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A Weyrwoman's Records
(a little splattered in paint)
Meeting Ysolt 
22nd-Sep-2007 08:45 pm [ysolt]
What: Josilina's work is interrupted by a strange young woman whose travels and interest in dragons have led her to Igen Weyr to - after some discussion of life and its paths - seek residency.
Where: Balcony, Igen Weyr
Who: Ysolt, Josilina




9/21/2007
10:10 PM
Logfile from PernMUSH.

Igen Weyr Balcony
This balcony surrounds the living cavern, providing a perfect vantage point for watching the goings on without having to partake of the clatter downstairs. The railing is the right height for an average sized person to lean against and peer down. There are doors to the council room, ground level weyrs and gold weyrs, and the balcony is kept quite clean. The tapestries which hang on the wall are still quite bright, with few frayed threads, the glows are nearly always fresh, and the rugs clean as can be. A couple tables and benches line the railing, for a quiet place to chat. A beautiful carving of a runner sits by the door to the council room.

The junior weyrwomen's weyrs are located to the west of the hallway, while the northern part of the hallway accesses the Council Room (and the Weyrleaders' weyrs beyond that). To the southwest are the guest weyrs.

Views (+view) and places (+help places) are available.

Obvious exits:
Jr. Weyrwomen's Weyrs Guest Weyr Council Room STairs

Ysolt has arrived.

Your location's current time: 23:13 on day 26, month 7, Turn 13, of the Interval. It is a summer evening.

Evening makes for low activity on the balcony; in fact, only the Acting Weyrwoman takes up a table, some hides spread before her, her head bent over them as she marks reports.

Having arrived at the Weyr a few days before, Ysolt has been ghosting about in the evenings, mostly. The heat, or perhaps the brightness, seem to have sent her to some dark cave, or abandoned weyr or storehouse or somewhere, to sleep through the afternoon's heat, but dusk finds the woman out and about, soft-footing through the corridors, inclining her head in greeting, and even more often, outside to study the dragons, to watch the riders and children. Sociable enough, she only tends to draw comment by her appearance, not her behavior. But this evening, it seems, the woman traipses through the interior weyr; it's gotten dark early, so dragon-watching has become much more difficult. So it's the tapestries that draw Ysolt now. She pauses before the first, tilting dark-eyed attention up at it, and staring.


Average of height and weight - some 5'4 and 135 pounds, Ysolt is striking in her coloration, first, and features, second. Dark-stained mahoghany accents bittersweet chocolate skin. Black hair hangs in long, long colorfully-beaded dreads, partially masking huge, almond-shaped, black-brown eyes. A slightly flattened, somewhat wide nose compliments thick and dark lips that themselves make the whites of Ysolt's teeth striking. Earlobes are pierced with stonework that matches some of the beads, but clashes with other beads. Her neck, defined in shadows and hollows, as well as the roundness of health blends well into strong shoulders and arms that have bent to considerable work in Ysolt's twenty or so turns. Her build is meaty, not fat, with firm musculature leaving enduring shape and style to arms and legs which suggest ample experience both riding and walking.



Her taste in clothing runs to the colorful earth-tones - today is a sun's yellow skirt complimented by a savory evergreen T-tunic. Her belt, stained a rich blood-red, holds an assortment of small pouches and a well-handled dagger. Boots, well-cared for, none-the-less suggest the endurance of considerable recent travel.


Josilina's focus is complete enough that she doesn't notice the additions to the balcony atmosphere: footsteps, the swish of clothing, until Ysolt's approached the tapestry nearest her, near enough that the movement of bright skirts can catch the woman's eye. "Evening," Jos lifts her attention from her work, sweeping her gaze over the other woman. "I like your skirt. Can I help you?"

A slow smile, before Ysolt even glances over, her regard sliding over Jos' incredibly chaotic attire with a wane appreciation of her own. "Thank you." Drawled, the Bitran accent is thorough, identifying her down to the quandrent of her orgin. "And nay, you cannot be helping me, unless you were to be looking at this tapestry with me. Which," One brow arches, "You'd be more than welcome to do. Weyrwoman." The smile curls thick lips a touch more, showing the white of straight teeth along with the glint of dark humour in her eyes.

Josilina glances, quick and brief, between Ysolt and the tapestry, almost as if looking for any cords of connection. As for the accent, if it elicts any response - a blink of the eyes, twitch of the 'brows - that could be chalked up to the sound of any new voice. "Sorry. I thought you might've been looking for, well," she gestures toward the council room, "me. Or the Weyrleader, or someone similar." She hesitates, before pushing her chair back and getting to her feet. "It's a nice tapestry," she offers, coming to stand by the stranger. "And, I am. Josilina, when I'm off duty, which I am." A sidelong look for the hides, "Mostly. And you are?"

Down in the living cavern, Kylin comes in from the Bowl.

"Ysolt." Somehow she can stretch those two syllables into something lingering. But Ysolt will offer a curtsy. "You'd allow me to call you by your given name, off duty?" That smile again, "And how would I know that you were off-duty? The knot," she points out, "Looks much the same."

Ysolt stands with Josilina, in front of one of the tapestries that hang on the wall in the balcony.

Josilina follows that verbal point to look to her own shoulder - or try to, anyway. It's not the easiest angle. "That's true," she admits. "How about, you're allowed to call me by my name if I'm on-duty as well? That'll make things easier, on both of us." Then, a belated recollection of manners, "Nice to meet you, Ysolt. What brings you Igen's way?" A hesitation, "You don't sound like you're from around here."

"Hail from Bitra, but that was turns ago," Ysolt admits. "And my feet, and a long-eared runner who mocks the name of his species, brought me here. But he was a goodly sort. And now," she grins once more, "I'm here. I've a hankering to become acquainted with dragons. I've never done that. And the weyr was on my way."

"Bitra," Josilina echoes - and apparently just to echo, as she says no more on the subject. Just bobs her head, a little nod. "Good place to get to know 'em, a Weyr. Don't tend to linger 'round Holds," she crinkles the tip of her nose, "the Holders get cranky when we use up their herds." Imagine. "Well, welcome to Igen, then. You're welcome to take up a cot in the residents' dorm, if you're just here to visit. I can let the Headwoman know there'll be an extra face around."

"I'd appreciate that." Ysolt nods. "And I'm fair about working for my way." The drawl is slow, steady, with a sensuous undercurrent like something molten, yet not searing. The woman shifts her weight so a hip eases out somewhat. "Now then. If I were to like the dragons, and if they were to like me, would I be too old to Impress?" There's the grin again, "I'm considering a change in careers."

Josilina matches that grin, though there's a faint note of uncertainty in the chuckle that goes with it. "You're a bit old," she spreads her hands in front of her, palms up. "I don't think there's much record of them Impressing to folks so much older. And I've got to say, it's a hard life." Blue eyes take a moment for the other woman's muscled build and she concedes, "Though many lives are. But if you were to look to settle in the Weyr, well," she shrugs. "You'd probably get your fair share of time around dragons, and then some." She tilts her head to one side, curious, "What's your career now, might I ask?"

There's a low chuckle. "I dance. I draw. I do some tellin' of a man's future. Or a woman's. I have done some midwifery, and turned my hand at beast-tending. I can do some wood-working, mostly carving. And I can cook with most anything I find." She shrugs. "Went with the traders for a few turns. Went by myself for a few. Ran away," she mentions by way of explanation, "When they were going to marry me to some oaf. And," the smile returns, "Never seemed to find my way back."

Josilina begins an even nod, ready to take that all in, but it's telling of fortunes that earns Ysolt a startled look. "You do? Shards, is it something - well," she checks her blurting reaction. "Sorry. But - well, you should meet a girl we've got in residence here. Beli. She's one for fortune-telling: she'll read your hands, tea-leavings, even your elbow, I hear." She shoots Ysolt a quizzical look, a wider smile threatening the corners of her mouth, "Do you read elbows?"

"Nay." There's a low chuckle. "And I'd be suspicious of someone who did. But perhaps," one shoulder rolls in a luxurious shrug, "She can. And then more power to her." Her head tilts slightly, and she'll study the Weyrwoman, "What would you have me here doing, then, were I to stay?"

Josilina gives a one-shouldered shrug of her own, more of a hitch than a roll, "I'm not one to know from elbows. But she's quite a girl," could that be a trace of admiration in Josi's tone? The last question brings forth a more business-like manner in the goldrider, as she straightens just a little. "Well, it would depend on what you'd want to do. It sounds like you've got your fair share of skills - we could put you to the kitchens, or as an infirmary aide. Or, if you'd rather be outside, helping the Herders. We've got plenty of work for anyone, to be honest. What would you be interested in - if you were to stay?"

"I prefer to be awake at night," Ysolt admits. "The heat here --" Her head shakes and the braids all click against one another with the beads at their ends, "It's killing me, slowly. But the nights are glorious. What could I do, that might be useful, at night?" An odd question, and perhaps not one asked before. But Ysolt adapts and her current strategy to avoid being downed by the heat, is to sleep through it.

Josilina gives the question due consideration, drawing her lower lip between her teeth thoughtfully. "Well, there are some jobs that I don't think matter what time you do them. Potters, I bet, can do their stuff whenever - how are you with clay?" She doesn't really wait for an answer, still rattling off ideas, "Infirmary aides have night shifts. And, 'course, if you were just a non-specific resident, you could take up odd jobs with night shifts."

Ysolt laughs then, a low silky sound, as her gaze soaks in the Weyrwoman's features with an open appreciation. "Non-specific. And you would trust me to make my own jobs?" The teeth flash, "You don't know me, Josilina. You don't know I tell the truth. You don't know anything, but that I hail from Bitra, and -that- is not entirely any sort of endorsement."

Josilina tries to catch Ysolt's eyes, all the better for a nice, slow 'brow-lift. "C'mon, now. You don't think I've been Weyrwoman this long - of two Weyrs - and never dealt with a Bitran?" She breaks the look with a grin, a bright flash of her own, but perhaps more sunny. "And you're hardly the worst I've faced. No, I'd trust you to do your jobs. And," she shrugs, "you'd report to the Headwoman, like any other. If you weren't pulling your weight, we'd sort it out."

Truth: "I dislike being bored. Potters -- now tell me more about that?" invites the dark-skinned woman. She seems quite at ease. Those who do not acknowledge authority most of the time, have little problems when faced with it. Yet Ysolt is respectful - more on a personal level, here, than any based on title.

Josilina shrugs, spreading her hands out in the same gesture as before, "They... pot? Make dishware, that sort of thing, with clay. I've tried my hand at it," she crinkles her nose at the memory, even while smiling, "I'm no great hand. At least, not on the turny-things they use. But it's an available position, if you've the skill." It's not hard to acknowledge Josi's authority, in truth, as it's not one of official pomp. The Acting Weyrwoman's 'professional face' breaks often with smiles and little laughs, and other than her knot it's only a vague air of knowing what she's doing that indicates her rank.

"I don't know if I have the skill," Ysolt admits, "But I haven't done that yet. And it's my goal... To do everything I can, before I die. And we don't know when that'll be. Would you put me with the potters? I'd try my hand at that, should I be able to do it at night." Ysolt nods to that. "I do carve. Do draw."

Josilina purses her lips, considering, "I will. Under the condition that you take that on part-time at first, as you learn, while doing other general chores the rest of the time." A little apologetically she explains, "The Headwoman would have my head, if I put a beginner doing nothing else. But, once you've got the knack of it, if you do, then you can switch to it full-time. Does that sound alright?" Professionalism dropping for a moment, yet again, she wonders, "What kind of things do you draw?"

Ysolt thinks, then answers, "Whatever they pay me for." Truth again, drawled with that underhanded humour that marks the woman. "I've a sketch book down with my things, in the stable. I'd be flattered, should you find time to look at it, sometime. NOthing," Ysolt admits as she gestures to the tapestry and its vivid images, "Like this. And the weavers who made this..." Another moment of brief awe, shared with a grin, with the Weyrwoman. "When I've time to myself, and paper and coal to spare, I draw runners."

"So," Josilina hesitates, "are you planning to stay, then? 'Cause I'll have to give you a resident's knot." Official business mostly over, she relaxes into a half-slouch, leaning in toward the wall. She gives the tapestries her own admiring look, "They are gorgeous. I'd love to look at your work sometime - I draw, and paint, too, but I'm not great hand at it." She whistles a low, impressed note, "Runners are tough. I tried to make some out of clay once - it was tricky."

"Resident?" Ysolt considers that. "I could do that a while. Don't feel bad if I pick up and leave, though." Her lips twitch. "I was thinking if I liked the dragons, to become a dragonrider. Shame, I'm too old. But it took me a few turns to get where I was, to come here. If that makes sense." She nods, "I'll stay with y'all for a period, I suppose. If you'll have me." The idea suits her. "And then I'll be around, if you're wanting to see them. I'd like to sketch a dragon or two, as well."

Josilina's smile lilts a little crooked, "I'll try not to take it personally," she assures her, wry. "How old?" she asks, the other woman's manner allowing her boldness. That crooked edge softens, and she nods, "It makes sense. Believe me, I know - anyway," she crosses back to her table, pulling a rucksack from beneath it. It seems mostly full of hides and folders - and one thing that might be a sketchbook - but Jos digs to the bottom, unearthing a simple black and yellow knot. "Here," she offers it out, and with a grin, "Welcome to Igen Weyr."

Ysolt takes the knot, and fingers it lightly. And then she'll reach for the sketchbook. "I'm probably around twenty turns. The turns don't count, when you've no one to celebrate them with, you know." Not sounding at all sad, merely matter-of-fact, Ysolt curls the knot around a wrist and nudges the sketchbook toward herself. "Might I?"

"Twenty," Josilina echoes, and gives the woman a once-over - assessing again - and she shrugs, "I guessed you wrong - sorry about that. They'll Impress at twenty, and even a bit older. So," she offers a grin, "you never know! Though clutches aren't so frequent, nowadays, since it's, well, supposed to be the Interval," her tone goes a little grim for 'supposed to be'. As for the sketchbook, she nods, "If you'd like." The contents are as advertised: skilled, as one can get with much practice, but she's far from Harper-trained. Most of the sketches are of people or dragons, some faces more than others, and the more recent pages mark a change in landscape, desert instead of mountains.

"If it's supposed to be the interval," Ysolt murmurs, "How come no one told the Thread?" Then she'll flip the book open, beginning to peruse them. Sometimes a lean dark finger will trace a line. Sometimes she just looks. No words, no simpering comments. Just study. Finally, "I like how you did that." A particular technique. "How did you do it?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" Josilina asks, both rhetorical and dry. She watches Ysolt peruse, all the while pretending not to watch too close - until her attention's purposefully drawn. She leans over, bracing a hand on the tabletop, "That? Oh. I sort of smudged the charcoal on something separate, and then used my finger - and then a brush - to do it light. And then defined the edges with a sharper edge," she goes on to explain a few other artistic tidbits to the trick, all clearly homegrown or improvised. "It took me a while to figure out. Do you use paint, at all?"

A shake of the head. "Pigments cost too much." When her coin usually goes to food or garb, the woman's self-indulgences just wait. Charcoal is not hard to come by. Paper, much more difficult. She exhales and flips over to another page. And another. Something critical about her air there, and then that followed by admiration. "You've paintings too?" Goldriders, it must be assumed, have access to such luxuries as paint and hide enough to mess up on.

"There are ways to mix 'em yourself," Josilina pushes closer to the table, enough that she can hoist herself to perch on its edge. "That's what I used to do." Because goldriders, indeed, do have the marks to blow on paints and canvas, if they so choose. And this one does. "I don't paint as much as I used to - makes quite the mess when your young son finds your paint tray. And drawing's simpler, and easier to carry around. But now and then, I still do. 'Specially miniatures, they're cute."


"Aye?" The word invites extrapolation. Ysolt surrenders the sketch pad back to its rightful owner, and she instead lets nimble fingers trace the edges of the knot. Her attention remains on the goldrider, with more than polite attention.

"You should try them," Josilina swings her legs, heels clipping each other in passing. "Good to do with homemade paints. I," she hesitates, "don't really remember how to make them anymore. It's been about... twenty years since I've tried? But I remember it invovled some plants and things. A Harper taught me, you might be able to find another who knows how 'round here."

Ysolt laughs then, deep throaty sibilant noise that halts as quickly as it started. "I'll have that kind of time here, besides earning my keep?" Ysolts grins. "I might grow to like it here, despite this weather. This heat. And my brother is a Harper, knows naught of such things." The quirk of her lips again, as she returns to studying the other woman.

Josilina chuckles, "We try not to work you -too- hard. Especially in the heat," she has an agreeing expression of distaste for the environment. "I'm from 'Reaches, before I transferred here. It's much nicer, in terms of temperature." She laughs again, and shakes her head, "Who knows what Harpers ever know? I've a baby cousin in the Craft, and he can barely sing a note, but put him in the archives and he's right at home. His letters are beautiful."

"A baby is already in archives?" Ysolt grins. "How old are /you/?" And her head rolls slightly. "Ywain is a drummer. He dances. He jests and he juggles. I'm not sure how he's managed to make that marketable, but last I'd heard, he'd gone to a Weyr." There's pride in her voice, despite the mocking words. Ysolt's eyes half-lid, and she eyes the mess on the table. "When are you truely off-duty?"

Josilina grins in return, "A baby to me. He's - shells, I don't even know how old. In his twenties by now? Maybe not quite. I'm thirty-ish-something," a laugh lurks behind the vague label, but the name brings her up short. "Ywain - Journeyman Ywain of High Reaches? I know him - not well, but a bit." She follows the look to that mess, and smiles wry, "Never. Truely. But un-truely, whenever I decide I am."

"You've met him? Well then." Ysolt seems pleased. "Perhaps you see him again, you could convey my well-wishes to him?" Ysolt shifts her weight to her other hip and grins. "So. Is that the perogative of a goldrider, or a rider at all? And might the potters hold such self-authority?"

"I'll do my best," Josilina promises. "My son takes lessons from him, so there's a good chance our paths might cross, at least briefly, now and again." She looks a little sheepish for the next, forced to admit, "I may have exaggerated, a little. I take my evenings off, as much as I can. Time for family, friends, or just me. Even goldrider's generally have to keep even hours, though no doubt even a potter could arrange with her supervisor to have her hours set as she likes."

Ysolt nods at that. "I've worked for only myself," Ysolt admits, "For the past few turns. This," she raises the knot as if it has meaning in and of itself, "It going to be different. And it might not work. But with the Thread falling, it'd suit me to have stone over my head, and playing with clay..." She grins again, shrugs elaborately. It might work out.

"Well, we're glad to have you, for however long that may be." Josilina offers a smile, genuine in its warmth, as she slides off the tabletop and onto her feet. "I'm afraid it's time for me to go -really- off-duty; I've some letters to finish, and then I plan to turn in early. But it was nice to meet you, and I do hope you like it here. I'm sure we'll run into each other again."

The woman settles back on her heels, for a moment, then grins. "I'll be thanking you, then. And you've a good night to you, Weyrwoman Josilina. I thank you for this." The knot is lightly dispalyed, but the woman will turn to head down then. "Sleep well, then. And be well."

You take a deep breath and stride into the council room.
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