PernMUSH Moments

Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr

The impressive living cavern is seemingly as large as the bowl that cradles the hatching sands. Rivers of polished wood tables and benches arrow towards a raised platform crowned with a compact version of their sturdy design. Neatly crafted pegs, some fancifully carved, are tapped into holes in the wall and support clothing dangling like lazy sleepers. Woven baskets, both useful and decorative, hang along another wall. The air is redolent with the smell of burning conifer wood blended with the myriad odors of the bakery's spices and the kitchen's succulent offerings. Banners worked with the designs of Holds and Halls beholden to the weyr cascade down the walls high above, interspersed with several brilliantly colored tapestries. Small groups gather here and there in the cavern, relaxing over a snack of freshly baked goodies as they cheerfully gossip.

Contents:

Ester

Ta'ryn

Jemah

Obvious exits:

Kitchen Bowl Lower Caverns

Another cold, winter day, and Ester is where any logical person would be - as close to the hearth as possible without catching fire. She sits in one of the big, padded chairs with a mug of klah beside her on the end table, some pieces of leather in her lap. She seems to be poking at the leather with a small tool. Engraving, perhaps? Has Ester actually taken up - gasp - a hobby?!

Accepted logic does suggest the fireside as a good place to be. Ta'ryn is not there, but then again he's been marching to the beat of his own little drum more than ever before since Weyrlinghood began. A creative interpretation of the duty to "do errands" has had him out in the Bowl for the past three hours, doing frigid battle with a cadre of High Reaches' weyrbrats. With Kisuth as tactician and tank, one might argue Ta'ryn had an unfair advantage, but one man and his dragon against two dozen of the scamps were given a run for their marks. It's defeat that drives Ta'ryn inside rather dramatically - giggling as he's pelted by snowballs at his back. "No! No! No throwing snowballs into the caverns, I told you! Shoo!" One last white projectile zips past his ear as he flaps away the horde at the door. Shouts and laughs retreat, and the blue weyrling turns on his heel, summarily abandoning his charges to the evening. Red-cheeked and grinning, sniffling, he makes for the fire and the big comfy chair he likes, unable to see that it's occupied from his angle of approach.

Of course he doesn't see her, for Ester is short and runty. She has also been doing her utmost to avoid him for a number of days, now. Ever since she gave him a certain book. It may or may not have looked intentional to the bluerider - he /is/ rather flighty and oblivious much of the time, and Ester has been keeping busy between her duties and trips away from the Weyr now that they can travel at will. Still, she's been conveniently asleep at night before he gets in and already awake and gone in the mornings before he arises. Has he noticed? Will he say anything? And most importantly, will he see her before he sits on her?

"Ester!" That answers one of the questions - he sees her, brown eyes going wide over windkissed cheeks, beneath windblown hair. "Do you have a handkerchief on you, perhaps?" Ta'ryn asks, sniffing demonstratively. Apparently the fact that the brownrider is in 'his' chair is of little concern to him; he simply starts divesting himself of hat, gloves, boots, etcetera right next to the chair. Each garment bears the color of war, melting snow turning rapidly to liquid, making for a puddle where he lays his things to rest. "My socks are wet," he mourns, eyeing them as he steps across Ester's line of sight to a drier patch of floor. He settles down cross-legged there, back to the fire. "What're you making?" He jerks his chin towards the leather Ester has. Eyes flow to her mug. "Ooh, klah, good idea." And he's on his feet again. Sniff, sniff.

Tavrie seems stuck, standing at the serving table and staring at the food without actually choosing anything. It’s almost as if she has drifted off to sleep on her feet, but that can’t be the problem. The Weyrwoman moves slowly on, gaping at something else blearily. Finally, she gives a yawn and piles a few random things on her plate before moving on to get some klah. Dark circles ring her eyes and she looks tired.

Ester looks up as her name is spoken, eyes narrowing a touch more than they usually are. She silently sets the leather she's working on down in her lap and reaches into a pocket of her riding leathers, pulling out the ominously red-stained handkerchief she's loaned him before. Without word, she hands it over to him, then returns her attention to her work. She lifts it a bit for him to see. A belt, it would seem, into which she's etching designs in the shape of bovine skulls every four inches or so, though she doesn't verbally answer his question. She sneaks a glance at him once his back is turned as he heads off for klah, then drops her gaze once more. Nope. Didn't look. Can't prove it.

"Why thank you!" Ta'ryn chirps, taking the offered handkerchief between forefinger and thumb. With a bit of a flourish, he brings it to his nose, turning suddenly discreet as he shields his face from the greater part of the cavern and blows his nose as quietly as possible into it. Sniff, sniff. Once more. Before turning back around, he surreptitiously takes something small from his pocket and holds it up, turning his head this way and that. It doesn't take a genius to discern that he has some little vanity mirror or something reflective in his hand, especially when he adjusts his hair. Not-so-secretively ferreting the thing back in his pocket, he turns with a smile, folding the handkerchief. "Shall I have this washed before returning it to you?" Even as he asks his own question, he leans forward to peer at her handiwork. "That's good," he says with a nod, turning on his heel to fetch the klah. "Weyrwoman!" He greets loudly, singsong, before coloring a little and offering the expected salute, though it's a weak thing apparently due to shyness because of his own voice a moment ago. "Good evening, Weyrwoman." Comes out much more sensibly, that try.

Tavrie almost jumps out of her skin at his boisterous greeting, her plate and mug jarring with her surprise and threatening to tip. Blinking away the last strands of her reverie, the goldrider turns to fix her gaze on Ta’ryn and then smiles. “Evening. You sound like a child that’s escaped the nursery,” she informs him, brows rising in amusement and a soft smile appearing on her face. “Is there some sort of wonderful event happening that I missed? What’s with all the enthusiasm?” she wonders aloud, lingering there by the klah for a moment to return the greeting.   

Ta'ryn tucks the handkerchief into his sleeve to pour himself a mug of klah, adding spoonfuls of sweetner and a splash of milk atop as he speaks, making an effort to be subdued. Normal, but familiar. "Oh...I was playing with some of the weyr children out in the snow. Kisuth and I had more fun than we...well, more fun than /I/ thought I would have," he admits, raising his eyes from his klah to smile vaguely in Tavrie's direction. "I think I'm finally starting to think of this place as my home," the weyrling admits softly, the tink tink of his spoon against his mug as he stirs underscoring his words. His scarred lips draw together to a pucker of curiosity as he raises his chin, gazing above Tavrie now to eye the food table's goods speculatively. "Any fresh pastries over there, Weyrwoman?"

Tavrie’s smile deepens now and she almost looks thankful. “I’m glad it is starting to feel like home. That’s great,” she tells him. “It takes a while sometimes, but then you wake up one day and you’re home. At least that’s how it happened for me,” the Weyrwoman shares with him. “Err, you know, I don’t know if there were any pastries. I guess I was sort of day dreaming,” she admits, grinning sheepishly. “Do you have a sweet tooth?” she asks him, brows arching curiously.

"A honeyed tongue /and/ a sweet tooth, ma'am," Ta'ryn replies, laughing airily at his own line. He waves his spoon about his face as though dispelling some kind of spinner-web, 'hem hem'ing in his throat. "Sincerely, though, yes. I've always had a bit of one but since coming here it's made itself more pronounced - I go out of my way for sweets now. I think it must be this weather and all the exercise I'm getting," he speculates, his gaze drifting between the goldrider and yonder table. "The people here are very nice," he continues, making a segue back to the topic of home. "That helps...Kisuth helps...maturing helps...I swear I smell cinnamon but I don't see any cinnamon buns!"

Tavrie smirks at him then, looking much more awake. “I had heard that you do have quite the way with sweet words. I haven’t yet witnessed it for myself, however,” she informs him. “Personally, I think High Reaches has some of the best pastries and sweets on all of Pern. Then again, my aunt works in the kitchen and helps out with them, so I might be a little biased. I’ve always been a big fan of sweet buns and breads,” the Weyrwoman admits. She bobs her head in agreement with is list of anchors. “Maturing is good,” she muses. “I’m sure K’len was hoping you would. Sorry, I jest,” she says, looking impish. “Perhaps you’re smelling the candied nuts?” she suggests, pointing to a dish at the end of the serving table near the desserts.

She'd heard? Undeniable curiosity sparks in the lad's face at the suggestion that he's being talked about. He tilts his head and arches a brow slightly, making his interest known nonverbally, before letting the expression slide in favor of smiling in apparent agreement about the treats Reaches has to offer. He opens his mouth to say as much, but then his lips are twisting into a playful scowl because of Tavrie's jest. "Oh yes, mature like /that/ ruffian." Ta'ryn cants his head, that lip scar of his doing wonders for the sly expression he's pulling now. "I bet that veneer of responsibility he's put on because of his knot is as thin as the first coat of varnish on a violin." A wink cements the fact that he's joking, too, at the expense of the absent Weyrleader. He looks over towards the candied nuts, eyeing them thoughtfully as he raises his klah mug to his lips. Pause. Sniff, sniffsniff...he turns his head to his wrist, working his way up to his elbow. "Oh." Crestfallen. "It's my shirt."

Tavrie watches his face with amusement as he takes in what she has to say, smiling a Cheshire grin that seems to say she won’t be elaborating. “Yes, well, perhaps maturity is better gained here -- since you did come from the same place, did you not?” she chides Ta’ryn right back. “Fortunately for him, the knot also offers some tolerance for immaturity. Who can really say much to a Weyrleader? Well, they can say all they want, but that doesn’t mean that the person has to listen. It isn’t as if someone could pull rank on him,” she mutters with a sigh. When Ta’ryn discovers that his shirt smells like cinnamon, Tavrie breaks into soft laughter. “There there, at least you smell good?” she offers as consolation.

"Apparently I don't smell good /enough/, as no one has rushed to present me with the pastries I so crave," Ta'ryn mumbles, feigning chagrin. Everyone knows that if you smell good the ladies (or lads) will rush to cater to your every whim. Doesn't it work like that? He rolls his eyes to the ceiling, but a smile cracks his displeased facade and like sun through the clouds he's grinning again, sheepishly eyeing the floor and Tavrie's feet. "We spent some time in Keroon, yes, but I was from Lemos before that. Not much maturity amongst the Keroonese boys," he says, tone suggesting he's only just realizing this fact now as he gazes at the goldrider's knees. His jaw works, as if tasting the thoughts of his past. "Hm." Eyes glaze, refocus, and lift to Tavrie's face though he never seems to make or sustain eye contact for long. "I think I want to settle down by the fire with something to nibble on, and as Ester probably wants to keep her toes intact, I should detour to the food table first. Will I see you fireside, Weyrwoman?"

Ester remains quiet, working on her leather.

Tavrie laughs softly and heaves a little sigh of contentment. “I didn’t know that about the Keroonese,” she says, face a picture of amusement. The Weyrwoman looks at her food and drink a moment and then smiles. “Normally, I would love to. I still have some stories to pry out of you about younger K’len,” she reminds him. “But for now, I’m going to take my food with me to work. I was up late and I’ll probably be up late again. Gotta get a few things done,” she mutters and shakes her head. “Thanks for the offer. Maybe I can take you up on it another time. Go keep Ester company,” she tells him with a fond smile. That said, she slides past him, turning to offer Ester a smile and a hello in passing as she makes her way out of the living cavern.