Little Girls
Location: Nera's Cothold
Time: Month 8, Turn 191
Players: Lorna, Roa, J'lor, D'oran
Scene: Way back when things were simple, two little girls meet.
Turn 191. The eighth month. Nera's cothold is lucky to be so out of the way, with no neighbors, or someone would surely notice the seven dragons settled outside. Two blues, two browns, three greens. Both the beasts and the riders hold great fascination for the little eight-turn-old who has found herself a resident of this place for the past few months, but they are all busy now. In a meeting. Which. Is. Dull. So the child is currently finding some ways to amuse herself. She lays out in the grass, in the sun, on her belly. Feet are bare and knees bent so her legs point up, toes kicking at the air. She is studying a trundlebug as it tries to make its way through the green, but every time it's about to leave, Roa sets down a hand to block it off. Instead of trying to climb, it turns, reorients, and moves in a different direction. The girl wears breeches and a tunic. Her hair, braided this morning, has already half fallen loose. She is humming softly.
"Not this time, Lorrie-girl." The voice is audible before the blond man appears around the edge of the cothold, arms wrapped securely about the small form carried in with him. "Why, Papa?" The form resolves itself into a small girl as she lifts her head, fine reddish-blond hair and pale skin to match her father's. As he hoists her up a little her arms, still a little chubby with baby fat, latch around his neck and she lays her cheek alongside his. "Oh, girl," he says, fondly. "I'll be back before you even notice I'm gone, you know I'll never leave you." He shifts his head, spots Roa, and then points. "Look, Lorrie, why don't you go play with her? She'll keep an eye on you." With that he stoops and gently unwinds the three-turn-old's arms from about his neck, setting her down facing the grassy area at large. He gives her a little pat to encourage her. For her part, young Lorna merely looks at the girl, pale eyes large in a pale face, fingers creeping up to her mouth where she can lip at them solemnly. Then she looks up at her father. "She's all by herself," she points out, the 'r' manifesting as an indistinct 'w' sound. "So?" says her father. Lorna just looks back at her.
The arrival of the man and his daughter capture the other girl's attention immediately. The trundlebug forgotten and, indeed, allowed to escape, blue eyes of a darker hue regard the conversation, and the child pushes herself up on her elbows as she's given the task of watching after this new, plump thing. She herself is all skin and bones, small. A person might under guess her age by several years if it weren't for the way she studied everything so very seriously. The man and then Lorna is flashed a bright and easy smile, chasing away the solemnity of her gaze. "Hiya," she calls as her feet resume their aerial travels.
"See?" D'oran looks down, stoops, kisses his daughter on the top of her head. "She's not upset at having her solitude intruded upon. I'll return for you shortly, my sweet, I swear it." Odd, perhaps, for someone to speak to a three-turn-old this way. But Lorna doesn't seem to have difficulty understanding, or at least doesn't show it, and now that she's gained some sort of invitation in that greeting she doesn't resist when her father steps away. He's confident, in that way adults have, that any child can get along with any other child, even if the difference in their ages is so vast. For her part, Lorna stays where she is, fingers still at her mouth. "Hiya," she replies, an exact echo. It's not quite shyness expressed in those eyes, but perhaps it's something close.
Those eyes watch D'oran travel away. To the meeting, probably. They said someone was late. "Your da's a rider," says the girl. It's not a question. She's figured it out. She knows. Another smile is flashed. "So's mine. I'm Roa. Wanna see something?"
"Pirrinth," is Lorna's reply, confirming that her father is indeed a dragonrider, removing her fingers from her mouth long enough to speak. "'m Lorrie. 'm -three-." This is her contribution, offered earnestly, fingers making a more lasting trip away from her mouth as she gives Roa that gem of information. She drifts a little closer at that last question, hand creeping back up so she can suck on her fingers again, a bad habit perhaps that her father has not quite broken her of. "Sure."
"Vellath," is offered back easily. Kick kick go Roa's legs, and then she's shifting positions and sitting upright to pluck up a long blade of grass. "M'da taught me how to do it. I can teach you." Her fingers, long and skinny like spinner legs, curl around the blade just. so. Then she lifts her hands to her mouth and blows. Pffft. Pfffft. Nothing but air, and the older child scowls. She closes her eyes and her fingers shift slightly. Then her head lowers and she blows again. FWEEEET! It's a shrill and piercing sound, and Roa looks up proudly.
Lorna's brow furrows a little as she draws nearer, moving closer so that she can see whatever magic is about to unfold with the blade of grass. She merely watches the unsuccessful attempts solemnly, but when the piercing squeak rings out, the little girl jumps back, startled, feet fumbling and eyes even larger than usual. She's not long recovering, though, a quick smile touching her round face as she stares at the older girl. No comment is given, though she sits down next to her with a little thump in the grass, and reaches out with somewhat less dexterous fingers to tear up a few pieces of grass in her fist, a rather determined look set about her expression.
There is another experimental whistle offered, the older girl making certain she has the way of it, before holding her hands down to the smaller girl. "Okay. You gotta put your first fingers like this, see, so the tips an' sides touch. And then thumbs like this. And then the rest curl in." Her spinner-fingers move slowly, displaying each move as she speaks. "You try. Just one grass at a time. Won't work if yer holdin' more." She pauses, nose wrinkling, and then corrects herself. "If. You. Are. Holding. More." Someone in her life is a stickler for proper enunciation.
"Why'd you say that again?" The idea of diction and enunciation is lost on a three-turn-old. Faintly puzzled at these mysterious instructions, Lorna obediently opens her little fist so that the handful of grass falls back out, and carefully -- if inexpertly -- brushes the errant bits from her palm with her other hand. Then she reaches forward to pick one of the fallen blades up. She's not really very good at holding it properly, lacking the dexterity that five turns would bring her, but she does try admirably. Eventually she has the bit of green oriented more or less properly, if not precisely where it would need to be to produce sound, and then lifts it to her face. Pfffffft. Pffffft. Pfft... Pft?
"Here..." The older girl leans forward and places her hands over Lorrie's, carefully making the tiny adjustments needed. "Okay. Keep yer...your...hands just so. An' blow now." Roa leans back and pushes some hair that's fallen into her face up and away from it. "Said it wrong the first time. Words're supposed to sound a certain way. An' I learned 'em...them..." nose wrinkle, "wrong th'first time." There is a small glance around before Roa adds very softly. "I think they sound fine both ways, but he says I should learn. So I'm learnin'...-ning."
Pfft...zz. The adjustments are only effective in the tiniest way, eliciting the smallest of hisses, barely audible over the sound of Lorna's breath. It's her lips that are the problem, the unfocused way that she blows, unable to direct the air in such a way that would produce sound. The child tries a few more times, and then without warning turns her head to regard Roa with those too-large eyes of her, baby face coming at an advantage when it comes to a childlike, disconcerting stare. "I like it de other way," she says, the 'th' proving somewhat problematic. Her own shortcomings when it comes to diction are ignored, though she abandons the grass for a while in order to bring that hand up to suck on the very tips of her fingers again. "I unnerstood you." Her tone makes it clear her confusion -- why should it matter, so long as communication occurs?
Roa grins and seems willing to abandon the lessons in grass blowing if Lorrie wants. She leans back to rest on her hands, legs splayed out before her. It's a posture she has gained from studying her father, and in later years she will force herself to unlearn it. But for now, she studies the other girl. "S'not about understanding. S'about..." the child’s lips bunch up and push to the side. "S'about other folks thinking things. By hearing how you talk. M'da says if you can talk both ways, then you can pick. But if you can't, then you can't. So. S'better to know."
"You should talk how you talk," is Lorna's reply, still a bit puzzled. Ahh, philosophy through the eyes of children. "Or you just get c'fused." She's quite earnest about it, solemn despite her trouble with longer words, unable to see the humor in what she's saying. "Papa says he likes talking to me," she adds, hesitantly, not quite sure if this fits with the conversation, but searching for something to contribute anyway.
"Naw, I'm smart," notes Roa idly. "I don't get confused." What she is getting, it seems, is bored, those dark blue eyes moving away from Lorna and around the property belonging to the cothold. "Course he likes talking to you." Now that the topic has been brought up, Roa seems to be making an extra effort to speak clearly. Her ability to not be confused is on the line! "He's your da." The inspection finished, her gaze again settles squarely on the younger girl. "You climb trees?"
Yes, of course. Lorna blinks at this, gaze shifting down to the loose blades of grass she had torn up. A little surreptitiously, she removes her hand from her mouth to nudge some of the grass back into the small bare spot left when she pulled them up. All better. Roa's question brings her eyes back up, and they go from the older girl to the trees beyond. Awfully big, to someone as small as she. "I don' think I'm big enough."
"-You- don't think, or -they- don't think?" asks Roa. She looks down at the pile of torn grass trying to hide itself. "Cuz if you wanna...want to and -I- want to...ain't...isn't..." frown. "Nobody's here but you and me, Lorrie."
The idea of rebellion seems alien to Lorna, and she just regards Roa blankly for a long moment. One might even begin to suspect she was addled in the brain, the way she stares so vacantly, eyes fixed on the other girl. "You'll help me reach the branches?" She's already looking up to this girl, so much older and wiser in the ways of the world than she and deigning to pay attention to her -- and if she says climb, then Lorna's resistance can only last so long.
Beam! "Sure I will. And you can say if we go too high and we'll stop." Roa's pushing up into a stand now and then bending down to offer a hand to her little charge. Whom she is watching over so responsibly. "'Cept we're daughters of dragonriders. Not scared of heights, right?"
Lorna reaches up to put her little hand in Roa's, tottering to her feet and flashing a smile up at the older girl. "I go flying wif Papa all de time," she assures her seriously. No, not afraid of heights. She clasps her hand with that warm, childlike grip, thumb soft against Roa's palm, and then covers it with her other hand as she looks round at the possible trees. Trusting, cheerful.
Yes. It is decision making time. Roa stares over at each tree, assessing carefully. She guides Lorna up to one, stares up, reaches for a branch, and shakes her head. The three-turn-old is led away. And over to another. No, this one is found lacking as well. It's the third that meets whatever standards Roa is measuring trees against. "Okay. Uhm..." She chews on her lower lip. "I'll get you up. And then, I'll come up after. Kay?"
Lorna follows obediently to each tree, content to follow the older girl. She looks up into the branches of the third tree, her little face calm in that way children have when trust outweighs good sense. If she's at all daunted by the tree's height, she doesn't show it -- though there is one of her silences, stretching only for a moment before she says, "Kay."
Roa inhales a deep breath, crouches down, and wraps her arms around the three-turn-old's ribs, just under her arms. With a grunt, the string of a girl shoves herself upright and angles Lorna under the lowest branch which, at this angle, she should just be able to reach. "...kay...uff...grab it quick!"
Whee! Lorna's been lifted before, passed from adult to adult, cooed over and admired and generally hauled around in people's arms. This is a rather different experience, the not-very-large girl rather awkward in lifting her. She flails out with both arms, catching hold of the branch and gripping tight, beginning to scramble automatically with a squeak of nervous, automatic protest.
Hands slide downwards to wrap around Lorna's hips and help push her up. "Hang on," Roa instructs. "Don't let go no matter what. And wrap your legs around it too. Once you get 'em up there."
"Oof, Ro-- can't get--" But then she does, one particular twist finally swinging her still-short legs up to where she can cling to the tree. Eyes are wide as they peep over the edge of the branch -- she doesn't exactly look dignified, clinging to the branch, but when she calls down she doesn't sound too frightened, voice touched perhaps with the adrenaline from the struggle onto the branch. "You're coming too right?" Again she has a little trouble with those 'r's, a bit of a childish speech impediment that hasn't quite gone away yet.
"Yeh, I'm coming too! I said I was." And that's important. Roa squints up at the girl. "You okay, up there? Cuz I'll follow up, if you're okay. So. You okay?" One foot is already on the truck of the tree.
"I'm okay." At this point it's quite clear that Lorna would probably sooner fall to her death than be found lacking in the tree-climbing department. It's a long moment before she moves at all, stubby arms shifting to a slightly less panicked-looking position, small movements as short, tiny fingers try to grip the branch she's lying on.
"Don't move if you think you'll slip. I'm comin' up." She scrambles up with little effort. She's been climbing trees since before she should and it shows. The branch bounces a little as Roa swings up onto it, straddling and squeezing her legs to keep from slipping as she reaches for Lorna. "Still okay?"
Don't move? Check. Lorna clings a little tighter as her first attempt to rearrange herself only serves to unbalance her. Her eyes shift as Roa climbs, and she nods at that question. There's admiration there at the ease with which Roa hauls herself up on the branch, the way she sits as if she owns the tree; as the branch bounces and wavers, Lorna decides that she, too, wants to share in the ownership of the tree. She moves, with considerably less grace, to try and sit up and straddle the branch the way Roa is. But her legs are far too short for such a maneuver, and her hands lack the strength to keep her up, too small to grip anything. There comes one brief, panicked moment where her eyes find the dark-haired girl's -- and then she slips sideways with a startled shriek, and disappears off the branch.
The shriek is shared by the older girl, only Roa's has got a word in it. "Lorrie!" She's swinging upside down and reaching her hands out until they're nearly touching the ground. Then she drops, rolling and scrambling up, and looking around for the other girl. "You okay? Yer okay, huh? Lorrie?"
Kathunk. Lorna lands nearly on her back and rolls a short way before coming to a rest. It's not a long fall, but for such a small person it's long enough -- the force of the impact of her little body on the ground drives the air from her lungs, and the roll leaves raw patches, a scrape on her cheek, her upper arm, both knees. She's otherwise unhurt, but she's struggling, her face white and her eyes wide with fear -- the air's gone out of her lungs utterly, and she can't force it back in, a tiny groan the only sound she ends up able to make.
Roa's kneeling by the other child, eyes huge and horrified. There's blood and Lorrie's all white and making sort-of-noises. What's a cocky little girl to do, but call for back up? She draws in a deep breath and uses her lungs in a way that those who will come to know Roa in future turns would be utterly agog by. "VELLATH!"
One of the dragons resting by the cothold, a blue, lifts his head suddenly. He was sleeping. No more. That wakefulness is all it takes, because a figure is bursting through the doors and, with a quick glance to the blue, is tearing towards where Roa is crouched. The figure resolves into a man, very tall and lean, klah-dark eyes wide as he takes in the scene. "Step back, Roa," his voice, despite the worry on his face, is deep and warm. Roa obeys immediately. "And don't leave." Oh. The girl sinks a little smaller as the man is bending down and scooping up the younger child. He's rising into a stand, cradling her close to his chest, rubbing her back briskly. "Shhh. It's all right, Lorna. Shh. Tiny breaths, my dear, just tiny breaths."
Despite never having met the man before, there's an innocence to childhood that lets Lorna trust him implicitly -- after all, unable to so much as gasp for breath, who is she to hesitate when comfort is offered? Besides, he knows her name. There's little room for this logic to go through her mind, and she is after all only three, but her reaction is instantaneous. Her little arms go around his neck when he scoops her up, and she clings with the strength of panic, the need for oxygen overruling anything else. It's a few more seconds before she manages to squeeze in a gasp, and then another, wheezing and coughing and, now that the initial panic has gone, tears starting to trickle down her cheeks.
"Good girl..." the words are drawn out, almost given a singsong quality as he rocks Lorna slowly back and forth. "Had a good scare, didn't you, sweet. Shhh. You're safe now. You're all right. And you've had a fine adventure, haven't you, my dear?" The man tips his head so he can smile down at the sniffling child on his shoulder. Wide smile. With a dimple.
Roa only sinks down on the tree roots, knees drawn up, eyes down. Abashed. It's not until her father speaks her name, his voice still calm and low to keep the younger child calm, that her eyes flick upwards. "Yeh?" "Go inside, please, and fetch D'oran. Tell him he needs to come out here for a bit." Roa swallows sharply and stands. "Okay." She turns and lopes off towards the cothold. This is her punishment, and they both know it. Owning up to the choice she made.
The bluerider's voice has a soothing effect, remarkably effective in stemming Lorna's tears. Her breathing settles, and after a few moments she's only sniffling a little, her nose and eyes and little bow of a mouth red from crying when she lifts her head to look at him as he smiles. Her response is hesitant, tremulous, a fleeting smile in return that wavers for a few moments and then disappears again when she sees Roa going toward the cothold again. She watches the girl go and leans forward again, face half-hidden against J'lor's shoulder, arms around his neck. She's still not speaking, perhaps lingering effects from her scare.
"Well, hello there," the rider chuckles as he gets a smile and a tiny examination from the child. But she's allowed to hide in his shoulder again. He only paces slowly, rubs her back, and lets her settle. After a moment of quiet, because this man has no patience for quiet, he begins to hum softly. His voice is not harper quality, but it can at least hold the notes, and it thrums up from his chest and makes it vibrate against Lorna.
It isn't long, maybe five minutes, before a small, skinny figure reappears with a much taller and paler one in tow. Lorna's father.
Settled, indeed -- Lorna's quite limp by the time her father appears, her frame relaxed in J'lor's arms except for the arms linked round his neck. That calm is quite shattered, though, with D'oran's arrival. "LORRIE!" He breaks into a run, sprinting past the small girl leading him once he spots the bluerider and the blond child he's holding. He rushes forward to reclaim his daughter from the man, checking over her and examining the superficial scrapes and bruises. Lorna goes willingly and quietly, unwinding her arms from J'lor's neck and clinging to her father somewhat fiercely. Reassured that she's suffered no lasting damage, D'oran's eyes dart to the side and fix on J'lor. "What. Happened." Through gritted teeth. He's not pleased.
Lorrie is, of course, lifted and handed over without protest. However, at the gritted question, J'lor's eyes only slide to the scrawny dark-haired girl that has quietly arrived, arms crossed over her chest, staring at the ground. J'lor doesn't speak. Roa doesn't look up. Neither is necessary, because after a minute Roa swallows and lifts her head, and stares directly up at D'oran. "We were climbing trees." Her diction is perfect now. "Lorrie fell. From there." The offending branch is pointed out.
"You were climbing trees." D'oran's trying very hard, not usually an angry man, unused to having to reign in his temper. "Roa, my daughter is -three-." But Lorna is moving now, shifting in her father's arms; she lifts a hand to his cheek for a moment, an old gesture between the two, and then wriggles down to the ground. She goes over to the older girl and takes her hand, eyeing the tree skeptically -- children can be so quick to recover. "I t'ink next time we should climb a smaller tree," she says solemnly, nose still red from crying. Her father twitches at that. "You'll do no such thing, Lorna." The little blond girl looks beseechingly up at her Papa, and then over at the hero of the hour, leveling her gaze upon the bluerider.
Roa tips her chin a bit higher and at the statement of Lorna’s age, the child only says quietly, "I know." She squares her jaw for whatever else D'oran wants to throw at her. But then Lorna wriggles down and Roa peers down (which in and of itself is a novelty. She *never* gets to peer down at anyone) at Lorna and grins. "Yeah," she murmurs with a little laugh. But when Lorna looks up at J'lor, it is that bluerider who speaks. He clears his throat, fighting down the smile that threatens. "I believe from now on, tree climbing with Lorna of any sort, on any sized tree, shall only be attempted with adult supervision. Yes, Roa?" Brows lift as he studies his daughter. She nods once, studying him back. "Yes, Da. Promise." J'lor looks back over to D'oran, brows lifted. "Well then, there you have it."
Mission partially accomplished, Lorna leaves Roa's side to wander towards the tree, coming to rest underneath the branch in question. She looks down first, at the patch of flattened grass where she fell, and points at it, casting an excited smile over her shoulder. "I fell -all- the way from there!" She lifts her gaze to the tree, astonished. It -is- an adventure, the man with the smile and the comforting arms told her so -- an adventure it will remain, in her memory. D'oran is not so bemused, but it's difficult to maintain any sort of wrath in the face of two at least partially-contrite little girls, and anger directed at the blueriding leader is always more or less pointless. One corner of his mouth lifts. "I swear, J'lor, you need to recruit some nannies." He lifts a hand to scrub it over his face.
"Ah, but life would be so much less interesting, then." J'lor leans forward to grab the other man's shoulder and give a squeeze before letting his hand fall. Then said hand is held out for his daughter who quickly slips under it with a soft sigh of relief. Punishment over. Things can be normal again. "Now, I think the meeting's concluded. Which means dinner should be starting soon. And there is, most likely, time for a story while we set the table. Hmm?" Dark eyes flick down to Lorna and she's offered another one of those warm smiles. It's Roa however that offers, "Lorrie should pick which one. Since she falled." A quick glance from J'lor has the girl clearing her throat. "Fell," she corrects softly.
D’oran gives an audible snort. "There's some truth to the saying that there's no curse worse than living in interesting times." But there's a gleam in his eye nonetheless, a sort of kindred spirit there, starting to grin in spite of himself in the face of J'lor's charisma. "Wouldn't live any other way." He wanders over and scoops up his daughter, settling her against his hip as she gives a little laugh and curls her fists around handfuls of his shirt. "How 'bout that, Lorrie-girl, eh? You want a story from J'lor?" Lorna's eyes shift from her father's face to J'lor's. It's there already. Saved her from choking, -and- tells stories? Delighted, she flashes a smile, scrapes on her face and knees already long forgotten. "Yeah!"
Time: Month 8, Turn 191
Players: Lorna, Roa, J'lor, D'oran
Scene: Way back when things were simple, two little girls meet.
Turn 191. The eighth month. Nera's cothold is lucky to be so out of the way, with no neighbors, or someone would surely notice the seven dragons settled outside. Two blues, two browns, three greens. Both the beasts and the riders hold great fascination for the little eight-turn-old who has found herself a resident of this place for the past few months, but they are all busy now. In a meeting. Which. Is. Dull. So the child is currently finding some ways to amuse herself. She lays out in the grass, in the sun, on her belly. Feet are bare and knees bent so her legs point up, toes kicking at the air. She is studying a trundlebug as it tries to make its way through the green, but every time it's about to leave, Roa sets down a hand to block it off. Instead of trying to climb, it turns, reorients, and moves in a different direction. The girl wears breeches and a tunic. Her hair, braided this morning, has already half fallen loose. She is humming softly.
"Not this time, Lorrie-girl." The voice is audible before the blond man appears around the edge of the cothold, arms wrapped securely about the small form carried in with him. "Why, Papa?" The form resolves itself into a small girl as she lifts her head, fine reddish-blond hair and pale skin to match her father's. As he hoists her up a little her arms, still a little chubby with baby fat, latch around his neck and she lays her cheek alongside his. "Oh, girl," he says, fondly. "I'll be back before you even notice I'm gone, you know I'll never leave you." He shifts his head, spots Roa, and then points. "Look, Lorrie, why don't you go play with her? She'll keep an eye on you." With that he stoops and gently unwinds the three-turn-old's arms from about his neck, setting her down facing the grassy area at large. He gives her a little pat to encourage her. For her part, young Lorna merely looks at the girl, pale eyes large in a pale face, fingers creeping up to her mouth where she can lip at them solemnly. Then she looks up at her father. "She's all by herself," she points out, the 'r' manifesting as an indistinct 'w' sound. "So?" says her father. Lorna just looks back at her.
The arrival of the man and his daughter capture the other girl's attention immediately. The trundlebug forgotten and, indeed, allowed to escape, blue eyes of a darker hue regard the conversation, and the child pushes herself up on her elbows as she's given the task of watching after this new, plump thing. She herself is all skin and bones, small. A person might under guess her age by several years if it weren't for the way she studied everything so very seriously. The man and then Lorna is flashed a bright and easy smile, chasing away the solemnity of her gaze. "Hiya," she calls as her feet resume their aerial travels.
"See?" D'oran looks down, stoops, kisses his daughter on the top of her head. "She's not upset at having her solitude intruded upon. I'll return for you shortly, my sweet, I swear it." Odd, perhaps, for someone to speak to a three-turn-old this way. But Lorna doesn't seem to have difficulty understanding, or at least doesn't show it, and now that she's gained some sort of invitation in that greeting she doesn't resist when her father steps away. He's confident, in that way adults have, that any child can get along with any other child, even if the difference in their ages is so vast. For her part, Lorna stays where she is, fingers still at her mouth. "Hiya," she replies, an exact echo. It's not quite shyness expressed in those eyes, but perhaps it's something close.
Those eyes watch D'oran travel away. To the meeting, probably. They said someone was late. "Your da's a rider," says the girl. It's not a question. She's figured it out. She knows. Another smile is flashed. "So's mine. I'm Roa. Wanna see something?"
"Pirrinth," is Lorna's reply, confirming that her father is indeed a dragonrider, removing her fingers from her mouth long enough to speak. "'m Lorrie. 'm -three-." This is her contribution, offered earnestly, fingers making a more lasting trip away from her mouth as she gives Roa that gem of information. She drifts a little closer at that last question, hand creeping back up so she can suck on her fingers again, a bad habit perhaps that her father has not quite broken her of. "Sure."
"Vellath," is offered back easily. Kick kick go Roa's legs, and then she's shifting positions and sitting upright to pluck up a long blade of grass. "M'da taught me how to do it. I can teach you." Her fingers, long and skinny like spinner legs, curl around the blade just. so. Then she lifts her hands to her mouth and blows. Pffft. Pfffft. Nothing but air, and the older child scowls. She closes her eyes and her fingers shift slightly. Then her head lowers and she blows again. FWEEEET! It's a shrill and piercing sound, and Roa looks up proudly.
Lorna's brow furrows a little as she draws nearer, moving closer so that she can see whatever magic is about to unfold with the blade of grass. She merely watches the unsuccessful attempts solemnly, but when the piercing squeak rings out, the little girl jumps back, startled, feet fumbling and eyes even larger than usual. She's not long recovering, though, a quick smile touching her round face as she stares at the older girl. No comment is given, though she sits down next to her with a little thump in the grass, and reaches out with somewhat less dexterous fingers to tear up a few pieces of grass in her fist, a rather determined look set about her expression.
There is another experimental whistle offered, the older girl making certain she has the way of it, before holding her hands down to the smaller girl. "Okay. You gotta put your first fingers like this, see, so the tips an' sides touch. And then thumbs like this. And then the rest curl in." Her spinner-fingers move slowly, displaying each move as she speaks. "You try. Just one grass at a time. Won't work if yer holdin' more." She pauses, nose wrinkling, and then corrects herself. "If. You. Are. Holding. More." Someone in her life is a stickler for proper enunciation.
"Why'd you say that again?" The idea of diction and enunciation is lost on a three-turn-old. Faintly puzzled at these mysterious instructions, Lorna obediently opens her little fist so that the handful of grass falls back out, and carefully -- if inexpertly -- brushes the errant bits from her palm with her other hand. Then she reaches forward to pick one of the fallen blades up. She's not really very good at holding it properly, lacking the dexterity that five turns would bring her, but she does try admirably. Eventually she has the bit of green oriented more or less properly, if not precisely where it would need to be to produce sound, and then lifts it to her face. Pfffffft. Pffffft. Pfft... Pft?
"Here..." The older girl leans forward and places her hands over Lorrie's, carefully making the tiny adjustments needed. "Okay. Keep yer...your...hands just so. An' blow now." Roa leans back and pushes some hair that's fallen into her face up and away from it. "Said it wrong the first time. Words're supposed to sound a certain way. An' I learned 'em...them..." nose wrinkle, "wrong th'first time." There is a small glance around before Roa adds very softly. "I think they sound fine both ways, but he says I should learn. So I'm learnin'...-ning."
Pfft...zz. The adjustments are only effective in the tiniest way, eliciting the smallest of hisses, barely audible over the sound of Lorna's breath. It's her lips that are the problem, the unfocused way that she blows, unable to direct the air in such a way that would produce sound. The child tries a few more times, and then without warning turns her head to regard Roa with those too-large eyes of her, baby face coming at an advantage when it comes to a childlike, disconcerting stare. "I like it de other way," she says, the 'th' proving somewhat problematic. Her own shortcomings when it comes to diction are ignored, though she abandons the grass for a while in order to bring that hand up to suck on the very tips of her fingers again. "I unnerstood you." Her tone makes it clear her confusion -- why should it matter, so long as communication occurs?
Roa grins and seems willing to abandon the lessons in grass blowing if Lorrie wants. She leans back to rest on her hands, legs splayed out before her. It's a posture she has gained from studying her father, and in later years she will force herself to unlearn it. But for now, she studies the other girl. "S'not about understanding. S'about..." the child’s lips bunch up and push to the side. "S'about other folks thinking things. By hearing how you talk. M'da says if you can talk both ways, then you can pick. But if you can't, then you can't. So. S'better to know."
"You should talk how you talk," is Lorna's reply, still a bit puzzled. Ahh, philosophy through the eyes of children. "Or you just get c'fused." She's quite earnest about it, solemn despite her trouble with longer words, unable to see the humor in what she's saying. "Papa says he likes talking to me," she adds, hesitantly, not quite sure if this fits with the conversation, but searching for something to contribute anyway.
"Naw, I'm smart," notes Roa idly. "I don't get confused." What she is getting, it seems, is bored, those dark blue eyes moving away from Lorna and around the property belonging to the cothold. "Course he likes talking to you." Now that the topic has been brought up, Roa seems to be making an extra effort to speak clearly. Her ability to not be confused is on the line! "He's your da." The inspection finished, her gaze again settles squarely on the younger girl. "You climb trees?"
Yes, of course. Lorna blinks at this, gaze shifting down to the loose blades of grass she had torn up. A little surreptitiously, she removes her hand from her mouth to nudge some of the grass back into the small bare spot left when she pulled them up. All better. Roa's question brings her eyes back up, and they go from the older girl to the trees beyond. Awfully big, to someone as small as she. "I don' think I'm big enough."
"-You- don't think, or -they- don't think?" asks Roa. She looks down at the pile of torn grass trying to hide itself. "Cuz if you wanna...want to and -I- want to...ain't...isn't..." frown. "Nobody's here but you and me, Lorrie."
The idea of rebellion seems alien to Lorna, and she just regards Roa blankly for a long moment. One might even begin to suspect she was addled in the brain, the way she stares so vacantly, eyes fixed on the other girl. "You'll help me reach the branches?" She's already looking up to this girl, so much older and wiser in the ways of the world than she and deigning to pay attention to her -- and if she says climb, then Lorna's resistance can only last so long.
Beam! "Sure I will. And you can say if we go too high and we'll stop." Roa's pushing up into a stand now and then bending down to offer a hand to her little charge. Whom she is watching over so responsibly. "'Cept we're daughters of dragonriders. Not scared of heights, right?"
Lorna reaches up to put her little hand in Roa's, tottering to her feet and flashing a smile up at the older girl. "I go flying wif Papa all de time," she assures her seriously. No, not afraid of heights. She clasps her hand with that warm, childlike grip, thumb soft against Roa's palm, and then covers it with her other hand as she looks round at the possible trees. Trusting, cheerful.
Yes. It is decision making time. Roa stares over at each tree, assessing carefully. She guides Lorna up to one, stares up, reaches for a branch, and shakes her head. The three-turn-old is led away. And over to another. No, this one is found lacking as well. It's the third that meets whatever standards Roa is measuring trees against. "Okay. Uhm..." She chews on her lower lip. "I'll get you up. And then, I'll come up after. Kay?"
Lorna follows obediently to each tree, content to follow the older girl. She looks up into the branches of the third tree, her little face calm in that way children have when trust outweighs good sense. If she's at all daunted by the tree's height, she doesn't show it -- though there is one of her silences, stretching only for a moment before she says, "Kay."
Roa inhales a deep breath, crouches down, and wraps her arms around the three-turn-old's ribs, just under her arms. With a grunt, the string of a girl shoves herself upright and angles Lorna under the lowest branch which, at this angle, she should just be able to reach. "...kay...uff...grab it quick!"
Whee! Lorna's been lifted before, passed from adult to adult, cooed over and admired and generally hauled around in people's arms. This is a rather different experience, the not-very-large girl rather awkward in lifting her. She flails out with both arms, catching hold of the branch and gripping tight, beginning to scramble automatically with a squeak of nervous, automatic protest.
Hands slide downwards to wrap around Lorna's hips and help push her up. "Hang on," Roa instructs. "Don't let go no matter what. And wrap your legs around it too. Once you get 'em up there."
"Oof, Ro-- can't get--" But then she does, one particular twist finally swinging her still-short legs up to where she can cling to the tree. Eyes are wide as they peep over the edge of the branch -- she doesn't exactly look dignified, clinging to the branch, but when she calls down she doesn't sound too frightened, voice touched perhaps with the adrenaline from the struggle onto the branch. "You're coming too right?" Again she has a little trouble with those 'r's, a bit of a childish speech impediment that hasn't quite gone away yet.
"Yeh, I'm coming too! I said I was." And that's important. Roa squints up at the girl. "You okay, up there? Cuz I'll follow up, if you're okay. So. You okay?" One foot is already on the truck of the tree.
"I'm okay." At this point it's quite clear that Lorna would probably sooner fall to her death than be found lacking in the tree-climbing department. It's a long moment before she moves at all, stubby arms shifting to a slightly less panicked-looking position, small movements as short, tiny fingers try to grip the branch she's lying on.
"Don't move if you think you'll slip. I'm comin' up." She scrambles up with little effort. She's been climbing trees since before she should and it shows. The branch bounces a little as Roa swings up onto it, straddling and squeezing her legs to keep from slipping as she reaches for Lorna. "Still okay?"
Don't move? Check. Lorna clings a little tighter as her first attempt to rearrange herself only serves to unbalance her. Her eyes shift as Roa climbs, and she nods at that question. There's admiration there at the ease with which Roa hauls herself up on the branch, the way she sits as if she owns the tree; as the branch bounces and wavers, Lorna decides that she, too, wants to share in the ownership of the tree. She moves, with considerably less grace, to try and sit up and straddle the branch the way Roa is. But her legs are far too short for such a maneuver, and her hands lack the strength to keep her up, too small to grip anything. There comes one brief, panicked moment where her eyes find the dark-haired girl's -- and then she slips sideways with a startled shriek, and disappears off the branch.
The shriek is shared by the older girl, only Roa's has got a word in it. "Lorrie!" She's swinging upside down and reaching her hands out until they're nearly touching the ground. Then she drops, rolling and scrambling up, and looking around for the other girl. "You okay? Yer okay, huh? Lorrie?"
Kathunk. Lorna lands nearly on her back and rolls a short way before coming to a rest. It's not a long fall, but for such a small person it's long enough -- the force of the impact of her little body on the ground drives the air from her lungs, and the roll leaves raw patches, a scrape on her cheek, her upper arm, both knees. She's otherwise unhurt, but she's struggling, her face white and her eyes wide with fear -- the air's gone out of her lungs utterly, and she can't force it back in, a tiny groan the only sound she ends up able to make.
Roa's kneeling by the other child, eyes huge and horrified. There's blood and Lorrie's all white and making sort-of-noises. What's a cocky little girl to do, but call for back up? She draws in a deep breath and uses her lungs in a way that those who will come to know Roa in future turns would be utterly agog by. "VELLATH!"
One of the dragons resting by the cothold, a blue, lifts his head suddenly. He was sleeping. No more. That wakefulness is all it takes, because a figure is bursting through the doors and, with a quick glance to the blue, is tearing towards where Roa is crouched. The figure resolves into a man, very tall and lean, klah-dark eyes wide as he takes in the scene. "Step back, Roa," his voice, despite the worry on his face, is deep and warm. Roa obeys immediately. "And don't leave." Oh. The girl sinks a little smaller as the man is bending down and scooping up the younger child. He's rising into a stand, cradling her close to his chest, rubbing her back briskly. "Shhh. It's all right, Lorna. Shh. Tiny breaths, my dear, just tiny breaths."
Despite never having met the man before, there's an innocence to childhood that lets Lorna trust him implicitly -- after all, unable to so much as gasp for breath, who is she to hesitate when comfort is offered? Besides, he knows her name. There's little room for this logic to go through her mind, and she is after all only three, but her reaction is instantaneous. Her little arms go around his neck when he scoops her up, and she clings with the strength of panic, the need for oxygen overruling anything else. It's a few more seconds before she manages to squeeze in a gasp, and then another, wheezing and coughing and, now that the initial panic has gone, tears starting to trickle down her cheeks.
"Good girl..." the words are drawn out, almost given a singsong quality as he rocks Lorna slowly back and forth. "Had a good scare, didn't you, sweet. Shhh. You're safe now. You're all right. And you've had a fine adventure, haven't you, my dear?" The man tips his head so he can smile down at the sniffling child on his shoulder. Wide smile. With a dimple.
Roa only sinks down on the tree roots, knees drawn up, eyes down. Abashed. It's not until her father speaks her name, his voice still calm and low to keep the younger child calm, that her eyes flick upwards. "Yeh?" "Go inside, please, and fetch D'oran. Tell him he needs to come out here for a bit." Roa swallows sharply and stands. "Okay." She turns and lopes off towards the cothold. This is her punishment, and they both know it. Owning up to the choice she made.
The bluerider's voice has a soothing effect, remarkably effective in stemming Lorna's tears. Her breathing settles, and after a few moments she's only sniffling a little, her nose and eyes and little bow of a mouth red from crying when she lifts her head to look at him as he smiles. Her response is hesitant, tremulous, a fleeting smile in return that wavers for a few moments and then disappears again when she sees Roa going toward the cothold again. She watches the girl go and leans forward again, face half-hidden against J'lor's shoulder, arms around his neck. She's still not speaking, perhaps lingering effects from her scare.
"Well, hello there," the rider chuckles as he gets a smile and a tiny examination from the child. But she's allowed to hide in his shoulder again. He only paces slowly, rubs her back, and lets her settle. After a moment of quiet, because this man has no patience for quiet, he begins to hum softly. His voice is not harper quality, but it can at least hold the notes, and it thrums up from his chest and makes it vibrate against Lorna.
It isn't long, maybe five minutes, before a small, skinny figure reappears with a much taller and paler one in tow. Lorna's father.
Settled, indeed -- Lorna's quite limp by the time her father appears, her frame relaxed in J'lor's arms except for the arms linked round his neck. That calm is quite shattered, though, with D'oran's arrival. "LORRIE!" He breaks into a run, sprinting past the small girl leading him once he spots the bluerider and the blond child he's holding. He rushes forward to reclaim his daughter from the man, checking over her and examining the superficial scrapes and bruises. Lorna goes willingly and quietly, unwinding her arms from J'lor's neck and clinging to her father somewhat fiercely. Reassured that she's suffered no lasting damage, D'oran's eyes dart to the side and fix on J'lor. "What. Happened." Through gritted teeth. He's not pleased.
Lorrie is, of course, lifted and handed over without protest. However, at the gritted question, J'lor's eyes only slide to the scrawny dark-haired girl that has quietly arrived, arms crossed over her chest, staring at the ground. J'lor doesn't speak. Roa doesn't look up. Neither is necessary, because after a minute Roa swallows and lifts her head, and stares directly up at D'oran. "We were climbing trees." Her diction is perfect now. "Lorrie fell. From there." The offending branch is pointed out.
"You were climbing trees." D'oran's trying very hard, not usually an angry man, unused to having to reign in his temper. "Roa, my daughter is -three-." But Lorna is moving now, shifting in her father's arms; she lifts a hand to his cheek for a moment, an old gesture between the two, and then wriggles down to the ground. She goes over to the older girl and takes her hand, eyeing the tree skeptically -- children can be so quick to recover. "I t'ink next time we should climb a smaller tree," she says solemnly, nose still red from crying. Her father twitches at that. "You'll do no such thing, Lorna." The little blond girl looks beseechingly up at her Papa, and then over at the hero of the hour, leveling her gaze upon the bluerider.
Roa tips her chin a bit higher and at the statement of Lorna’s age, the child only says quietly, "I know." She squares her jaw for whatever else D'oran wants to throw at her. But then Lorna wriggles down and Roa peers down (which in and of itself is a novelty. She *never* gets to peer down at anyone) at Lorna and grins. "Yeah," she murmurs with a little laugh. But when Lorna looks up at J'lor, it is that bluerider who speaks. He clears his throat, fighting down the smile that threatens. "I believe from now on, tree climbing with Lorna of any sort, on any sized tree, shall only be attempted with adult supervision. Yes, Roa?" Brows lift as he studies his daughter. She nods once, studying him back. "Yes, Da. Promise." J'lor looks back over to D'oran, brows lifted. "Well then, there you have it."
Mission partially accomplished, Lorna leaves Roa's side to wander towards the tree, coming to rest underneath the branch in question. She looks down first, at the patch of flattened grass where she fell, and points at it, casting an excited smile over her shoulder. "I fell -all- the way from there!" She lifts her gaze to the tree, astonished. It -is- an adventure, the man with the smile and the comforting arms told her so -- an adventure it will remain, in her memory. D'oran is not so bemused, but it's difficult to maintain any sort of wrath in the face of two at least partially-contrite little girls, and anger directed at the blueriding leader is always more or less pointless. One corner of his mouth lifts. "I swear, J'lor, you need to recruit some nannies." He lifts a hand to scrub it over his face.
"Ah, but life would be so much less interesting, then." J'lor leans forward to grab the other man's shoulder and give a squeeze before letting his hand fall. Then said hand is held out for his daughter who quickly slips under it with a soft sigh of relief. Punishment over. Things can be normal again. "Now, I think the meeting's concluded. Which means dinner should be starting soon. And there is, most likely, time for a story while we set the table. Hmm?" Dark eyes flick down to Lorna and she's offered another one of those warm smiles. It's Roa however that offers, "Lorrie should pick which one. Since she falled." A quick glance from J'lor has the girl clearing her throat. "Fell," she corrects softly.
D’oran gives an audible snort. "There's some truth to the saying that there's no curse worse than living in interesting times." But there's a gleam in his eye nonetheless, a sort of kindred spirit there, starting to grin in spite of himself in the face of J'lor's charisma. "Wouldn't live any other way." He wanders over and scoops up his daughter, settling her against his hip as she gives a little laugh and curls her fists around handfuls of his shirt. "How 'bout that, Lorrie-girl, eh? You want a story from J'lor?" Lorna's eyes shift from her father's face to J'lor's. It's there already. Saved her from choking, -and- tells stories? Delighted, she flashes a smile, scrapes on her face and knees already long forgotten. "Yeah!"