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Author Topic: Live a Little [ 11.6.2589; 7:12 PM ] W’thir  (Read 84 times)

Offline A'lori

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Live a Little [ 11.6.2589; 7:12 PM ] W’thir
« on: June 30, 2018, 01:40:31 PM »
Strictly speaking, mending clothes was no longer one of his responsibilities. Though it was a common enough chore for Weaver apprentices, he hadn’t been among their ranks for… a little over a full month, now. Just long enough that he was actually going to be able to Stand for the Senior Queen’s upcoming clutch! It had been quite a surprise to him when he’d been Searched, chosen by a Blue dragon he didn’t even know and deemed worthy to present himself for those amazing little creatures that would hatch out of the eggs. Sometimes, it still seemed like a dream—a flight of fancy he had no right having even if there were other dragon riders in his family’s past.

Arveli had never entertained anything for himself other than being a Weaver. Since he’d turned twelve, it had been his calling—throwing himself into the Craft first as a balm for his sorrow and grief, and eventually because he was good at it. Because he enjoyed it more than anything else he’d ever done. His aunt and uncle had certainly been pleased when he’d taken up their profession… and perhaps been relieved that he didn’t show signs of gallivanting off back to the Weyr like his mother had, or becoming a rider like his father. His had always been the stranger side of the family, a little less grounded though still loved by the extended Holder sides of the clan:  even if they hadn’t understood his mother Avelori’s desire to go work in the Weyr and be weyrmates with a dragonrider.

In his youth, like his brothers, riding a dragon had seemed like the most gallant thing. Even though they’d understood Thread was dangerous, it had all paled compared to the vivid and wonderous stories they heard throughout their childhood. And growing up helping their father oil and tend to Kanelath certainly hadn’t diminished any.

That had changed nevertheless—first when their father, T’ver, had died in Threadfall, and then again when their mother was killed too. For Turian, it had been the final straw; that an errant dragon’s flame had killed Avelori just as dead as Thread might have, he couldn’t forgive. Arveloriann and Tuveliann had been more forgiving… but hat had never been their older brother’s way.

But even with that forgiveness, their lives had changed irrevocably. Sent to Fort Hold to live with their aunt and uncle, they’d been exposed to an entirely different side of Pern. Holder life was so very, very different… and with time, Arveli’s hopes for the future had faded to more mundane things. Even if his younger brother’s never had.

Now, though, his dreams were once again buoyed on dragon wings, rather than more down to earth in seeking a promotion to Journeyman sometime in the next several turns. Aunoria and Vemmoki had been disappointed, he knew, though they’d never said such to him. Simply asked him if he was sure and then given him their blessing. But after T’vain, after his accident… he knew they must have been scared too. He certainly was, not that he’d ever admit it. And certainly not to Turian, with whom he had argued viciously after accepting the Search.

So though he’d moved out of their family quarters and into the Candidate barracks, Arveloriann tried his best to reassure his surrogate parents. A fair amount of the time he was assigned to the Weaver Hall for chores anyway, since his experience there made him more valuable than another without a Weaver’s background. And even if he got given menial tasks that were more suitable for junior apprentices, he didn’t mind—surrounded by those who had been, and he hoped still would be, his friends and working with both aunt, uncle, and his cousin Annera.

Having someone inside the Weaver Hall had meant he didn’t need to give it all up, too. There were a few friends who he still repaired things for from time to time, including some other Candidates that weren’t good hands with a needle. That would have to change when they Impressed, of course, but Arveli appreciated having something to do with his hands in his down time. It kept him from getting fidgety.

Like now. Wuarthir had approached him to patch a couple shirts, and he’d been more than happy to comply for his quiet friend—under the condition that Wuarthir had to keep him company while he did so. Odds were good Arveli would be doing most of the talking, but he didn’t mind that either. Perhaps that was even one of the things that had contributed to their friendship in the first place; Wuarthir didn’t get tired of listening to him ramble about gossip, or news, or hypotheticals, and Arveli didn’t force him to say more than he wanted to.

After dinner was over, he’d dragged the man into one of the side booths once all the plates had been whisked back into the kitchen and the surface wiped down. With his small sewing kit open on the table, Arveli sucked on the end of a piece of string to flatten it, and then threaded the needle. Most likely, Wuarthir would have to replace one of these shirts within the next few turns—there were only so many times they could be patched before there was less original fabric than new. But it was a matter of pride to the ex-Weaver to make them last as long as possible.

Thriftiness was one of those things that had been drilled into him from a young age, and making do with what they had was a skill all Weavers had to learn in an environment where new textiles were not especially abundant.

So he’d snagged some old scraps from someone else’s discarded garments that matched in color and texture and material as best he could. From a distance, hopefully the mends wouldn’t be very visible. Wuarthir might not care especially much, but Arveloriann certainly did. They might be practical things, but there was no reason they couldn’t look a little nicer either.

His three flits were arrayed on the tabletop, lazy and watching as he started to sew. Poppet had tried to sit on his shoulder initially, but Arveli had shooed him off so he didn’t have to accommodate both flit and task. The Blue meant well, but his not inconsiderable weight would just make it all the more difficult to stitch.

Sometimes, he wished Wuarthir had been Searched too. At least then he might have had one friend in his Candidate classes that was from the previous period of his life. Of course, Arveli had no issue making acquaintances with new people… but there was a certain comfort to having an old friend that he found himself wistfully wanting.

As he sewed, he began by chattering away about the Touching and the Rider’s Bet a few days before. He hadn’t been able to go to the latter, since there was no rider he knew well enough to invite him—and certainly not that way. But the Touching had been its own kind of excitement:  his first! It had inspired a roiling mix of emotions in him far more powerful than he’d anticipated—anxiety and doubt and hope and joy all muddled up together like badly-made dyes. With others, he might have felt self-conscious talking about it all to someone who wasn’t a fellow Candidate. But Wuarthir had never seemed resentful or upset that his friend had been Searched and he hadn’t.

It was a relief, sometimes, to talk to someone so practical. What was, simply was.

And all of the thrill of the Touching didn’t compare with the strange illicit excitement he felt in hearing the gossip from the Rider’s Bet. Apparently his friend Sethunya had gotten into an argument with O’sir… It still felt a bit scandalous that the two were together, which he loved it all the more for. Sethunya was brave and knew what she wanted; and as far as Arveli concerned, deserved it. The romantic in him wanted to believe that they could survive and endure whatever Pern threw at them, no matter the lovers’ spat they’d apparently had in public.

Had it been anyone else, Arveli would have latched onto that gossip and not let go, speculating on what had started it and why, and what was going to happen next. But out of respect for his friend and her privacy, he skipped over it to simply wish aloud that he’d been able to go.

Maybe someday, when he had a dragon of his own…

If he had a dragon of his own…

He realized he was getting distracted—that his nervousness about the approaching Hatching was affecting him more than he wanted to let on—when he accidentally pricked his finger with the tip of the needle. Swearing far more heatedly than he meant to, he lifted the injured digit to his mouth and sucked off the droplet of blood that beaded on his skin. And then, to direct the conversation away from what was a rather embarrassing fumble, he glanced at Wuarthir and asked, “Are you going to watch the Hatching when it happens?”

Spoiler for OOC:
@Kyya I hope you don’t mind that this post took on a life of its own. :para:

1530 words

Queriluth | 19 Months Old | 21M Long | 3.5M Tall | 35M Wingspan
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Offline W'thir

Re: Live a Little [ 11.6.2589; 7:12 PM ] W’thir
« Reply #1 on: July 06, 2018, 05:40:00 PM »
Wuarthir had set himself down at a seat that gave him a good view of Arveloriann while dinner was underway, not wanting to be the reason for any delay once the weaver-come-candidate was ready for him. He made an effort to eat at the same pace as the other weyrfolk around him, aware that wolfing down his food would only mean an extended period of waiting until his friend had helped clear the tables with the rest of the candidates. The chatter at dinner was always the most entertaining, in any case, and though his attention never really left Arveli, he was involved enough in the talk surrounding him to acknowledge anything directed at him.

It was a comfortable sort of role he'd slipped into since coming to Southern Winds. He still worked hard, but the focus had shifted as he became more familiar with how the weyrfolk worked. He had few skills to trade, but an extra pair of willing hands was rarely turned away, and he was able to trade his efforts for the necessities he required. They were rather accommodating like that. In a way he hadn't experienced while at the hold.

That's how he stumbled onto the weaverhall. Helping move bulky items from here or there in exchange for repairs to his clothing, or new items when required... and how he met Arveloriann. The younger man had a knack for making his clothes last as long as possible, so he needed to replace them less often, and never made him feel ashamed for the state of the garment he was fixing. He'd become as much of a fixture in his life as the section of the shared cavern that belonged to him, often encouraged to stick around while the work was being done, and treated to an often detailed account of the happenings in the weyr.

Wuarthir hadn't begrudge Arveli being searched, readily accepting that he would no longer be a weaver's apprentice, and curious as to what was in store for the young man now. He hadn't had a reason to involve himself in the comings and goings of candidates, Not requiring anything from them and vice versa... But now...?

He had waited until he was down to one wearable shirt before seeking Arveloriann out to fix his others, smile lighting up his face as the candidate agreed and nodding firmly at the condition. He'd given him his shirts earlier, and now only needed to wait for Arveli to be free.

He finished the meal and assisted with the cleanup. It wasn't his job, but that didn't seem to matter to the weyrfolk. You helped out where you could, and more often than not it was appreciated. No sooner had the task been finished than Arveli was there, brooking no argument as he dragged him away. It wasn't something that was easily accomplished without Wuarthir's approval, and the enthusiasm of it even managed to coax out an almost inaudible chuckle.

He slid into the booth to sit opposite Arveloriann, face suddenly very serious again as his friend's firelizards positioned themselves. He'd put his arms on the table when he sat, and was almost comically stiff as the smaller creatures sorted themselves out. Even Vanity, largest of Arveli's three was small when compared to the other dragonkind of the weyr, and Wuarthir had never quite gotten over his fear of hurting or startling the little beasts when they were close.

They settled, and he carefully removed his hands from the table, features appearing cross as he concentrated on the action. Once they were safe from unintentional injury by his hand, his attention was fully on the candidate, eyes flicking between the young man's face and the work he was doing, awed as ever by the craft.

His features softened as Arveloriann spoke about his recent experiences, thrilled, though it may be hard to tell, that his experiences as a candidate were good ones. The information about the Rider's bet was tucked away for later, more interested in the fact that going with another was often a way of making ones relationship official than the gossip surrounding the candidate master and another candidate. Arveli hadn't indicated that the coupling itself was the problem so much as their behaviour, and the affection he picked up was enough to tell him that it wasn't important as much as interesting.

"'Veli!" He scolded with a rasp, as the chatter turned to cursing, clearing his throat and half standing to get a better view if the injury before Arveli popped the finger in his mouth. "Be careful..." he added, concern softening the unusual crackle that often accompanied his words.

His frown disappeared abruptly as Arveli shifted the conversation to the hatching again, surprise dancing accross his face as he settled back into his seat and answered. "The hatching?" it wasn't very far off was it? "I had never considered being able to attend."

He looked away for a heartbeat, mulling over his next words. He was sure Arveloriann knew he wasn't weyrfolk, despite feeling closer to the denizens of the weyr than he had ever felt among the holders, he just wasn't sure how much theweaver turned candidate actually knew. "I thought it was only for riders, candidates and their family." He clarified, voice smoothing to a low, almost pleasant tone the more he used it. He wasn't upset by it, merely commenting on what he understood the rules to be. Though there was a hint of a question there, seeking clarification on what he thought he knew.

Spoiler for Tag:
  @SirAlahn  Hope it's alright. I went a little overboard.

Offline A'lori

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Re: Live a Little [ 11.6.2589; 7:12 PM ] W’thir
« Reply #2 on: July 06, 2018, 09:08:19 PM »
His flits had been agitated by his sudden cursing too, and fidgeted on the table momentarily, eyes whirling faster and in less happy colors than they had been. They settled soon enough again once it was clear it wasn’t anything serious, though they did sit a little closer to him, clustered around his supplies.

Arveli couldn’t help but be a little chagrined at Wuarthir’s reaction to his pricking himself, and pulled his finger from his mouth again once he’d felt the few drops of blood slow to a stop. “I’m fine, see?” And he held it up to show that he wasn’t even bleeding anymore. It was annoying, and stung a little still, making the tip of his finger sensitive, but it was no major thing. If he had a mark for every time he’d ever pricked himself on accident with a needle…

Well, he wouldn’t be rich, exactly, since marks weren’t in use any more, but he’d certainly have an impressive collection of them. The older Weavers swore by thimbles, but there simply weren’t that many of them to go around, mostly belonging to people who had at least achieved Journeyman rank. There were more important uses for metal in the Weyr, and so new ones didn’t get made very often. Certainly not for an apprentice Weaver who had accepted the call of a Search.

Arveloriann was pleased, at least, to see that he hadn’t gotten any of the blood on the fabric or the thread. Dealing with such a stain on a piece of clothing he was meant to be repairing would have been all the more aggravating. But he’d reacted quick enough that Wuarthir’s shirt wouldn’t need to be washed as soon as he was done with the stitching.

He glanced at his friend again then as he resumed the sewing, smile faint but no less genuine. “Of course you can go, silly.” But there was no real chiding there, nor any intention of making Wuarthir feel self-conscious. Arveli had guessed that he wasn’t weyrfolk, but beyond that he didn’t know all the ins and outs of the man’s background. That had just never been something they talked about at length… and abruptly he felt embarrassed that he hadn’t asked.

“Anyone in a Weyr can go watch… Unless you’re banned for some reason, I suppose.” He mused on that a moment, but quickly discarded the thought. It wasn’t something he thought Wuarthir would have to worry about. “But no, there’s no reason you can’t go. And you should. I’ve been to tons.” When he and his family still lived at Fort Weyr, it had often been an excuse to celebrate something happier and momentarily forget about the Thread falling out of the sky. It was something he had distinctly missed after the move to the Hold.

“Besides.” And he cut his gaze to Wuarthir as he finished fastening a stitch and securing the repair, tying it off and slipping the thread against a small knife in his kit to cut off the remainder. That was the first fix, at least. “I’ll be less nervous knowing there’s a friend watching as I try to Impress.”

Spoiler for OOC:
Your post is lovely. <3 I hope this one isn’t lackluster in comparison. XD

Queriluth | 19 Months Old | 21M Long | 3.5M Tall | 35M Wingspan
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Offline W'thir

Re: Live a Little [ 11.6.2589; 7:12 PM ] W’thir
« Reply #3 on: Yesterday at 08:51:58 PM »
Wuarthir grunted an acknowledgement to Arveli's claim that he was fine, crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat slightly. It wasn't a very approachable pose, but it was a natural one for him as he watched Arveloriann continue with his work, surprised, in many regards that he'd only managed to prick himself once with the speed in which he moved the needle. He didn't imagine he'd be happy if it happened more than once while he was there, particularly as it was his clothes he was mending and thus subsequently his fault that his friend was getting hurt, nevermind the fact that the needle was only a small, almost indiscernible weapon.

His scowl grew slightly more pronounced before Arveli distracted him, slight twitch of his mouth enough of an acknowledgement that the chiding wasn't received horribly. His chest may have tightened for half a heartbeat, but he knew there was no weight behind calling him silly, just as he understood the needle wasn't truly a threat. It certainly helped that Arveloriann continued to explain that everyone, (unless they were banned...?) could go.

"I haven't been banned." Wuarthir stated immediately after Arveli stopped talking, certain that he'd know if he had been. He'd simply not been told he could go... and if everyone was allowed to go, then surely he would have been told if that wasn't the case. Not only that, but the thought of Arvelorrian being more nervous if he didn't attend made him want to make sure he knew he was able to go.

"I'll make sure to sit somewhere you can see me then." he added with a firm nod of his head, already figuring out how to make sure he would be able to attend, no matter what he was otherwise occupied with. He'd have to anticipate the hatching occurring at any point in the day... or night. But he wouldn't disappoint Arveli but not being there.

"Why would you be nervous, though?" He asked after only a short pause. Was being on the sand that much different to watching? "Are you worried about what colour you'll impress?" He didn't quite understand the intricacies of dragon impression, firelizard's and wher's seeming to be less selective, and not having seen one in person, he had no idea that there were dangers associated with candidacy and subsequent weyrlinghood.

Offline A'lori

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Re: Live a Little [ 11.6.2589; 7:12 PM ] W’thir
« Reply #4 on: Today at 12:20:42 AM »
When Wuarthir confirmed that he would attend—or so Arveli assumed, with his promise to sit somewhere visible—the Weaver’s smile turned truly radiant. He’d thought he might have to do more convincing, but he hadn’t been lying when he’d said having his friend there would make him more comfortable.

Folding the newly-repaired shirt with a few quick motions, Arveli set it on the bench next to him and selected another. This one was a slightly different color, so he pulled the old thread free and slid in a new piece that would match it better. “I think everyone is a little nervous about Standing,” he mused as he started to stitch again, this time a little more cognizant of where his fingers were in relation to the needle. “There’s a huge chance I won’t Impress this first time, and that’s going to be… disappointing.”

There would always be other chances, but still… “I mean, I’ll still be a Candidate. I can Stand for a long time before I age out. But there’s still some sense of being… not wanted, you know? If you aren’t chosen.”

That’s what he’d heard from older Candidates, anyway. Arveloriann wasn’t sure how they could take being rejected so many times, even though he knew that wasn’t really what it was about. It just meant a compatible dragon hadn’t hatched for them yet. But the longer that went on, the less likely it seemed that there ever would be one. Privately, he hoped that whatever dragon he Impressed, they didn’t keep him waiting long.

His pensive expression gave way to another small smile then. “I’m not really worried about the color. I already know I’m going to end up on a Blue or a Green.” Arveli had spent a lot of time thinking about it after he’d been Searched, and those were the only two colors that made sense. As he continued to sew, he listed the reasoning’s that he’d ended up coming to himself. “Golds only ever Impress women. Bronzes don’t chose riders who are attracted to men. And Brown’s a possibility, but…” He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t think I have the personality to be a Brown rider.”

It wasn’t something he felt sad about—he wasn’t sure how well he would have loved a Brown anyway, since it would undoubtedly remind him of T’vain and Patrith. But his father had been on a Blue, so there was a certain familiarity there, and he could definitely picture himself on a pretty Green.

Queriluth | 19 Months Old | 21M Long | 3.5M Tall | 35M Wingspan
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