First impressions
It is an autumn night, 19:16 of day 28, month 11, turn 18 of Interval 10.
Herb Garden, Fort Weyr
The herb garden isn't only a feast for the taste buds, but a veritable feast for the eyes and nose as well. All manner of herbs -- from medicinal to the edible -- are grown here and tended to on a regular basis. The area is fenced in, separating it from the rest of the grounds around it, with a trellis arch over the gate leading into it. There are pathways made from bits of irregularly shaped stones that lead between the various plots and patches of the exquisitely aromatic plants, each section deineated with small signs to indicate what's been grown where. Others have been planted in pots or in boxes, though this treatment is only for those that can't thrive in the native soil.
There are a few benches scattered throughout the sprawling garden, providing places for quiet conversation or for gardeners to take a rest. Toward the southeastern corner of the garden is a smallish shack, which contains things such as clippers, baskets, watering cans and other useful tools.
Obvious exits:
Lakeshore
It's not quite suppertime at Fort, and though the sun has long since fallen behind the rim of the bowl, there remains enough light to see. Balkaiv has discovered the herb gardens, and wanders the paths curiously. He stops every so often to toe at a rock, or kick at a bit of grass or greenery that the groundskeepers have yet to clean away. He's dressed for the weather with gloves and a sturdy coat, the hood dangling behind.
Phara is not a mousey thing. She always stands straight, bold, sure of her place in the world. Her hair is a deep auburn color that almost seems purple in some light, red in the sun, but dark brown in the artificial light indoors. It has been cropped short, three or four inches long, and sticks up at spiky angles untidily from her scalp. Her mouth is curved, giving her a natural smile even when she isn't trying, full and subtle pink. Set between her lips and her mischevious golden brown eyes is a straight nose, harboring the slightest of upturn at the tip. Beneath it all is a stubborn-set chin and a slender jawline. She might pass for pretty if one liked the boyish sort.
She stands around 5'5", comfortably athletic, slender without looking breakable. She has pleasant lines to her body, subtley round with a greater nod to muscle definition. Overall, she seems fit for someone of 19 turns, 9 months, 11 days. Looped around her shoulder is the knot of a rider at Fort Weyr, with a strand of blue for her lifemate, Bennath.
Phara wears servicable riding gear, a white blouse underneath a custom riding jacket of soft blue leather equipped with as many pockets as the poor weaver who made it could possibly fit upon it. Her wherhide breeches are a similar color, and her boots are obviously new to befit her station as a full rider now.
The autumn has banished most of the bright color from the herb gardens by now, but still one bright blossom remains. It's not a flower, however, it's a petite young woman with pixie cut hair and a lime green dress with navy blue leggings under it. The riding jacket over it is turquoise, and a pink hair clip holds back her bangs over her ear. She basically doesn't match in any way except the way she smarts the eyes. As incongruous as her clothing is the way she sways along the paths, skipping and twirling and humming to herself. She has a pleasant, alto timbre, but anyone who knew the tune would know that the song was positively scandalous.
Though he'd glanced at her now and then, it's not until Phara draws near that Kai turns to face her and folds his arms, smirking a little. "You're gonna get in trouble, singing that. Little thing like you? You even know what all them words mean?"
Phara gives him a look up and down, not pausing for a moment. She opens her mouth and sings a few particularly lurid lines for him and winks one honey-colored eye. "You look like trouble. You saying I'm going to get into you?" she drawls, teasing. And then she adds, just in case there's a mistake, "I can take care of myself."
Balkaiv says calmly, "That's not how I know it," and replies with an alternate pair of lines, even raunchier than what she's sung. "Maybe I'm trouble, maybe I'm not, but..." He gives her a once-over, slow and deliberate, "I'd break you. Nothing personal, just the way it is." A pause to let that sink in and he abruptly thrusts out a hand. "Balkaiv, of Othana waystation."
Phara lifts her eyebrows and smiles, looking mildly impressed. "Very nice," she compliments. She seems unfazed by his once-over. Instead, she replies placidly, "You wouldn't. We're made of stronger stuff than the rest, us riders. Nothing personal." She takes his hand, and her grip is not shrinking. Calloused but still soft, the hands of a girl who works. "Phara, Blue Bennath's. Welcome to Fort Weyr. I like your vest. Lovely color."
Balkaiv only shrugs. His grip is muffled by his gloves, but there's plenty of strength there. "Haven't been here long... and am I supposed to call you Phara, or bluerider? Just got in on a tithe train. Brought fleece, some other things."
Phara shrugs her shoulders, gives him one of her impish, infectious grins. "More the reason to welcome you. Phara, please. I'm too young to be a ma'am and Bluerider only works if you don't know my name. But you do, so Phara, please." Her eyebrows lift, and reverantly, she says, "You brought fleece?"
Kai doesn't return the grin, but at least he's not smirking anymore. "Phara, right." There's a headshake and, "Nah, not me. Wagons did. I was just riding along. Heard there'd been some problems with cloth, but," he jerks his chin at her ensemble, "Didn't realize it was so bad. Everyone here dressed in castoffs, like you?"
Phara isn't bothered by surly types, she just keeps on grinning. "Pretty bad, yeah. Fleece prices are skyrocketing. Last I heard, there was crop failure or something silly like that. Awful, I'm having to recycle all my summer clothes through the winter with nothing better to spend my marks on." The look she gives him is critical. "Now darling, do I look like I'm wearing somebody else's clothing?" And while none of it matches, it should be obvious that all of it was cut to her shape.
Balkaiv merely says, "I'm not your darling. Can't imagine why anyone'd... Oh. You're one of them as can't see color, ain't you? Well, you ought to get someone help you. What you're wearing'd blind a watchwher."
Phara's eyebrow raises. "Are you trying to be insulting, or is it just your natural state?" She rubs a hand through the back of her hair. "You can't be a rider if you're colorblind. And I'm not." Obviously. "I like colors." She shrugs. "All colors. And since we're assuming that watchwhers are photophobic, it would be logical to also assume that they'd never see me to begin with and thus couldn't be blinded by my vestemental choices."
Balkaiv says, "Huh?"
Phara folds her arms across her chest and shrugs, looking at him levelly. "Fine then," she sighs. He's given another look, half a smile, though it's halfhearted. "Maybe you could break me after all, Balkaiv."
Balkaiv shrugs again, adding a sniff this time for her capitulation. "Maybe," he agrees, with the air of one conferring a vast favor. "You can call me Kai, if you want. Think I'm going to go see what's for supper." He drops her a nod and heads out, hands stuffed into pockets and shoulders hunched against the rapidly cooling air.
Wonder if all them riders are prickly? Shells, saying someone's insulting 'em when you're just trying to help, and then blabbering on about what she did? Last word I understood was 'watchwher'. S'worse'n when Harpers come by. Least Harpers don't try and Lord it over a man.
Herb Garden, Fort Weyr
The herb garden isn't only a feast for the taste buds, but a veritable feast for the eyes and nose as well. All manner of herbs -- from medicinal to the edible -- are grown here and tended to on a regular basis. The area is fenced in, separating it from the rest of the grounds around it, with a trellis arch over the gate leading into it. There are pathways made from bits of irregularly shaped stones that lead between the various plots and patches of the exquisitely aromatic plants, each section deineated with small signs to indicate what's been grown where. Others have been planted in pots or in boxes, though this treatment is only for those that can't thrive in the native soil.
There are a few benches scattered throughout the sprawling garden, providing places for quiet conversation or for gardeners to take a rest. Toward the southeastern corner of the garden is a smallish shack, which contains things such as clippers, baskets, watering cans and other useful tools.
Obvious exits:
Lakeshore
It's not quite suppertime at Fort, and though the sun has long since fallen behind the rim of the bowl, there remains enough light to see. Balkaiv has discovered the herb gardens, and wanders the paths curiously. He stops every so often to toe at a rock, or kick at a bit of grass or greenery that the groundskeepers have yet to clean away. He's dressed for the weather with gloves and a sturdy coat, the hood dangling behind.
Phara is not a mousey thing. She always stands straight, bold, sure of her place in the world. Her hair is a deep auburn color that almost seems purple in some light, red in the sun, but dark brown in the artificial light indoors. It has been cropped short, three or four inches long, and sticks up at spiky angles untidily from her scalp. Her mouth is curved, giving her a natural smile even when she isn't trying, full and subtle pink. Set between her lips and her mischevious golden brown eyes is a straight nose, harboring the slightest of upturn at the tip. Beneath it all is a stubborn-set chin and a slender jawline. She might pass for pretty if one liked the boyish sort.
She stands around 5'5", comfortably athletic, slender without looking breakable. She has pleasant lines to her body, subtley round with a greater nod to muscle definition. Overall, she seems fit for someone of 19 turns, 9 months, 11 days. Looped around her shoulder is the knot of a rider at Fort Weyr, with a strand of blue for her lifemate, Bennath.
Phara wears servicable riding gear, a white blouse underneath a custom riding jacket of soft blue leather equipped with as many pockets as the poor weaver who made it could possibly fit upon it. Her wherhide breeches are a similar color, and her boots are obviously new to befit her station as a full rider now.
The autumn has banished most of the bright color from the herb gardens by now, but still one bright blossom remains. It's not a flower, however, it's a petite young woman with pixie cut hair and a lime green dress with navy blue leggings under it. The riding jacket over it is turquoise, and a pink hair clip holds back her bangs over her ear. She basically doesn't match in any way except the way she smarts the eyes. As incongruous as her clothing is the way she sways along the paths, skipping and twirling and humming to herself. She has a pleasant, alto timbre, but anyone who knew the tune would know that the song was positively scandalous.
Though he'd glanced at her now and then, it's not until Phara draws near that Kai turns to face her and folds his arms, smirking a little. "You're gonna get in trouble, singing that. Little thing like you? You even know what all them words mean?"
Phara gives him a look up and down, not pausing for a moment. She opens her mouth and sings a few particularly lurid lines for him and winks one honey-colored eye. "You look like trouble. You saying I'm going to get into you?" she drawls, teasing. And then she adds, just in case there's a mistake, "I can take care of myself."
Balkaiv says calmly, "That's not how I know it," and replies with an alternate pair of lines, even raunchier than what she's sung. "Maybe I'm trouble, maybe I'm not, but..." He gives her a once-over, slow and deliberate, "I'd break you. Nothing personal, just the way it is." A pause to let that sink in and he abruptly thrusts out a hand. "Balkaiv, of Othana waystation."
Phara lifts her eyebrows and smiles, looking mildly impressed. "Very nice," she compliments. She seems unfazed by his once-over. Instead, she replies placidly, "You wouldn't. We're made of stronger stuff than the rest, us riders. Nothing personal." She takes his hand, and her grip is not shrinking. Calloused but still soft, the hands of a girl who works. "Phara, Blue Bennath's. Welcome to Fort Weyr. I like your vest. Lovely color."
Balkaiv only shrugs. His grip is muffled by his gloves, but there's plenty of strength there. "Haven't been here long... and am I supposed to call you Phara, or bluerider? Just got in on a tithe train. Brought fleece, some other things."
Phara shrugs her shoulders, gives him one of her impish, infectious grins. "More the reason to welcome you. Phara, please. I'm too young to be a ma'am and Bluerider only works if you don't know my name. But you do, so Phara, please." Her eyebrows lift, and reverantly, she says, "You brought fleece?"
Kai doesn't return the grin, but at least he's not smirking anymore. "Phara, right." There's a headshake and, "Nah, not me. Wagons did. I was just riding along. Heard there'd been some problems with cloth, but," he jerks his chin at her ensemble, "Didn't realize it was so bad. Everyone here dressed in castoffs, like you?"
Phara isn't bothered by surly types, she just keeps on grinning. "Pretty bad, yeah. Fleece prices are skyrocketing. Last I heard, there was crop failure or something silly like that. Awful, I'm having to recycle all my summer clothes through the winter with nothing better to spend my marks on." The look she gives him is critical. "Now darling, do I look like I'm wearing somebody else's clothing?" And while none of it matches, it should be obvious that all of it was cut to her shape.
Balkaiv merely says, "I'm not your darling. Can't imagine why anyone'd... Oh. You're one of them as can't see color, ain't you? Well, you ought to get someone help you. What you're wearing'd blind a watchwher."
Phara's eyebrow raises. "Are you trying to be insulting, or is it just your natural state?" She rubs a hand through the back of her hair. "You can't be a rider if you're colorblind. And I'm not." Obviously. "I like colors." She shrugs. "All colors. And since we're assuming that watchwhers are photophobic, it would be logical to also assume that they'd never see me to begin with and thus couldn't be blinded by my vestemental choices."
Balkaiv says, "Huh?"
Phara folds her arms across her chest and shrugs, looking at him levelly. "Fine then," she sighs. He's given another look, half a smile, though it's halfhearted. "Maybe you could break me after all, Balkaiv."
Balkaiv shrugs again, adding a sniff this time for her capitulation. "Maybe," he agrees, with the air of one conferring a vast favor. "You can call me Kai, if you want. Think I'm going to go see what's for supper." He drops her a nod and heads out, hands stuffed into pockets and shoulders hunched against the rapidly cooling air.
Wonder if all them riders are prickly? Shells, saying someone's insulting 'em when you're just trying to help, and then blabbering on about what she did? Last word I understood was 'watchwher'. S'worse'n when Harpers come by. Least Harpers don't try and Lord it over a man.