(no subject)
Players: G'thon, Bailie.
Time: Early morning, approx day 9, in month 3 of Turn 1 of the 7th Pass.
Synopsis: Bailie brings a letter and shares tea with G'thon.
Weyrleaders' Office
Much of the formal and informal business that concerns the weyrleaders is conducted here. As such, an effort has been made to keep this chamber comfortable out of respect for the long hours of work required to keep the Weyr running. The walls are bright with tapestries and the floors warm with thick rugs. A large sandtable holds pride of place in the center of the room, one half covered with a sheet of glass to serve as a writing surface. A second, smaller table holds whatever writing implements and record hides are needed by the staff. The chairs that ring this area are thickly cushioned but otherwise undecorated.
The stairs that led into the complex from the bowl continue up to the right, taking one into the Weyrleader's weyr. A large tunnel to the left curves down to the senior Weyrwoman's weyr, broken only by the smaller tunnel that leads to one of the junior's weyrs. The last tunnel, opposite the entrance, leads to the second junior's weyr.
-----
Morning finds the Weyrleader up and dressed, working but not reposed at his desk or the sandtable that dominates the room's forequarters. Instead he paces his new, shortened stride, purposeful as ever though he covers less ground with each step. In one hand a hide curls, slopped over his fingers but clasped by the thumb as if it's been read and its continued presence is some sort of security; the tea in his other hand definitely serves that purpose. Perhaps one of the weyrwomen has recently been here, for by the eastward-most draped entrance a cloak has been hung upon a peg, still damp with rain. Messengers have made their morning stop as well; three packages of mail in runners' leather cases rest upon the sandtable, two still tied up and the third spilt open.
It is currently early spring. It's a windy day, the gusts and breezes chilly with humidity. Though the air is still filled with the promising scents of spring, the low temperatures and constant assault by capricious winds will keep many indoors.
Bailie has the sense to find someone to announce her, and this gusty morning it is a wiry young girl that slips past through to the Weyrleader's complex. "Sir, Miss Bailie of Fort to see you, sir." Just outside, the announcee in question is setting her hair back in place.
G'thon's pale brows arch. "Send her in, then. Thank you." Swift steps carry him to the sandtable, and after setting his teacup aside he slides the letters back into the opened case along with the curled one from his hand. He spends a moment with the leather tie to close the case back up, then leaves it there next to its brethren while arranging from the tea-table brought in by the entrance to his own weyr a second cup, presumably for the woman awaiting. "Unless she expects I'll go down to her," he notes absently, neither hopeful nor irritated by the notion, just an echo for the messenger to hear and carry if she's not yet gone to report to her mistress of the moment.
"Of course, sir." The girl dips her head, which by contrast to the rest of her gangly self seems a little big, framed by barely-tamed curls. She turns, and pauses on her way out - "I'll convey your question, sir." And she's off. Not moments later, one with far more sedate curls and a pretty jacket with the stains of raindrops on draped over an arm enters - it's Bailie, complete with her usual infectiously bright smile. "Good morning, G'thon." A practiced greeting, for she doesn't struggle with any awkwardness of decided between titles or names. "I hope I haven't caught you too early, or in the middle of anything urgent?"
For her lack of struggle, she wins a turn from the Weyrleader, his hands assembling fresh-poured cup into saucer just before he looks up and replies with mild smile and eyes that have, just barely, remembered their old shine. "Miss Bailie of Fort," he greets her, tone museful, as though echoing what someone else has recently called her - which, naturally, he is. "Your timing is impeccable. Would you care for a cup of tea?" Whether she cares for it or not he's carrying it toward the sandtable, where chairs await; at one of these he sketches the least of invitations with his free hand, no obligation and no order in the gesture.
Bailie's smile crinkles slightly as she registers G'thon's tone - perhaps amused. "I've already had a cup of klah this morning, but your choice of tea is always hard to turn down. What kind are we drinking, this morning?" She's all ease and grace as she crosses the room, glimpses of maturity finally starting to peek through her girlish exterior. From her jacket-pocket she retrieves an uncreased sealed envelope, making the folding of said jacket less hazardous as she takes the offered seat.
The Weyrleader does not trouble to adjust the lady's chair as she takes it, but he bends formally from the waist to place the tea down upon the table near her with a smooth click of saucer to the glass slab that covers the sand below. "A black-spice blend out of Igen; I believe I smell cardamom in it, and maybe ginger." He retakes his own cup, cradling it in his palm in lieu of a saucer, and draws back another chair from the table. But not quite yet to sit; his free hand just rests upon the seat-back in claim while he asks, "Milk or sweetening? I have both, with the tray." G'thon spares a slightly more earnest smile: "I did so much appreciate the tea you brought, Bailie. It was kind of you to think of me just then."
Bailie's look turns curious as she hears the tea's description, and she sets her envelope in her lap on top of her jacket as she reaches for it but thinks twice. "Sweetener, definitely, if there's ginger in. Thank-you." She adjusts her posture a little, rolling shoulders back and crossing her ankles. Her smile softens, too. "I wasn't the only one thinking of you at that time, G'thon," she replies sincerely, head tilting forward slightly as her eyes drop to the envelope. "My thoughts and goodwill were, and still are, with you. And that of Fort, I imagine - from my father." She extends the envelope, lifting her eyes again.
Smiling still and without a further word about the tea, G'thon replaces his cup on the table, then returns to the tray to collect sweetener and, apparently since he's there, milk in its little creamer chilled by snow from up the mountains. "You are very kind," he murmurs while coming back to the main part of the room, putting the tea-amendments down for her convenience. His hand hesitates a moment just above them as his gaze goes from the envelope to its bearer, then pale fingers overturn to take it from her. "Thank you. Shall I read it, or - if you will excuse me for being plainspoken - are you its messenger because you know already its content?" If only he could manage a little more smile, a little light in his eyes, the tone might be considered jovial, teasing.
There's a modest blink from Bailie, held a moment longer than necessary at G'thon's murmur. She busies herself with adding to her tea, stirring the sweetener in slowly. Perhaps G'thon conveys himself better than he thinks, or perhaps Bailie reads into his flatter demeanour - she chuckles, and dark eyes return the light that should be present in his own eyes. "Ah, yes. No need to read it for my benefit - it is simply condolences, and an invitation for you to attend Sefton and my betrothal celebrations, at Fort."
"Ah," responds G'thon, laying the letter not far aside, near his mail, and taking up his tea at last. It is cool enough that unlike the cup more recently poured, it does not steam, and again he rests it in the palm of his hand while a moment's silence allows him thought. The icon of his tea serves as a focus, nothing more. "I shall send him my thanks on both matters, and hope to be fit to attend by the time this event's upon us." An opening for her to clarify that timing, perhaps; but the Weyrleader seems unconcerned, and takes a sip of tea before going on, looking from the cup to her with the lopsided smile. "And read it beforehand, of course. Are you looking forward to them?" A beat. "The celebrations."
"I do believe it's a few sevendays from now, I've yet to be fitted for a dress." Bailie's tone suggests that this is obviously the defining factor on the event's timing; girlishness presenting itself again. Finished stirring, she sets her spoon aside and takes up her own cup. "Very muchly so, and if you'll forgive me for speaking plainly, too - moreso for the release from study and the solemness that's settled in so quickly here." She sips thoughtfully, straightening and watching over the rim of her cup. "Not that Sefton isn't enough to celebrate, on his own." Bailie's smile crinkles again.
G'thon offers a pale ghost of a chuckle for the notion that the event need be timed according to the betrothed's tailor's work. "Forgiven, of course, Bailie. I fear you'll find such solemnity elsewhere, however; now there's no Weyr that has escaped casualties, and some of the Holds and Halls have probably found that life will be different, now. You're planning on a dance, I assume?" Assuming also, therefore, that the young woman has any hand at all in the preparations. "In the great hall, probably. That will be quite something. And... yes." The Weyrleader's eyes shift, finding the case of his mail awaiting him, expression untellable and distant. "Sefton is much-celebrated in many circles. Still, I expect he considers himself a lucky man to have made your match."
Bailie nods in response, adding, "I should hope so, for what's a party without dancing? I think quite a few invites have been sent, hopefully Fort can fit them all." No hint of concern in her tone, of course. "My mother has organised it, and her parties are always nice." For the compliment, Bailie tips her head with a warm smile. "Thank-you, G'thon, you're too kind."
"If anywhere can, it's Fort." G'thon manages a weary sort of smirk, nudging an elbow up onto the arm of his chair as the hand descends to replace his cup upon the table. "Thank -you-, Bailie. You're incredibly graceful about it all." At last the Weyrleader descends into his chair, hands come to rest in a loose fold upon his lap; he perches, more than sits, a bit awkward about it. "You represent Fort well."
Bailie smiles into her tea as she sips, and shows pearly teeth as she lowers her cup. "I do hope so - it'd be terrible to have to force our guests into the courtyard." The table seems like a good place for her cup at the moment, so Bailie returns both it and saucer there. "I do try," she replies, turning her eyes to the now-seated Weyrleader. "Fort deserves as much, as does my family."
"Ah," replies G'thon, his second use of the syllable and no more meaningful this time than the last. But his gaze shifts from the leather case back to Fort's daughter across the table and rests there a long moment, as though he could read her eyes - or mind - by watching. Perhaps he cannot; but one brow slides up a bit, and he asks, "Are you looking forward to being wed?"
It wouldn't be too hard for G'thon to distinguish the pride in Bailie's expression, as she references her home and family, nor for him to read the subtle difference in her smile reflected in those eyes. "It will be a time of significant change, I think, for myself. And for Fort, I suppose, accepting an heir from another hold - but yes, I am. It's an exciting," a tiny pause, as she searches for the correct term, "Prospect. And I am very glad to be facing it in my native Hold, with someone so," again, a pause, "Capable."
Even if he did not have adequate material to slide his eyebrows at in Bailie's proud demeanor, her words provide enough in the pauses, the gaps, the word choice. And in one key omission. "But Sefton?" The man. As soon as the words are breathed, the question asked, G'thon dismisses it with a lift and a wave of one large hand, a self-depreciative smile and a brief bow of his head. "I understand. I wish you well again, Bailie, and I expect you'll be making the most of your time with the Caucus. I hope it serves you well in your future with Fort." As if it were the Hold she marries. The Weyrleader rises. "I shall read your father's letter and respond today, unless there is any reason I should delay it a night." A pause, and though his gaze has gone off into middle distance, his body turned so Bailie has his profile in view, his eyes might seem a bit to smile a fond, long-lived smile. "It will be nice to have cause for a dance with Lexine."
Bailie cants her head, responding with just a fond smile as G'thon mentions her betrothed. "Thank-you for your goodwill, and for the tea, G'thon." She rises also, unfolding her jacket and settling it ever so carefully over one forearm. "No reason I can think of, unless you've not the time to respond right away." Her eyes dart to the pile of mail, as though to clarify her meaning. "I do hope you'll save a dance for me, as well? If you'll excuse me for now, though," Apologetic, her own smile fades a little, "I should be getting to class. Making the most of time here, after all."
"I will, of course. I'd be honored." G'thon turns back to face her, fashioning a new smile, open and light though threatened as always by the shadows beneath his eyes. "Thank you for stopping by, Bailie, and for carrying your father's letter. Good day to you."
"Always a pleasure, G'thon." Bailie tips her head further into a farewell nod, fondness resurfacing in her smile as it grows. "Good day."
Time: Early morning, approx day 9, in month 3 of Turn 1 of the 7th Pass.
Synopsis: Bailie brings a letter and shares tea with G'thon.
Weyrleaders' Office
Much of the formal and informal business that concerns the weyrleaders is conducted here. As such, an effort has been made to keep this chamber comfortable out of respect for the long hours of work required to keep the Weyr running. The walls are bright with tapestries and the floors warm with thick rugs. A large sandtable holds pride of place in the center of the room, one half covered with a sheet of glass to serve as a writing surface. A second, smaller table holds whatever writing implements and record hides are needed by the staff. The chairs that ring this area are thickly cushioned but otherwise undecorated.
The stairs that led into the complex from the bowl continue up to the right, taking one into the Weyrleader's weyr. A large tunnel to the left curves down to the senior Weyrwoman's weyr, broken only by the smaller tunnel that leads to one of the junior's weyrs. The last tunnel, opposite the entrance, leads to the second junior's weyr.
-----
Morning finds the Weyrleader up and dressed, working but not reposed at his desk or the sandtable that dominates the room's forequarters. Instead he paces his new, shortened stride, purposeful as ever though he covers less ground with each step. In one hand a hide curls, slopped over his fingers but clasped by the thumb as if it's been read and its continued presence is some sort of security; the tea in his other hand definitely serves that purpose. Perhaps one of the weyrwomen has recently been here, for by the eastward-most draped entrance a cloak has been hung upon a peg, still damp with rain. Messengers have made their morning stop as well; three packages of mail in runners' leather cases rest upon the sandtable, two still tied up and the third spilt open.
It is currently early spring. It's a windy day, the gusts and breezes chilly with humidity. Though the air is still filled with the promising scents of spring, the low temperatures and constant assault by capricious winds will keep many indoors.
Bailie has the sense to find someone to announce her, and this gusty morning it is a wiry young girl that slips past through to the Weyrleader's complex. "Sir, Miss Bailie of Fort to see you, sir." Just outside, the announcee in question is setting her hair back in place.
G'thon's pale brows arch. "Send her in, then. Thank you." Swift steps carry him to the sandtable, and after setting his teacup aside he slides the letters back into the opened case along with the curled one from his hand. He spends a moment with the leather tie to close the case back up, then leaves it there next to its brethren while arranging from the tea-table brought in by the entrance to his own weyr a second cup, presumably for the woman awaiting. "Unless she expects I'll go down to her," he notes absently, neither hopeful nor irritated by the notion, just an echo for the messenger to hear and carry if she's not yet gone to report to her mistress of the moment.
"Of course, sir." The girl dips her head, which by contrast to the rest of her gangly self seems a little big, framed by barely-tamed curls. She turns, and pauses on her way out - "I'll convey your question, sir." And she's off. Not moments later, one with far more sedate curls and a pretty jacket with the stains of raindrops on draped over an arm enters - it's Bailie, complete with her usual infectiously bright smile. "Good morning, G'thon." A practiced greeting, for she doesn't struggle with any awkwardness of decided between titles or names. "I hope I haven't caught you too early, or in the middle of anything urgent?"
For her lack of struggle, she wins a turn from the Weyrleader, his hands assembling fresh-poured cup into saucer just before he looks up and replies with mild smile and eyes that have, just barely, remembered their old shine. "Miss Bailie of Fort," he greets her, tone museful, as though echoing what someone else has recently called her - which, naturally, he is. "Your timing is impeccable. Would you care for a cup of tea?" Whether she cares for it or not he's carrying it toward the sandtable, where chairs await; at one of these he sketches the least of invitations with his free hand, no obligation and no order in the gesture.
Bailie's smile crinkles slightly as she registers G'thon's tone - perhaps amused. "I've already had a cup of klah this morning, but your choice of tea is always hard to turn down. What kind are we drinking, this morning?" She's all ease and grace as she crosses the room, glimpses of maturity finally starting to peek through her girlish exterior. From her jacket-pocket she retrieves an uncreased sealed envelope, making the folding of said jacket less hazardous as she takes the offered seat.
The Weyrleader does not trouble to adjust the lady's chair as she takes it, but he bends formally from the waist to place the tea down upon the table near her with a smooth click of saucer to the glass slab that covers the sand below. "A black-spice blend out of Igen; I believe I smell cardamom in it, and maybe ginger." He retakes his own cup, cradling it in his palm in lieu of a saucer, and draws back another chair from the table. But not quite yet to sit; his free hand just rests upon the seat-back in claim while he asks, "Milk or sweetening? I have both, with the tray." G'thon spares a slightly more earnest smile: "I did so much appreciate the tea you brought, Bailie. It was kind of you to think of me just then."
Bailie's look turns curious as she hears the tea's description, and she sets her envelope in her lap on top of her jacket as she reaches for it but thinks twice. "Sweetener, definitely, if there's ginger in. Thank-you." She adjusts her posture a little, rolling shoulders back and crossing her ankles. Her smile softens, too. "I wasn't the only one thinking of you at that time, G'thon," she replies sincerely, head tilting forward slightly as her eyes drop to the envelope. "My thoughts and goodwill were, and still are, with you. And that of Fort, I imagine - from my father." She extends the envelope, lifting her eyes again.
Smiling still and without a further word about the tea, G'thon replaces his cup on the table, then returns to the tray to collect sweetener and, apparently since he's there, milk in its little creamer chilled by snow from up the mountains. "You are very kind," he murmurs while coming back to the main part of the room, putting the tea-amendments down for her convenience. His hand hesitates a moment just above them as his gaze goes from the envelope to its bearer, then pale fingers overturn to take it from her. "Thank you. Shall I read it, or - if you will excuse me for being plainspoken - are you its messenger because you know already its content?" If only he could manage a little more smile, a little light in his eyes, the tone might be considered jovial, teasing.
There's a modest blink from Bailie, held a moment longer than necessary at G'thon's murmur. She busies herself with adding to her tea, stirring the sweetener in slowly. Perhaps G'thon conveys himself better than he thinks, or perhaps Bailie reads into his flatter demeanour - she chuckles, and dark eyes return the light that should be present in his own eyes. "Ah, yes. No need to read it for my benefit - it is simply condolences, and an invitation for you to attend Sefton and my betrothal celebrations, at Fort."
"Ah," responds G'thon, laying the letter not far aside, near his mail, and taking up his tea at last. It is cool enough that unlike the cup more recently poured, it does not steam, and again he rests it in the palm of his hand while a moment's silence allows him thought. The icon of his tea serves as a focus, nothing more. "I shall send him my thanks on both matters, and hope to be fit to attend by the time this event's upon us." An opening for her to clarify that timing, perhaps; but the Weyrleader seems unconcerned, and takes a sip of tea before going on, looking from the cup to her with the lopsided smile. "And read it beforehand, of course. Are you looking forward to them?" A beat. "The celebrations."
"I do believe it's a few sevendays from now, I've yet to be fitted for a dress." Bailie's tone suggests that this is obviously the defining factor on the event's timing; girlishness presenting itself again. Finished stirring, she sets her spoon aside and takes up her own cup. "Very muchly so, and if you'll forgive me for speaking plainly, too - moreso for the release from study and the solemness that's settled in so quickly here." She sips thoughtfully, straightening and watching over the rim of her cup. "Not that Sefton isn't enough to celebrate, on his own." Bailie's smile crinkles again.
G'thon offers a pale ghost of a chuckle for the notion that the event need be timed according to the betrothed's tailor's work. "Forgiven, of course, Bailie. I fear you'll find such solemnity elsewhere, however; now there's no Weyr that has escaped casualties, and some of the Holds and Halls have probably found that life will be different, now. You're planning on a dance, I assume?" Assuming also, therefore, that the young woman has any hand at all in the preparations. "In the great hall, probably. That will be quite something. And... yes." The Weyrleader's eyes shift, finding the case of his mail awaiting him, expression untellable and distant. "Sefton is much-celebrated in many circles. Still, I expect he considers himself a lucky man to have made your match."
Bailie nods in response, adding, "I should hope so, for what's a party without dancing? I think quite a few invites have been sent, hopefully Fort can fit them all." No hint of concern in her tone, of course. "My mother has organised it, and her parties are always nice." For the compliment, Bailie tips her head with a warm smile. "Thank-you, G'thon, you're too kind."
"If anywhere can, it's Fort." G'thon manages a weary sort of smirk, nudging an elbow up onto the arm of his chair as the hand descends to replace his cup upon the table. "Thank -you-, Bailie. You're incredibly graceful about it all." At last the Weyrleader descends into his chair, hands come to rest in a loose fold upon his lap; he perches, more than sits, a bit awkward about it. "You represent Fort well."
Bailie smiles into her tea as she sips, and shows pearly teeth as she lowers her cup. "I do hope so - it'd be terrible to have to force our guests into the courtyard." The table seems like a good place for her cup at the moment, so Bailie returns both it and saucer there. "I do try," she replies, turning her eyes to the now-seated Weyrleader. "Fort deserves as much, as does my family."
"Ah," replies G'thon, his second use of the syllable and no more meaningful this time than the last. But his gaze shifts from the leather case back to Fort's daughter across the table and rests there a long moment, as though he could read her eyes - or mind - by watching. Perhaps he cannot; but one brow slides up a bit, and he asks, "Are you looking forward to being wed?"
It wouldn't be too hard for G'thon to distinguish the pride in Bailie's expression, as she references her home and family, nor for him to read the subtle difference in her smile reflected in those eyes. "It will be a time of significant change, I think, for myself. And for Fort, I suppose, accepting an heir from another hold - but yes, I am. It's an exciting," a tiny pause, as she searches for the correct term, "Prospect. And I am very glad to be facing it in my native Hold, with someone so," again, a pause, "Capable."
Even if he did not have adequate material to slide his eyebrows at in Bailie's proud demeanor, her words provide enough in the pauses, the gaps, the word choice. And in one key omission. "But Sefton?" The man. As soon as the words are breathed, the question asked, G'thon dismisses it with a lift and a wave of one large hand, a self-depreciative smile and a brief bow of his head. "I understand. I wish you well again, Bailie, and I expect you'll be making the most of your time with the Caucus. I hope it serves you well in your future with Fort." As if it were the Hold she marries. The Weyrleader rises. "I shall read your father's letter and respond today, unless there is any reason I should delay it a night." A pause, and though his gaze has gone off into middle distance, his body turned so Bailie has his profile in view, his eyes might seem a bit to smile a fond, long-lived smile. "It will be nice to have cause for a dance with Lexine."
Bailie cants her head, responding with just a fond smile as G'thon mentions her betrothed. "Thank-you for your goodwill, and for the tea, G'thon." She rises also, unfolding her jacket and settling it ever so carefully over one forearm. "No reason I can think of, unless you've not the time to respond right away." Her eyes dart to the pile of mail, as though to clarify her meaning. "I do hope you'll save a dance for me, as well? If you'll excuse me for now, though," Apologetic, her own smile fades a little, "I should be getting to class. Making the most of time here, after all."
"I will, of course. I'd be honored." G'thon turns back to face her, fashioning a new smile, open and light though threatened as always by the shadows beneath his eyes. "Thank you for stopping by, Bailie, and for carrying your father's letter. Good day to you."
"Always a pleasure, G'thon." Bailie tips her head further into a farewell nod, fondness resurfacing in her smile as it grows. "Good day."