Trials
Location: Fort Hold
Time: Late in Month 4, Turn 192
Players: a young Roa and G'thon
Scene: A flashback to the Instigator trials. It turns out that Tea in the Reaches is not the first time that the Telgari weyrwoman and the Reachian Weyrleader had met.
It is the four month of Turn 192 and Fort Hold is bustling with people even more than usual. The Trials for the people that have come to the called Instigators are in full swing, and in the middle of the cheerful and sunny day, the actual trial proper has been halted for lunch. People are milling and talking. The Weyrleader of Telgar is in a quiet but heated discussion with one of the Master Harpers, gesticulations sharp, but small. His Weyrwoman is chatting politely with another from Ista as people begin to trickle out of the great room and towards where food will be served. Near B'sano hovers a small girl, dark hair a little unkempt, blue eyes huge. She has been here daily, seated between the Weyrleader and Weyrwoman, though no one has bothered to explain who she might be. She does, however, rather resemble one of the Instigators. A slender, dark haired woman who has, when she has been allowed, continuously situated herself near J'lor. Both people have shown intense if silent interest in the child when it seemed most of the crowd's attention was elsewhere.
Now that things are busy, the tiny girl takes the opportunity to lose herself, slipping away from B'sano's side. Her diminished height and girth means that dodging around people is a simple thing, and soon she has crept out of the room and dashed off in a direction away from where everyone else is headed. B'sano seems unaware.
Perhaps he noticed her departure. Certainly, his inimitable regard has fallen upon her more than once during these proceedings. Never when speaking. Never when describing, in his gentle but room-filling baritone, the hazards of straying too far from tradition while in Interval; never when reminding the assembled the obligation of not just dragonmen, but all of Pern to believe and prepare for the return of Thread; never when condoning interest in and effort toward social betterment while condemning violence, theft, the loss of life. When the Weyrleader of High Reaches speaks - and he speaks only as expert witness, never in accusation or defense - he uses only broad generalizations, aphorisms of responsibility and compassion. He takes no sides; yet those who hear him understand very clearly that they are meant to support actions that will, eventually, quell the Rebellion.
But when not speaking, G'thon has watched not other speakers, but those who listen. And as the child there between B'sano and his Weyrwoman does nothing but listen and look, often enough G'thon's gaze falls upon her.
Still, there is no real reason to believe he saw her slip away. There is only what is known: that eventually, the Reachian's long legs and swift, purposeful pace catch him up to the girl. Rather than pass her by he slows down, a smile twitching at the corner of the right side of his mouth. "The baths are down this way," he murmurs, voice no longer commanding, nor even loud enough to fill the passageway. Still gentle, it takes on for this purpose a casual, passerby warmth: Good day, little girl. Lovely weather at Fort, don't you think?
The child is walking at as brisk a pace as she can manage, arms wrapped tightly around herself, head down. She is coming to understand some things in the time she's been here. Not the details, precisely. Not the big words. But the gist of it. Her friends and family were, in actuality, very very bad. She is bad by association, but if she doesn't say so, people might not notice. This comprehension is a bit more than the nine-turn-old can handle, and escape was clearly on the menu. Only she hadn't counted on long legs and a warm baritone following her. The child glances up once, down, then up again, staring with a breath that sucks in sharply. This one was speaking. Weyrleader. High Reaches. He is important. And stern. And, for no other reason than that he has said things and everyone else has listened, terrifying. Walking begins to happen more quickly, and no answer is forthcoming about her intent to bathe or no.
"It's a bit of a long way, but they're rather amazing." She'd have to run for her pace to beat his. G'thon simply lengthens his stride rather than speeding his pace and keeps about six feet behind her, moving easily. "Worth a look while we're here. Controls for the water and enormous basins." His tone remains conversational, as if he's happened upon a longtime friend and seeks a little relaxation away from the trial rooms - rooms that are, with each step hurried or otherwise, are a little farther behind them.
Walking six feet behind is *worse*. Six feet behind makes the girl feel as if she's about to be stalked, pounced and devoured. And, well, a little bit of interest shines in the child's face as she peers up and behind her at the man that continues to follow and talks of impressive baths. She slows down enough that G'thon might catch up easily (as if he couldn't already) and even falls a step behind, allowing this stranger to take the lead. The child's contribution to the conversation? A whisper-soft and tentative, "Far's okay."
"That's what I thought myself. Let me know if I should slow down." And G'thon sets off at a pace about half that he'd normally use to get somewhere and back during a break in which he also should try to get a bite to eat - after all, the food is increasingly far behind them too. After a little ways like that, though, the Reachian Weyrleader casts a little look back over his shoulder. Interest very much like her own lights his eyes, but he faces forward again before observing, "I suppose you could run if you'd like. I expect all the aunties will be serving klah and fussing over meatrolls."
The child's nose wrinkles at the mention of aunties and fussing, and maybe even of klahs and meatrolls. She has kept a even pace with this strange man and has kept her silence as well. At the suggestion of running, the girl peers up at the Weyrleader, lips pursing. "I can? Y'won't tell?" No Running in the Halls is a rule, apparently.
G'thon stops, turns around and steps back a pace so he's out of the middle of the hall. "Of course. I think we all need to stretch our legs after all this sitting." The track cleared, he glances down at the child with a mild smile bending up the right-hand side of his mouth and sparkling off twinkles in his eyes. He is tall, this strange balding Weyrleader, and the girl is smaller than her turns should make her, but he does not bend nor even tip down his head to speak to her. His eyes cast downward; otherwise, he behaves believably as if she were as statuesque as any adult. Just not as long-legged: "If you're fast enough, I'll run too."
It's those final words that spark something in the little girl's expression. Some hint of spunk and liveliness that wasn't there before. "I'm fast enough," she says confidently. Her chin lifts up and her arms begin to unwrap from her sides. There is a quick glance behind, if just to make certain no one is going to see her and tattle, and then the child begins running. She does not, as many her age might, take off at a full sprint that will drain her energy before she's little more than twenty feet down the hall. Her pace is brisk, but tempered. This is long-distance running the spritely thing has settled in for.
That tempered pace is perfect for G'thon's purposes: he can set out at a speedwalk, break into a lope for a couple of paces to keep or make a little time, and speedwalk again. It makes him seem like he's expending effort enough to keep up with her, makes it seem as though he must work in fits and bursts to match her pace, but does not demand he actually set out at a run. He takes care not to pull ahead of her but at a crossroads where two halls meet; there he leaps out and immediately slows down, his actions a cue for hers. He walks, stately, past the crossing - and as if inspired by some inner mischief, immediately takes off again on the other side.
The girl keeps her attention mostly before her, occasionally stealing glances at the man loping alongside. Those moments where he runs teases a smile onto the child's lips...*she* did that...and then as G'thon leaps in front of her, the nine-turn-old skids to a halt, eyes widening. The Weyrleader's motions are carefully mimicked...calm and casual walking, even if she is breathing a bit heavily. And then, as he takes off again, the child scurries to match and then beat his pace with an unable-to-repress giggle at the game of us-against-them.
G'thon returns easily to his speedwalk-with-bursts-of-speed pace, though now that he's had the lead once and she's followed he leans toward loping a little more often, pushing the pace of their run. The hallway is long, but tapestries and doors and little sidetables rush by as the man and child run, and soon the passageway lets out into a small hall. Little tables off to either side offer out towels; above them are usefully situated bronze mirrors on one side, a single precious glass one on the other. Smaller hallways reach off from entryways both left and right, but a vast thick rug upon a raised portion of the floor draws the eye and the foot alike to the real centerpiece of the room: thick, glossy double doors directly ahead. Here the Weyrleader ends his run with a light hop up onto the dais; there he turns around and shines his brilliant, one-sided smile at the girl.
The child jogs determinedly after the Weyrleader. She may not be able to hold the lead but she's *not* going to fall behind. Except that her running does slow as those tapestries become mirrors and she has to stop to stare up at them, slackjawed for a moment before realizing that even greater wonders lie beyond those very large doors before that very complicated rug. She hops up on the dais and, despite herself, cannot help but smile back. It is shy, but sure. The smile one gives to a cohort in crime.
The Reachian Weyrleader is silent a moment, increased intensity of breath betraying a little of the slow advancement of his age. Then he twitches upward one of those slender salt-and-pepper brows - a signal - and glances toward the glass mirror above the towels on the right side. In alternating hues cast silver and gold reflected from the bronze mirrors on the room's opposite side, his likeness and the girl's shrink away into infinity. He tips his head, drawing her attention to the phenomenon without comment, then sidesteps slowly toward those double doors. A single pale palm flattens against the brass inlays. "Shall we have a look?"
The girl stares up at G'thon and, when his attention settles towards one of the mirrors, seems almost reluctant to follow his gaze. Fingers clench into tiny fists as she slowly turns. And then stares at the illusion. One of her hands lifts slowly and waves, hundreds of dark-haired girls waving back as they stand besides hundreds of Reachian Weyrleaders. Down goes one hand, up goes the other. Both hands lowered, she sways from side to side. It is the tall man's words, his lips moving hundreds of times in tandem, that call the girl back to the task at hand and the doors. At his question, she nods once.
G'thon backsteps a pace and applies pressure to the door. Slowly it opens inward, the man's arm extending to keep it open as it weighs heavy on its hinges so the girl may precede him through.
The steam is immediate, but gracious about enveloping its guests. No heavy steam, this, not the clouds of hot and wet that pour off of a Weyr's hottest bath. This is lighter stuff, and from time to time a breath might seem tantalizingly perfumed.
From this side, it's clear one door is meant to come in through, the other for exit; a short panel, ornamented with painted vines, separates the two walkways. Low benches and shelves to one side offer storage for personal effects; on the other side a series of panels much larger than the one by the entrance are arranged. They are each about the same distance from the next and the number of them is large; they shrink off down the length of the room in a manner evoking the mirror-reflections outside. It is from that side of the room the steam seems to be running in chief, though at the room's far end a tiled corner boasts strange spigots and a huge kiln filled with stones.
Careful steps take the little girl into the mists and one hand lifts up again, this time to wave about in front of her face and set the aromatic steam dissipating and swirling in spurts and eddies. Her eyes are huge, her mouth parted as she takes in the wonders of the room. There was nothing like there with Petir. Nothing like this at Nera's. There isn't even anything quite like this at Telgar Weyr. She vanishes into the smoke to bend over and peer at and almost-but-not-quite touch everything. The shrinking panels are given particularly intensive study. Storage alcoves are all empty, but each one must be peered into and inspected all the same. Benches are sat on, the space beneath each one investigated. And then, finally, reverently, the little girl begins to make her way over towards the basin with its spigots and stones. She never says a word, never makes a sound, but the expression on her face is a dead giveaway. She is awed.
G'thon waits, smiling his lopsided smile, for the child to begin walking. Only then does he walk as well, several steps behind her. He stops and starts here and there, observing details; it is almost like he isn't following her. Almost.
Fort Hold boasts, among other things, tricks of plumbing that time has since forgot. In keeping with holder mindsets, privacy is valued, and that value's inspiration is plain in many of the details of this great chamber. Between each of those panels is a third panel, smaller and lightweight, with two hinged divides. Most of them are folded and set aside, and no sounds of bathing emerge from behind those that have been left out. Were the time of day different, perhaps, that would not be the case - for between each pair of panels rests a low, deep tub or pool, many containing lightly steaming water in constant circulation from intake to outlet. Two at the end of the line have faucets and drains, meant for dirtier washing.
Meant for dirtier washing, also, might be those curious spigots above the large, tiled basin. One of them drips slowly, releasing a musical, lightweight heartbeat music into the air and providing moisture to steam off of the rocks.
Stopping at the large basin, the stones and the dripping water is stared at for a good few minutes. Hands have come in front of her, one clenching the other to keep from touching anything. The steam and the warmth has caused wild hair to puff upwards a little more and after looking at the spigot, the basin, the faucet over and over again, little fingers slowly reach up to touch...but then draw sharply back. Remembering, perhaps, that she is not alone here, the girl looks over her shoulder and towards the place that she last saw G'thon.
"Probably don't want to go back all wet," muses the Weyrleader; but it does not quite seem as though he's answering that curious hand's reach, as he was looking the other way - at the thick tubs with faucets between privacy panels - at the time, and only now turns about to speak. Still smiling, he looks from the girl to the low rim of the tiled area to the kiln with the hot stones and finally to the fixture she'd been about to experiment with. "Stand back from it," he mildly suggests, "Off to the side. So you're not in it." That was, perhaps, somewhat like permission.
Scooting happens, feet inching the child off to the side and right next to the slowly dripping spigot. Again the hand reaches out, slowly, as if perhaps the thing might rear its head and bite. Or, more likely, someone will leap out from some hidden crevice to scold. But as neither of these things happen, the hand curls around the knob, her head lowers even as her eyes peer upwards at the device, and the handle is suddenly and quickly turned.
Water cascades forth from above: a shower. The trick of plumbing that makes a shower safe from its own backflow, never mind the specifics of aqueducts and pressured waterflow themselves, makes this a difficult bit of pipe to maintain in other places, and the concept has been replaced by the simpler technologies of free-falls of water hot or cold, natural or manmade. Such pouring falls could not compare to the fine droplets that spray from the perforated faucet above. The water is warm, perhaps meant to rinse a body after enjoying the sweat-inducing steam coming off of those rocks or a deep soak in the pools and baths on the other side of the room.
"Handy sort of thing." G'thon is mild and smiling, but the slightest widening and sparkle of his eyes implies more than a little admiration of his own. "Impossible at Reaches, with the winter cold."
That something might come from *above* had not even remotely occurred to the child, and the hiss of water sends her leaping backwards almost before the first fine droplets hit the tiles beneath. More staring, of course, at the phenomenon from the past, and hands simply have to be stuck underneath the shower. In and out. Innnn...and out. In and ouuuut. And then she's creeping up to the spigot again to turn it off and on several times. Tiny experiments. What happens if the thing is turned faster or slower? How long does it actually take from knob turn to downpour? If she cranes her head, how much of the piping can she actually see? The little girl could be at this all day.
"You should see if they'll bring you back here for a bath in the evening," suggests G'thon in that same mild, conversational tone. But then he's there on the tiles, his boots shining against the tiles and growing shinier by the accumulation of moisture, and the Weyrleader puts out his own pale palm to feel the cascade hit his skin, then draws his hand back and curls it against his side, thoughtful-seeming. "Or morning," he goes on, this rather long pause later. "If that's bathtime. But for now - I suspect we're going to be missed if we stay gone too much longer."
A smile has lighted on the child's face, growing steadily wider as the water exploration continues. But the Weyrleader's latest suggestion serves to drain the cheerful expression away as efficiently as water drains from the tile basin. The shower is turned off with a slow and solemn finality, and there is a quick and frantic glance around the room. The contemplation, perhaps, of hiding. Fleeing. But either no ideas come to mind or she is simply too realistic to try, because arms, with the cuffs of her sleeves wet, return to wrap around her body, her head lowers, and she obediently turns and begins moving through the steam and towards those large doors.
G'thon, too, seems to find the end of their exploration regrettable; his own turning is no faster than the child's and his gait toward the doors is barely enough to stay apace with her. "I enjoyed having a run with you," he remarks about halfway through the baths. His tone is casual, though there is a lilt at the end that is not wholly rhetorical.
At the doors, the girl stops and waits. They are too heavy to move herself and, anyhow, every moment she is not heading towards that awful room is a good one. But it is at the door handles she stares, and when she finally speaks it is in a whisper. "Y'gonna talk s'more? Back inside?"
The Weyrleader takes up a post by the panel that separates the two doors and again lets his pale palm lie upon one of them, ready to open their way back out into reality. He listens to her question with the avid attention of someone understanding that quiet does not imply lack of intensity. "Perhaps, if I am asked to," he replies after a moment, with honest simplicity and no apology. "I believe we will be here a few more days."
Nothing more is offered from the child. The information is absorbed without even a nod to note it. There is only a slow and subtle stiffening to her posture as she stares, waiting for the door open.
"If you'd like - " The door does not, not quite yet, open. "We could race at lunch daily. I don't eat until tea-time and you're young; you can eat after running, I expect." -Now- he applies the gentle pressure and extends out his arm, opening the door and holding it thus for the girl to go through. This time the lilt of expectation is absent; the offer demands no answer.
None is given, but the child hugs herself a little more tightly. She knows this moment for what it was: an escape. Something rare and unrepeatable. And even if she were to relent, her choice is taken from her once she steps through the door. On the other side, moving with swift purpose, comes Telgar's Weyrleader. He has paused to look down corridors that appear, but as the little girl slips out, he's running, most undignified, towards her, bending down, wrapping his hands tightly around frail shoulders. Brown eyes look the girl up and down. "Are you all right?" he asks, low and intense. "You *cannot* run off like that," and a gentle shake enhances the panicked severity of his tone. "Do you understand me?" The girl gives a feeble nod and it seems it is enough. But, rather than walk with her back down the corridor, B'sano makes a silent decision of his own. The child is swept up into his arms, held so that her hands clutched one of his shoulders, legs dangling around one of his hips, blue eyes locked on the mirror and the hundreds and hundreds of little girls being carried away by hundreds and hundreds of Telgari Weyrleaders.
Time: Late in Month 4, Turn 192
Players: a young Roa and G'thon
Scene: A flashback to the Instigator trials. It turns out that Tea in the Reaches is not the first time that the Telgari weyrwoman and the Reachian Weyrleader had met.
It is the four month of Turn 192 and Fort Hold is bustling with people even more than usual. The Trials for the people that have come to the called Instigators are in full swing, and in the middle of the cheerful and sunny day, the actual trial proper has been halted for lunch. People are milling and talking. The Weyrleader of Telgar is in a quiet but heated discussion with one of the Master Harpers, gesticulations sharp, but small. His Weyrwoman is chatting politely with another from Ista as people begin to trickle out of the great room and towards where food will be served. Near B'sano hovers a small girl, dark hair a little unkempt, blue eyes huge. She has been here daily, seated between the Weyrleader and Weyrwoman, though no one has bothered to explain who she might be. She does, however, rather resemble one of the Instigators. A slender, dark haired woman who has, when she has been allowed, continuously situated herself near J'lor. Both people have shown intense if silent interest in the child when it seemed most of the crowd's attention was elsewhere.
Now that things are busy, the tiny girl takes the opportunity to lose herself, slipping away from B'sano's side. Her diminished height and girth means that dodging around people is a simple thing, and soon she has crept out of the room and dashed off in a direction away from where everyone else is headed. B'sano seems unaware.
Perhaps he noticed her departure. Certainly, his inimitable regard has fallen upon her more than once during these proceedings. Never when speaking. Never when describing, in his gentle but room-filling baritone, the hazards of straying too far from tradition while in Interval; never when reminding the assembled the obligation of not just dragonmen, but all of Pern to believe and prepare for the return of Thread; never when condoning interest in and effort toward social betterment while condemning violence, theft, the loss of life. When the Weyrleader of High Reaches speaks - and he speaks only as expert witness, never in accusation or defense - he uses only broad generalizations, aphorisms of responsibility and compassion. He takes no sides; yet those who hear him understand very clearly that they are meant to support actions that will, eventually, quell the Rebellion.
But when not speaking, G'thon has watched not other speakers, but those who listen. And as the child there between B'sano and his Weyrwoman does nothing but listen and look, often enough G'thon's gaze falls upon her.
Still, there is no real reason to believe he saw her slip away. There is only what is known: that eventually, the Reachian's long legs and swift, purposeful pace catch him up to the girl. Rather than pass her by he slows down, a smile twitching at the corner of the right side of his mouth. "The baths are down this way," he murmurs, voice no longer commanding, nor even loud enough to fill the passageway. Still gentle, it takes on for this purpose a casual, passerby warmth: Good day, little girl. Lovely weather at Fort, don't you think?
The child is walking at as brisk a pace as she can manage, arms wrapped tightly around herself, head down. She is coming to understand some things in the time she's been here. Not the details, precisely. Not the big words. But the gist of it. Her friends and family were, in actuality, very very bad. She is bad by association, but if she doesn't say so, people might not notice. This comprehension is a bit more than the nine-turn-old can handle, and escape was clearly on the menu. Only she hadn't counted on long legs and a warm baritone following her. The child glances up once, down, then up again, staring with a breath that sucks in sharply. This one was speaking. Weyrleader. High Reaches. He is important. And stern. And, for no other reason than that he has said things and everyone else has listened, terrifying. Walking begins to happen more quickly, and no answer is forthcoming about her intent to bathe or no.
"It's a bit of a long way, but they're rather amazing." She'd have to run for her pace to beat his. G'thon simply lengthens his stride rather than speeding his pace and keeps about six feet behind her, moving easily. "Worth a look while we're here. Controls for the water and enormous basins." His tone remains conversational, as if he's happened upon a longtime friend and seeks a little relaxation away from the trial rooms - rooms that are, with each step hurried or otherwise, are a little farther behind them.
Walking six feet behind is *worse*. Six feet behind makes the girl feel as if she's about to be stalked, pounced and devoured. And, well, a little bit of interest shines in the child's face as she peers up and behind her at the man that continues to follow and talks of impressive baths. She slows down enough that G'thon might catch up easily (as if he couldn't already) and even falls a step behind, allowing this stranger to take the lead. The child's contribution to the conversation? A whisper-soft and tentative, "Far's okay."
"That's what I thought myself. Let me know if I should slow down." And G'thon sets off at a pace about half that he'd normally use to get somewhere and back during a break in which he also should try to get a bite to eat - after all, the food is increasingly far behind them too. After a little ways like that, though, the Reachian Weyrleader casts a little look back over his shoulder. Interest very much like her own lights his eyes, but he faces forward again before observing, "I suppose you could run if you'd like. I expect all the aunties will be serving klah and fussing over meatrolls."
The child's nose wrinkles at the mention of aunties and fussing, and maybe even of klahs and meatrolls. She has kept a even pace with this strange man and has kept her silence as well. At the suggestion of running, the girl peers up at the Weyrleader, lips pursing. "I can? Y'won't tell?" No Running in the Halls is a rule, apparently.
G'thon stops, turns around and steps back a pace so he's out of the middle of the hall. "Of course. I think we all need to stretch our legs after all this sitting." The track cleared, he glances down at the child with a mild smile bending up the right-hand side of his mouth and sparkling off twinkles in his eyes. He is tall, this strange balding Weyrleader, and the girl is smaller than her turns should make her, but he does not bend nor even tip down his head to speak to her. His eyes cast downward; otherwise, he behaves believably as if she were as statuesque as any adult. Just not as long-legged: "If you're fast enough, I'll run too."
It's those final words that spark something in the little girl's expression. Some hint of spunk and liveliness that wasn't there before. "I'm fast enough," she says confidently. Her chin lifts up and her arms begin to unwrap from her sides. There is a quick glance behind, if just to make certain no one is going to see her and tattle, and then the child begins running. She does not, as many her age might, take off at a full sprint that will drain her energy before she's little more than twenty feet down the hall. Her pace is brisk, but tempered. This is long-distance running the spritely thing has settled in for.
That tempered pace is perfect for G'thon's purposes: he can set out at a speedwalk, break into a lope for a couple of paces to keep or make a little time, and speedwalk again. It makes him seem like he's expending effort enough to keep up with her, makes it seem as though he must work in fits and bursts to match her pace, but does not demand he actually set out at a run. He takes care not to pull ahead of her but at a crossroads where two halls meet; there he leaps out and immediately slows down, his actions a cue for hers. He walks, stately, past the crossing - and as if inspired by some inner mischief, immediately takes off again on the other side.
The girl keeps her attention mostly before her, occasionally stealing glances at the man loping alongside. Those moments where he runs teases a smile onto the child's lips...*she* did that...and then as G'thon leaps in front of her, the nine-turn-old skids to a halt, eyes widening. The Weyrleader's motions are carefully mimicked...calm and casual walking, even if she is breathing a bit heavily. And then, as he takes off again, the child scurries to match and then beat his pace with an unable-to-repress giggle at the game of us-against-them.
G'thon returns easily to his speedwalk-with-bursts-of-speed pace, though now that he's had the lead once and she's followed he leans toward loping a little more often, pushing the pace of their run. The hallway is long, but tapestries and doors and little sidetables rush by as the man and child run, and soon the passageway lets out into a small hall. Little tables off to either side offer out towels; above them are usefully situated bronze mirrors on one side, a single precious glass one on the other. Smaller hallways reach off from entryways both left and right, but a vast thick rug upon a raised portion of the floor draws the eye and the foot alike to the real centerpiece of the room: thick, glossy double doors directly ahead. Here the Weyrleader ends his run with a light hop up onto the dais; there he turns around and shines his brilliant, one-sided smile at the girl.
The child jogs determinedly after the Weyrleader. She may not be able to hold the lead but she's *not* going to fall behind. Except that her running does slow as those tapestries become mirrors and she has to stop to stare up at them, slackjawed for a moment before realizing that even greater wonders lie beyond those very large doors before that very complicated rug. She hops up on the dais and, despite herself, cannot help but smile back. It is shy, but sure. The smile one gives to a cohort in crime.
The Reachian Weyrleader is silent a moment, increased intensity of breath betraying a little of the slow advancement of his age. Then he twitches upward one of those slender salt-and-pepper brows - a signal - and glances toward the glass mirror above the towels on the right side. In alternating hues cast silver and gold reflected from the bronze mirrors on the room's opposite side, his likeness and the girl's shrink away into infinity. He tips his head, drawing her attention to the phenomenon without comment, then sidesteps slowly toward those double doors. A single pale palm flattens against the brass inlays. "Shall we have a look?"
The girl stares up at G'thon and, when his attention settles towards one of the mirrors, seems almost reluctant to follow his gaze. Fingers clench into tiny fists as she slowly turns. And then stares at the illusion. One of her hands lifts slowly and waves, hundreds of dark-haired girls waving back as they stand besides hundreds of Reachian Weyrleaders. Down goes one hand, up goes the other. Both hands lowered, she sways from side to side. It is the tall man's words, his lips moving hundreds of times in tandem, that call the girl back to the task at hand and the doors. At his question, she nods once.
G'thon backsteps a pace and applies pressure to the door. Slowly it opens inward, the man's arm extending to keep it open as it weighs heavy on its hinges so the girl may precede him through.
The steam is immediate, but gracious about enveloping its guests. No heavy steam, this, not the clouds of hot and wet that pour off of a Weyr's hottest bath. This is lighter stuff, and from time to time a breath might seem tantalizingly perfumed.
From this side, it's clear one door is meant to come in through, the other for exit; a short panel, ornamented with painted vines, separates the two walkways. Low benches and shelves to one side offer storage for personal effects; on the other side a series of panels much larger than the one by the entrance are arranged. They are each about the same distance from the next and the number of them is large; they shrink off down the length of the room in a manner evoking the mirror-reflections outside. It is from that side of the room the steam seems to be running in chief, though at the room's far end a tiled corner boasts strange spigots and a huge kiln filled with stones.
Careful steps take the little girl into the mists and one hand lifts up again, this time to wave about in front of her face and set the aromatic steam dissipating and swirling in spurts and eddies. Her eyes are huge, her mouth parted as she takes in the wonders of the room. There was nothing like there with Petir. Nothing like this at Nera's. There isn't even anything quite like this at Telgar Weyr. She vanishes into the smoke to bend over and peer at and almost-but-not-quite touch everything. The shrinking panels are given particularly intensive study. Storage alcoves are all empty, but each one must be peered into and inspected all the same. Benches are sat on, the space beneath each one investigated. And then, finally, reverently, the little girl begins to make her way over towards the basin with its spigots and stones. She never says a word, never makes a sound, but the expression on her face is a dead giveaway. She is awed.
G'thon waits, smiling his lopsided smile, for the child to begin walking. Only then does he walk as well, several steps behind her. He stops and starts here and there, observing details; it is almost like he isn't following her. Almost.
Fort Hold boasts, among other things, tricks of plumbing that time has since forgot. In keeping with holder mindsets, privacy is valued, and that value's inspiration is plain in many of the details of this great chamber. Between each of those panels is a third panel, smaller and lightweight, with two hinged divides. Most of them are folded and set aside, and no sounds of bathing emerge from behind those that have been left out. Were the time of day different, perhaps, that would not be the case - for between each pair of panels rests a low, deep tub or pool, many containing lightly steaming water in constant circulation from intake to outlet. Two at the end of the line have faucets and drains, meant for dirtier washing.
Meant for dirtier washing, also, might be those curious spigots above the large, tiled basin. One of them drips slowly, releasing a musical, lightweight heartbeat music into the air and providing moisture to steam off of the rocks.
Stopping at the large basin, the stones and the dripping water is stared at for a good few minutes. Hands have come in front of her, one clenching the other to keep from touching anything. The steam and the warmth has caused wild hair to puff upwards a little more and after looking at the spigot, the basin, the faucet over and over again, little fingers slowly reach up to touch...but then draw sharply back. Remembering, perhaps, that she is not alone here, the girl looks over her shoulder and towards the place that she last saw G'thon.
"Probably don't want to go back all wet," muses the Weyrleader; but it does not quite seem as though he's answering that curious hand's reach, as he was looking the other way - at the thick tubs with faucets between privacy panels - at the time, and only now turns about to speak. Still smiling, he looks from the girl to the low rim of the tiled area to the kiln with the hot stones and finally to the fixture she'd been about to experiment with. "Stand back from it," he mildly suggests, "Off to the side. So you're not in it." That was, perhaps, somewhat like permission.
Scooting happens, feet inching the child off to the side and right next to the slowly dripping spigot. Again the hand reaches out, slowly, as if perhaps the thing might rear its head and bite. Or, more likely, someone will leap out from some hidden crevice to scold. But as neither of these things happen, the hand curls around the knob, her head lowers even as her eyes peer upwards at the device, and the handle is suddenly and quickly turned.
Water cascades forth from above: a shower. The trick of plumbing that makes a shower safe from its own backflow, never mind the specifics of aqueducts and pressured waterflow themselves, makes this a difficult bit of pipe to maintain in other places, and the concept has been replaced by the simpler technologies of free-falls of water hot or cold, natural or manmade. Such pouring falls could not compare to the fine droplets that spray from the perforated faucet above. The water is warm, perhaps meant to rinse a body after enjoying the sweat-inducing steam coming off of those rocks or a deep soak in the pools and baths on the other side of the room.
"Handy sort of thing." G'thon is mild and smiling, but the slightest widening and sparkle of his eyes implies more than a little admiration of his own. "Impossible at Reaches, with the winter cold."
That something might come from *above* had not even remotely occurred to the child, and the hiss of water sends her leaping backwards almost before the first fine droplets hit the tiles beneath. More staring, of course, at the phenomenon from the past, and hands simply have to be stuck underneath the shower. In and out. Innnn...and out. In and ouuuut. And then she's creeping up to the spigot again to turn it off and on several times. Tiny experiments. What happens if the thing is turned faster or slower? How long does it actually take from knob turn to downpour? If she cranes her head, how much of the piping can she actually see? The little girl could be at this all day.
"You should see if they'll bring you back here for a bath in the evening," suggests G'thon in that same mild, conversational tone. But then he's there on the tiles, his boots shining against the tiles and growing shinier by the accumulation of moisture, and the Weyrleader puts out his own pale palm to feel the cascade hit his skin, then draws his hand back and curls it against his side, thoughtful-seeming. "Or morning," he goes on, this rather long pause later. "If that's bathtime. But for now - I suspect we're going to be missed if we stay gone too much longer."
A smile has lighted on the child's face, growing steadily wider as the water exploration continues. But the Weyrleader's latest suggestion serves to drain the cheerful expression away as efficiently as water drains from the tile basin. The shower is turned off with a slow and solemn finality, and there is a quick and frantic glance around the room. The contemplation, perhaps, of hiding. Fleeing. But either no ideas come to mind or she is simply too realistic to try, because arms, with the cuffs of her sleeves wet, return to wrap around her body, her head lowers, and she obediently turns and begins moving through the steam and towards those large doors.
G'thon, too, seems to find the end of their exploration regrettable; his own turning is no faster than the child's and his gait toward the doors is barely enough to stay apace with her. "I enjoyed having a run with you," he remarks about halfway through the baths. His tone is casual, though there is a lilt at the end that is not wholly rhetorical.
At the doors, the girl stops and waits. They are too heavy to move herself and, anyhow, every moment she is not heading towards that awful room is a good one. But it is at the door handles she stares, and when she finally speaks it is in a whisper. "Y'gonna talk s'more? Back inside?"
The Weyrleader takes up a post by the panel that separates the two doors and again lets his pale palm lie upon one of them, ready to open their way back out into reality. He listens to her question with the avid attention of someone understanding that quiet does not imply lack of intensity. "Perhaps, if I am asked to," he replies after a moment, with honest simplicity and no apology. "I believe we will be here a few more days."
Nothing more is offered from the child. The information is absorbed without even a nod to note it. There is only a slow and subtle stiffening to her posture as she stares, waiting for the door open.
"If you'd like - " The door does not, not quite yet, open. "We could race at lunch daily. I don't eat until tea-time and you're young; you can eat after running, I expect." -Now- he applies the gentle pressure and extends out his arm, opening the door and holding it thus for the girl to go through. This time the lilt of expectation is absent; the offer demands no answer.
None is given, but the child hugs herself a little more tightly. She knows this moment for what it was: an escape. Something rare and unrepeatable. And even if she were to relent, her choice is taken from her once she steps through the door. On the other side, moving with swift purpose, comes Telgar's Weyrleader. He has paused to look down corridors that appear, but as the little girl slips out, he's running, most undignified, towards her, bending down, wrapping his hands tightly around frail shoulders. Brown eyes look the girl up and down. "Are you all right?" he asks, low and intense. "You *cannot* run off like that," and a gentle shake enhances the panicked severity of his tone. "Do you understand me?" The girl gives a feeble nod and it seems it is enough. But, rather than walk with her back down the corridor, B'sano makes a silent decision of his own. The child is swept up into his arms, held so that her hands clutched one of his shoulders, legs dangling around one of his hips, blue eyes locked on the mirror and the hundreds and hundreds of little girls being carried away by hundreds and hundreds of Telgari Weyrleaders.