Take that, mom!
Who: H'kon, Issa, Miniyal, Neiran, Vanya
Where: Living cavern
When: 14:18 on day 14, month 12, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
What: Not even too much sweet can keep Miniyal in the room. (Or, I had to flee because the scene got too large for my brain and my busted computer. I'm sure someone else will post everything that happened after I left.)
12/13/2006
At High Reaches Weyr, it is 14:18 on day 14, month 12, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
A Weyr functions much like clockwork. Each meal, activity, and duty has its appropriate time, and with little variation. As usual, lunch was placed out some two hours previous, and the bulk of the Weyr's population swept through to leave nothing but the remnants. The scraps and bones have been cleared by now, replaced with cold-cuts and new loaves of crusty bread and pitchers of juice and wineskins. With a Fall due late tomorrow, however, there's fewer of the latter than there usually is, reserving the bulk of the allotted wine for the possibility of a tragic Fall. What late diners there are are enjoying themselves despite the ominous task of tomorrow, a group of seasoned riders hogging one long table talking jovially on their rest day. Better inside, here, than out in the blustery cold of early winter. More reclusive presences dot the otherwise quiet living caverns, among them Neiran. He's likely just recently sat, judging by the untouched morsels on his plate and the steaming mug that he's not yet nursing because it hasn't steeped. He's digesting a book for the moment, which isn't an unusual sight, nor is the telltale garb of an infirmary shift just ended or about to begin - that black cassock of his, acting as terrible camouflage considering he's directly in the light of the nearest hearth.
This time of day it's not usual to find Miniyal in public. Why? Because there's people about. She much prefers to find times of day when the living cavern is even emptier than it is now. However, some task has drawn her out and since that is the case she has stopped by here. Well, truthfully she has stopped in the kitchens to beg something sweet from Corin who is working in there on the evening meal. So it's out of the kitchen door she comes with a pastry balanced in one hand. It's still warm and smells of spices and sweetener meaning she got her mother to relent slightly on the watching of her diet. Juggling it from one hand to the other she heads to the table where the klah is kept. Once there she goes about filling her mug and with a defiant look towards the kitchen door adds extra sweetener to her drink while taking a bite of her pastry. Ha! Take that mom!
H'kon, for his part, has likely been here since lunch; the bowl of soup before him, in which remains maybe five spoonfuls, is competing with the winds outside for temperature, though so far any passing Samaritans' offers to take his dishes have been met with an unconscious shake of his head. Because H'kon, at the end of a mostly vacated table, is terribly busy, and has been for hours. Two long, reasonably thick needles are held, one in either hand, wrapped 'round these is wool (the majority of which has yet to be made into anything, and is still curled into a ball of off-white. Once more, H'kon gives a browl as a the rectangular shape he's been adding to begins to waver at the edges, and the knitting is pulled apart. A mug of klah, which has followed the soup's dip toward colder temperatures, is pushed out of the way so that the excess wool that has been, once more, removed from the scarf-in-progress, has a place to sit.
With the increased sweeps put into effect, Issa has become more and more one of those late diners, striding into the living cavern once duties are done to pick over the meager remains still left at this hour. She fills her plate with the makings of a sandwich and a handfull of small, probably mildly bitter berries and then meanders hearth-wards, oriented on the klah and, coincidentally, the once-recordskeeper, now-assistant that stands there. How unhappy for Miniyal that it's just as she takes a bite of that prized pastry of hers that Issa sidles up to take control of the klah pot. "Hello, Miniyal," she greets, cheery smile in place, though at the moment it's directed into the mug she's claimed for herself. "Having a nice day?" Pouring one-handed takes some time, but the greenrider is fairly adept at it, balancing her plate in her right while her left maneuvers the pot and adds sweetener unabashedly-- two heaping spoons of it. That done, she pivots, casting a curious glance over at the table occupied by Neiran and the book he's absorbed in, though there's no move to join him, not just yet; she merely studies from afar for the moment.
And into the after lunch time caverns comes Vanya, her arms full of hides. There is a slow deliberateness to her steps, a fatalistic march more than a casual stroll. Her expression is rather bland, as though she has little if anything on her mind. There's no heading to the drinks table for tea or klah -- the latter not being one of her staples anyway -- nor to the food table for sustenance. No, instead she merely heads to the hearth where she chooses a table, perhaps not far from Neiran's. As for that, well, she doesn't seem to have noticed much of anyone, not even those she knows. Instead, she sits, dropping the hides onto the table. It's a good six inches of work, there, though what's on the hides is anyone's guess. Research of some kind, likely, since that seems to be what Vanya's been doing lately, both for Sinopa and for herself. Or, maybe it's just old hides she wants to get rid of, for the sorting begins. Two stacks, no three, from the one.
There's no title to give Issa a clue towards Neiran's current pursuits, but the general appearance of the book may speak for itself. Its cover is not leather, but simple cloth pasted to a stiff board, the binding made with twine. It's the kind of notebook which is nearly synonymous with the Caucus student; his own notes are today's luncheon reading material. While his eyes remain on the page, a slender hand quests forward to find his plate of sparse food. He finds a dried berry with his fingertips, and draws it to his lips to chew. While his jaw works, the sound of heavy hide hitting a table draws his eyes upwards. Cognizant suddenly of Vanya's presence, as well as Issa's eyes on him, the Journeyman straightens his shoulders slightly. The greenrider is afforded an informal nod, and the ex-recordskeeper presumably is included in that greeting by proxy. He swallows the berry belatedly, and closes his notebook without marking his place. Vanya's activities have his blatant attention from afar now, while white fingers curl like a spinner's legs around his mug to draw it near.
Once she has her mug, Miniyal divides her time between it and her pastry. Hot is good as is sweet and she stands just out of the way of the table looking about the room. Some people might be looking for a friend or someone to converse with, but that's not really her style, is it? Instead she quickly looks away if it seems like she does recognize someone. Sadly, that means she does not notice Issa's approach in time and therefore is unable to step away quickly enough to avoid that hello. "Issa." How polite and calm she sounds. Then another question and she focuses directly on the greenrider. "What? Oh, no. Not at all. Thank you for asking." Polite social lies. Clearly a lesson she has not mastered yet. Now that she has spoken she can take another bite of her pastry. They are never as good when cold after all and so she will need to consume it quickly. The comings and goings and nods and such of everyone seem to be beyond her notice.
H'kon finishes the unravelling of his masterpiece, and sets the needles down with a definite clack against the table. Klah, so recently pushed away, is now reached for (their relationship is fickle). Mug is brought to his lips, and the brownrider tastes cold, and possibly somewhat gelatinous, substance. This is enough to prompt a stand, accompanied by a roll of his shoulders, stretching of his neck, and extension of his elbows. Once all major joints have been properly cracked and clicked, the brownrider, mug in hand, moves toward the klah table. Even if there indeed seems to be people nearer it. A quick murmur of, "Excuse me," is offered to those in his path. Eyes remain downcast, focused on the fetching of new liquid.
Hides. Sorted neatly, concisely. Hides with writing and detailed drawings go in separate stacks. Others make it to a third stack, these covered with writing, yes, but scrawled and not quite as neat as the others. Some seem to be studied longer than others, compared to another hide, or just tossed to that third stack. Her expression still comparatively neutral, but there is something almost angry in her eyes as she scans some of those individual pages. Her movements are almost mechanical, dedicated solely to her current task, ignoring of any staring or any activity around herself. A woman, apparently, with a mission she intends to complete. Slow work, though, since each and every hide is given at least a cursory glance before being consigned to one of the three stacks. And then, there is a pause. A certain deeper scrutiny of one particular hide. It seems to be some sort of official document, since there are spaces and signatures and even a seal on the bottom. This, then, is set almost carefully into a fourth stack. Alone. Consisting of that one hide, all by itself.
"Oh? That's too bad." Polite and calm, like a mirror of the woman she speaks to, Issa responds, though her smile carries a hint of amusement to go with it. There's more, words on the tip of her tongue waiting to be said, you can see it, but she's interrupted by H'kon's quest for klah; with a glance up at him, she sidesteps out from in front of the klah pot with a genial apology. "Sorry about that, brownrider." Then it's back to Miniyal. "I was just about to see if Neiran would like some company, if you'd like to join me." It's such a simple offer, so easily nonchalant, with pale blue eyes steadily watching her. But there's that troublesome eyebrow, cocked just ever so slightly upward with the inquiry, that makes it into something of a subtle challenge.
Neiran continues his observation of Vanya as the woman arranges the hides before her. It may bring to mind the snacking habits of a group of Hold children raptly watching a puppet show when he claims another dried berry without removing his eyes from the scene, but there's little about him to suggest that he's deriving any form of entertainment from his vigil. Chewing, his hand returns to its place of warmth around the ceramic of the mug, and he spares its contents a long look afterwards, finally leaving Vanya without the focus of his gaze. And then - did he hear his name? He leaves his assessment of the tea's state in favor of looking up at Issa and Miniyal once more. Well aware that he's been spotted all by his lonesome, he can only prepare for imminent company. The sole preparation is to draw his plate a little closer and return his notebook to his satchel on the floor, leaving room for others who'll bring plates and mugs and possibly unwieldy elbows. It also spares him the reach for food, and so he pulls a piece of his little bread loaf off, and chews it.
"Hrm? Oh, no. I have to be going. Thank you." Miniyal nods her head once, politely, to Issa and then steps away from table, hearth, people. Without another word she takes her klah and rapidly diminishing pastry away and off to somewhere less inhabited.
Where: Living cavern
When: 14:18 on day 14, month 12, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
What: Not even too much sweet can keep Miniyal in the room. (Or, I had to flee because the scene got too large for my brain and my busted computer. I'm sure someone else will post everything that happened after I left.)
12/13/2006
At High Reaches Weyr, it is 14:18 on day 14, month 12, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
A Weyr functions much like clockwork. Each meal, activity, and duty has its appropriate time, and with little variation. As usual, lunch was placed out some two hours previous, and the bulk of the Weyr's population swept through to leave nothing but the remnants. The scraps and bones have been cleared by now, replaced with cold-cuts and new loaves of crusty bread and pitchers of juice and wineskins. With a Fall due late tomorrow, however, there's fewer of the latter than there usually is, reserving the bulk of the allotted wine for the possibility of a tragic Fall. What late diners there are are enjoying themselves despite the ominous task of tomorrow, a group of seasoned riders hogging one long table talking jovially on their rest day. Better inside, here, than out in the blustery cold of early winter. More reclusive presences dot the otherwise quiet living caverns, among them Neiran. He's likely just recently sat, judging by the untouched morsels on his plate and the steaming mug that he's not yet nursing because it hasn't steeped. He's digesting a book for the moment, which isn't an unusual sight, nor is the telltale garb of an infirmary shift just ended or about to begin - that black cassock of his, acting as terrible camouflage considering he's directly in the light of the nearest hearth.
This time of day it's not usual to find Miniyal in public. Why? Because there's people about. She much prefers to find times of day when the living cavern is even emptier than it is now. However, some task has drawn her out and since that is the case she has stopped by here. Well, truthfully she has stopped in the kitchens to beg something sweet from Corin who is working in there on the evening meal. So it's out of the kitchen door she comes with a pastry balanced in one hand. It's still warm and smells of spices and sweetener meaning she got her mother to relent slightly on the watching of her diet. Juggling it from one hand to the other she heads to the table where the klah is kept. Once there she goes about filling her mug and with a defiant look towards the kitchen door adds extra sweetener to her drink while taking a bite of her pastry. Ha! Take that mom!
H'kon, for his part, has likely been here since lunch; the bowl of soup before him, in which remains maybe five spoonfuls, is competing with the winds outside for temperature, though so far any passing Samaritans' offers to take his dishes have been met with an unconscious shake of his head. Because H'kon, at the end of a mostly vacated table, is terribly busy, and has been for hours. Two long, reasonably thick needles are held, one in either hand, wrapped 'round these is wool (the majority of which has yet to be made into anything, and is still curled into a ball of off-white. Once more, H'kon gives a browl as a the rectangular shape he's been adding to begins to waver at the edges, and the knitting is pulled apart. A mug of klah, which has followed the soup's dip toward colder temperatures, is pushed out of the way so that the excess wool that has been, once more, removed from the scarf-in-progress, has a place to sit.
With the increased sweeps put into effect, Issa has become more and more one of those late diners, striding into the living cavern once duties are done to pick over the meager remains still left at this hour. She fills her plate with the makings of a sandwich and a handfull of small, probably mildly bitter berries and then meanders hearth-wards, oriented on the klah and, coincidentally, the once-recordskeeper, now-assistant that stands there. How unhappy for Miniyal that it's just as she takes a bite of that prized pastry of hers that Issa sidles up to take control of the klah pot. "Hello, Miniyal," she greets, cheery smile in place, though at the moment it's directed into the mug she's claimed for herself. "Having a nice day?" Pouring one-handed takes some time, but the greenrider is fairly adept at it, balancing her plate in her right while her left maneuvers the pot and adds sweetener unabashedly-- two heaping spoons of it. That done, she pivots, casting a curious glance over at the table occupied by Neiran and the book he's absorbed in, though there's no move to join him, not just yet; she merely studies from afar for the moment.
And into the after lunch time caverns comes Vanya, her arms full of hides. There is a slow deliberateness to her steps, a fatalistic march more than a casual stroll. Her expression is rather bland, as though she has little if anything on her mind. There's no heading to the drinks table for tea or klah -- the latter not being one of her staples anyway -- nor to the food table for sustenance. No, instead she merely heads to the hearth where she chooses a table, perhaps not far from Neiran's. As for that, well, she doesn't seem to have noticed much of anyone, not even those she knows. Instead, she sits, dropping the hides onto the table. It's a good six inches of work, there, though what's on the hides is anyone's guess. Research of some kind, likely, since that seems to be what Vanya's been doing lately, both for Sinopa and for herself. Or, maybe it's just old hides she wants to get rid of, for the sorting begins. Two stacks, no three, from the one.
There's no title to give Issa a clue towards Neiran's current pursuits, but the general appearance of the book may speak for itself. Its cover is not leather, but simple cloth pasted to a stiff board, the binding made with twine. It's the kind of notebook which is nearly synonymous with the Caucus student; his own notes are today's luncheon reading material. While his eyes remain on the page, a slender hand quests forward to find his plate of sparse food. He finds a dried berry with his fingertips, and draws it to his lips to chew. While his jaw works, the sound of heavy hide hitting a table draws his eyes upwards. Cognizant suddenly of Vanya's presence, as well as Issa's eyes on him, the Journeyman straightens his shoulders slightly. The greenrider is afforded an informal nod, and the ex-recordskeeper presumably is included in that greeting by proxy. He swallows the berry belatedly, and closes his notebook without marking his place. Vanya's activities have his blatant attention from afar now, while white fingers curl like a spinner's legs around his mug to draw it near.
Once she has her mug, Miniyal divides her time between it and her pastry. Hot is good as is sweet and she stands just out of the way of the table looking about the room. Some people might be looking for a friend or someone to converse with, but that's not really her style, is it? Instead she quickly looks away if it seems like she does recognize someone. Sadly, that means she does not notice Issa's approach in time and therefore is unable to step away quickly enough to avoid that hello. "Issa." How polite and calm she sounds. Then another question and she focuses directly on the greenrider. "What? Oh, no. Not at all. Thank you for asking." Polite social lies. Clearly a lesson she has not mastered yet. Now that she has spoken she can take another bite of her pastry. They are never as good when cold after all and so she will need to consume it quickly. The comings and goings and nods and such of everyone seem to be beyond her notice.
H'kon finishes the unravelling of his masterpiece, and sets the needles down with a definite clack against the table. Klah, so recently pushed away, is now reached for (their relationship is fickle). Mug is brought to his lips, and the brownrider tastes cold, and possibly somewhat gelatinous, substance. This is enough to prompt a stand, accompanied by a roll of his shoulders, stretching of his neck, and extension of his elbows. Once all major joints have been properly cracked and clicked, the brownrider, mug in hand, moves toward the klah table. Even if there indeed seems to be people nearer it. A quick murmur of, "Excuse me," is offered to those in his path. Eyes remain downcast, focused on the fetching of new liquid.
Hides. Sorted neatly, concisely. Hides with writing and detailed drawings go in separate stacks. Others make it to a third stack, these covered with writing, yes, but scrawled and not quite as neat as the others. Some seem to be studied longer than others, compared to another hide, or just tossed to that third stack. Her expression still comparatively neutral, but there is something almost angry in her eyes as she scans some of those individual pages. Her movements are almost mechanical, dedicated solely to her current task, ignoring of any staring or any activity around herself. A woman, apparently, with a mission she intends to complete. Slow work, though, since each and every hide is given at least a cursory glance before being consigned to one of the three stacks. And then, there is a pause. A certain deeper scrutiny of one particular hide. It seems to be some sort of official document, since there are spaces and signatures and even a seal on the bottom. This, then, is set almost carefully into a fourth stack. Alone. Consisting of that one hide, all by itself.
"Oh? That's too bad." Polite and calm, like a mirror of the woman she speaks to, Issa responds, though her smile carries a hint of amusement to go with it. There's more, words on the tip of her tongue waiting to be said, you can see it, but she's interrupted by H'kon's quest for klah; with a glance up at him, she sidesteps out from in front of the klah pot with a genial apology. "Sorry about that, brownrider." Then it's back to Miniyal. "I was just about to see if Neiran would like some company, if you'd like to join me." It's such a simple offer, so easily nonchalant, with pale blue eyes steadily watching her. But there's that troublesome eyebrow, cocked just ever so slightly upward with the inquiry, that makes it into something of a subtle challenge.
Neiran continues his observation of Vanya as the woman arranges the hides before her. It may bring to mind the snacking habits of a group of Hold children raptly watching a puppet show when he claims another dried berry without removing his eyes from the scene, but there's little about him to suggest that he's deriving any form of entertainment from his vigil. Chewing, his hand returns to its place of warmth around the ceramic of the mug, and he spares its contents a long look afterwards, finally leaving Vanya without the focus of his gaze. And then - did he hear his name? He leaves his assessment of the tea's state in favor of looking up at Issa and Miniyal once more. Well aware that he's been spotted all by his lonesome, he can only prepare for imminent company. The sole preparation is to draw his plate a little closer and return his notebook to his satchel on the floor, leaving room for others who'll bring plates and mugs and possibly unwieldy elbows. It also spares him the reach for food, and so he pulls a piece of his little bread loaf off, and chews it.
"Hrm? Oh, no. I have to be going. Thank you." Miniyal nods her head once, politely, to Issa and then steps away from table, hearth, people. Without another word she takes her klah and rapidly diminishing pastry away and off to somewhere less inhabited.