|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Mon Apr 13, 2009 4:29 pm
At Jisken's sigh, Firyal cringed inwardly. Even before he spoke, Firyal felt she could tell what his story would be. He was old enough that he'd probably stood at more than one Hatching at his former Weyr and evidently failed to Impress a dragon. Likely he'd heard that Ista, though overcrowded, had a number of queens all clutching at once, and felt that he might stand a better chance in a different Weyr. Also, it was likely that he didn't want to stay somewhere where he had failed so many times. It had been her experience that bad memories were cumulative, and there were days when she dreaded walking past the Hatching Ground, just thinking about all the times she had stood on the hot sands and found no dragon wanted her. How many rejections could a person set themselves up for before they could no longer be called sane?
"Yes. They it does seem that the Weyr has a surfiet of eggs. And Harpers. You can't swing a stick around without hitting a Candidate who used to be a Harper, lately." She felt fairly confident in saying this, since she was positive Jisken was not from the Harpercrafthall. And it wasn't as though she disliked Harpers. She loved music and stories, after all, and they were the best sources of both.
As Jisken stood her gaze followed him up and up and up. Another person who dwarfed her, she noted resignedly. Aesthetically, she preferred tall men, but that didn't mean she didn't feel like she was growth-stunted around them. It was only with the ones she knew well that she didn't notice the height difference so much, and didn't feel the need to comment on it. Not that she did, usually, because she guessed most people who were tall tired of having that fact pointed out to them, just as she tired of being told that she had long hair. No! Really?
She glanced at their young companion, amazed that he had not yet spoken up, and somewhat relieved. She knew he was one of the children from the creche, and that she should recognize him from there, but she didn't. She only tolerated the creche's youthful occupants for Kaskel and Weylin's sakes. Anyone under the age of sixteen was really too young to be of any interest to her.
"That's true," she said. "There are always more Hatchings. But you should at least stay through spring. Summer here can be a bit scorching, but spring is really pleasant just before it gives way to summer."
She had no reason, really, to try to convince him to stay, but it was instinctive. She found him interesting, and easy to talk to, and she thought she would be saddened to lose him as a companion. Not that she could really even call him that. They'd barely met each other. But she wanted to believe that they'd get along well, given time. If he left, that chance wouldn't happen, because she had never succeeded in keeping in contact with anyone. Not her mother, not the cousin who had fostered her, no one. Even having Numenor didn't help, since he'd never met many of the people she might wish to communicate with.
"What's your family like? Is your father really that crafty?" And here she was, making semi-normal conversation. Someone should award her a prize.
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Apr 18, 2009 9:35 am
"I don't think it matters the location: no matter where you go, you're going to find herds of young youths thinking they can make it on their own creativeness," Jisken admitted, shrugging to himself. "I, on the other hand, am not nearly so gifted when it comes to the arts." To prove his point, he took one of the last grime-covered plates and with a finger, drew a shaky-lined stick figure out of the rotten mess. "Ta-daaa," he said with a flourish of his now-dirtied hand, presenting the childish drawing. "All in all, I've the creative skill of a wherry with missing eyes." He shrugged, then proceeded to clean the plate of its remaining sludge.
He continued on with his work, though he looked up in curiosity as she spoke about the weyr's weather and other such things. He thought for a moment that he should respond, making some sort of definitive answer one way or another to please the woman, but instead she changed the subject, and he was given space to wax poetical. Not that he was good at either waxing or poetry, but the expression fit, even if it didn't make sense to the boy, and he internally shrugged to himself about what he should reveal.
"Everyone's still alive and all--Mum, Dad, my older sister and her son, and my little sister, who's just old enough to start apprenticing." He smiled fondly, then quickly went back to his work, remembering that somewhere he'd been told that familial attachments were not manly. Not that he felt the need to be manly, but...maybe he did. Maybe, all of a sudden, he did want to impress this girl.
...Nah, that wasn't his sort of thing, winning someone over on false pretenses. His father had taught him better.
"She'll start weaving in the summer, like my Mum," he added, nodding. "We all make clothes in some way or another, so it's not like she's got much choice."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Apr 19, 2009 3:46 pm
Firyal shrugged indifferently in response to Jisken's pronouncement that there were always youths who thought their own creativity would suffice. She had always considered herself to be creative, and prized that trait highly, but she had never thought to make a living out of it. Oh, she'd considered training in Harpercraft, which would have pleased her family, but she was a mediocre instrumentalist at best and while she was a decent singer, her contralto range was unusual enough that there would be little need for it, and she was always having to transpose any piece she wanted to sing, setting it in a lower key or taking it down an octave. No one had ever explained to her that there was more to being a Harper than playing and singing, and teaching, which she could never do. She didn't like young children, and never had. Even as a young child.
She allowed herself to be distracted from her musings to watch with a certain level of revulsion as Jisken drew something unidentifiable in the grimy plate he held in his hand. She knew her expression gave away her disgust. She cleaned the plates, sure enough, but she tried never to touch the slimey or crusty stuff on them with her bare hands.
"That's disgusting," she said, grimacing as his hand flourished, passing much too close for comfort. So that he wouldn't think he was disgusting her, she suggested, "Perhaps a different medium would yield better results?"
She examined the dish she was washing critically, making sure that there were no remnants from its last usage. There was no way of knowing who had done the dishes she ate off of, and so Firyal did what she could to make sure all the dishes that passed through her hands were clean enough for her standards. It wasn't that she was particularly finicky, and she certainly wasn't given to neatness in the ordinary way of things, but the idea of having bits of someone else's dinner clinging to her plate was revolting.
"All alive is good," Firyal remarked. She had no way of knowing if her father was alive or dead, snd she didn't particularly care, but for most people all alive was a good thing.
"I can't say I've ever been much good at weaving, or doing anything remotely related to it except for basic mending, but that just makes it all the more impressive when those who are trained in it produce their everyday marvels." Where had that come from? It didn't sound at all like her. Not the bit about everyday marvels, anyway. Self-effacement and self-criticism came naturally enough that she took no note of it, except to remind herself not to get too enthusiastic about it.
"Is there something your sister would rather do? Come to the Weyr and seduce Candidates into the tannery, perhaps?"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Reply
