log [ fussy fathers ]
Where: West Cavern Workroom
Who: Fadra, Jakkal, P'draig, Tosolla
What: Fadra makes the acquaintance of T'mic's spawn, who happens to be an Istan Candidate.
West Cavern Workroom, Ista Weyr(#287RJ)
Though busy in their own right, the west cavern and workrooms tend to be quieter than the lively living caverns. A wide thoroughfare meanders through the room and is kept clear despite the worktables and benches of all shapes and sizes that keep the Weyrfolk occupied. Here is where much of the Weyr's work is completed, from pottery and weaving to strap-work and sorting almost everything imaginable. A companionable hubbub and murmur rises and falls with the passing of the hours. The easternmost section has been partitioned off as a quiet gathering area with chairs, sofas, and a notice board used for passing along messages both official and not. Other tunnels stretch off in all directions, though the most commonly used are to the cardinal points.
As afternoon tips toward evening, the population of the western workrooms begins to ebb. The only constant visitors remain the aunties and uncles doing what work they can yet manage. Today there's a brownrider perched on a stool nearby, a young woman with dark curly hair and dark eyes slouched deep into a chair across from him. They're chatting, apparently familiarly.
Jakkal leaves the resident dormitory with a sack filled to the brim with laundry which requires a good scrub. Spotting the pair chatting, he skirts the area and addresses a nearby aunty, "Do you have any place dirty laundry is collected here?" His voic vibrates slightly around the room despite that fact that he's speaking relatively softly (for him at least) but that's the great thing about older folks, they tend not to flinch when he addresses them indoors.
Jakkal leaves the resident dormitory with a sack filled to the brim with laundry which requires a good scrub. Spotting the pair chatting, he skirts the area and addresses a nearby aunty, "Do you have any place dirty laundry is collected here?" His voic vibrates slightly around the room despite that fact that he's speaking relatively softly (for him at least) but that's the great thing about older folks, they tend not to flinch when he addresses them indoors.
"Other Candidates." And P'draig squints at Tosolla sidelong, laughs. "Oho, so that's the shape of it. No, 'Solla, T'mic doesn't know yet. Dunno why you haven't told him either. It's not like he's going to send you home," Paddy says with a little lift of his shoulders as the knife starts traveling his block of wood again. "You wanna go back down to the 'Bar? Sure." Another shrug. "Just don't get your sweet little self plastered or Balinne'll an my hide."
From the bowels of the weyr comes the most fearsome of monst--erm...well, perhaps not so much. Fadra's escape from the storage caverns is fairly quiet, considering the pair of chairs she's tugging along with her, one hooked under each arm so she can use her shoulder on the door. She props the door with one booted foot, leans back enough to keep it open, and swings one chair out; the second follows shortly, and the brownrider extracts herself third, letting the door swing closed with an angry-sounding thunk so she can carry the chairs towards the hallway. And if someone nearly loses an eye when hesitates behind P'draig to heft them over their respective shoulders, well, that's not /her/ problem, is it?
Jakkal nods at the Aunty's reply and moves to the corner of the room to check the basket set aside for aprons and jackets that have been dirtied working at the various crafts in this room. He glances over then as the door slams behind Fadra. "Would you like some help, Ma'am?" he offers, his voice carrying easily across the room.
Tosolla shrugs again, her attention torn from Paddy by Jakkal's roaring. She looks about to help him out when he moves off; she turns back to Paddy only to stare, eyes wide, at the threatening chair-death behind his head. She cries, "Look out!" and ducks, lunging forward to grab at Paddy and drag him, knife and all, off the stool.
Snick, snick, Paddy whittling peacably and then there's Jakkal's booming and Tosolla is diving for him and his eyes go round. The blade is flicked closed quickly just as the girl's hands grab at his wrists and he goes tumbling forward, piece of wood flying off to parts unknown . "Uh ... what the ..." is what P'draig says, blinking in surprise then letting out a hiss of pain as one knee bangs the floor. The brownrider catches his breath and swivels around. Chair death. Huh. He reaches out to grab the edge of the nearest table and hauls himself to his feet, makes another face as pain shoots up his knee. "You got that okay, Fadra, Jakkal? I'd help, but I'm thinking I need to go hit the infirmary for some ice instead." There's a little nod 'Solla's way. "Thanks for saving my head from impending doom. And I won't tell Mic yet, if you don't want, but seriously, 'Solla, just tell him." With a little wave, he limps off towards the infirmary and presumably, Iesia's 'tender' care.
Fadra's grip on the chair loosens - it's more surprise than anything, and though she keeps firm hold of one, the second clatters to the floor about the same time as P'draig, leaving the small brownrider looking perturbed but unapologetic. "'Twould've nay killed ya," she wagers, "just bumped y'something good." And then to Tosolla, "Dramatic; I'm sure he'd been fine, if'n you'd nay tackled him from the chair." She practically hisses at Jakkal, "Been doin' it fer turns, I nay need any help now." But she does need a break. She sets the second chair down, rights it's fallen comrade, and settles in one of them carefully, to better pull the ever-present wineskin from her belt and look at the pair of candidates scrupulously.
Solla flutters around Paddy, but isn't much help getting him back to his feet and sent off to the infirmary. "I don't...," she starts, but then the tall brownrider is limping off. She slumps back into her chair with a pout, then eyes Fadra and sits up properly, her hands in her lap. "I thought you were going to hit him, ma'am." A beat, and then she adds, "I'm Tosolla, but everyone calls me 'Solla, and that's Jakkal. We're Candidates." As if the knot didn't give them away.
Jakkal shoots Tosolla a look and then shakes his head with a roll of his eyes. Maybe introducing random people without being asked is tradition where she's from.
Fadra's eyes widen over the skin, big round 'o's of faux disbelief. "Oh, really? Well, shards, I'd've ne'er guessed." Nevertheless, she corks the skin and replaces it, leaning foward the short distance to prop her elbows on P'draig's newly vacated stool. She places her chin in one hand, brows going up. "From where?" she finally asks of 'Solla, with a glance at Jakkal. She's seen him, and therefore her interest in him is negligible.
"Southern," the girl says with another flip of her hair to get it properly behind her shoulders. "My Papa is a rider here. His name's T'mic. But I haven't told him yet I'm a Candidate." She throws a considering look after P'draig and adds in a low voice, "But I guess he'll know, now. That's his weyrmate."
Jakkal leaves the two women to their conversation as he picks up the basket, shifts the sack of laundry more securely over his shoulder and makes his way towards the pool for the laundry.
Fadra's eyes widen in earnest now, before she barks a laugh. "T'mic, eh? Well, You're tryin' t'keep secrets around aunties, if'n y'didn't notice. They need gossip like we need food. I'm sure he'd've found out, either way." Which is to say that Sulizath is no doubt already asking Aath what she knows about 'Solla, because though his rider's not a gossip, curiousity is a different beast entirely. "Why nay just ...tell 'im? I can't imagine 'tis a terrible thing."
Solla protests, "I don't want to keep it a /secret/...!" as she gathers her hair into a loose ponytail and drags it over her shoulder again, like it's some curly sort of security blanket. "I just... didn't want him to know. He'd fuss." Dark eyes glance at Fadra to see how the brownrider will take this shocking revelation.
Presented with this shocking revelation, Fadra only 'hmms', her forefinger tapping thoughtfully at her cheekbone. She straightens, leans back into her chair further, and narrows her eyes at the girl. "Truth o'it is, th'later he finds out th'more time he gets t'adjust. I'm sure he'll fuss either way - moreso if'n y'Impress and he's t'help train ya. Probably do him a favor, just sayin' it."
"--The bartender down at the Sandbar knows," Solla points out for no apparent reason, pouting just ever so slightly. She glances up at Fadra again from beneath lowered lashes and adds, "That's just it. Papa's so busy, I don't want him to fuss." The rest of the brownrider's words bring out a thoughtful, lips-pursed pout. "Do you think he'd mind, if I was a weyrling?"
Fadra shrugs. "I nay pretend t'understand T'mic." It'd do nothing for her street cred. "'Twould be a bit hypocritical o'him, wouldn't it? Him bein' a rider and all, and liking it t'boot. If'n he's going t'fuss, that's nay anyone's problem but his, now is it?" She tilts her head to one side, mouth twisting off into a frown, and says, "I nay have kids, though, I couldn't begin t'say I understand th'working o'a parent's mind."
The girl twists curls around her fingers, still watching Fadra closely. "I'm his oldest," she says with a vocal shrug that suggests this is not a big deal. "I suppose... I suppose I -should- tell him." Another moue and then she tips up her chin as if to better meet the brownrider's eyes. "How do you know my Papa? I know you aren't Seliene - she rides green." There's a flick of her eyes toward Fadra's
Fadra sighs, shrugs. Her good deed for the day is done, it seems, and the wineskin has found her hand to compensate. She's got a mouthful when Tosolla's next question comes, and is forced to make an exasperated sound in her throat until she can swallow. At least the girl very blatantly doesn't accuse her of being Seliene; thank Faranth for small favors. "He's been nothin' but a pain in m'ass since he came," she delivers. "I was his weyrlingmaster, and then he was m'assistant once he graduated."
Fadra makes a face that suggests she's bitten into something sour. Or something rotten. Or something sour and rotten. "Has he," she says, and it doesn't quite come off as a question with the monotone she's decided to use. "S'long as he's nay fussin', I suppose I'll be fine if'n he's gonna yap," she finally decides, and then confirms, "Aye, I'm Fadra, brown Sulizath's."
"He said you were a very good teacher," his daughter says primly, and who can tell if she's telling the truth? "I guess, if you think I should tell him too...." There's a sigh, the much-put-upon sigh of the teenager, and Solla glances around as if expecting Mic to pop out of the walls. "I don't suppose you know if he's with the weyrlings? They wouldn't mind if I poked my head in to look, would they? Just, you know, to look?"
"Uh huh," Fadra allows, eyes betraying her doubt at /that/. Then her voice changes slightly, just enough to be sharp. "I nay /know/. He's nay m'charge." Long-suffering sighs follow as she stands and stretches. "I suppose Sully can ask," she deigns, glancing around as well. Maybe Mic /will/ pop out of the walls.
T'mic fails to pop out of the walls, even after they give him a good handful of seconds to do so. Solla sighs and flicks her hair over her shoulder again before popping to her feet and smoothing the front of her trousers. "I shouldn't be a bother," she says instead, and drops the brownrider a pretty curtsey that's only marred by the lack of skirt. "It was very nice meeting you, Fadra. I'll ask Paddy, if I see him at supper - or maybe Papa will be there, and I can tell him myself."
"Maybe," Fadra agrees. Ever helpful, isn't she? She's swift enough at picking up her chairs once Solla's standing, and without much else to say, the brownrider makes headway the way she had already started, with only a, "G'luck, then," over her shoulder.
Solla carols, "Thank youuu!" over her own shoulder as she trots toward the bowl, adding a bright, tooth-flashing smile for the brownrider's enjoyment. Or something.
Who: Fadra, Jakkal, P'draig, Tosolla
What: Fadra makes the acquaintance of T'mic's spawn, who happens to be an Istan Candidate.
West Cavern Workroom, Ista Weyr(#287RJ)
Though busy in their own right, the west cavern and workrooms tend to be quieter than the lively living caverns. A wide thoroughfare meanders through the room and is kept clear despite the worktables and benches of all shapes and sizes that keep the Weyrfolk occupied. Here is where much of the Weyr's work is completed, from pottery and weaving to strap-work and sorting almost everything imaginable. A companionable hubbub and murmur rises and falls with the passing of the hours. The easternmost section has been partitioned off as a quiet gathering area with chairs, sofas, and a notice board used for passing along messages both official and not. Other tunnels stretch off in all directions, though the most commonly used are to the cardinal points.
As afternoon tips toward evening, the population of the western workrooms begins to ebb. The only constant visitors remain the aunties and uncles doing what work they can yet manage. Today there's a brownrider perched on a stool nearby, a young woman with dark curly hair and dark eyes slouched deep into a chair across from him. They're chatting, apparently familiarly.
Jakkal leaves the resident dormitory with a sack filled to the brim with laundry which requires a good scrub. Spotting the pair chatting, he skirts the area and addresses a nearby aunty, "Do you have any place dirty laundry is collected here?" His voic vibrates slightly around the room despite that fact that he's speaking relatively softly (for him at least) but that's the great thing about older folks, they tend not to flinch when he addresses them indoors.
Jakkal leaves the resident dormitory with a sack filled to the brim with laundry which requires a good scrub. Spotting the pair chatting, he skirts the area and addresses a nearby aunty, "Do you have any place dirty laundry is collected here?" His voic vibrates slightly around the room despite that fact that he's speaking relatively softly (for him at least) but that's the great thing about older folks, they tend not to flinch when he addresses them indoors.
"Other Candidates." And P'draig squints at Tosolla sidelong, laughs. "Oho, so that's the shape of it. No, 'Solla, T'mic doesn't know yet. Dunno why you haven't told him either. It's not like he's going to send you home," Paddy says with a little lift of his shoulders as the knife starts traveling his block of wood again. "You wanna go back down to the 'Bar? Sure." Another shrug. "Just don't get your sweet little self plastered or Balinne'll an my hide."
From the bowels of the weyr comes the most fearsome of monst--erm...well, perhaps not so much. Fadra's escape from the storage caverns is fairly quiet, considering the pair of chairs she's tugging along with her, one hooked under each arm so she can use her shoulder on the door. She props the door with one booted foot, leans back enough to keep it open, and swings one chair out; the second follows shortly, and the brownrider extracts herself third, letting the door swing closed with an angry-sounding thunk so she can carry the chairs towards the hallway. And if someone nearly loses an eye when hesitates behind P'draig to heft them over their respective shoulders, well, that's not /her/ problem, is it?
Jakkal nods at the Aunty's reply and moves to the corner of the room to check the basket set aside for aprons and jackets that have been dirtied working at the various crafts in this room. He glances over then as the door slams behind Fadra. "Would you like some help, Ma'am?" he offers, his voice carrying easily across the room.
Tosolla shrugs again, her attention torn from Paddy by Jakkal's roaring. She looks about to help him out when he moves off; she turns back to Paddy only to stare, eyes wide, at the threatening chair-death behind his head. She cries, "Look out!" and ducks, lunging forward to grab at Paddy and drag him, knife and all, off the stool.
Snick, snick, Paddy whittling peacably and then there's Jakkal's booming and Tosolla is diving for him and his eyes go round. The blade is flicked closed quickly just as the girl's hands grab at his wrists and he goes tumbling forward, piece of wood flying off to parts unknown . "Uh ... what the ..." is what P'draig says, blinking in surprise then letting out a hiss of pain as one knee bangs the floor. The brownrider catches his breath and swivels around. Chair death. Huh. He reaches out to grab the edge of the nearest table and hauls himself to his feet, makes another face as pain shoots up his knee. "You got that okay, Fadra, Jakkal? I'd help, but I'm thinking I need to go hit the infirmary for some ice instead." There's a little nod 'Solla's way. "Thanks for saving my head from impending doom. And I won't tell Mic yet, if you don't want, but seriously, 'Solla, just tell him." With a little wave, he limps off towards the infirmary and presumably, Iesia's 'tender' care.
Fadra's grip on the chair loosens - it's more surprise than anything, and though she keeps firm hold of one, the second clatters to the floor about the same time as P'draig, leaving the small brownrider looking perturbed but unapologetic. "'Twould've nay killed ya," she wagers, "just bumped y'something good." And then to Tosolla, "Dramatic; I'm sure he'd been fine, if'n you'd nay tackled him from the chair." She practically hisses at Jakkal, "Been doin' it fer turns, I nay need any help now." But she does need a break. She sets the second chair down, rights it's fallen comrade, and settles in one of them carefully, to better pull the ever-present wineskin from her belt and look at the pair of candidates scrupulously.
Solla flutters around Paddy, but isn't much help getting him back to his feet and sent off to the infirmary. "I don't...," she starts, but then the tall brownrider is limping off. She slumps back into her chair with a pout, then eyes Fadra and sits up properly, her hands in her lap. "I thought you were going to hit him, ma'am." A beat, and then she adds, "I'm Tosolla, but everyone calls me 'Solla, and that's Jakkal. We're Candidates." As if the knot didn't give them away.
Jakkal shoots Tosolla a look and then shakes his head with a roll of his eyes. Maybe introducing random people without being asked is tradition where she's from.
Fadra's eyes widen over the skin, big round 'o's of faux disbelief. "Oh, really? Well, shards, I'd've ne'er guessed." Nevertheless, she corks the skin and replaces it, leaning foward the short distance to prop her elbows on P'draig's newly vacated stool. She places her chin in one hand, brows going up. "From where?" she finally asks of 'Solla, with a glance at Jakkal. She's seen him, and therefore her interest in him is negligible.
"Southern," the girl says with another flip of her hair to get it properly behind her shoulders. "My Papa is a rider here. His name's T'mic. But I haven't told him yet I'm a Candidate." She throws a considering look after P'draig and adds in a low voice, "But I guess he'll know, now. That's his weyrmate."
Jakkal leaves the two women to their conversation as he picks up the basket, shifts the sack of laundry more securely over his shoulder and makes his way towards the pool for the laundry.
Fadra's eyes widen in earnest now, before she barks a laugh. "T'mic, eh? Well, You're tryin' t'keep secrets around aunties, if'n y'didn't notice. They need gossip like we need food. I'm sure he'd've found out, either way." Which is to say that Sulizath is no doubt already asking Aath what she knows about 'Solla, because though his rider's not a gossip, curiousity is a different beast entirely. "Why nay just ...tell 'im? I can't imagine 'tis a terrible thing."
Solla protests, "I don't want to keep it a /secret/...!" as she gathers her hair into a loose ponytail and drags it over her shoulder again, like it's some curly sort of security blanket. "I just... didn't want him to know. He'd fuss." Dark eyes glance at Fadra to see how the brownrider will take this shocking revelation.
Presented with this shocking revelation, Fadra only 'hmms', her forefinger tapping thoughtfully at her cheekbone. She straightens, leans back into her chair further, and narrows her eyes at the girl. "Truth o'it is, th'later he finds out th'more time he gets t'adjust. I'm sure he'll fuss either way - moreso if'n y'Impress and he's t'help train ya. Probably do him a favor, just sayin' it."
"--The bartender down at the Sandbar knows," Solla points out for no apparent reason, pouting just ever so slightly. She glances up at Fadra again from beneath lowered lashes and adds, "That's just it. Papa's so busy, I don't want him to fuss." The rest of the brownrider's words bring out a thoughtful, lips-pursed pout. "Do you think he'd mind, if I was a weyrling?"
Fadra shrugs. "I nay pretend t'understand T'mic." It'd do nothing for her street cred. "'Twould be a bit hypocritical o'him, wouldn't it? Him bein' a rider and all, and liking it t'boot. If'n he's going t'fuss, that's nay anyone's problem but his, now is it?" She tilts her head to one side, mouth twisting off into a frown, and says, "I nay have kids, though, I couldn't begin t'say I understand th'working o'a parent's mind."
The girl twists curls around her fingers, still watching Fadra closely. "I'm his oldest," she says with a vocal shrug that suggests this is not a big deal. "I suppose... I suppose I -should- tell him." Another moue and then she tips up her chin as if to better meet the brownrider's eyes. "How do you know my Papa? I know you aren't Seliene - she rides green." There's a flick of her eyes toward Fadra's
Fadra sighs, shrugs. Her good deed for the day is done, it seems, and the wineskin has found her hand to compensate. She's got a mouthful when Tosolla's next question comes, and is forced to make an exasperated sound in her throat until she can swallow. At least the girl very blatantly doesn't accuse her of being Seliene; thank Faranth for small favors. "He's been nothin' but a pain in m'ass since he came," she delivers. "I was his weyrlingmaster, and then he was m'assistant once he graduated."
Fadra makes a face that suggests she's bitten into something sour. Or something rotten. Or something sour and rotten. "Has he," she says, and it doesn't quite come off as a question with the monotone she's decided to use. "S'long as he's nay fussin', I suppose I'll be fine if'n he's gonna yap," she finally decides, and then confirms, "Aye, I'm Fadra, brown Sulizath's."
"He said you were a very good teacher," his daughter says primly, and who can tell if she's telling the truth? "I guess, if you think I should tell him too...." There's a sigh, the much-put-upon sigh of the teenager, and Solla glances around as if expecting Mic to pop out of the walls. "I don't suppose you know if he's with the weyrlings? They wouldn't mind if I poked my head in to look, would they? Just, you know, to look?"
"Uh huh," Fadra allows, eyes betraying her doubt at /that/. Then her voice changes slightly, just enough to be sharp. "I nay /know/. He's nay m'charge." Long-suffering sighs follow as she stands and stretches. "I suppose Sully can ask," she deigns, glancing around as well. Maybe Mic /will/ pop out of the walls.
T'mic fails to pop out of the walls, even after they give him a good handful of seconds to do so. Solla sighs and flicks her hair over her shoulder again before popping to her feet and smoothing the front of her trousers. "I shouldn't be a bother," she says instead, and drops the brownrider a pretty curtsey that's only marred by the lack of skirt. "It was very nice meeting you, Fadra. I'll ask Paddy, if I see him at supper - or maybe Papa will be there, and I can tell him myself."
"Maybe," Fadra agrees. Ever helpful, isn't she? She's swift enough at picking up her chairs once Solla's standing, and without much else to say, the brownrider makes headway the way she had already started, with only a, "G'luck, then," over her shoulder.
Solla carols, "Thank youuu!" over her own shoulder as she trots toward the bowl, adding a bright, tooth-flashing smile for the brownrider's enjoyment. Or something.