Everyone should have a little pretty! (open)

For all that she loved sewing—it was relaxing—mending and resizing the same boring clothing everyday did tend to get a bit tedious. Two years it had been, almost to the day, since she was lured into a not so unpleasant trap but a not so pleasant bluerider. Though, if she had her druthers she likely wouldn’t change the outcome of that day. Since moving into the Weyr she’d made better friends than she’d ever had between High Reaches Hold and Weaver Crafthall combined. At both places she’d been surrounded by half-siblings and never quite belonged. Landarkin had been a superb father and her half-siblings by him had been adorable and loving. In stark contrast, her biological father and his array of bastards had been far less welcoming though Jysandar had warmed up to her a bit once he’d learned she possessed a rare talent for embroidery.

In short, while the situation hadn’t exactly been ideal, she couldn’t exactly complain about the outcome. Her only wish was that she could send word to her mother and father—Landarkin not Jysandar—not to worry; that she was safe. However, there were days she wondered how safe she truly was. She shared her roommate’s reservations about the public lashings as well as her aversion to Flights. Men high on hormones weren’t the easiest to avoid, she’d come to discover, though she’d managed well enough so far. In fact, she’d done quite splendidly when it came to avoiding too much attention and keeping to herself. She had her few friends, of course, but outside of Seijin and Aparicus, she hadn’t particularly gone out of her way to initiate very many relationships. She’d just kept her head down, repaired torn tunics and taken in trousers.

Of course, every now and then, when she’d finished her pile of clothing and if she had a bit of stashed away floss to spare, she would embroider some of the nicer clothing, using her fairly good memory for color and figure to make renderings of various dragons about the weyr. Her favorites were the blues, of course. As of yet, no one had caught her at it and she wasn’t quite sure how anyone would react. It was just that she’d run out of places to embroider her own clothing without it looking utterly ridiculous and Apari's nice clothing was bedecked in an array of flowers; Shards, even Seijin had let her at his clothing. Surely no one would begrudge her a bit of beautifying and she’d done her best to make sure that she at the very least didn’t do something like put a green dragon on a brownrider’s tunic. Somehow she rather doubted that would go over well.

She was embroidering just such a tunic—a rather handsome brown she’d seen lazing about earlier that day—on the cuff of a tan tunic when she became aware of the increased chattering around her. The Weavers were assembled in a sheltered alcove that opened directly onto the Gather Square allowing the maximum amount of light in as glowbaskets weren’t always the best to see by. The only reason she even noticed the chatter was that she was certain someone had said her name. Blinking, she looked up from where she was carefully stitching the leading edge of the dragon’s wing and became acutely aware of the sound of clipped boot steps heading in her direction. She was slightly off to the side from the others and slightly turned away to dissuade any idle chatter.

Had someone finally discovered her little hobby and come to protest? Surely the other Weavers knew her skills by now and could identify her as the culprit. An image of B’jin bound to a post flashed in her mind before she shook her head and chastised herself for being fanciful. Listening more carefully to the murmur of the other Weavers as the boot steps halted, she bit down on her lower lip and carefully bunched the tunic in her lap so that her project was hidden. Would the lash a woman for sewing?

“Sharpy!”

K’ren grinned as he entered the familiar room, wrapping his arms around the women who’d called his name—his nickname, Farnath help him, since when had he accepted that as his name--and squeezing tight. He withdrew from her and cupped her face in his hands. “You look lovely today. Absolutely radiant, dear. Not at all like you had five boys with that wher you call your husband. I might just be falling in love…”

She giggled and smacked him with the cloth she had in hand. K’ren made a face of mock pain. “Oh, off with you, you old flirt. Constantly disrupting a good woman’s work.”

“Do you have my vest?” K’ren asked.

She arched an eyebrow. “That old thing? I left it around here somewhere…” she seemed as if she were about to apologize, some of the good mood ebbing away in the process, however the bluerider had turned his attention away from his old friend and into the rest of the room, where the weavers were quietly continuing their work. His gaze alighted on one woman in particular.

“It appears I don’t need you,” K’ren said, glancing slyly at his friend.

The older woman rolled her eyes, patted his head, and moved right back onto her business.

The bluerider shrugged and moved over. “I see you’ve got my tunic,” he said, “Has it been finished yet?”

He reached out and snatched the tan tunic without so much as a by-your-leave. He blinked as it unraveled to reveal a brown dragon sitting smug, threaded well and deep into what had once been one of his plainer pieces. Hmm.

He wrapped it carefully back up, looked around to see if anyone had reacted—no, they weren’t paying any heed, all too busy with their own work—and turned to the woman.

“Well that’s not exactly what I asked for,” he said, mildly.

Was this some kind of new weyr propaganda he had not been made aware of? Stitch dragons into all the clothes and then, perhaps, we will firmly stand as a weyr united by one purpose? Not particularly all that clever…

He looked back at the woman, and it clicked. Oh, no, no of course not. No work that pretty would be dedicated to propaganda. She had sewn it on his tunic for another reason, then. So the question now came to be… why? It was lovingly done. Had she stolen his to give to someone, perhaps a lover at the weyr? He was not familiar with her or her character, but dismissed the thought. It was highly unlikely that any of the women he knew here would have let her work here if the girl was inclined towards thievery. They were less pleasant than they appeared, many of them quite harsh with their punishments. Some other reason, then.

K’ren opened the tunic again, so that he could examine it.  The workmanship was exquisite. Why had he not made friends with this particular weaver, or heard that she was capable of such things? He held off complement, for the moment, keeping his cards close to his chest—as it were. If he played them right...

“I suppose the obvious question would be, what on Pern possessed you to sew U’gart’s brown on my tunic?” He asked, the humor softening his eyes.

Lymslea hadn't exactly been un-able to hear the 'thrawp' of the cloth, and peeked around the corner curiously. The young woman who emboirdered those gorgeous designs-something she'd never be-able to wear for they were far to pretty for mere holder girl like her made her smile.

The Weavers had always intruiged Lymsleia she'd attempted to stitch one, but ended up bloody and thread snakled fingers. "Ahh... I didn't mean to disrupt." she spoke up after a moment." She swalloed. She hadn't just walking in on this, just jumping into something with both feet. The year or so at the Weyr had mellowed passionate fire to embers. "But I was wondering if I could put in a commission. Just for something.. umm pretty?" she spoek with another weaver who raised her eyebrow. "Pretty? I'll sse.. how about.. never?" Lymsleia snorted. "Oh then who does all those pretty images of dragons mm?" she retorted. "It certainly cain be you, with that foul attitude you'd taint your work."

Twisting around at the waist where she was seated on a floor pillow, Jisralna stared up at the dragonrider who had come up to her, green-grey eyes flicking towards the shoulder knots pinned to his tunic. Her stomach lurched; bluerider. Her fingers reflexively clenched around the material in her lap and before she could think of someway to stall him, he’d reached out and snatched the tunic from her hands with little effort though she had tried to cling to the material. Her face paled as he shook out the garment, revealing the brown half finished brown dragon on the cuff of the tunic.

As he spoke again, a strangled squeak escaped her as color flooded into her pale cheeks. She was in for it now! She should’ve been more careful about where she embroidered the dragons! She should’ve just stuck with abstract designs at least then something like this wouldn’t have happened. Her eyes began to sting, certain that she was about to get yelled at, despite the dragonrider’s mild tone. She couldn’t handle yelling; not even in the least! As she began to compulsively smooth her skirts, she otherwise held very still, staring at the rider’s knee of all things. If the dragonrider didn’t yell at her, she was certain that if he complained one of the older weavers would do the honors. For the most part they’d kept their mouths shut about her little side projects but if she started stirring up trouble with mistakes such as these, she doubted they would stay silent much longer.

When the rider spoke once more, Jisra missed the humor in his eyes—staring at his knee as she was—and flinched slightly, sucking in her lower lip to keep it from trembling. Though when she finally found her voice, it waivered precariously past as it had to force its way past the terrible lump in her throat. “I did not mean to, Sir. They did not tell me it was your tunic, they just said hem the sleeves, so I hemmed the sleeves and then I remembered the brown dragon and I had some thread that was the proper shade and…I am sorry, Sir. I can redo it. I can make you a new tunic if you wish.” Her frazzled nerve shown through as she finally looked up, a misty sheen over her eyes. Had she not been so averse to yelling—if it did not make her cry—she likely would have been as calm as ever, but as it was, she’d do anything to avoid being yelled at that very moment.

With her attention on the dragonrider, Jisra was oblivious to the little verbal stand-off that was taking place just beyond the bluerider. Instead she alternately clenched her hands in the material of her skirts and then smoothed them, looking very much like an abused puppy.

Well, this wouldn't do.

K'ren raised his eyebrows. She was doing quite the impression of a kicked puppy, right down to the eyes. Hmm. He had wanted to hold off complementing, to see if he could wrangle the piece away without paying marks for the extra detailing--in fact, perhaps making marks off the deal--but he wasn't a cruel man. Even if he had no idea how to deal with a flustered woman. Or a flustered anyone. It would be best to stop this now before she really broke down into tears. Then he'd have no idea what to do, and that was adverse to his intentions.

There was some kind of commotion going on, but K'ren ignored it--for now. If he startled the weaver away, then he'd lose the chance to befriend someone with such a skilled hand. Save other problems for later, unless they interfered with his own goals. Besides, the women here could typically take care of themselves, not like they'd never faced an angry rider before. It came with the territory, as far as K'ren could remember from his own faint musings as a child, back when he'd considered apprenticeship within the craft. But perhaps it was different for men. That was likely. Women were far more... delicate creatures.

As the one before him proved very clearly.

"Don't worry about it, my dear. I'm not angry at you," He smiled brightly, and then noticed she wasn't looking at him. K'ren held back a sigh, and continued, "Far from it. The workmanship is fantastic, and I'm no idle admirer. If anything, I'm upset this had not happened earlier... I would have requested this very work done," K'ren's lips twitched up in a wry smile, "though perhaps with a bluer shade?" he mused.

He was about to reach out, thought better of it, and shrugged. Instead he knelt down and attempted to meet her eye.

"I don't think we've had the pleasure to meet. I'm K'ren," he said, reaching out to offer his hand. K'ren gave her his most charming lopsided grin, hoping it would soothe the nervousness that he near felt radiating off the poor creature. "And might you be, pretty lady?"

Lymsleia listened and swallowed. She stood stark still, her mis-matched and mis-colored eyes passing between the pair of people, one a rider and and one a weaver. The weaver looked as if she was ready to shatter into a million peices if the rider said so much as a rough word to her. Lymsleia tried not to roll her eyes. Tried to control the eye roll, but instead stepped over to the pair.

"I am sorry." she blurted it out without much thought, "I ahh.." she gestgured at the embroidery feining being flustered perhaps. "You're the one who makes those, yes?" She felt positively inspid as she soke the words, but it felt good to be a little silly, a little vapid. It wasn't a role she played often, but here in the Weyr she'd realised it was one of the easiest to play.

"I saw your work on one of the other riders and.. I was wondering if you could do --- something for me.. other than a dragon.." she glanced at K'ren. "I am sorry sir." she said  quickly covering her mouth as if to feign shock that she'd gotten in the way of a /real dragon rider/,

Though much of the time Jisralna seemed to be a rather calm and collected young woman, when it came to shouting and yelling and anger in general, she didn’t handle it very well, especially when turned on her. It made her insides flutter and squirm and brought tears to her eyes many times faster than emotional or physical pain ever could. Of course, though she couldn’t possible discern this from his knee which she still stared it, her flustered state seemed to elicit a similar if not nearly as dramatic response in the dragonrider because he went from cryptic and possible angry to reassuring in a matter of seconds.

The smile was lost on the young woman as she didn’t see it and she was reluctant to believe him straight away. Of course she had yet to meet an ill-tempered bluerider but she had not met every one of them in the two years she’d been at Katlia, so who was to say that this wasn’t a man who harbored a short temper. Sure he said he wasn’t mad, but maybe he just didn’t want her to make a scene; she didn’t want to make a scene but it was unavoidable.

She almost opened herself to the notion that he wasn’t upset when he offered a compliment though her suspicion and anxiety returned full force when he spoke of bluer shades. She really should have asked first! It was better to ask permission than to have to beg for forgiveness; that was generally her policy and it had served her well for nearly twenty-five years!

When the dragonrider crouched down in front of her, Jisralna bit down slightly on her lip and nervously met the man’s gaze, green eyes filled with frenzy of anxiety, regret, and a bit of fear. When he introduced himself she blinked once…twice and then lowered her gaze to his hand. It took a moment but after some visible hesitation she untangled her hands from her skirts and reached out to take his hand, prompted by his grin more than anything. She was by no means at ease of course, but she was beginning to believe that he wouldn’t start shouting.

“I am Jisralna.” Her voice was soft and still wavered though she seemed a bit less…breakable now.

Just then a dark woman—the one that had caused a scene at the public punishment of the Candidate Sanderon—stepped into view, startling Jisralna. Her grip reflexively tightened on the Rider’s hand as she stared up at the younger woman. Her cheeks colored as attention was once more brought to the partially finished brown dragon on the bluerider’s cuff. She’d never imagined that the little hobby of hers would garner that much attention around the Weyr. Though from now on she was just going to stick to sketching her ideas. Blinking several times, unsure of what to say, her mouth opened and then closed several times, making her look rather like a frazzled fish.