Things have changed
Who: Ownah and Lucian
Where: Open pit at Five Mines Hold
When: Daytime on day 25, month 10, turn 3 of the 7th Pass.
What: Ownah sits outside tending to her work for the day. Lucian happens along and the two of them chat about sledding, interesting times, and trouble. Ownah, at least, has definitely changed since their last meeting and it makes for a more interesting sort of talk. For her at least. So, it earns the fierce puppy icon!
5/21/2007
At High Reaches Weyr, it is daytime on day 25, month 10, turn 3 of the 7th Pass.
It's the time of day that is loosely defined as 'work time.' That is, somewhere between breakfast and lunch when the hold is just buzzing with activity. There are people going about their tasks without paying other people any attention. The only person who seems to really be watching what she is doing is Ownah. And she's warily sort of keeping an eye out for. . .something or other. Whatever it is that is bothering her she doesn't let it stop her from her work. Which seems to be at the moment tending to the trash. Away from the entrance to the hold in a spot no longer used for anything but this she sits beside a bucket of water, watching trash burn. And, because she has to be doing something more exciting than wait for the next load of trash to be brought out she knits.
Woe to the harper, it seems there are some times when he must, actually, work. Thus he appears outside, having apparently claimed a small break for himself, with ink stains marring his long fingers and a wrinkle of displeasure on his nose. That wrinkle only grows deeper when he smells the burning trash, turning to give it a reproachful look for daring to be here. He hefts his oversized jacket up higher on his shoulders, lifting his ink-stained hands to pop the collar up over his nose, and - once protected - lets his gaze shift to Ownah. His eyes rest on her for a time, judging her quietly, before he offers a greeting in his usual, musical tones. "Hello, Ownah." His features are hidden by the jacket, but the hints of a smile - some amusement, at least - show up as a thin tremor in his voice.
Being of a lesser type of being, the scent of the burning trash doesn't seem to be bothering Ownah. She has a comfortable rock to sit on, knitting at hand, and no reason to run and hide there being no one from the weyr about to send her scurrying away. When she hears her name up comes her head although the knitting continues. "Oh. Hello, Lucian. How have you been?" She looks him over, studying his appearance. "You ok? What's with the jacket? It ain't that cold. It's just outdoors." Blinking she smiles cheerfully. "Outdoors don' kill ya. Relax." Smell? What smell? It could be worse, he could notice the colors used in the knitting to make what appears to maybe might be a glove. If one is polite about the use of the term.
Lucian had withdrawn his fingers up into the warmth of his sleeves, but now he frees them again, lifting his arm and letting gravity take care of the exposure. His fingers wiggle in the cool air, then draw back against his palm as he once again disappears them inside his sleeve. "I am perfectly relaxed," he informs her smoothly. "My coat keeps me comfortable." His sleeves meet, his arms sliding together in them. Once the rustling of cloth has faded, he continues, "And I am well. You called me Lucian." The second statement is part of a simple observation, unweighted by any significance, although he does raise a placid brow at her.
Ownah's knitting needles slow down and come to a stop. "Umm. I did?" Clearly it wasn't planned. Or thought out. Or, well, anything. Lifting up her eyes to look at him she does so for just a moment and then ducks her head. "Sorry. Ain't trying to. . .just been talkin' lately to people what get upset when I don't use their name. Didn't mean nothing by it." The needles start to move again and a look is given towards the trash pile. Can't let it get out of control while she chats up the local harper or something. "Just ain't seen you around. Not that, you know, I see people much. Just, right. Anyway, glad you're well."
"Ah, have you," Lucian murmurs while she speaks - about the people she's been speaking to, in fact - but it is so quiet it may well be lost in his collar. Heard or unheard, it is the only break in an otherwise motionless frame, for while Ownah shifts her gaze and clicks away at her knitting, the harper remains perfectly still with his pale eyes trained on the worker. "I have been around," he assures her blithely, his loose, airy tones floating at odds with the still green intensity of his eyes. "Perhaps your duties lead you elsewhere." His steady focus moves beyond her (just for a second) when he says the word 'duties,' and when it returns his gaze has grown mild, and there is some hint of a smile tucked away behind the flaps of his collar.
There is a pause in the knitting to untangle something that should not be tangled. Ownah mutters at the yarn, but eventually she resumes her work. "Talk ta people. Meet 'em, ya know? I mean, I do mostly laundry work and ya meet lots of people that way. Some of em wanna talk. Some of em don't much care." Shoulders shrug as she checks on the fire, the flicker of a glance to take away the look given up to the harper. Clearly it is work that takes little of her attention even if it takes so much of her time. "What 'bout yours? They lead you anywhere interesting. Yer all dirty." So, she noticed the ink. Dirty for him anyway. She has dirt under her fingernails and a smudge of something on one cheek. Real dirt.
She noticed the ink; Lucian has probably not forgotten it, but even so, the word 'dirty' evokes different meaning for him, and with evident surprise he leans forward to glance down at himself, inspecting his clothes for any trace of that 'real dirt' Ownah exhibits. There's none to be seen, but he still frees a hand so he can brush his fingernails over the breast of his jacket. Just making sure. While he cleans up, he muses. "Anywhere interesting. Yes." The word drawn out, not with hesitation but with some quiet delight. "These are interesting times. One would be hard pressed to find a spot here that is otherwise. Hmm?" He has been focusing on his coat, but the last word brings his eyes up to watch Ownah, and this time the lowered angle of his coat provides a clear view of the tiny smile waiting on his lips.
"Yea. Guess. I mean, people here're different." Ownah pauses to look at her work and holds up the glove to inspect it. The colors make it obvious that she has managed to scrounge yarn from other products to be able to make this. It is, apparently, the thought that counts in this project. "I mean, not all of 'em. But, yea. Not sure what to make of it I guess. Different goings on." Shaking her head she rests her project in her lap a moment so she can sort through the yarn carefully wadded up into the pockets of her pants. "Probably you're happier 'bout it. You seem happier about it. Wish it weren't so. . .like this. Was easier before is all. Not that it was easy. Still. Not doing so bad I guess all things considered. Just want to avoid the real interesting stuff I think."
Does he seem happier about it? Lucian's eyebrows lift curiously, but so do the corners of his smile. "And have you succeeded?" is all he wants to know, drawing himself straight so the smile dips out of view behind his collar again. While he was preening, he fixed the lapels and straightened the shoulders on his wandering, loose coat, both of which combine to produce a more taut, formal image. The amusement in his voice alone softens it. "Avoiding the real interesting stuff." He slows down for the quote, pronouncing the words more carefully than she did, but there's no detectable condescension in it. Just attention to detail.
"Been tryin'," is the answer given for the question asked. Which doesn't answer it at all, does it? Ownah picks through her yarn and finds an orange. To go with the blue, green, and pink already used in the main part of the glove. "Goin' sleddin'." This is offered as if it is important. "Helpin' make the sled. Well, sorta. Still, when the snow comes. Will be fun. Don't suppose you'll go. It bein' outdoors and liable to be all cold and frozen and wet and stuff. Still, yer welcome to come if you want. Hill's not so far from here. Found it on my own." And isn't she pleased with herself? Well, quite clearly so. As if she discovered gold.
Even with his mouth concealed, Lucian has no trouble expressing his distaste through a thin wrinkle of his nose. "No doubt," he responds, though in answer to what is not clear. There is a faint sound of dry lips parting, but words do not immediately follow; instead, the harper chooses to shift the wrinkle from his nose to his brow, watching Ownah now with a faint, puzzling frown. His head tilts to the side, at a gentle angle. "Sledding does not hold particular appeal for me," he says, dismissing the words even as he says them. More interesting are the words that come after. "Your trouble with the men who live here. Has it ended?"
Her eyes roll at his words because, likely, she saw them coming. Ownah, no great judge of character, at least knows some small bit about human nature. "It's awful fun," she says encouragingly. "But, I understand you don' wanna go. But, I'll be sure and tell you all ya missed!" A promise given with a bright smile and a sunny demeanor. "Ain't ever over. Learned mostly ta avoid 'em. Ain't- some of em leave me be now. Got bored I guess. Found more interesting prey. But, I know enough tricks now. Ain't worried about it. Ain't scared of em. Gonna stop lettin' em scare me. Stop making me not live how I want. Not right, them actin' like they can run my life just by threatening me."
Lucian's stare fixes on her again, but it is more mobile this time. His eyes never leave her face, but they do flick around minutely, picking up changes in her expression. "Bold," he concludes, in a tone to match. It changes abruptly for his next statement, going soft and musing. "Yet these interesting things you are avoiding. They /can/ run your life," such a gentle emphasis, "just by - being." Not emphasis but a thoughtful pause draws the last word. Then his hands, both of them, reappear from his sleeves, spread outwards with the palms upturned in an offering gesture, as though he were holding the thought out for her to take.
"Ain't." Ownah objects with a quiet voice as she returns to her knitting, still not looking down at it as she must feel watching the harper is more important. Wiser, perhaps, to keep an eye on him as they talk. "Bold I mean. Just. . .tired. Tired o'hiding, you know? Got a right to live same as anyone else. That's all. Don' want to do anything but my work and be left be and there's no reason I can't." Indeed. None at all. Click, click go her needles as she looks at those hands. "My life ain't ever been my own. First my father's and then my husband's. S'how my life is run. So, interesting things, things don't run my life. That job's already taken."
In fairness, Lucian has been pinning a stare on her for a good part of their conversation, and such a thing can often be distracting. He hasn't even glanced at her work but, now that her attention has been so wisely and well focused, now the harper spares a glance for it, watching the knitting needles click together. "Neither your father nor your husband are here now," he murmurs, his own attention fading out as light from the fire below and sun above combines to send bright shivers down her moving needles. "As I understand it, that was the crux of the problem." His hands withdraw into their respective sleeves, though he doesn't join them this time.
Ownah's hands move on their own although that sometimes creates problems. Another one appears and she has to once more sort out her yarn. It requires all of her attention and only when she can once more use her needles without looking does she reply. "Was the problem. But. . .but I found a ways to make do. I'll be fine. It's not like I gotta worry about everywhere. And, I ain't alone now. Got a friend. Makin' him gloves, see?" She holds up the glove being worked on with pride. "Cause he ain't got none and they'll be warmer cause a friend made em. I'm ok. You ain't gotta worry about it. Not gonna make trouble, but not gonna run from it no more."
"Worry?" Lucian repeats the word very softly, but with a faint, gentle note of reproach in it. That sort of terminology just will not do. "I inquire." His gaze drops down to the glove she's working on, pulling its way across the mish-mash of colors wound up there. And, "I see," follows it up. Where he held the condescension off before, now it appears with a kindly overtone: a harper, after all, does sometimes work with children. Even this one. "Generous of you." If bold doesn't work, try another adjective.
"Sorry. Inquire. Askin', right? Meant it the same way I guess. Know you don't, you know, worry." Ownah is not the sort to presume, her tone implies, that anyone here would worry about her. "Just want ya ta know is all. That I ain't makin' no trouble. I'm just doing what I have to and I'm just not gonna run away no more. That's all." Her eyes look at the glove and then up at the harper. "Know it ain't perfect. Told him it wouldn't be, but I /like/ the different colors. Makes em unique and special and stuff. So he's always gonna know which is his. Anyway, not sure about generous. Got to have something to keep my hands busy is all. No sense not workin'."
Another adjective shot down. Perhaps it's this that sparks the moment of amusement in Lucian's eyes - his smile, if it accompanies, is still hidden behind the jacket collar. "I had not imagined otherwise," he answers the first half of her statement, his voice made lighter by that amused flash. It stays light as he continues. "It is a question of balance. You will not run from your pursuers, but face them head-on; your life is yours to live, but you will live it carefully to avoid those interesting things we spoke of. Hmm? Your gloves, whom are they for?" There is no chance to answer the first statement of his as he dives ahead with his next question, one of his sleeve-covered hands lifting for a quick wave at her work.
She is not, one might suppose, prepared for this sort of questioning. This interrogation couched in polite interest. Ownah might wonder why he seems interested, but she would not presume to ask. What she will do is answer his questions. "Makin' for J'lor. He don't have any comin' from where he does and he's makin' a sled. And, he said I could sit with him sometimes and all if I didn't want ta be alone. Like family. Cause we're both of us here without our families. Feel bad for him and want to make him happy." She pauses here with another thought on her tongue, hesitating to get out. Eventually the struggle is won and she adds, "He ain't right about some stuff. But I think he means well. Just got to be careful. He needs someone ta look out for him. In case of trouble. I'll protect him."
The name registers with a faint lift of Lucian's eyebrows, though the harper does not interrupt. If anything, he has somehow grown more quiet as he listens this time, though his stare is as sharp as ever. "Indeed," he murmurs at the end, and if one ought to show surprise at the idea of this woman - who not so long ago was plagued by potential assailants herself - looking out for a man, he fails to do it. "Generous of you." He repeats the phrase despite her refusal of it, brooking no disagreement this time as he drops his gaze away from her and gives the low-burning trash heap a dour look and a disgusted sniff. "Forgive me," he murmurs, his politesse restored as the words address Ownah (though his eyes stay on the fire a moment longer), "I must head inside." And with a tiny incline of his head, he steps back, leaving the smelly firepit and retreating to the more welcome warmth indoors.
Where: Open pit at Five Mines Hold
When: Daytime on day 25, month 10, turn 3 of the 7th Pass.
What: Ownah sits outside tending to her work for the day. Lucian happens along and the two of them chat about sledding, interesting times, and trouble. Ownah, at least, has definitely changed since their last meeting and it makes for a more interesting sort of talk. For her at least. So, it earns the fierce puppy icon!
5/21/2007
At High Reaches Weyr, it is daytime on day 25, month 10, turn 3 of the 7th Pass.
It's the time of day that is loosely defined as 'work time.' That is, somewhere between breakfast and lunch when the hold is just buzzing with activity. There are people going about their tasks without paying other people any attention. The only person who seems to really be watching what she is doing is Ownah. And she's warily sort of keeping an eye out for. . .something or other. Whatever it is that is bothering her she doesn't let it stop her from her work. Which seems to be at the moment tending to the trash. Away from the entrance to the hold in a spot no longer used for anything but this she sits beside a bucket of water, watching trash burn. And, because she has to be doing something more exciting than wait for the next load of trash to be brought out she knits.
Woe to the harper, it seems there are some times when he must, actually, work. Thus he appears outside, having apparently claimed a small break for himself, with ink stains marring his long fingers and a wrinkle of displeasure on his nose. That wrinkle only grows deeper when he smells the burning trash, turning to give it a reproachful look for daring to be here. He hefts his oversized jacket up higher on his shoulders, lifting his ink-stained hands to pop the collar up over his nose, and - once protected - lets his gaze shift to Ownah. His eyes rest on her for a time, judging her quietly, before he offers a greeting in his usual, musical tones. "Hello, Ownah." His features are hidden by the jacket, but the hints of a smile - some amusement, at least - show up as a thin tremor in his voice.
Being of a lesser type of being, the scent of the burning trash doesn't seem to be bothering Ownah. She has a comfortable rock to sit on, knitting at hand, and no reason to run and hide there being no one from the weyr about to send her scurrying away. When she hears her name up comes her head although the knitting continues. "Oh. Hello, Lucian. How have you been?" She looks him over, studying his appearance. "You ok? What's with the jacket? It ain't that cold. It's just outdoors." Blinking she smiles cheerfully. "Outdoors don' kill ya. Relax." Smell? What smell? It could be worse, he could notice the colors used in the knitting to make what appears to maybe might be a glove. If one is polite about the use of the term.
Lucian had withdrawn his fingers up into the warmth of his sleeves, but now he frees them again, lifting his arm and letting gravity take care of the exposure. His fingers wiggle in the cool air, then draw back against his palm as he once again disappears them inside his sleeve. "I am perfectly relaxed," he informs her smoothly. "My coat keeps me comfortable." His sleeves meet, his arms sliding together in them. Once the rustling of cloth has faded, he continues, "And I am well. You called me Lucian." The second statement is part of a simple observation, unweighted by any significance, although he does raise a placid brow at her.
Ownah's knitting needles slow down and come to a stop. "Umm. I did?" Clearly it wasn't planned. Or thought out. Or, well, anything. Lifting up her eyes to look at him she does so for just a moment and then ducks her head. "Sorry. Ain't trying to. . .just been talkin' lately to people what get upset when I don't use their name. Didn't mean nothing by it." The needles start to move again and a look is given towards the trash pile. Can't let it get out of control while she chats up the local harper or something. "Just ain't seen you around. Not that, you know, I see people much. Just, right. Anyway, glad you're well."
"Ah, have you," Lucian murmurs while she speaks - about the people she's been speaking to, in fact - but it is so quiet it may well be lost in his collar. Heard or unheard, it is the only break in an otherwise motionless frame, for while Ownah shifts her gaze and clicks away at her knitting, the harper remains perfectly still with his pale eyes trained on the worker. "I have been around," he assures her blithely, his loose, airy tones floating at odds with the still green intensity of his eyes. "Perhaps your duties lead you elsewhere." His steady focus moves beyond her (just for a second) when he says the word 'duties,' and when it returns his gaze has grown mild, and there is some hint of a smile tucked away behind the flaps of his collar.
There is a pause in the knitting to untangle something that should not be tangled. Ownah mutters at the yarn, but eventually she resumes her work. "Talk ta people. Meet 'em, ya know? I mean, I do mostly laundry work and ya meet lots of people that way. Some of em wanna talk. Some of em don't much care." Shoulders shrug as she checks on the fire, the flicker of a glance to take away the look given up to the harper. Clearly it is work that takes little of her attention even if it takes so much of her time. "What 'bout yours? They lead you anywhere interesting. Yer all dirty." So, she noticed the ink. Dirty for him anyway. She has dirt under her fingernails and a smudge of something on one cheek. Real dirt.
She noticed the ink; Lucian has probably not forgotten it, but even so, the word 'dirty' evokes different meaning for him, and with evident surprise he leans forward to glance down at himself, inspecting his clothes for any trace of that 'real dirt' Ownah exhibits. There's none to be seen, but he still frees a hand so he can brush his fingernails over the breast of his jacket. Just making sure. While he cleans up, he muses. "Anywhere interesting. Yes." The word drawn out, not with hesitation but with some quiet delight. "These are interesting times. One would be hard pressed to find a spot here that is otherwise. Hmm?" He has been focusing on his coat, but the last word brings his eyes up to watch Ownah, and this time the lowered angle of his coat provides a clear view of the tiny smile waiting on his lips.
"Yea. Guess. I mean, people here're different." Ownah pauses to look at her work and holds up the glove to inspect it. The colors make it obvious that she has managed to scrounge yarn from other products to be able to make this. It is, apparently, the thought that counts in this project. "I mean, not all of 'em. But, yea. Not sure what to make of it I guess. Different goings on." Shaking her head she rests her project in her lap a moment so she can sort through the yarn carefully wadded up into the pockets of her pants. "Probably you're happier 'bout it. You seem happier about it. Wish it weren't so. . .like this. Was easier before is all. Not that it was easy. Still. Not doing so bad I guess all things considered. Just want to avoid the real interesting stuff I think."
Does he seem happier about it? Lucian's eyebrows lift curiously, but so do the corners of his smile. "And have you succeeded?" is all he wants to know, drawing himself straight so the smile dips out of view behind his collar again. While he was preening, he fixed the lapels and straightened the shoulders on his wandering, loose coat, both of which combine to produce a more taut, formal image. The amusement in his voice alone softens it. "Avoiding the real interesting stuff." He slows down for the quote, pronouncing the words more carefully than she did, but there's no detectable condescension in it. Just attention to detail.
"Been tryin'," is the answer given for the question asked. Which doesn't answer it at all, does it? Ownah picks through her yarn and finds an orange. To go with the blue, green, and pink already used in the main part of the glove. "Goin' sleddin'." This is offered as if it is important. "Helpin' make the sled. Well, sorta. Still, when the snow comes. Will be fun. Don't suppose you'll go. It bein' outdoors and liable to be all cold and frozen and wet and stuff. Still, yer welcome to come if you want. Hill's not so far from here. Found it on my own." And isn't she pleased with herself? Well, quite clearly so. As if she discovered gold.
Even with his mouth concealed, Lucian has no trouble expressing his distaste through a thin wrinkle of his nose. "No doubt," he responds, though in answer to what is not clear. There is a faint sound of dry lips parting, but words do not immediately follow; instead, the harper chooses to shift the wrinkle from his nose to his brow, watching Ownah now with a faint, puzzling frown. His head tilts to the side, at a gentle angle. "Sledding does not hold particular appeal for me," he says, dismissing the words even as he says them. More interesting are the words that come after. "Your trouble with the men who live here. Has it ended?"
Her eyes roll at his words because, likely, she saw them coming. Ownah, no great judge of character, at least knows some small bit about human nature. "It's awful fun," she says encouragingly. "But, I understand you don' wanna go. But, I'll be sure and tell you all ya missed!" A promise given with a bright smile and a sunny demeanor. "Ain't ever over. Learned mostly ta avoid 'em. Ain't- some of em leave me be now. Got bored I guess. Found more interesting prey. But, I know enough tricks now. Ain't worried about it. Ain't scared of em. Gonna stop lettin' em scare me. Stop making me not live how I want. Not right, them actin' like they can run my life just by threatening me."
Lucian's stare fixes on her again, but it is more mobile this time. His eyes never leave her face, but they do flick around minutely, picking up changes in her expression. "Bold," he concludes, in a tone to match. It changes abruptly for his next statement, going soft and musing. "Yet these interesting things you are avoiding. They /can/ run your life," such a gentle emphasis, "just by - being." Not emphasis but a thoughtful pause draws the last word. Then his hands, both of them, reappear from his sleeves, spread outwards with the palms upturned in an offering gesture, as though he were holding the thought out for her to take.
"Ain't." Ownah objects with a quiet voice as she returns to her knitting, still not looking down at it as she must feel watching the harper is more important. Wiser, perhaps, to keep an eye on him as they talk. "Bold I mean. Just. . .tired. Tired o'hiding, you know? Got a right to live same as anyone else. That's all. Don' want to do anything but my work and be left be and there's no reason I can't." Indeed. None at all. Click, click go her needles as she looks at those hands. "My life ain't ever been my own. First my father's and then my husband's. S'how my life is run. So, interesting things, things don't run my life. That job's already taken."
In fairness, Lucian has been pinning a stare on her for a good part of their conversation, and such a thing can often be distracting. He hasn't even glanced at her work but, now that her attention has been so wisely and well focused, now the harper spares a glance for it, watching the knitting needles click together. "Neither your father nor your husband are here now," he murmurs, his own attention fading out as light from the fire below and sun above combines to send bright shivers down her moving needles. "As I understand it, that was the crux of the problem." His hands withdraw into their respective sleeves, though he doesn't join them this time.
Ownah's hands move on their own although that sometimes creates problems. Another one appears and she has to once more sort out her yarn. It requires all of her attention and only when she can once more use her needles without looking does she reply. "Was the problem. But. . .but I found a ways to make do. I'll be fine. It's not like I gotta worry about everywhere. And, I ain't alone now. Got a friend. Makin' him gloves, see?" She holds up the glove being worked on with pride. "Cause he ain't got none and they'll be warmer cause a friend made em. I'm ok. You ain't gotta worry about it. Not gonna make trouble, but not gonna run from it no more."
"Worry?" Lucian repeats the word very softly, but with a faint, gentle note of reproach in it. That sort of terminology just will not do. "I inquire." His gaze drops down to the glove she's working on, pulling its way across the mish-mash of colors wound up there. And, "I see," follows it up. Where he held the condescension off before, now it appears with a kindly overtone: a harper, after all, does sometimes work with children. Even this one. "Generous of you." If bold doesn't work, try another adjective.
"Sorry. Inquire. Askin', right? Meant it the same way I guess. Know you don't, you know, worry." Ownah is not the sort to presume, her tone implies, that anyone here would worry about her. "Just want ya ta know is all. That I ain't makin' no trouble. I'm just doing what I have to and I'm just not gonna run away no more. That's all." Her eyes look at the glove and then up at the harper. "Know it ain't perfect. Told him it wouldn't be, but I /like/ the different colors. Makes em unique and special and stuff. So he's always gonna know which is his. Anyway, not sure about generous. Got to have something to keep my hands busy is all. No sense not workin'."
Another adjective shot down. Perhaps it's this that sparks the moment of amusement in Lucian's eyes - his smile, if it accompanies, is still hidden behind the jacket collar. "I had not imagined otherwise," he answers the first half of her statement, his voice made lighter by that amused flash. It stays light as he continues. "It is a question of balance. You will not run from your pursuers, but face them head-on; your life is yours to live, but you will live it carefully to avoid those interesting things we spoke of. Hmm? Your gloves, whom are they for?" There is no chance to answer the first statement of his as he dives ahead with his next question, one of his sleeve-covered hands lifting for a quick wave at her work.
She is not, one might suppose, prepared for this sort of questioning. This interrogation couched in polite interest. Ownah might wonder why he seems interested, but she would not presume to ask. What she will do is answer his questions. "Makin' for J'lor. He don't have any comin' from where he does and he's makin' a sled. And, he said I could sit with him sometimes and all if I didn't want ta be alone. Like family. Cause we're both of us here without our families. Feel bad for him and want to make him happy." She pauses here with another thought on her tongue, hesitating to get out. Eventually the struggle is won and she adds, "He ain't right about some stuff. But I think he means well. Just got to be careful. He needs someone ta look out for him. In case of trouble. I'll protect him."
The name registers with a faint lift of Lucian's eyebrows, though the harper does not interrupt. If anything, he has somehow grown more quiet as he listens this time, though his stare is as sharp as ever. "Indeed," he murmurs at the end, and if one ought to show surprise at the idea of this woman - who not so long ago was plagued by potential assailants herself - looking out for a man, he fails to do it. "Generous of you." He repeats the phrase despite her refusal of it, brooking no disagreement this time as he drops his gaze away from her and gives the low-burning trash heap a dour look and a disgusted sniff. "Forgive me," he murmurs, his politesse restored as the words address Ownah (though his eyes stay on the fire a moment longer), "I must head inside." And with a tiny incline of his head, he steps back, leaving the smelly firepit and retreating to the more welcome warmth indoors.