July 15, 2003
While Niaryth's flight rages overhead, Ismaye has Things to Say.

Previous Next

You follow the stairs upward to emerge in the living caverns.

Ruvenn comes in through the narrow tunnel from the bowl.

Ruvenn lets the basket in his arms, withy-woven and piled high with leafy green (and, alas, dripping dirt now and then), lead the way inside. Despite its awkward bulk, he seems to have things under control, at least enough to head for a convenient cavern nook.

"Oh!" Serriena jumps startled as if she didn't realize anyone was there. "Sorry about that, terribly sorry." She swings once more to Ismaye's borrowed assistants saying, "Now move that over there.." As another tapestry finds a new home thanks to the insistent order and cleanliness that overtakes Serriena at certain times of the year. Others have gotten used to it. "Really, sorry about that," she tosses once more over her shoulder to the holder.

"Dust and dirt, do you not have ears?" chides Ismaye, sweeping up the cavern stairs with a young woman hurrying to keep up behind her. "If I've told you once, I've told you three times, now: rags must be /washed/ before they're put in the piles, dear. Washed, scrubbed, and left to--" She trails off, eyes narrowing as her gaze sweeps the room, upon Ruvenn's basket. "Excuse me," she murmurs to her companion, whose attention has turned, wide-eyed, to Serriena's activity - which Ismaye seems to have overlooked - as the Headwoman takes several long strides towards Ruvenn. "Dirt," she says, her voice cold. "In my caverns."

Ruvenn, appropriately enough, stops cold at that cold voice -- a move which, equally appropriately, sheds a few more bits of dirt about his person and her caverns. The basket's bearer twitches his head back, flipping floppy hair away from his squinty eyes, and manages to pin them on his accoster without dropping anything more. "Well," he says after a moment, thoughtful, "I guess so. Want me to clean it up now or after I put all this down?"

Weyr people are so funny. At least, that's the impression Arazais gets from these bustling, busy people who are moving things every which way. Ruvenn, at least, looks halfway sane in his perspective, and thus, he makes very sure to try to stick a little closer to that guy than everyone else. He's not used to these kinds of places, really. Edging away, he manages to pick up a mug of klah and drag it tablewards.

"Dirt?" Serriena's ears pick up the dirty word. "Dirt where? I just had these things cleaned." She suddenly sees Ruvenn shaking dirt around and sets up a near shriek, "Get outside with that filth! I already cleaned in here and you'll get the tapestries dirty!" She walks towards Ruvenn. "Out out.. shoo shoo!" She waves her hands at him, shooing.

Ismaye, with narrowed gaze, shakes her head. "Let's just say," she begins, coolly, "That you stop to clean it up now, setting down your basket on my nice clean floor. Once clean, you pick up your basket and--" she waves a hand. "It sheds." Pause. She's interrupted by Serriena, and half turns upon her heal, her skirt swirling about her ankles. "Weyrwoman, I assure you, the situation is under control. My caverns will not remain dirtied for long, will they young man." Not a question.

"As long as she stops /yelling/ like that, for sea's sweet sake," Ruvenn mutters while trying to conquer the nerves shaking his poor leafy basket. Keeping an eye on the women, he starts edging towards Arazais: safety in numbers, and hey, there's a convenient table to hold the herbs, too.

"Yelling? Who's yelling?" Serriena stops but her voice is still loud, ringing up in the rafters. "Your the one spreading dirt around - out with you, shoo shoo!" She points directly out at the weyr bowl. "And take the dirt with you." She glances at Ismaye and says, "Well this place was clean until he got here..." And then she takes a proud glance at Ismaye's assistants reorganizing the tapestries. "Do you like what I've done Ismaye? It's so much brighter in here.."

Ruvenn rests his basket on the table (a couple more small clods fall, and herby leaves wave cheerfully all 'round) and frowns at the not-yelling one. "/She/--" he jerks his chin at Ismaye "--tells me to stay and clean. /You/ tell me to go. Which is it? --Ma'am," he belatedly adds, sounding respectful (if tired) enough.

Ismaye's voice is mild as she responds to Serriena: "I had wondered where they had gone," is all she has to say. "It will be clean again, I assure you. No--" she breaks in, turning back towards Ruvenn, "Do /not/ put that dirty basket down on my nice clean table. Someone will have to eat off of that. Take them to the kitchen, or the infirmary, or wherever they're going. At once!"

The basket's there. A moment: then back in Ruvenn's arms. And the frown deepens. Phooey, to all of this. "Infirmary," he answers loftily and makes to march thataway. /Some/one will appreciate these goodies.

"I dislike your choice of occupation," declares Ismaye, calling after Ruvenn. "You do not have any understanding of dirt." She smoothes down her skirts, shaking them slightly as if to dislodge some invisible traces of dust that might have come to rest there while she loiters.

"Need me to rough him up a bit Ismaye?" Serriena asks. "I can definitely feel some extra energy that I can devote to punishing a few people." She grins. "In fact, I could use the help setting some to scrubbing the storeroom floor."

Ruvenn returns to the main cavern, lacking basket but with sullen expression still riding high, in time to catch part of Serriena's offer. Say, perhaps, the "punishing" part. He blows out a breath, but keeps on his careful course back to the table and the last-shed of that dirt, with a wet cleaning cloth in hand.

Ismaye's expression turns immediately to one of distaste. "No, thank you, Weyrwoman. I do not believe that such a thing is necessary. The storeroom floors are due to be scrubbed tomorrow, Weyrwoman, and we have a full complement of workers to do so." The mildest, faintest, trace of approval sets into her features as Ruvenn returns with the cloth.

"Awww," Serriena frowns but turns away. Really the caverns are Ismaye's domain except when Niaryth starts to feel her oats being sewn. Then Serriena tries to butt in horribly. "But surely there's something we can make them do?" She waves a hand in front of her face suddenly, "Is it hot in here?"

Ruvenn, dutifully wiping up clods and stray leaves, considers the cloth bunched in his hand, then Serriena's face, and then the nice, wet, cool cloth again. But ... no. Scrub, scrub, scrub he does.

Ismaye's quite possessive of her caverns. Serriena's intrusion is... somewhat less than welcome. Coolly, she shakes her head, though Ruvenn is watched through thoughtful eyes. "Have you ever considered a career in cleaning, boy?" she wants to know of the young man.

Well, now. One of these squealing ladies is the Weyrwoman, and the other is the Headwoman. A right bit of trouble Arazais's landed himself in the middle of, indeed. "Ehm. Um. Hi," is all he can really spout for now, in his confused, ignorant state of mind. They probably didn't hear him anyway, so he bets he's safe.

Ruvenn mutters to Arazais, since he's so close, cleaning bits of dirt and all, "Best to keep low and keep quiet. Lots of trouble--" Oh. Ismaye said something. The man straightens and politely faces the headwoman. "Cleaning's all right," he replies, "but I like grubbing in the dirt better, ma'am. It's so--" and his pause can't be anything but delicious, deliberate rubbing it in "--/dirty./"

Ismaye shudders, immediately, the distaste upon her face as clear as daylight. "/Dirty/," she repeats, voice almost pained, her hands lifted up as if to protect herself. "I shall have nothing to do with it. Nothing!" She reaches out to rest her hand upon the nearest table, supporting herself with it. "Dirty!" This last is nearly a wail in pitch.

This display warrants a few surprised blinks from Ruvenn, and then a narrowed calculation of his pale eyes. Carefully, he holds up the cloth, lets it unfold itself, and extends it towards her in experiment. Look at the dirt! Looooook at the diiiiiirt--!

"Be the fardling gardener then," Serriena advises, "And stay out of the way of Ismaye and me... We're .. dangerous!" There was a pause before she found the way she wanted to describe themselves. She turns and stalks off toward Ismaye's assistants and then says, "no no, that's all wrong! You put it back the way it was." She scowls.

Ismaye takes several involuntary steps back. She shudders. "I--I. I shall have Linnell put you on to the dirtiest chores imaginable!" she threatens, her nose going into the air as she clasps tighter to the edge of the table. "Dirtiest imaginable!"

Whoa. "Now... uhm... dirt can't be that horrible, can it?" Wrong move, bud. Arazais should probably not have mentioned dirt. Ruvenn gets an extremely worried look. He fears for the Weyr's collective sanity, at the moment...

Y'lan comes in through the narrow tunnel from the bowl.

Ruvenn glances off at the Weyrwoman, bites his lip -- oh, so /now/ he might realize who she is, and how he's been behaving? -- but oh, that target that is Ismaye. He hunches his bony shoulders and starts a step towards the headwoman, the dirty washcloth in his hand swinging gallows-somber, gallows-slow before him. "But it's natural," he protests in all blue-eyed innocence. "It's just /dirt./ We're surrounded by it, after all, ma'am. It's everywhere you go; you can't escape it...."

"Clean!" says Ismaye, firmly, her head shaking. "Things must be /clean/." Both Arazais and Ruvenn are met within her gaze, as another shudder wracks her shoulders. "Not in my caverns, no dirt here. Out!" Wringing her hands, she half-turns, entirely missing Serriena's work on the tapestries.

Ruvenn's shoulders drop. Hysterics don't seem, to him, to be nearly as fun as the happy build-up thereto. "Yes, ma'am," he mutters and turns to attack the dirt around the entrance.

Ismaye, in a desperate attempt to recover her sensibilities, hurries over to the hearths to order the drudge on duty to clean up the ashes, her voice shrill and somewhat breathy.

Y'lan yawns as he schleps into the cavern, shrugging out of his jacket and slinging it over a chair.

Serriena closes her eyes and murmurs, "Clean..hungry..so hungry." She opens her eyes, heading over to the food table where she grabs two slices of roast beast and starts to eat them.

Ruvenn sits back on his heels and molds his cloth into a big ol' ball of dirt and muck. Well, not /that/ big, but in Ismaye's eyes, perhaps... His own gaze has wandered to the Weyrwoman, wary, and then the new-come man, curious.

Serriena chews on the meat firmly and then spits it out into a hastily grabbed napkin. She reaches for a water pitcher and a glass, her hand shaking slightly as she pours the water. She drinks the entire glass down in one gulp, pours another and drinks that. "Too hot... no...why now?"

"Cause she's ready now?" Y'lan seems to have appeared out of nowhere, but he's right at Serri's elbow now. He makes a grab for the water pitcher.

Cleaning out the ashes - or rather, having another do it - is evidently not quite soothing enough for the ruffled Headwoman, who stalks back towards Ruvenn, her shoulders pressed back tautly, her expression distasteful. "Put it in the laundry!" she snarks, eyes narrowing. "Don't /play/ with the dirt."

Serriena hisses and then snarls, "Get your own," At Orinth.. no wait at his rider... jerking her pitcher of water back. She pours another glass and drinks that. "Mine." She walks out towards the bowl with the water, a dazed expression on her face as if half asleep, half alert.

Ruvenn startles back, nearly into falling right over, in fact. "I'm not!" he sputters. The riders' byplay forgotten, he glares up at her from his knees. "I'm just cleaning, like you said, ma'am. Shards ... Can't win for losing 'round here."

"Young people have no respect, these days," insists Ismaye. "Not for their betters, their elders, or themselves. I ought to assign you to the laundry just to remind you. Respect for your things, so as not to make extra work for everyone else!" The flight seems to have gone unnoticed by the Headwoman; no doubt, she's quite used to them.

Ruvenn blinks a slow, blissful smile. "Laundry. Mmm. All right, ma'am. As you wish."

/That/ was not the reaction Ismaye expected. Her eyes narrow. She is, in fact, quite lost for words. "Or perhaps mending," she considers, gauging reactions.

Y'lan follows after Serriena, his gait predatory, stalking her. Or her water.

Serriena disappears through the narrow tunnel to the bowl.

Y'lan disappears through the narrow tunnel to the bowl.

Ruvenn positively grins. "Needles and thread and sweet, soft clothing? In a heartbeat!"

Ismaye is patently unimpressed. "And what /wouldn't/ make you happy, should I ask?" Failure.

Ruvenn's head tips askew as he considers her a still moment. Then he climbs to his feet, putting the offending cloth behind his back in both hands, and replies, "Based on this whole sharding evening ... the answer's you, I'd say, ma'am."

"So I should just assign you as one of my assistants," smirks Ismaye, though not without a great deal of distaste on her own part - if not an actual shudder. "Punishment for myself, as well as you."

Ruvenn sniffs pensively. "Punishment?" he repeats dolefully. "That's what Weyr life's about? Well, that and the dirt and the yelling-- Shards. Never shoulda come."

Ismaye smoothes at her skirts again, expression amused. "When one is as impertinent as you, indeed, that is precisely what it is about. You are new here, then?"

Ruvenn bobs a nod and has the grace to look abashed. A little, anyway. "Manners, I know, ma'am. Just -- getting yelled at as soon as I come /in,/ when the healer /told/ me to fetch him this and that and the other thing straightaway from the gardens... Can't win," he repeats, but shrugs, smiles a little.

"It's the mess," says Ismaye, a little faintly, waving her hands in front of her face. "The mess, and the heat. My caverns are to be kept /tidy/. There should not be dirty things just tossed about in here. You understand?"

That's clear enough, so Ruvenn nods obediently. "Yes, Headwoman." Pause. "But about /assisting/ you..." He bites his lip again, stretches his neck side to side, and finally settles into nervous, careful politesse. "You know I'm not a--a woman. To be an assistant headwoman and all. You know."

Ismaye's dark eyebrows are raised speculatively, and she laughs coolly. "Attempting to back out, are you? There have been female Stewards; I don't see why we couldn't have an assistant headman, too. But." She considers, thoughtfully. "Perhaps I'll give you another chance. Work in the gardens, keep yourself... dirty. But if I catch you again, it will be Assistant Headwomanship, skirts and all."

Ruvenn's lips curl: amusement, not disdain. "Nothing I haven't done before," he remarks cheerfully. "It's a deal, ma'am. Now, if I can ask and all -- /what/ was going on with the great lady just now?"

Ismaye, perhaps to save her own sensibilities, does not comment on Ruvenn's first statement. "Her lifemate..." she hesitates. "Is rising."

Ruvenn says "'Lifemate.'"

Ruvenn says "Oh! Her dragon. All right. So?"

Ismaye nods, demurely. "Her dragon. When... when a female dragon is ready to rise," Ismaye turns pink, "her rider sometimes does peculiar things."

Ruvenn squints. Rolls up his tongue in one cheek. Sucks his front teeth. That kind of thing. At length, he ventures, "Things with tapestries."

Ismaye has no real answer, save a shrug of her shoulders. "I do not understand the ways of the dragonriders, but apparently the Weyrwoman... has her own peculiar way of acting. I must get those tapestries back in order."

Ruvenn shrugs and leaves it be. He ambles out a moment to the bowl, returning after a moment with the washcloth neatly de-dirted and refolded. "Didn't see anything rising," he reports. "Guess I wasn't looking in the right place."

"They may not be in the sky, yet," murmurs Ismaye. "I would not know. I believe it is supposed to be a beautiful sight; I admit I have not watched."

Ruvenn asks, wandering back her way, "Why not?"

Ismaye does shudder, this time, head shaking. "I find it vulgar. And," she hesitates, then shrugs her shoulders, quietly, "for a time, it was frequently my-- my partner whose lifemate was one of those up there. I did not like to see that."

Ruvenn parses this news and comes up with, "Well, no one's forcing you to see it, ma'am, so there you go. Don't watch; who cares?" He hooks his hands together behind his back again, considering the tapestries. Where to begin?

"Certainly!" says Ismaye, though her expression remains troubled. "I am sorry-- you'll have to excuse me. Things to do." Flustered, for whatever reason, she hurries off down the stairs without so much as another word.

Mouth open, Ruvenn has no option but to let her go. Well. At least the dirt's all cleaned up. Right?

You follow a flight of stairs deeper into the Weyr caverns.

Previous Next