose and cheekbones, disrupting an otherwise fair complexion. She is of average height, but not so average build. Rather than possessing a womanly, curvy body, her frame consists of diminuitive curves and a small chest.
Silky smooth fabric the color of rich red wine has been cut into a simple dress made elegant by embellishments and the quality of the cloth. A scooped neck, with off the shoulder sleeves, reveal freckled shoulders and the goldrider's collarbone. Fitting well to her figure, the skirt falls loosely in gentle pleats from mid-hip. Drapped loosely about her hips is a thin golden chain. Long sleeves that reach the wrist are hemmed with golden thread in an intricate geometric design. Ending a few inches above her ankles, the richly colored fabric swishes above a pair of dainty black shoes. Lightly draped about her neck are two scarves knitted of fine, silk wool that cascade to the middle of her thigh, one ebony in color and the other a medium ash gray.
Threads of dark blue and black, wrapped with shining gold, form the intricate and betassled knot of a junior weyrwoman at High Reaches Weyr.
She appears to be about 19 turns, 0 months, and 14 days old.
Yevide waves Diya's compliments away, although the look on her face speaks plainly of her being pleased at the present's reception. "It's our way. I trust you'll get good use, Diya, and enjoyment as well...ah, Sinopa." With movement spotted, Ch'dais is spared further faux-scolding when the Igen goldrider transfers her attention to the woman she just named. "Come join us, please, I'm being delightful and charming, it's great fun. I have a present for you as well, but you can't have it until you bring me an empty mug so I can sample some of this klah." There are two packages left, and the larger and softer of these two is drawn closer. She cradles it protectively in her arms, smile shining out above. "Ah, I never give bronzeriders presents. They always mistake them for tokens, an invitation to woo."
"You do realize the klah isn't cold there." Diya imparts, indulging Yevide and visibly relaxing in the Igenite's charm. But relaxation can only be momentary, and since she's had her klah, received her gifts, and spied and presumably heard Sinopa's approach, the statuesque woman rises slowly, reluctance to depart the dark-skinned woman's company. "I'm afraid my duties call." Reproof emphasizes duty above all, especially as the younger goldrider gets closer in her trajectory. "Yev, I'll drop by the barracks when I can, and you would do well to release Ch'dais from the onus of your company soon. He might very well burst from not being able to take off." As he's allayed her fears about his dragon, or any other such calamity on the horizon, the older woman can spare the bronzerider a half smile that's mostly genuine. "Hello, Sinopa. Good night, all."
Sinopa halts her progress and turns her head to look at Yevide as her name is called, though there's a touch of lag time on her part to recall the woman's name, perhaps due to a quick consultation of her own golden counterpart. "It would be weyrwoman Yevide from Igen, no?" A twinkle comes to her eyes at the mention of how bronzeriders receive gifts before she outright smirks, glancing briefly at Ch'dais before she continues to retrieve two mugs from near the hearth. Turning she catches Diya's excuse for departure. "Good night, Diya," she returns in pleasant tones, taking a seat and offering the empty mugs to Yevide.
Ulyath> Gentle sweeps of amber light up a smoky mental touch, one that draws on the memory of her lifemate to imbue Nenuith's voice with a almost forgotten desert heat. << You are most welcome here, Ulyath. Despite the weyrling accommodations you may have been presented. >>
"As if we wait to be invited," Ch'dais puts in, settling back in his chosen seat. The wood objects, creaking very softly as the big man shifts his weight. His smile for Yevide thinner than it probably ought to be for the jest, the look in his green eye less mirthful, and Sinopa's arrival registers on his seamed visage only as a renewed determination to be pleasant. Or something near it. "Weyrwoman," he rumbles in greeting, reaching with one paw for his own mug to polish off the dregs. "Well-rested after the Fall, I hope."
Ulyath> To Nenuith: Ulyath rouses from an uneasy slumber, waking voice thick with grit. Sand over scales, that tone rumbles a less than gracious response. << They think us fresh-hatched, to tolerate these lodgings. No ledge, no view... >> She fades a moment, pulled aside without warning only to return for a more polite end. << Thank you for your welcome though, Nenuith. Truly, your Weyr is...large. And strong. >>
"Always duties." Yevide adopts a sincerely regretful tone, rising to see Diya off. Some of the sparkle fades as she inclines her head to the other woman, smile gentling. "See, he's enjoying my company! Be well, Diya, you'd best not be a stranger..." Her own duty done there, she drops into her chair just in time to perform a trade with Sinopa: a mug for the slippery cloth-wrapped gift she'd threatened the junior with. "Yevide, yes. Come to my dreary exile. If they only knew how much I'm enjoying myself..." Even she has to struggle to maintain that sunlit expression, her own words reminding her of less happy topics, forcing a pause while she gathers her reserves of good cheer about her.
"Always," Diya replies. The scroll tube of styluses are safe under her arms, the mug of klah clasped onto for dear life in one hand, and the other reaches out, as if to smooth down the Igenite's hair and withdraws before she even gets close. "Should you need anything, my time's in the infirmary these days." Long strides give her shoulders ample time to go tense once more, before she disappears into the quiet of the infirmary.
Diya moves into the infirmary.
Diya has left.
Sinopa gives an affirmative nod to Ch'dais, "Yes. Yourself and Arinth as well, I hope?" After this brief exchange of pleasantries she accepts the gift from Yevide with a touch of eagerness. Her glance flickers up from the wrapped item to the Igen weyrwoman and she offers the woman a smile. "Why thank you. I'm glad you're enjoying your pleasant exile here," she teases in kind. Then her hands go to poke at the paper to unwrap the gift.
Inside is a length of cloth, a deep blue shot through with threads of copper. The texture is like a nubby silk and the ends are decorated with a wide band of more copper, geometric patterns, and delicate fringe. "It's all the rage in Igen now. A whole dress in a single length of cloth...I can show you how to wrap it about yourself. You'll need a blouse, but I have it on the best authority you're likely to have something in your wardrobe that will suit." This Yevide confides in a softer tone. Then she settles back in her chair, folding her arms before her and turning a speculative gaze upon Ch'dais. "I'll attend to finding the perfect gift for you then, Ch'dais. Perhaps silver-tooled scissors, or a sandalwood comb..."
Ch'dais scrapes back his chair and uncoils to his feet, a gesture that leaves him once more in the Igenite's light-- and well above her field of vision. "Flatterer," he rejoins simply, with a twitch of the lips. The dark-haired goldrider gets a last, speculative look-- uncomfortably long for such light conversation-- and then he sweeps his sea-gaze over Sinopa as he carries his empty mug from the table. "Hale and hardy as we're likely to be, Weyrwoman. But I should be about my business. Much as I hate to miss all of this... unwrapping." He puts his broad back to the same, tosses his mug among the dirties by the hearth with a clatter, and heads for the shadows of the lower caverns tunnel, brushing the braids from his face as he goes.
Ch'dais ventures down the long tunnel that leads to the lower caverns.
Ch'dais has left.
Sinopa gently runs her fingers over the fine cloth, not yet lifting it out to fully reveal itself lest it fall upon the floor of the caverns and become dirty. While appraising the garment, a content smile spreads across her lips and then she looks up to the gift-bearing weyrwoman, "It's very lovely, thank you, weyrwoman," Gently fingering it she nods slightly, "Why yes, I have plenty of blouses. You're welcome to come help me coordinate and show me how this lovely Igenite dress is properly worn." There's sincerity in that, although perhaps a bit much formality and stiffness in the younger woman's words as she leans back into the chair and settles. "Just come to High Reaches, have you?" she queries, glancing up to catch the departure of the bronzerider with a smirk. Someone doesn't take teasing too well.
"I believe he likes me." Yevide chases the bronzerider from the cavern with this opinion, cocking a finger in the direction of his retreating back. "I do like the large ones. The big silent types. They know when to go away," she finishes. Then it's back to sitting forward in her chair again, delight etched plain over her features as she studies the younger goldrider's features. "You're most welcome, weyrwoman." Stiffness seems anathema to the Igen woman but formality she managed with a tipping of the head and a more subdued smile. "Just come...just come as in just arrived, oh yes. The day before your first 'fall, and don't think I don't regret my timing."
"And when to put their feet in their mouths," is Sinopa's addition to Yevide's listing of the qualities that particular bronzerider possessses. "The day before the first Fall, was it?" Sinopa echoes, finishing with a wrinkling of her nose to demonstrate her sentiments on that choice arrival time. "No doubt you saw things at their worst," she says grimly before her eyes flick from the bright blue fabric sitting in her lap to Yevide. "And how has the situation at Igen fared?"
Yevide finally thinks to take the empty mug she'd earned in fair trade and fill it from the kettle Ch'dais had set earlier on the table. It's lukewarm but she hardly seems to notice. "At their best, actually. G'thon was there to greet me. I'm glad to have had the time with him, however brief." And there, it's out. The shadow that's hovered over the Weyr these past days. She sighs under the weight the speaking of his name conjures up. "Ganathon now, if he lives. Igen's fared a far cry better than Reaches has. Our casualties were heavy early on but we've adapted. You will as well."
The topic of an injured weyrleader without his dragon should certainly be taboo. At least, that's the effect it has on the youngest of High Reaches' goldriders, as her face goes blank and she fidgets momentarily in her chair. "Well, I'm glad you were properly greeted," she says, finally finding some words. "And indeed, I'm sure we will do better in both the air and on the ground in taking care of our wounded." With the conversation having taken this awkward turn, Sinopa's part of the talking drops off.
"And if there's anything I can do to help with that, I trust you'll be sure to let me know." Yevide brushes off her brighter smile and injects that note of cheer into her voice again. "But life goes on. I'll find you tomorrow and we can have a look at your blouses to see what will best suit you. I'm glad I chose the blue, I think it will make your skin glow. You'll see." With her lukewarm klah, the Igen weyrwoman stands, preparing to take her leave. "I've some pieces of jewelry I might be talked into parting with too, while you're wearing the dress."
It's amazing how easily one can become distracted. You wander into the caverns to find a late night snack and some klah, and are instead waylaid by a gift-bearing weyrwoman from Igen. Sinopa smiles at the woman, absently running another hand over the lovely fabric. "It's been a pleasure to make your acquaintance," she says, laying into stiff formalities once more. "Thank you very much for the lovely dress. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow for some fashion advice." This little spiel is finished with a flashy grin as she, too stands up, carefully holding the present. "Sleep well," she wishes the older woman.