| Characters | Damahra, NPC T'mav |
| Synopsis | Bluerider T'mav "rescues" Damahra from Igen Hold and her abysmal attempts needlework. |
| Out-of-Character Date | October 4, 2021 |
Igen Hold - Great Hall
Igen's Great Hall is surprisingly rectangular, the stone walls smoothed and straightened by ancient hands. Wide and shallow, rather than narrow and deep, it is filled by several sets of long, narrow tables, with the Lord's own table set off on its own towards the northern end of the hall. Fine tapestries line the walls, while large windows offer an opportunity for air-- when they're not shuttered against Igen's famous dust storms.
Large electric fans hang from the ceilings to cool the air, along with electric lights that provide illumination as required. Passages lead off from the northwestern and southwestern corners, leading deeper into the Hold.
Mid-afternoon at Igen hold, and there is no doubt it is the hottest part of the day - despite it being winter, the large fans remain on, stirring air through the mostly empty Great Hall. Mostly empty, because sitting alone at one long table is Damahra, the teenager sitting awkwardly in an uncomfortable outfit as she stabs repeatedly at the embroidery hoop in her hands. Now and then, an older woman passes through the Hall, pausing to peer over Dama's shoulder and click her tongue in a rather disappointed manner before she is bustling off again, leaving the girl to her task - or punishment?
T'mav walks into Igen Hall, and by the pinched facial expression, it's clear he'd rather be anywhere else. The 20 something bluerider is about 5'11, medium build, and wearing traditional riding leather, covered in a fine layer of dust that simultaneously coats his curly black hair. Stomping the sand off his boots, he's carrying a large crate of fruit that's placed on a nearby table, squinting over at the girl practicing her stabbing. "Not sure that project's going to make it might need a healer." He quips, tapping the crate and smiling in a cocky fashion.
The project is a diaster, to put it kindly.. the stitches are anything but even or neat, and perhaps if one was to squint at it and tilt their head the right direction, it may look like a flower.. Is it suppose to be a flower? The sudden voice in the room causes Damahra to jump, and the needle to stab through the hoop, and into her finger, which earns a rather unladylike yelp. Finger going to her mouth as she turns to look around for the source, "I'm not even sure it's fit for bandages.." She murmurs around the finger that remains in the corner of her mouth, eyes glancing back to the fabric. "Though I guess it is good at soaking up blood."
Flower, napkin, a spicy circle the threaded mess gets another hard squint as the girl jumps and stabs herself, and he offers to take the hoop if she releases it. "Lemme see." FIngers wiggle to indicate further his desire to take her work, "Do you plan to make this a career? Sewing pictures of bowls?" T'mav takes his guess at what the mess is, picking up a fruit and offering it as an exchange as he slumps down next to the crate leaning on one elbow. "I'm sure bandage sewings a noble cause, and given your skill with the needle; you'll be able to test your product plenty." Forwardness beyond your average holder. He's far too comfortable in doing and saying whatever he wants. "But, who am I to judge what one does here." Rolling his eyes with a drolling shake of the head.
"Shards no." Damahra admits far too quickly and honestly, before the teenager is staring at T'mav with wide eyes, looking a little panicky as she sits up a bit straighter, looking around hurriedly to make sure no one else heard. "I meant to say.. I'm told I need to work on my needlework, because I won't be able to 'climb trees and chase weyrsport for ever'." The words are in a tone that betrays her feelings about the matter, though thankfully she mostly manages to avoid a rolling of her eyes. The needlework is hesitantly handed over in exchange for the fruit. "Just.. don't lose it. She'll make me start all over again."
"I see." The reaction gets a big grin from the man who flashes teeth and leans forward closer than he probably should be to a girl he met a few moments ago. "I am sure your future husband will appreciate your needlework." It's a roundabout question as the man holds the ring up and starts to pull at the threads, "I've got a friend who thinks you might want to do something else, though there are no guarantees, and I'd keep your needles handy." Looking her up and down, T'mav shakes his head, "You sound so dedicated; I'd hate to drag you away from an exciting future." Sitting up straighter, he takes on an air of formality, "First, I'm T'mav of Igen Weyr. Adventurers need to be on a first-name basis. What's yours?" Dark green eyes lock on the teenage face, narrowing in a sudden air of seriousness.
"That's what *she* keeps telling me. Maybe I don't *want* a future husband." And there is a little humph that punctuates that statement before her arms are crossed in front of her, fruit still in one hand as she eyes the man almost suspiciously. "I'd be shocked if your friend knows anyone who *doesn't* want to do something else." She mutters, glancing around the Hall once more, before peering back at T'mav and tilting her head, her curiousity piqued at the very least. "I'm Damahra.." She ventures cautiously. "From Ista Island. Not this horrible place." A moment later, her eyes glance at the needlework, gaze resting there. "The Weyr?" She repeats then, gaze still not returning to his.
"And who is she? Your mother?" Prodding for more information, he peels off the small orange fruits rind and takes a bite. T'mav's eyes glaze momentarily, and he chuckles, "Now, that's funny." Looking back down, he twerks his head to one side, jaw jutting forward in a move that probably was practiced in front of a mirror to perfect. "My friend wishes to meet you, and I prefer to humor him as he's also my weyrmate." Sliding off the table, he offers a hand, "You must meet him." It's a bit insistent, though it's clear he's somewhere between intrigued and bored, judging by the fact that the conversation continues. "Is there anyone in particular here that cares for you?" T'mav is staring out the windows as a shadow passes, shading the hall's inside, and a large thump sounds from the courtyard causing several people to startle and gasp. "Ah yes, that'll be him. COming?"
"NOT my mother." Damahra replies much too quickly and with too much emotion, even as her eyes dart towards a distant hallway. "The Lady Alysen, who has entirely too much time on her hands and seems to hate fun." When the name does not seem to summon said woman, Damahra considers the offered hand for a moment before hesitatingly taking it and allowing herself to be drawn awa from the table and to the courtyard. "My brother, he's on guard duty… which is why he left me with *her*." The dreadful, dreary, boring Lady Alysen. As there is a bit of a commotion in the courtyard, Damahra pauses in her steps for half a beat. "Who… Who is your friend?" She asks, even as she follows, curiousity winning out.
The sudden response gets a curve to one eyebrow, leading forward with shortened strides to match the young ladies. There's a level of control in every stride, confidence, and urgency that has yet to spill into his other mannerisms. The commotion outside gets a roguish grin, wiggling both shoulders. "What would you say if you never had to see Lady Alys- whatever again?" T'mav pauses mid-stride, shoving one thumb in a pocket and mumbling, "We can come back; this isn't a competition." There's an impatient growl at the end of the sentence, "My friend? Whic's the best." Pushing open the door, a full-grown blue dragon has taken up residence in the courtyard, fitting by maintaining all six pale cerulean limbs tucked tightly. He's built slick with dusty sapphire spots covering all four limbs and darkening to deep navy. "Whickath, I'd like you to meet Damahra." Muzzle extending very slowly, there's a thrum of pleasure, a soft trilling croon escaping. "Whickath wants to offer you a spot on Igen's sands for Toruth and Haijiventh's clutch." Letting go of her hand if she's still holding it, he rocks back to lean against the dragon's foreleg.
Whatever reply Damahra may have had to having to never see The Lady Alysen again is lost as they step into the courtyard and come face to face with Whickath's blue form. The girl comes to an abrupt halt, now free hands lifting to her cover her mouth, only to discover the piece of fruit still grasped tightly in one. Flailingly, she offers it to T'mav, even as that muzzle comes closer, and she hesitantly rests her fingers on that soft hide. "I.. Shards.." She stammers, before shaking her head and standing a little bit straighter. "I accept!" She offers, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, fingers still brushing over the blue's nose, even as she turns her gaze to his rider, a defiant grin on her face. "When do we leave?"
Before T'mav can take the fruit, an enormous pink tongue slips out slaps it out of the poor teen's hand, only to flip quickly and slurp the citrus up. "Ah yeah, those are his favorite." As fingers rest, there's the musky scent of a dragon, each breath ruffling any light, loose hairs. Slowly wiggling his lips, Whickath is probably more charming than T'mav tries to be, twitching nostrils and making a low purr sound that has the rider snickering. "Toldja she'd go if we did it this way. Do you have anything you want to bring along? Anyone who will come looking for you that needs to know?" Turning back to the blue, he clips on a second set of straps. The complicated way they fit to secure more than one person requiring full attention. "Few rules, no sex, no drinking, there's a silly amount of chores and no fighting." Sliding down the readied straps, he settles on the beast's foreleg. "Get what you need. He won't leave without you."
"All seems better than needlework.." She mutters as T'mav goes over the rules, before forcing herself to take a step away. "I.. I'll be right back. I just have a few things. And I.. I'll leave a note for my brother." He can deal with the fallout and the annoying old lady. -She- is going to Igen Weyr! She isn't gone long, but when she returns she is wearing what looks like a far more practical - and comfortable - outfit, and a pack over a shoulder. Best of all? There is no one on her tail demanding to know just where she thinks she is going, so time to get while the getting is good.
