Log: Choices
Apr. 28th, 2012 07:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
citlaliIt's currently late spring on the northern continent.
The Starsmiths say it is the 19th Turn, 6th month, and 5th day of the 10th Pass.
It's not really warm enough for sunbathing or swimming, for all that spring keeps marching steadily on towards early summer, but that hasn't stopped a few weyrfolk from trying anyway. A handful of small children are screeching at the water's edge, daring each other to stick their toes in; other people, most of them a little older, are laying around on towels. And then there's Siyavri, looking prim and out of place for all that she's on a towel of her own. Not sunbathing, though: no, the healer is drawing (again), with her knees drawn up so as to form a makeshift desk to balance her notebook on.
A warm spring day finds Naamiah being the bad Candidate and sneaking out-of-doors early from her lessons. With her hair woven in a braid down her back, and wearing a light, thin-strapped dress of sun-yellow and no sandals puts her as the picture perfect enjoyment of spring. No one will notice one missing Candidate who has decided to frolic along the beach by the lake! She gets close enough to Siyavri, that even the healer gets a cheery wave.
Citlali, on the other hand, went on some sort of message run, for someone, on runnerback. That's what she spent most of the day doing, anyway, and after a quick pop into the galleries, she's gone for a walk. Still in her riding pants and knee-high riding boots, she's changed her top to a looser blouse and has her hair back in a ponytail. It's Naamiah she spots first approaching the beach; the younger candidate gets a quick smile, and that's when she places that Siyavri is drawing. Inching closer, she tries to catch a glimpse of the sketch without saying a word.
The weather has yet to give enough reason for Merci to shed her riding jacket, though it is left open to display the lilac tunic beneath. Her swagger may not just be one of confidence, helped along by the whiskey bottle clutched in her fist. When the dark bottle manages to catch light, liquid can still be seen sloshing, the rider having enough sense to plug the opening with her thumb as she walks down toward the lake. All in all, looks to be a typical day for the Wingleader. Her steps slow at the gaggle of girlies that seems to have appeared out of nowhere, determined in her approach, though now it's taken on a possibly predatory lumber.
Siyavri is not /especially/ used to being on the receiving (or giving, realistically) end of cheery waves, and it unmans her enough to draw her attention away from her work in a significant and obvious way, Naamiah earning a wary glance that finally culminates in a nod. It's a distraction that means she misses Citlali, and as a result, has no time to hide away her work: she's been finalising a sketch of another Candidate, one Fort Weyrbred Lindi, while the page next to it is filled with scattered notes. Nor does she note Merci, though that's a state of affairs that isn't likely to last for long.
Content on resuming the friendly, bright attitude, Naamiah follows it up with a few steps in Siyavri's direction, a wide welcoming smile blooming across her expression. It encompasses both Citlali and Siyavri, and heck, even Merci who she catches out of the fringes of her vision. "Hi," directed to both Candidate and Healer, "It's a gorgeous day, isn't it?" Perhaps her strategy is to kill everyone with kindness -- maybe it'll work. Tucking strands of red hair behind her ears, she slants a curious look at Merci's bottle.
Unfortunately, Citlali hasn't died yet -- she, for one, seems to appreciate the kindness. "That's quite good," she quips at the back of Siyavri's head, giving a nod toward the drawing. The notes, of course, she can't make out a word and would likely be afraid to try, really. None of her business. "It's quite nice, yes," Citlali agrees. "The runners are just as thrilled as most of the humans."
Merci decends like a shadow onto the collection of cheeful candidates. And one Siyavri. The whiskey exchanges hands, thumb-cork brought up for a slow lick as she looms and offers her shade to the sitting Healer. Dark eyes are quick to pluck out white knots, at least as far as Naamiah and Citlali are concerned. So the sheep are safe behind their white corded pens, and the wolf is only able to circle hungrily- and circle she does. "Girls. Cute n' curious." They're greeted, though Siyavri gets a note of undeserved familiarity. "Snuck out?" The question is as uncaring as the pull she takes from her bottle.
"It's pleasant," allows Siyavri, who is not exactly prone to the effusive, though the corners of her mouth twitch upwards into what the generous might call an actual smile. She stiffens at Citlali's remark, having apparently come to a conclusion as to what the Candidate is referring to, even if she's not actually /facing/ the Candidate; it may be a good thing that Merci's shade interrupts what might have been said and that, instead, the healer says, "Good afternoon, Wingleader. I cannot speak for them, but /I/ have a rest-day."
"I sure did," Naamiah is unashamed in mentioning that she slipped out of her classes. "But it is my writing class and my aunt has made sure that I knew how to write so I could help her." What she doesn't mention is the easy time of it she had in sneaking out! Green eyes raise to Citlali after answering Merci's group-wards question, and queries, "Were you riding today? I've been on a runner only a handful of times. Didn't do too bad." Back to Merci, who's treated with a brightly happy smile. "I'm always curious." That she's stalked and circled only gets a twirl on her heels to keep Merci in her sights.
"Yeah," Citlali answers, giving Naamiah a quick smile. "I just got back from an errand run a couple of riders sent me on, pick up and drop off kind of thing. I guess they were too busy drilling or -- whatever -- with their dragons," because she does not, really, understand all what dragonriders do, "to be able to do it themselves. Which is why, ma'am," and that bit's to Merci, "I'm here now instead of working."
Siyavri's "Errands trumping lessons?" has a definite note of 'tsk' to it, though it's probably not actively aimed at Citlali. She half turns, now, so as to get a better look at the blonde Candidate; as she does so, she flips closed her notebook, setting it to one side so that she can stretch out her legs on her blanket. She goes silent after that, however, because Merci is speaking, and that's something she's apparently very interested in listening to, even to the point of turning her full attention onto the Wingleader, wide-eyed. "It would be," she points out, "enormously unprofessional of me to skip out on patients who might need me. Duties are important." And that's loud enough that she might well be intending to reinforce what Merci has just said, for both Candidates.
"Yes, ma'am," Naamiah says earnestly with a salute to the Wingleader, "The next time I am out when I should be in lessons, I'll make sure I have permission to do so!" Which is almost as good as sneaking out. "Duties are very important," the girl says, finally flopping down on the sand and leaning back on her hands. "But so is enjoying a pretty spring day." To Merci, she presents a friendly, if a little over-eager, picture. All big smiles and innocent looks for her blatant admission of being naughty. "But a patient that needs to be Healed is a little different from sitting through writing classes. It is more important, and I bet -- yeah," she turns, in agreement with Citlali, to add in to Siyavri, "Your patients are happy you don't skip out!"
Merci squints, momentarily confused and willing to let it settle on her face, clear as day. The power of liquor! "Patients? Thought you was... eh. Rumors." She shrugs off the mutterings of Siyavri possibly being a candidate herself. No sense in trusting the weyr's gossips, now. And then there's the sunlight reflecting off of Naamiah's guilty yet innocent smile, and it's got the Wingleader grimacing ever so subtly. Now is definitely the time for more whiskey, and she fills her mouth to capacity, threatening to burn her own nosehairs off in the process. Sssssss. "A rider says jump, you say how high. Good girl." Throat is raw from its liquid punishment, words uttered with a faint wheeze. "Dragons are a big-" Eyes lose focus, caught by surprise before she ends in a mumble, "...pain in th'ass." That's the only explination the three get from Merci as she turns on her heel (wobbles) and then stalks back towards the weyr. Talimoth beckons.
Siyavri ignores what both the Candidates have to say about her patients: right now, she seems more interested in staring at Merci, bewildered, an expression that remains in place as she watches the brownrider step away. "One day," she murmurs, probably largely to herself, "I intend to understand that woman." At least once she's said that, she seems ready to consider her two remaining companion once more, both with studied interest. "Have they not been covering rider duties in your classes?" She's coming back to a remark from earlier, but acting, somehow, as though it's entirely relevant to the conversation as it stands /now/.
Naamiah, too, stares after Merci when she makes her way unsteadily down the beach away from them. Contemplation softens the friendly front she puts on, toning down the natural inclination to brightness. It takes a moment for her attention to switch from Merci to Siyavri at the question asked, so that when so does, her green eyes are still clouded with thought. "Oh, yes," comes her distracted reply, though soon enough full attention is on Citlali and Siyavri. "They do. It is," confidence slips just a fraction, "daunting."
"Some, yes." Citlali's backing up Naamiah's testimony; helps that it is, in fact, true that that's the answer. She looks hesitantly down at the other two, who are sitting, and after a moment decides to join in on that and gracefully folds herself down next to Naamiah. "Apparently despite the fact they can between wherever they want, though, I still have to run messages for them. On a runnerbeast. Who is hot. But I won't complain too much; I did end up in this as a punishment, after all." Something for Siyavri to chew on? Maybe. Does Citlali know that? Not a bit.
There are a lot of things Siyavri could ask about, pry about, in response to that which the two candidates have told her, but instead of teasing into that, her next remark is a half-disgusted one. "Were /any/ of you Candidates chosen by a dragon to Stand? Or do they just waltz around throwing knots on people for inscrutable reasons of their own? A /punishment/, for Faranth's sake." It's said with feeling, though her expression holds no particular emotions beyond her usual thoughtfulness.
Staring at Siyavri, Naamiah slowly shakes her head. "To that, I cannot answer." She turns away from Siyavri then, to follow the sound of children playing by the lake. Silence is a lingering response, using her listening ears rather than her tendency to chatter. A quick look is shot Citlali-wards, curiosity in her eyes, but not prying at this point. Yet.
Citlali bites her lip, thinking; her eyes glaze over like a rider's might in conveying words to a dragon or receiving them, but in her case it's only trying to remember. "Both," she speaks up, eventually. "At first it was a punishment, yes. Rylsar hit D'yce with a snowball and I laughed. But he did say his dragon ... name starts with C, I can't quite -- is it Chironth? -- liked me, or perhaps both of us. He curled his tail around us a little, trying to keep us. So one fed into the other, I think you could say, and who can know which one came first except them."
Perhaps Citlali's story mollifies Siyavri a little, because aside from a little sniff, her only immediate response is to nod her head. Whatever it is that caused that little outburst, she tempers it when she adds, a few moments later, "Well, that's something, at least. At least that means you aren't going to do the whole oh-there-are-no-dragonriders-in-my-family-so-of-course-I-won't-Impress thing." Although given she's just mentioned Rylsar... that's probably wishful thinking. It was Citlali who prompted it, but both girls are included in her glance.
Swinging her head back around to Siyavri, another thoughtful expression still lingering on her features. Rather than reply, she pushes herself to her feet. "If you'll excuse me, there's something I must," her eyes stray to something in the distance, a slight falter to her words the only betrayal of whatever thoughts are going through her head, "attend to something. I'll see you later, Citlali, and have a good rest day, ma'am." Both are given a bob her head in farewell before she's trotting off down the beach. In the direction of the weyr proper.
Looking up at the parting Naamiah, Citlali gives a small wave in her direction, eyebrow up only for half a moment. Vagueness breeds curiosity, but Citlali's rather incompetent at prying. "Later, Naamiah," she says, and keeps looking in that direction until the younger girl is out of view. Then her focus reshifts -- first it's on the lake, and then, slowly, back to the healer. "Well. I -- actually." She looks down a little, a guilty smile forming on her face. "That /is/ always what I thought. Rider blood makes a difference. Does it not? I've got no clue how Weyrs work, really. Still learning."
Siyavri is not one to miss when there are heavy thoughts afoot, and so, it's no surprise that she tracks after Naamiah - even if she doesn't actually manage to say good bye. It's a frown that's set on her face when she turns back to Citlali, and it's a frown that grows deeper and more frustrated as the younger woman speaks. "Faranth," she says, with a shake of her head. "Do you think they would really fill the Sands with people who have no chance? There's no logic in that, surely. There are twenty-something eggs out there, and if you've been picked as a Candidate, then you've a chance to Impress one. Have you not thought this through, even a little?"
"More I didn't take much time to consider it," is Citlali's just as honest answer. If there's one thing she doesn't do, it's lie; she's good at actually admitting when she doesn't know something and isn't prone to argument. Not about facts, anyway. "Less chance, maybe. It didn't concern me, either, really, as how -- it's not something that's really important to me? I didn't find out until weeks later I could've said no." She lets out a chortle, low in her throat, focused on her own stupidity.
Silence, from the Mindhealer. You'd think, by now, she'd have gotten used to this kind of flippancy, but she clearly hasn't: it shows in her expression, in her silence, in the sudden tension of shoulders and the hands resting beside her on the blanket. "You... Faranth save us all."
"Tell me," Citlali asks, and maybe she's different if everyone else is flippant and just lets it go -- because she is not, in fact, going to let it go. "What I should be thinking about, then. Tell me what I'm doing wrong, because I can't possibly change it if I don't know what it is."
Siyavri? Yes, she's perfectly happy to do that, ticking points off on her fingers, one after another. "You might Impress a dragon. Which means you might die horribly and in pain, in Threadfall. Or become half a person, because your dragon has. You'll never have any choice of occupation again. You'd lose control of your life." It sort of peeters out after that, though, and becomes, instead, "Do you always make decisions without thinking through the consequences?"
"Well I didn't /know/," Citlali points out, slow and deliberate, even if she's looking at Siyavri not with horror or annoyance but respect, "that I could. Refuse. I didn't know it was a decision, I thought it was an order. And now that I'm here, well --" Confession time? Definitely; even if she doesn't know that's what the healer might be after. "I've never had any choice of occupation /anyway/. I was talent my family paraded around; look, she's a brilliant rider, she can win awards and work in the barn the rest of the time, let's make her a decoration. It was that or trophy wife to some rich old dude and that doesn't appeal even remotely -- at least I do actually like runners. And I guess. Maybe. That fighting Thread would make me feel like I was giving back for all the mistakes my family's made, and that it could be something I'm doing because of me, for something good, and not because it's something my father or his brother wanted me to do."
Of all the answers Siyavri may have anticipated, this doesn't seem to have been one of them, and, after a moment of pure pause, she seems almost satisfied. "In that case," she says, sounding almost as though she /understands/, "I wish you every success. I have never cared what people do, as long as they choose it, for reasons that aren't based on misapprehension or indecision." Her nod, approving, is followed by an abrupt rise to her feet. "You should come in for a formal interview at some point," she invites, them. "I would like to get to understand your motivations better."
Surprised, Citlali simply blinks at Siyavri, staring just a little. That's definitely not the answer she expected, either. "Anytime you like," she blurts, providing a rather good example of how she /doesn't/ always immediately think things through -- but at least there was a pause of a couple seconds, there, and being interviewed by a mindhealer's not anything like Impression. "I'm not hard to find."
Siyavri's mouth tightens, but her half-smile is more approving than disapproving, even so. "Excellent," she approves, as she gathers up her things, including that so-precious notebook, giving the Candidate one last nod before she bustles away.
The Starsmiths say it is the 19th Turn, 6th month, and 5th day of the 10th Pass.
The Beach!
This thin strip of cozy sand lines the southwestern rim of the Weyr, leading from the cave-in northward almost to the fence of the feeding pens, where the lake carves out some water for the herdbeasts. Cliff to one side, water to the other, there's no direct Bowl access other than by air or through the lake itself; thus, particularly in colder weather, it's often a good, quiet place to think. In warmer weather, however, relaxing (and drying off) on the beach proves to be a delightful pastime, serenaded by the assorted bugles and splashes of dragonkin reveling in the lake. At the end opposite the herdbeasts, the sand becomes a little grassy, with even a clump here and there. Some intrepid weyrfolk have chipped out handholds in the rock, where cliff meets water, angling up and up again above the lake.
It is a spring afternoon. The sky is clear and fresh, the winds strong.
It's not really warm enough for sunbathing or swimming, for all that spring keeps marching steadily on towards early summer, but that hasn't stopped a few weyrfolk from trying anyway. A handful of small children are screeching at the water's edge, daring each other to stick their toes in; other people, most of them a little older, are laying around on towels. And then there's Siyavri, looking prim and out of place for all that she's on a towel of her own. Not sunbathing, though: no, the healer is drawing (again), with her knees drawn up so as to form a makeshift desk to balance her notebook on.
A warm spring day finds Naamiah being the bad Candidate and sneaking out-of-doors early from her lessons. With her hair woven in a braid down her back, and wearing a light, thin-strapped dress of sun-yellow and no sandals puts her as the picture perfect enjoyment of spring. No one will notice one missing Candidate who has decided to frolic along the beach by the lake! She gets close enough to Siyavri, that even the healer gets a cheery wave.
Citlali, on the other hand, went on some sort of message run, for someone, on runnerback. That's what she spent most of the day doing, anyway, and after a quick pop into the galleries, she's gone for a walk. Still in her riding pants and knee-high riding boots, she's changed her top to a looser blouse and has her hair back in a ponytail. It's Naamiah she spots first approaching the beach; the younger candidate gets a quick smile, and that's when she places that Siyavri is drawing. Inching closer, she tries to catch a glimpse of the sketch without saying a word.
The weather has yet to give enough reason for Merci to shed her riding jacket, though it is left open to display the lilac tunic beneath. Her swagger may not just be one of confidence, helped along by the whiskey bottle clutched in her fist. When the dark bottle manages to catch light, liquid can still be seen sloshing, the rider having enough sense to plug the opening with her thumb as she walks down toward the lake. All in all, looks to be a typical day for the Wingleader. Her steps slow at the gaggle of girlies that seems to have appeared out of nowhere, determined in her approach, though now it's taken on a possibly predatory lumber.
Siyavri is not /especially/ used to being on the receiving (or giving, realistically) end of cheery waves, and it unmans her enough to draw her attention away from her work in a significant and obvious way, Naamiah earning a wary glance that finally culminates in a nod. It's a distraction that means she misses Citlali, and as a result, has no time to hide away her work: she's been finalising a sketch of another Candidate, one Fort Weyrbred Lindi, while the page next to it is filled with scattered notes. Nor does she note Merci, though that's a state of affairs that isn't likely to last for long.
Content on resuming the friendly, bright attitude, Naamiah follows it up with a few steps in Siyavri's direction, a wide welcoming smile blooming across her expression. It encompasses both Citlali and Siyavri, and heck, even Merci who she catches out of the fringes of her vision. "Hi," directed to both Candidate and Healer, "It's a gorgeous day, isn't it?" Perhaps her strategy is to kill everyone with kindness -- maybe it'll work. Tucking strands of red hair behind her ears, she slants a curious look at Merci's bottle.
Unfortunately, Citlali hasn't died yet -- she, for one, seems to appreciate the kindness. "That's quite good," she quips at the back of Siyavri's head, giving a nod toward the drawing. The notes, of course, she can't make out a word and would likely be afraid to try, really. None of her business. "It's quite nice, yes," Citlali agrees. "The runners are just as thrilled as most of the humans."
Merci decends like a shadow onto the collection of cheeful candidates. And one Siyavri. The whiskey exchanges hands, thumb-cork brought up for a slow lick as she looms and offers her shade to the sitting Healer. Dark eyes are quick to pluck out white knots, at least as far as Naamiah and Citlali are concerned. So the sheep are safe behind their white corded pens, and the wolf is only able to circle hungrily- and circle she does. "Girls. Cute n' curious." They're greeted, though Siyavri gets a note of undeserved familiarity. "Snuck out?" The question is as uncaring as the pull she takes from her bottle.
"It's pleasant," allows Siyavri, who is not exactly prone to the effusive, though the corners of her mouth twitch upwards into what the generous might call an actual smile. She stiffens at Citlali's remark, having apparently come to a conclusion as to what the Candidate is referring to, even if she's not actually /facing/ the Candidate; it may be a good thing that Merci's shade interrupts what might have been said and that, instead, the healer says, "Good afternoon, Wingleader. I cannot speak for them, but /I/ have a rest-day."
"I sure did," Naamiah is unashamed in mentioning that she slipped out of her classes. "But it is my writing class and my aunt has made sure that I knew how to write so I could help her." What she doesn't mention is the easy time of it she had in sneaking out! Green eyes raise to Citlali after answering Merci's group-wards question, and queries, "Were you riding today? I've been on a runner only a handful of times. Didn't do too bad." Back to Merci, who's treated with a brightly happy smile. "I'm always curious." That she's stalked and circled only gets a twirl on her heels to keep Merci in her sights.
"Yeah," Citlali answers, giving Naamiah a quick smile. "I just got back from an errand run a couple of riders sent me on, pick up and drop off kind of thing. I guess they were too busy drilling or -- whatever -- with their dragons," because she does not, really, understand all what dragonriders do, "to be able to do it themselves. Which is why, ma'am," and that bit's to Merci, "I'm here now instead of working."
Siyavri's "Errands trumping lessons?" has a definite note of 'tsk' to it, though it's probably not actively aimed at Citlali. She half turns, now, so as to get a better look at the blonde Candidate; as she does so, she flips closed her notebook, setting it to one side so that she can stretch out her legs on her blanket. She goes silent after that, however, because Merci is speaking, and that's something she's apparently very interested in listening to, even to the point of turning her full attention onto the Wingleader, wide-eyed. "It would be," she points out, "enormously unprofessional of me to skip out on patients who might need me. Duties are important." And that's loud enough that she might well be intending to reinforce what Merci has just said, for both Candidates.
"Yes, ma'am," Naamiah says earnestly with a salute to the Wingleader, "The next time I am out when I should be in lessons, I'll make sure I have permission to do so!" Which is almost as good as sneaking out. "Duties are very important," the girl says, finally flopping down on the sand and leaning back on her hands. "But so is enjoying a pretty spring day." To Merci, she presents a friendly, if a little over-eager, picture. All big smiles and innocent looks for her blatant admission of being naughty. "But a patient that needs to be Healed is a little different from sitting through writing classes. It is more important, and I bet -- yeah," she turns, in agreement with Citlali, to add in to Siyavri, "Your patients are happy you don't skip out!"
Merci squints, momentarily confused and willing to let it settle on her face, clear as day. The power of liquor! "Patients? Thought you was... eh. Rumors." She shrugs off the mutterings of Siyavri possibly being a candidate herself. No sense in trusting the weyr's gossips, now. And then there's the sunlight reflecting off of Naamiah's guilty yet innocent smile, and it's got the Wingleader grimacing ever so subtly. Now is definitely the time for more whiskey, and she fills her mouth to capacity, threatening to burn her own nosehairs off in the process. Sssssss. "A rider says jump, you say how high. Good girl." Throat is raw from its liquid punishment, words uttered with a faint wheeze. "Dragons are a big-" Eyes lose focus, caught by surprise before she ends in a mumble, "...pain in th'ass." That's the only explination the three get from Merci as she turns on her heel (wobbles) and then stalks back towards the weyr. Talimoth beckons.
Siyavri ignores what both the Candidates have to say about her patients: right now, she seems more interested in staring at Merci, bewildered, an expression that remains in place as she watches the brownrider step away. "One day," she murmurs, probably largely to herself, "I intend to understand that woman." At least once she's said that, she seems ready to consider her two remaining companion once more, both with studied interest. "Have they not been covering rider duties in your classes?" She's coming back to a remark from earlier, but acting, somehow, as though it's entirely relevant to the conversation as it stands /now/.
Naamiah, too, stares after Merci when she makes her way unsteadily down the beach away from them. Contemplation softens the friendly front she puts on, toning down the natural inclination to brightness. It takes a moment for her attention to switch from Merci to Siyavri at the question asked, so that when so does, her green eyes are still clouded with thought. "Oh, yes," comes her distracted reply, though soon enough full attention is on Citlali and Siyavri. "They do. It is," confidence slips just a fraction, "daunting."
"Some, yes." Citlali's backing up Naamiah's testimony; helps that it is, in fact, true that that's the answer. She looks hesitantly down at the other two, who are sitting, and after a moment decides to join in on that and gracefully folds herself down next to Naamiah. "Apparently despite the fact they can between wherever they want, though, I still have to run messages for them. On a runnerbeast. Who is hot. But I won't complain too much; I did end up in this as a punishment, after all." Something for Siyavri to chew on? Maybe. Does Citlali know that? Not a bit.
There are a lot of things Siyavri could ask about, pry about, in response to that which the two candidates have told her, but instead of teasing into that, her next remark is a half-disgusted one. "Were /any/ of you Candidates chosen by a dragon to Stand? Or do they just waltz around throwing knots on people for inscrutable reasons of their own? A /punishment/, for Faranth's sake." It's said with feeling, though her expression holds no particular emotions beyond her usual thoughtfulness.
Staring at Siyavri, Naamiah slowly shakes her head. "To that, I cannot answer." She turns away from Siyavri then, to follow the sound of children playing by the lake. Silence is a lingering response, using her listening ears rather than her tendency to chatter. A quick look is shot Citlali-wards, curiosity in her eyes, but not prying at this point. Yet.
Citlali bites her lip, thinking; her eyes glaze over like a rider's might in conveying words to a dragon or receiving them, but in her case it's only trying to remember. "Both," she speaks up, eventually. "At first it was a punishment, yes. Rylsar hit D'yce with a snowball and I laughed. But he did say his dragon ... name starts with C, I can't quite -- is it Chironth? -- liked me, or perhaps both of us. He curled his tail around us a little, trying to keep us. So one fed into the other, I think you could say, and who can know which one came first except them."
Perhaps Citlali's story mollifies Siyavri a little, because aside from a little sniff, her only immediate response is to nod her head. Whatever it is that caused that little outburst, she tempers it when she adds, a few moments later, "Well, that's something, at least. At least that means you aren't going to do the whole oh-there-are-no-dragonriders-in-my-family-so-of-course-I-won't-Impress thing." Although given she's just mentioned Rylsar... that's probably wishful thinking. It was Citlali who prompted it, but both girls are included in her glance.
Swinging her head back around to Siyavri, another thoughtful expression still lingering on her features. Rather than reply, she pushes herself to her feet. "If you'll excuse me, there's something I must," her eyes stray to something in the distance, a slight falter to her words the only betrayal of whatever thoughts are going through her head, "attend to something. I'll see you later, Citlali, and have a good rest day, ma'am." Both are given a bob her head in farewell before she's trotting off down the beach. In the direction of the weyr proper.
Looking up at the parting Naamiah, Citlali gives a small wave in her direction, eyebrow up only for half a moment. Vagueness breeds curiosity, but Citlali's rather incompetent at prying. "Later, Naamiah," she says, and keeps looking in that direction until the younger girl is out of view. Then her focus reshifts -- first it's on the lake, and then, slowly, back to the healer. "Well. I -- actually." She looks down a little, a guilty smile forming on her face. "That /is/ always what I thought. Rider blood makes a difference. Does it not? I've got no clue how Weyrs work, really. Still learning."
Siyavri is not one to miss when there are heavy thoughts afoot, and so, it's no surprise that she tracks after Naamiah - even if she doesn't actually manage to say good bye. It's a frown that's set on her face when she turns back to Citlali, and it's a frown that grows deeper and more frustrated as the younger woman speaks. "Faranth," she says, with a shake of her head. "Do you think they would really fill the Sands with people who have no chance? There's no logic in that, surely. There are twenty-something eggs out there, and if you've been picked as a Candidate, then you've a chance to Impress one. Have you not thought this through, even a little?"
"More I didn't take much time to consider it," is Citlali's just as honest answer. If there's one thing she doesn't do, it's lie; she's good at actually admitting when she doesn't know something and isn't prone to argument. Not about facts, anyway. "Less chance, maybe. It didn't concern me, either, really, as how -- it's not something that's really important to me? I didn't find out until weeks later I could've said no." She lets out a chortle, low in her throat, focused on her own stupidity.
Silence, from the Mindhealer. You'd think, by now, she'd have gotten used to this kind of flippancy, but she clearly hasn't: it shows in her expression, in her silence, in the sudden tension of shoulders and the hands resting beside her on the blanket. "You... Faranth save us all."
"Tell me," Citlali asks, and maybe she's different if everyone else is flippant and just lets it go -- because she is not, in fact, going to let it go. "What I should be thinking about, then. Tell me what I'm doing wrong, because I can't possibly change it if I don't know what it is."
Siyavri? Yes, she's perfectly happy to do that, ticking points off on her fingers, one after another. "You might Impress a dragon. Which means you might die horribly and in pain, in Threadfall. Or become half a person, because your dragon has. You'll never have any choice of occupation again. You'd lose control of your life." It sort of peeters out after that, though, and becomes, instead, "Do you always make decisions without thinking through the consequences?"
"Well I didn't /know/," Citlali points out, slow and deliberate, even if she's looking at Siyavri not with horror or annoyance but respect, "that I could. Refuse. I didn't know it was a decision, I thought it was an order. And now that I'm here, well --" Confession time? Definitely; even if she doesn't know that's what the healer might be after. "I've never had any choice of occupation /anyway/. I was talent my family paraded around; look, she's a brilliant rider, she can win awards and work in the barn the rest of the time, let's make her a decoration. It was that or trophy wife to some rich old dude and that doesn't appeal even remotely -- at least I do actually like runners. And I guess. Maybe. That fighting Thread would make me feel like I was giving back for all the mistakes my family's made, and that it could be something I'm doing because of me, for something good, and not because it's something my father or his brother wanted me to do."
Of all the answers Siyavri may have anticipated, this doesn't seem to have been one of them, and, after a moment of pure pause, she seems almost satisfied. "In that case," she says, sounding almost as though she /understands/, "I wish you every success. I have never cared what people do, as long as they choose it, for reasons that aren't based on misapprehension or indecision." Her nod, approving, is followed by an abrupt rise to her feet. "You should come in for a formal interview at some point," she invites, them. "I would like to get to understand your motivations better."
Surprised, Citlali simply blinks at Siyavri, staring just a little. That's definitely not the answer she expected, either. "Anytime you like," she blurts, providing a rather good example of how she /doesn't/ always immediately think things through -- but at least there was a pause of a couple seconds, there, and being interviewed by a mindhealer's not anything like Impression. "I'm not hard to find."
Siyavri's mouth tightens, but her half-smile is more approving than disapproving, even so. "Excellent," she approves, as she gathers up her things, including that so-precious notebook, giving the Candidate one last nod before she bustles away.
