Hand in Hand
Who: Ch'dais, Valandys
When: Day 15, month 1, turn 1 of the 7th Pass
What: After several days of settling back into the routine and demands of the Caucus, Valandys ventures into the hatching galleries to see Citalth's eggs. There, she encounters Ch'dais and the two have a conversation that takes a turn for the intimate.
You climb the stairs that lead to the galleries.
Hatching Galleries
Countless rows of benches have been carved directly into the rock face of this immense cavern. The stone itself is dark grey and smooth, and warm to the touch due to its proximity to the sands. The galleries follow a curve, extending out on either side of the sands. A black-painted wooden railing that looks sturdy enough to keep the hatchlings away from the people and the people away from the hatchlings separates the two areas. Baskets of glows have been raised on intricately carved poles that line the aisles, ensuring that there is ample light to see by.
Contents:
Ch'dais
Out (O)
Valandys
Valandys' features are simply drawn with soft curves and a strong bone structure, her skin the color of sun-warmed copper. There is sharpness to be found only in the thin bridge of her nose, and her lightning-quick smiles. Set deeply enough to seem always in shadow, her eyes are black, but bright with intelligence and calm. She wears her equally dark hair parted in the center and drawn back to a thick bun secured with red and yellow enamelled pins.
Her healthy frame is draped in attire suitable for cold weather wear, provided she remains inside. A long-sleeved white blouse is tucked into the waistband of a black overskirt. The underskirts are less bland in shade; when she walks, flashes of red and yellow and orange can be seen, matching the gauzy scarves she has wrapped around her hips, her throat and her head. The scarves have fringe beaded with tiny bone beads, dyed in natural colors, and these beads match the clacking array of bracelets decorating her wrists.
The bright red and golden yellow knot at her shoulder declares her origin as Igen Hold. The crosspoint of the knot serves as a bed for the beaten-copper pin of the Caucus.
Ch'dais
Tall and robust, the young man seems well-suited to northern climes. He stands like a sea-swept promontory, hardened even as he is smoothed by the battering of wind and wave; his body is labor-firm, his arms sheathed in the corded curve of muscle. Harsh features make him look more rugged than handsome, from the awkward break of his nose to the pronounced hollow of his cheeks. Still in all, some thought lurks beneath the turbid waters of his grey-green eyes, and his hair is a wild profusion of auburn, falling about his shoulders where it isn't haphazardly braided in order to clear his vision. The same ruddy color descends in sideburns, gathers about his lips in a stubbled beard. The man moves easily, balanced regardless of his ground or seat.
His flying leathers may once have been black, but they've long since weathered to a spider's web of cracked charcoal. Wan grey surmounts the elbows and shoulders of the jacket, takes on a silver sheen in the animal fur sewn into the neck; the same hue shows in his pants at the knees and on the insides of his thighs. Heavy boots and a broad riding belt-- worn when needed, and as often draped absently over one shoulder-- complete the ensemble. The sole article of color is provided by his shoulder knot: one braided loop of vibrant blue and black, interwoven with a thin cord of bronze.
It is 21:25 on day 15, month 1, turn 1 of the 7th Pass.
It's late enough now that most of the weyrfolk have paid their visits for the day. Still the massive eggs huddle on the sands, catching the glowlight in their pearlescent curves, but the stone galleries are sparsely populated and the few knots of onlookers are separated by spaces of unclaimed bench. Their conversations proceed in low tones, and the odd chuckle or spirited comment echoes from the vault above.
Ch'dais stands alone by the rail, his forearms crossed atop the dark wood that hems in the hatching sands. Even slouched forward he's tall, and without his riding jacket the man's back is an expanse of undyed cloth, snaked over by the thin braids and loose auburn strands of his hair. He's studying the eggs, as everyone is, and absently worrying a thick and coarse-woven rag that dangles from one hand. His lips have thinned to a line beneath his beard.
"You should not frown at them so, the dam might see you." While most of those few occupying the galleries are content to leave the bronzerider alone with his thoughts, one woman separates from the largest group to approach the man. It's Valandys, smiling under a headscarf of crimson and copper. She folds the ends of the scarf over themselves at her waist, sets her hands over the tails, and turns to study from this angle the eggs in their beds. "There was a Healer boy earlier. He wrinkled his nose at one, and I think she saw him. She gave him -such- a look. But she seems quieter now... they are handsome, yes? Like nothing I have seen before. And so many..."
Ch'dais shoots the girl a sidelong glance. What might've been annoyance dies on the mild curve of his lips when he recognizes her, and a touch of brightness starts in his eye, like sunlight through seawater. "Arinth will bespeak Citalth and inform her that I'm morose by nature." More amused than morose, the look that falls to her carefully covered scarf-ends before wandering back over the sands. "They are handsome," he concedes without really wanting to. "Thirty-odd joys and dangers huddled in warm sand."
Valandys turns a look up at him, smile twisting up on one side at his first remark, and stabilizing for the second. "It is good they're here. One can feel it, through the entire Weyr. Relief. Hope. But in the riders..." Her dark eyes swing from his face to the eggs again, narrowing on a sandy pair that sit a short distance from the others. Now it's she whose lips thin, the smile fading. "I suppose there is reason to be morose. Are you afraid? Knowing your life is decided for you, that what's coming is dangerous?"
"No." It's isn't bravado; the look Ch'dais gives the eggs is merely pensive, wrinkled at the corners of his eyes. He takes a breath, releases it in a sigh that signals something like relief. "I'll be happy for the work. Sweeps, watches, it's glorified waiting. I want to be doing something." Why, he doesn't say, but the thought furrows his brow beneath that tangled fall of hair. "And how about you? Keeping up now that you're back? Lordlings giving you any trouble?" He smiles faintly, still watching the eggs, but there's an edge in the question for all its facetiousness.
"No." It isn't bravado; the look Ch'dais gives the eggs is merely pensive, wrinkled at the corners of his eyes. He takes a breath, releases it in a sigh that signals something like relief. "I'll be happy for the work. Sweeps, watches, it's glorified waiting. I want to be doing something." Why, he doesn't say, but the thought furrows his brow beneath that tangled fall of hair. "And how about you? Keeping up now that you're back? Lordlings giving you any trouble?" He smiles faintly, still watching the eggs, but there's an edge in the question for all its facetiousness.
"Lordlings...? Oh. No..." Valandys lowers her chin, hands busy with the fidgety business of rearranging the tails of the scarf- setting one side over the other, smoothing the fringe, ruining that work by coiling the copper threads around a finger afterwards. "I am doing better, I think. My performance has improved somewhat, although I am not entirely certain my instructors are happy with me and I still think I am a poor match for this Caucus. But I promised to give myself some time... we will see, mm? I think I can understand why you would prefer your work. It's physical. You can lose yourself in moving. Acting, as you need to."
Ch'dais gives a little grunt at the back of his throat, there and gone. "Good." He seems about to smile, then covers it by turning the rag across the back of one great hand and using it to rub his chin. "You tell me if that changes, Lady Igen, and I'll remind them where they're living now." The motion of her hands registers then in the corner of his eye, and the bronzerider turns his head a little that way. "We could be at sea for weeks at a time," he breaks in awkwardly, without preamble. "Always something to be done. Trim the sail, cast the net, clean the catch... hard work. But everyone pulled together." There follows an uncomfortable silence, and then, "I imagine a Lord Holder's retinue is like that, in its way."
She glances up, regarding him with first surprise and then muted amusement. "I have told you, bronzerider, you should not call me that. And I will not send you around to bully the students." He's succeeded in returning her smile to its place, however. There's nothing stern about the way she looks at him. "I suppose it must be. I was never honored with a place among the Lord's assistants. My mother, yes, and I helped her... it was comforting, to always know what was expected of me. From the time I opened my eyes, until the time I set my head on my pillow again, I knew what had to be done and I enjoyed doing it. You think it will be that way once Thread falls here? I thought it would be that way now... and there is no risk to your safety, now. That is... better."
Ch'dais meets the girl's gaze at that last, and a current of unvoiced thought runs quick through the grey-green of his eyes. "We relied on each other," he explains, perhaps a little too softly for the ample air about them. "Looked out for each other. They tell you these things as a weyrling, but then it's sack-toss and formation flying, and pride and..." He's watching her hands again, now, tucked in beaded crimson; his thumb swirls over the rag. "Well. I survived your mother, I think I can handle a little Thread, yes? And Arinth will be there. He's a far bigger target than I am." It seems like the bronzerider ought to smile-- it's in the words themselves-- but he doesn't quite manage it. At best it's a lopsided thing.
"Risking your life with them will give you that sense of family, again?" Valandys, realizing that her fidgeting has drawn his gaze, forces her hands to settle one atop the other over her stomach. The scarf is pinned again, with only a few strands of copper defying order to spill over her fingers. "I am a selfish woman, bronzerider. I would prefer that neither of you become a target. And that you find that sense of family with those you already have." But she's veering dangerously near to scolding the man, something that is uncomfortable for the traditional Igenite. Her gaze shifts, searching for inspiration for a new topic. "What is that?" she asks, inclining her head towards the rag.
"Ch'dais." The bronzerider pauses, then repeats succinctly, "My name is Ch'dais." He sounds puzzled, but the look he levels at her is not puzzled; it's dark water under a storm, forlorn and leagues from home. Ch'dais pushes slowly away from the rail, uncrosses his bared arms. A breath lifts the stone of his chest, goes out, and he turns up his palm at his waist. "Give me your hand." The other hangs by his side, the rag dangling in glowlight, forgotten despite the Igen maid's query.
Valandys forces her lips to shape a smile. "Ch'dais. I know I asked... I shouldn't have. This is not the place for unhappy subjects. I am sorry." She reaches out, sets her fingers lightly against the cup of his palm. The other hand shifts to hold both ends of the scarf, bunching them together to prevent it from slipping back over her hair. "Forgive me? We have had little enough time for conversation, since Igen, and I would rather we talk of happy things. There are the eggs, and Arinth, and... ah... my improvement, in my classes."
Ch'dais curls his fingers around hers, then draws in her hand until her palm is held warm in the strength of his. His thumb circles that dark skin as he did the rag before, and he follows its motion rather than answering her smile. "All very good topics," he concedes, but it's a faraway voice, wan and distant from his thoughts. A moment's pause, and then he draws the maid towards him a step, two, close enough to lift her fingers to his lips. They're warm, and the ruddy stubble of his beard scratches without leaving a mark. "Valandys." Each syllable spills over her flesh, spoken slowly. The bronzerider's brow knots. "Call me Ch'dais, and I'll call you Valandys. Fair?"
She'd shown no hesitation in giving him her hand, but what he does once she's placed it in his startles the woman. Black eyes widen, brows arching over in open surprise as she watches- and feels- his lips passing lightly over her skin. "Yes." The word comes with difficulty, almost swallowed as Valandys draws a short breath and presses his fingers with hers. "Ch'dais," she says with a steadier voice, though still softly. Quiet, appropriate for this closer conversation. "I prefer when you use my name. It makes me feel you're speaking with me. Not... with some image of me, you have in your mind." Her darker complexion makes it difficult see the color rise in her cheeks, but there's a deeper sparkle to the eyes that lift to meet his. Her smile comes easier now.
"You might like the image of you that I have in my mind." It's a vintage jest, just the sort of ribald, covering comment the bronzerider has called upon so often. But there's nothing of that in the soft earnestness of his tone and the smile that flashes across his lips as he watches her. Earnest too is the next kiss, pressed to the back of her hand, moist and slow; he closes his eyes for a moment, seals his grasp around those delicate fingers before he forces himself to release her. "But I'm glad we have that settled." Whatever that might be. For a time the tall man says nothing at all, his thoughts measured only by the fixity of his green eyes on hers, the little curl at the corners of his mouth. "It's for washing dragons," he adds at last. "The rag." Pause. "Which I should be doing now, come to think."
Valandys' hand remains lifted for a moment after his is removed, before she realizes and returns it to her waist, where its twin waits. Her thumb rubs over the damp place where the kiss was set. That tiny smile of his has summoned a grin from the woman, her teeth so white in her darker face, her eyes turned to black crescents. "That is a very little rag for washing such a large dragon, and it is late for baths. May I walk with you, to see Arinth?" She doesn't wait for his permission, simply turns to set a foot on the stairs. "If you ask nicely, I can help with the washing."
When: Day 15, month 1, turn 1 of the 7th Pass
What: After several days of settling back into the routine and demands of the Caucus, Valandys ventures into the hatching galleries to see Citalth's eggs. There, she encounters Ch'dais and the two have a conversation that takes a turn for the intimate.
You climb the stairs that lead to the galleries.
Hatching Galleries
Countless rows of benches have been carved directly into the rock face of this immense cavern. The stone itself is dark grey and smooth, and warm to the touch due to its proximity to the sands. The galleries follow a curve, extending out on either side of the sands. A black-painted wooden railing that looks sturdy enough to keep the hatchlings away from the people and the people away from the hatchlings separates the two areas. Baskets of glows have been raised on intricately carved poles that line the aisles, ensuring that there is ample light to see by.
Contents:
Ch'dais
Out (O)
Valandys
Valandys' features are simply drawn with soft curves and a strong bone structure, her skin the color of sun-warmed copper. There is sharpness to be found only in the thin bridge of her nose, and her lightning-quick smiles. Set deeply enough to seem always in shadow, her eyes are black, but bright with intelligence and calm. She wears her equally dark hair parted in the center and drawn back to a thick bun secured with red and yellow enamelled pins.
Her healthy frame is draped in attire suitable for cold weather wear, provided she remains inside. A long-sleeved white blouse is tucked into the waistband of a black overskirt. The underskirts are less bland in shade; when she walks, flashes of red and yellow and orange can be seen, matching the gauzy scarves she has wrapped around her hips, her throat and her head. The scarves have fringe beaded with tiny bone beads, dyed in natural colors, and these beads match the clacking array of bracelets decorating her wrists.
The bright red and golden yellow knot at her shoulder declares her origin as Igen Hold. The crosspoint of the knot serves as a bed for the beaten-copper pin of the Caucus.
Ch'dais
Tall and robust, the young man seems well-suited to northern climes. He stands like a sea-swept promontory, hardened even as he is smoothed by the battering of wind and wave; his body is labor-firm, his arms sheathed in the corded curve of muscle. Harsh features make him look more rugged than handsome, from the awkward break of his nose to the pronounced hollow of his cheeks. Still in all, some thought lurks beneath the turbid waters of his grey-green eyes, and his hair is a wild profusion of auburn, falling about his shoulders where it isn't haphazardly braided in order to clear his vision. The same ruddy color descends in sideburns, gathers about his lips in a stubbled beard. The man moves easily, balanced regardless of his ground or seat.
His flying leathers may once have been black, but they've long since weathered to a spider's web of cracked charcoal. Wan grey surmounts the elbows and shoulders of the jacket, takes on a silver sheen in the animal fur sewn into the neck; the same hue shows in his pants at the knees and on the insides of his thighs. Heavy boots and a broad riding belt-- worn when needed, and as often draped absently over one shoulder-- complete the ensemble. The sole article of color is provided by his shoulder knot: one braided loop of vibrant blue and black, interwoven with a thin cord of bronze.
It is 21:25 on day 15, month 1, turn 1 of the 7th Pass.
It's late enough now that most of the weyrfolk have paid their visits for the day. Still the massive eggs huddle on the sands, catching the glowlight in their pearlescent curves, but the stone galleries are sparsely populated and the few knots of onlookers are separated by spaces of unclaimed bench. Their conversations proceed in low tones, and the odd chuckle or spirited comment echoes from the vault above.
Ch'dais stands alone by the rail, his forearms crossed atop the dark wood that hems in the hatching sands. Even slouched forward he's tall, and without his riding jacket the man's back is an expanse of undyed cloth, snaked over by the thin braids and loose auburn strands of his hair. He's studying the eggs, as everyone is, and absently worrying a thick and coarse-woven rag that dangles from one hand. His lips have thinned to a line beneath his beard.
"You should not frown at them so, the dam might see you." While most of those few occupying the galleries are content to leave the bronzerider alone with his thoughts, one woman separates from the largest group to approach the man. It's Valandys, smiling under a headscarf of crimson and copper. She folds the ends of the scarf over themselves at her waist, sets her hands over the tails, and turns to study from this angle the eggs in their beds. "There was a Healer boy earlier. He wrinkled his nose at one, and I think she saw him. She gave him -such- a look. But she seems quieter now... they are handsome, yes? Like nothing I have seen before. And so many..."
Ch'dais shoots the girl a sidelong glance. What might've been annoyance dies on the mild curve of his lips when he recognizes her, and a touch of brightness starts in his eye, like sunlight through seawater. "Arinth will bespeak Citalth and inform her that I'm morose by nature." More amused than morose, the look that falls to her carefully covered scarf-ends before wandering back over the sands. "They are handsome," he concedes without really wanting to. "Thirty-odd joys and dangers huddled in warm sand."
Valandys turns a look up at him, smile twisting up on one side at his first remark, and stabilizing for the second. "It is good they're here. One can feel it, through the entire Weyr. Relief. Hope. But in the riders..." Her dark eyes swing from his face to the eggs again, narrowing on a sandy pair that sit a short distance from the others. Now it's she whose lips thin, the smile fading. "I suppose there is reason to be morose. Are you afraid? Knowing your life is decided for you, that what's coming is dangerous?"
"No." It's isn't bravado; the look Ch'dais gives the eggs is merely pensive, wrinkled at the corners of his eyes. He takes a breath, releases it in a sigh that signals something like relief. "I'll be happy for the work. Sweeps, watches, it's glorified waiting. I want to be doing something." Why, he doesn't say, but the thought furrows his brow beneath that tangled fall of hair. "And how about you? Keeping up now that you're back? Lordlings giving you any trouble?" He smiles faintly, still watching the eggs, but there's an edge in the question for all its facetiousness.
"No." It isn't bravado; the look Ch'dais gives the eggs is merely pensive, wrinkled at the corners of his eyes. He takes a breath, releases it in a sigh that signals something like relief. "I'll be happy for the work. Sweeps, watches, it's glorified waiting. I want to be doing something." Why, he doesn't say, but the thought furrows his brow beneath that tangled fall of hair. "And how about you? Keeping up now that you're back? Lordlings giving you any trouble?" He smiles faintly, still watching the eggs, but there's an edge in the question for all its facetiousness.
"Lordlings...? Oh. No..." Valandys lowers her chin, hands busy with the fidgety business of rearranging the tails of the scarf- setting one side over the other, smoothing the fringe, ruining that work by coiling the copper threads around a finger afterwards. "I am doing better, I think. My performance has improved somewhat, although I am not entirely certain my instructors are happy with me and I still think I am a poor match for this Caucus. But I promised to give myself some time... we will see, mm? I think I can understand why you would prefer your work. It's physical. You can lose yourself in moving. Acting, as you need to."
Ch'dais gives a little grunt at the back of his throat, there and gone. "Good." He seems about to smile, then covers it by turning the rag across the back of one great hand and using it to rub his chin. "You tell me if that changes, Lady Igen, and I'll remind them where they're living now." The motion of her hands registers then in the corner of his eye, and the bronzerider turns his head a little that way. "We could be at sea for weeks at a time," he breaks in awkwardly, without preamble. "Always something to be done. Trim the sail, cast the net, clean the catch... hard work. But everyone pulled together." There follows an uncomfortable silence, and then, "I imagine a Lord Holder's retinue is like that, in its way."
She glances up, regarding him with first surprise and then muted amusement. "I have told you, bronzerider, you should not call me that. And I will not send you around to bully the students." He's succeeded in returning her smile to its place, however. There's nothing stern about the way she looks at him. "I suppose it must be. I was never honored with a place among the Lord's assistants. My mother, yes, and I helped her... it was comforting, to always know what was expected of me. From the time I opened my eyes, until the time I set my head on my pillow again, I knew what had to be done and I enjoyed doing it. You think it will be that way once Thread falls here? I thought it would be that way now... and there is no risk to your safety, now. That is... better."
Ch'dais meets the girl's gaze at that last, and a current of unvoiced thought runs quick through the grey-green of his eyes. "We relied on each other," he explains, perhaps a little too softly for the ample air about them. "Looked out for each other. They tell you these things as a weyrling, but then it's sack-toss and formation flying, and pride and..." He's watching her hands again, now, tucked in beaded crimson; his thumb swirls over the rag. "Well. I survived your mother, I think I can handle a little Thread, yes? And Arinth will be there. He's a far bigger target than I am." It seems like the bronzerider ought to smile-- it's in the words themselves-- but he doesn't quite manage it. At best it's a lopsided thing.
"Risking your life with them will give you that sense of family, again?" Valandys, realizing that her fidgeting has drawn his gaze, forces her hands to settle one atop the other over her stomach. The scarf is pinned again, with only a few strands of copper defying order to spill over her fingers. "I am a selfish woman, bronzerider. I would prefer that neither of you become a target. And that you find that sense of family with those you already have." But she's veering dangerously near to scolding the man, something that is uncomfortable for the traditional Igenite. Her gaze shifts, searching for inspiration for a new topic. "What is that?" she asks, inclining her head towards the rag.
"Ch'dais." The bronzerider pauses, then repeats succinctly, "My name is Ch'dais." He sounds puzzled, but the look he levels at her is not puzzled; it's dark water under a storm, forlorn and leagues from home. Ch'dais pushes slowly away from the rail, uncrosses his bared arms. A breath lifts the stone of his chest, goes out, and he turns up his palm at his waist. "Give me your hand." The other hangs by his side, the rag dangling in glowlight, forgotten despite the Igen maid's query.
Valandys forces her lips to shape a smile. "Ch'dais. I know I asked... I shouldn't have. This is not the place for unhappy subjects. I am sorry." She reaches out, sets her fingers lightly against the cup of his palm. The other hand shifts to hold both ends of the scarf, bunching them together to prevent it from slipping back over her hair. "Forgive me? We have had little enough time for conversation, since Igen, and I would rather we talk of happy things. There are the eggs, and Arinth, and... ah... my improvement, in my classes."
Ch'dais curls his fingers around hers, then draws in her hand until her palm is held warm in the strength of his. His thumb circles that dark skin as he did the rag before, and he follows its motion rather than answering her smile. "All very good topics," he concedes, but it's a faraway voice, wan and distant from his thoughts. A moment's pause, and then he draws the maid towards him a step, two, close enough to lift her fingers to his lips. They're warm, and the ruddy stubble of his beard scratches without leaving a mark. "Valandys." Each syllable spills over her flesh, spoken slowly. The bronzerider's brow knots. "Call me Ch'dais, and I'll call you Valandys. Fair?"
She'd shown no hesitation in giving him her hand, but what he does once she's placed it in his startles the woman. Black eyes widen, brows arching over in open surprise as she watches- and feels- his lips passing lightly over her skin. "Yes." The word comes with difficulty, almost swallowed as Valandys draws a short breath and presses his fingers with hers. "Ch'dais," she says with a steadier voice, though still softly. Quiet, appropriate for this closer conversation. "I prefer when you use my name. It makes me feel you're speaking with me. Not... with some image of me, you have in your mind." Her darker complexion makes it difficult see the color rise in her cheeks, but there's a deeper sparkle to the eyes that lift to meet his. Her smile comes easier now.
"You might like the image of you that I have in my mind." It's a vintage jest, just the sort of ribald, covering comment the bronzerider has called upon so often. But there's nothing of that in the soft earnestness of his tone and the smile that flashes across his lips as he watches her. Earnest too is the next kiss, pressed to the back of her hand, moist and slow; he closes his eyes for a moment, seals his grasp around those delicate fingers before he forces himself to release her. "But I'm glad we have that settled." Whatever that might be. For a time the tall man says nothing at all, his thoughts measured only by the fixity of his green eyes on hers, the little curl at the corners of his mouth. "It's for washing dragons," he adds at last. "The rag." Pause. "Which I should be doing now, come to think."
Valandys' hand remains lifted for a moment after his is removed, before she realizes and returns it to her waist, where its twin waits. Her thumb rubs over the damp place where the kiss was set. That tiny smile of his has summoned a grin from the woman, her teeth so white in her darker face, her eyes turned to black crescents. "That is a very little rag for washing such a large dragon, and it is late for baths. May I walk with you, to see Arinth?" She doesn't wait for his permission, simply turns to set a foot on the stairs. "If you ask nicely, I can help with the washing."