Who Sephany, Kielric
What A cramped nook, and a discussion on the motivations of the big, bad wolf.
When Autumn - Day 25 of Month 9 of Turn 2714
Where Library Archives, Fort Weyr

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Fort Weyr - Library Archives

Surviving the ages is something that books are known to do, especially if they are left untouched for just as long. In this room, that's exactly what has happened. Put aside as trivial information or simply determined old enough to not impact present day life, these numerous articles stored in ceiling high shelves are the forgotten histories belonging to Fort. Miraculously, the design of the room itself has prevented any of the books from damage. The rock base of which the room's foundation is actually one of the toughest rock known to man and cannot be surpassed by any creature living, while a layer of tiles of the smoothest stone gives this room a vibrant and mysterious appeal. The door itself on the room was sealed tight and allowed for a minimum amount of circulation, thereby preventing natural decay, although most articles may be brittle despite this. White marble has been used to create an insulating layer wall against the natural rock, giving the room an unnatural brightness and a enchanted atmosphere - while also giving it four distinct walls. The ceiling as well has been made smooth with an arching apex. As for the books and mounds of information stored in this vault of information, the organization is clear. Books bound with hard covers are kept alphabetical in the towering skybroom wood shelves, where step ladders and scrolling ladders actually attached to the shelves move to assist a person in selecting a volume. The shelves are ornately carved, many crafted with a mastery none have ever seen. Meanwhile, scrolls have a sectional shelf where each scroll based on how they were itemized has a cubical square into which they are kept in. This shelf alone has over a hundred squares in which the scrolls stick out of. As well, any loose bits of information have been assembled in files that are stored in boxes along the back wall. Apparently, recording history takes up vast amounts of space and every where one looks in this room one would find a wealth of information. The ancestors of Fort live here.


It is a new autumn morning at Fort Weyr; the kind that inspires songs and sonnets, with pinks, and lavenders, golden light and fresh, crisp air just hinting at the coming of winter. But deep in the caverns, Sephany misses it entirely. And perhaps she would be distraught by this, if she were not so thoroughly engrossed in her current book. At least she is dressed for the weather, and even has a throw blanket to boot; curled up in a small nook with feet tucked up and mug of something that used to be hot near enough to grab but currently ignored. Now and again there may be a sound, a soft sigh or a quick laugh, for whatever she's reading.

A new autumn day indeed, one that Kielric is outside of Half Moon Bay Weyr and present at Fort Weyr to partake in (which really begs the question of why he's inside given those more tropical climes he's from are not prone to the changing colors of winter and fall). He's in the library now, his own steaming mug of something hot and fresh in hand as he moves silent as a wraith on practiced feet through rows and rows of books. He almost misses Sephany, but those grey eyes fall upon her in the sanctuary of her nook just as his feet carry him past. Kiel pauses, takes one, two, three steps back and pauses to watch. Those grey eyes delineate blonde hair and the face they frame, straying to colors highlighted by sonnet pinks and inspirational shades of lavender; the hunter is distracted by her, evident in the way he stills: that steaming mug of something raised to his lips remains there, as forgotten as the weight of two binded texts held in one hand that rest on that space of shoulder beside his neck, arm bent skyward at the elbow. Kielric exhales, enraptured by Sephany's enjoyment in a way that has one corner of his lips pulling in the beginnings of a smile when she laughs at whatever it is that she's reading. But he moves, breaking the spell that captivates him as booted feet carry him forward until he's before her, crouching down as fingers reach out to grab her long-cold drink and replace it with the hot cocoa he was drinking to get warm early in the morning. He doesn't say anything, though. He lingers for just a moment with those grey eyes on her, another smile on his lips that says he doesn't want to disturb her even as he steals her drink and slowly rises back to his full height, eyes on the liquid contents inside as he swirls it then smells it. Hmm. But if Sephany doesn't say anything to him, he's going to leave her to her book.

Klah. That is what is in that mug that Kielric has stolen to replace with cocoa. Half-finished and then forgotten, cooled to room-temperature, and left to stain the clay as Sephany's attention was captured by her book. She is absorbed; stolen away into some unknown place of myth and fantasy and story that renders reality incomprehensible. It is why she does not notice Kielric even as he steps forward; even as he kneels and replaces her mug with his own. But she is not so far gone that she does not recognize that something has invaded her personal space. That little tingle to the back of her neck; the raising of hair in warning that space has been invaded and she ought to take notice of it, that it might be significant and demand a response. And yet, there is a certain distraction to her gaze when it finally deigns to glance his way, there and gone, only long enough to acknowledge that there is a presence nearby and it is not especially threatening. Half a second, the time it takes for her brain to understand what (who) she saw, to place face and form to a single memory. And when she does, those grey eyes flash back to him in an instant, wide and surprised but not at all in a way that suggests fright. Her book is marked, finger to page, and all but forgotten as her attention decidedly settles upon him instead. There is a longer than necessary pause, then a quick inhale in preparation for a rather breathlessly exhaled, "Hi."

Kielric is in the beginning of a turn away from the weaver when Sephany's breathless greeting reaches him, the hunter looking up from the no-longer-mysterious contents of her mug with grey eyes first before that chin rises and he smiles. The smile on Kielric's lips is slow to come, pulling at one corner first, and then the other in a way that's not so much suave as it is easy-going and relaxed; it's appreciative without being arrogant and threatening and assumptive. "Hi," he echoes, tone soft despite the mirth and amusement delivered in single syllabled 'Hellos'. Kiel turns to face Sephany fully then, grey eyes making a slow trek upwards until they've found her face, locking with grey to communicate something that Kielric doesn't vocalize and may go without recognition. It's easily lost when his attention drops back to Sephany's book, when he raises her stolen mug as if to distract her, and offers a husky, "I replaced your Klah with cocoa. It was what I had on hand, but I can get you more Klah if you prefer." Because the Klah? Well, that Klah has definitely seen better days. A beat, and then, "Do you mind if I join you?"

Delicate fingers move across the page of her book; a reverent sort of touch that slides down the page before abandoning ink and paper to pluck a ribbon from the recesses of her blanketed form and slips it effortlessly between the pages of her book. Closed. Gently placed in her lap with hands carefully laid atop it. It's not a protective gesture by any means; she is not attempting to hide or conceal her book. It is simply a comfortable placement while ensuring the object that so recently captured her attention is not lost by the wayside. It gives her something to do with her hands, to twine fingers together to grip and twitch without being obvious about it. But the time for reading is past. Sephany's attention is on the dark-haired stranger whose name she does not know but would probably like to; on grey eyes and easy smiles that have her smiling in response, a slow curl to the corners of her mouth that is somehow playful and shy at the same time, as if she's not quite sure which one is appropriate in this moment. But it's the trek of grey eyes, the catch of her gaze and the communication of something that has her swallowing once, catching her lip on her teeth and coloring her cheeks with a soft wash of pink before she's using the excuse of drink-swapping to look away. "Oh?" Rather needlessly she tells him, "You didn't have to do that," while at the same time, her tone conveys gratitude and appreciation for the gesture, a much brighter smile directed his way when next she looks up, playful and amused. A subtle shake and then a deliberate lean forward to capture the provided beverage with determination. "Cocoa is fine. Thank you." But for now, it is just held; slim fingers curled around the warmth as she draws it close to her person. "Mm. No, not at all," for whether or not she minds him joining. "Please," and she scoots herself a little tighter into the corner, pulling her blanket in against her body so that enough space is created in the nook to accommodate the pair of them.

Not that it would have mattered to Kielric if Sephany was trying to hide the title of her book (at least, that easy smile and predatory eyes that never stray to carefully crafted binding say it doesn't matter); he's not the nosy type to begin with, and for a moment the hunter stays where he is, that crooked smile on his lips, grey eyes keeping hers captive until she looks away and a husky rumble of laughter acknowledges the wash of pink as her attention strays. "You're welcome," comes softly, on a hint of a burr. And he moves, a hint of tension-coiled muscle trained to silence, a practiced shift of body that brings him down beside Sephany without jarring movement (even if he's bigger and therefore occupies enough space for shoulders, and the sides of bodies, and thighs to press together) and another smile. "Thanks," he murmurs, settling his own books somewhere near his knees as he leans back against the wall, setting that stolen mug that was once Sephany's on the opposite side of his body as he takes a breath and then tilts his head. "Do you enjoy reading?" he inquires, polite enough, no indication of predatory intent despite the sharp hint of it in every movement he makes.

Sephany is a tiny thing to begin with, so it is likely that there is much more blanket than weaver smooshed into that tiny nook. Mugs of cocoa are set aside, carefully out of the way as her blanket is further drawn up with her free hand and pulled in against her, bundled up into her lap and out of the way, in order to facilitate and accommodate the smooth descent of tension-coiled hunter into her personal space. 'Cozy' as the nook suddenly becomes, there is no shrinking away or avoidance of contact, and only a moment of hesitation is spared before she's tossing her handful of blanket in his direction, an attempt to drape the fabric across both of them. There is plenty to spare, and it's currently threatening to drown her if she does not do something to rid herself of excess fabric. "I do," enjoy reading, and her fingers once more find the book that had become buried in fabric, drawing it back out so that she can carefully set it somewhere safe, away from potential hazards like cold Klah and hot cocoa. "It's an escape. A chance to drift into a different reality." A brush of fingers across the cover before she draws her arms in and wraps them around her knees. "And you?" with a glance toward his own stack of books. "What do you read?"

There's no shrinking or avoidance of contact from either party; in fact, Kielric seems completely at ease in the space that - with him - is more than simply 'cozy'. It's a cramped, an affliction that doesn't seem to relent (merely grow) once Sephany's sharing her blanket with him in so very little space. The hunter shifts to help pull the fabric over himself, brushing against Sephany as he works to adjust it over his legs without any wayward edges dipping into cooling Klah, listening as the weaver speaks. And Kielric listens, even if his eyes aren't on Sephany, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth as he finally settles and shifts back to look at the blonde beside him. "Do you have a lot of things that you need to escape?" he inquires, hushed and husky, amusement evident despite the very real curiosity delivered in those burr-tinted words. But the question is turned around on him, and Kielric allows his attention to stray from Sephany to the tomes he pulled down and carried with them. "They're old fairytales," he tells her, not at all perturbed by the fact that a man probably shouldn't be caught dead reading those fantastical tales of heroes, and heroines, and whimsy. "I'm reading about wolves." And there's another smile from Kielric as he looks away from binding and back to the woman beside him. My, what big teeth you have. Better run, little red.

Idle hands, devoid of things like books and mugs of cocoa to occupy themselves, turn to the unnecessary and wholly futile task of smoothing the blanket that lays across the pair. Nimble fingers are set to fussing; a pull here, a press there, the easing of a wrinkle or the tug of a thread. It is a wasted effort that serves no purpose but to try and distract, to avert attention away from subtle signs and symptoms (the uptick of a pulse, the deepening of a breath, the renewed flush of cheeks that has nothing to do with the warmth that comes from piles of blankets) that the cozy, nay cramped, space and, fundamentally the ‘who’ that is occupying it, is having some affect upon the weaver who shares it. It’s in the way grey eyes are dropped in apparent focus on the task literally at hand, though she is anything but concerned with the way the blanket looks; far too concerned with the proximity of the hunter and the unavoidable but not unwelcome brush of sides or shoulders or legs as they take a space meant to comfortable fit one sprawling body and fill it with two curled-up bodies; one remarkably smaller than the other. It’s in the pause that comes after his question, as Sephany refocuses on what he’s asking rather than what’s in her head, and works to find an answer in response. “No,” is what she finally settles for, though there’s a touch of a question in that tone, an uncertainty as she ponders it further. “No,” more firmly as she confesses, “nothing that needs to be physically escaped. Just the mundane monotony that comes from apprentice life…” boring, safe, routine life. At his own answer, there’s a twitch to the corner of her mouth, a gleam of mischief in grey eyes as she glances his direction and repeats, “Fairytales?” with just enough amusement to hint at teasing without enough to be cruel. Her echoed “wolves,” much less so, amusement faded to something else entirely in the face of his smile. A smile that is answered with one of her own, the curl at the corner of her mouth showing nothing of fear in the face of prowling and grinning predators. “And what is it you’re learning about them, exactly?”

And Kielric watches that nervous-fidgeting, studying the curl of fingers and the backs of hands as Sephany picks at wayward pieces of thread and smooths away the chaos of wrinkles that just might (inevitably) ruin the intimacy of this moment should they stay any longer. Kielric reaches out with one of his own hands - too big, calloused from turns of handling bows and knives, rough from honest work but gentle as they grip one of Sephany's - to still her. But he doesn't say anything; he keeps her much smaller hand in his, brushes the pad of his thumb against her knuckles if she doesn't pull away and studies where their hands meet together. Then grey eyes are trailing up to Sephany's face, watching her as she speaks, keeping his eyes level with hers as he smiles again and more of that husky, rumbling laughter escapes his chest at just what it is that she is escaping from. The mundane. The lackluster adventure of craftsmanship. The tedious humdrum of learning. "You don't sound sure." Kielric observes, softly, but he doesn't press. Instead, he makes a soft noise in his throat and asks, "And what is your craft?" A beat, as she asks him what he's learning about wolves (with an answering mischievousness in easy smiles for her tease about his choice of reading material), and Kielric answers. "That they eat grandmothers and have a tendency towards girls they find in the woods, wearing red." Another beat, and Kielric leans forward, as if he might see Sephany's face better from this angle, as he smiles - crooked, at ease - and asks, "Do you think the wolf was secretly in love with Little Red, and wanted to take everything in her world away from her, so that all she had was him?" The scorned lover, who turned those sharp teeth against his sought after Happily Ever After in the end, and was killed for romantic whimsies that took on an edge of the psychosis found in obsession. "Though, I suppose that's not the way I should tell it to my sister."

Hands caught. Captured. Trapped. But there is no attempt at evasion or retreat; Sephany does not shrink or draw back, despite the brief moment of tension that the contact of his hand brings about. There is a study of her own, a pinning of her gaze on clasped hands and brushed thumbs, a thinly veiled curiosity that seems to wonder 'why' he is suddenly grasping her hand while at the same time she is simply rolling with it. There's a sort of thrill at the inherent danger of such contact with a stranger; of the potential risk that her hand encased in his might represent; that proximity and seclusion simply heightens; that should result in apprehension and alarm but instead has her smile growing in clear defiance of self-preservation. Stubbornly fearless. She doesn't answer the question of her certainty, leaving the matter unresolved, focused instead on grey eyes and husky laughter, on questions of her occupation that has left her bereft of danger and thirsting for escape into fantasy realms. "Weaver," unapologetically given, and she wiggles those captured fingers to draw attention to pricked and battered fingertips that have met many a needle-tip in the line of duty. "Not so hazardous as hunting, though it has its challenges." Pricked fingers versus mauling felines; no real competition there, a sheepish smile given for the weak comparison. As for wolves, and the motivations of their grandmother-eating ways. Pale eyebrows lift, a soft laugh given at the notion, and then contemplation in the form of a soft 'mm' in the back of her throat, a glance of grey eyes toward the ceiling briefly before catching his. "Hmm. That doesn't sound like love at all," she decides, grin growing as she offers her counter argument. "Perhaps he thought he was in love with her, but the evidence shows that he didn't know her at all. He was infatuated with the idea of her; lusted after what she represents and what he has built her up to be in his mind. He stalks her in the woods. He devours her grandmother in his pursuit of her, tricks her into getting close, only to devour her as well when he becomes enraged that she is not, and cannot, be the person he has dreamed her up to be?" A glance of grey eyes to the shelves and back. "You might, depending upon the age of the sister. It could be a tail of warning; of staying out of the deep, dark woods. Of minding the path and obedience to established rules. Though, where is the fun in that."

Hands caught merely in an attempt to still them, a silent gesture meant to communicate that it's okay and she doesn't have to be so nervous; it's a show of camaraderie, a note made that he understands why she's keeping her hands busy, and that she doesn't need to keep her hands busy. "Weaver," Kielric echoes back, eyes drawn to wiggling fingers so that he can smooth the pads of thumb and digits over abused tips. Sephany continues to speak, and Kielric's mouth quirks at one corner again, husky laughter escaping him as he finds grey eyes with his own once more - bright, alive with mirth and mischief both - as Sephany finishes. "I don't think it's a competition. Weavers caution their own hazards, and it's no less important of a job." An easy smile to go with his words, crookedness exacerbated by the tilt of his head before he looks away and pulls his hand from hers, dragging forefinger down the spine of one book with a gaze that follows the movement. "You're right, though," Kielric says around another smile. "You don't destroy the people that you love." And there it is, a quieter smile, softer, meeting his eyes as he leans back and pulls open one cover to a page with a picture bloomingly vibrant in a myriad of striking colors. "They're both one turn," Kielric answers, finally looking up to meet Sephany's gaze again, crooked smile intact. "Though I've an older one, too." As for minding the path and observing obedience in regards to established rules… Kielric's smile changes, becomes sharper somehow - dangerous, feral, a hint of something that appreciates that wildness and seeks to build it. "Where indeed," he breathes in agreement, voice soft, eyes locked on hers, dropping to her mouth until - "KIELRIC!" the hunter shifts, gently handing Sephany's blanket back over and gaining his feet, books in hand. "Maybe I'll see you again." Another smile, another moment of those grey eyes raking up form, and then the Half Moon hunter is turning to heed that familiar voice hailing him from somewhere in the library. "Next time, your name!" He calls over his shoulder, another smile before he disappears behind a shelf.

It may not be a competition, but there is no comparison to be made between the dangers of hunting actual wild animals and the ‘hazards’ of weaving with thread and needle, and Sephany’s expression says as much despite his attempts to level the field and establish them as equals. There’s a rueful twist to the corner of her mouth, a smart-ass lift to an eyebrow that mimics so perfectly that of a brother he does not know, though the pale-haired apprentice is much better about holding her tongue than her disobedient and oft-rebellious bronzeriding sibling. Though it may be the touch that finds its way across her battered digits that stops flippant words from flowing unchecked; that halts the progress of comments before they can be breathed into life. Instead, there is the opposite effect; the quick inhale of oxygen to fill her lungs, held briefly before it is exhaled with a measure of control. Deep. Steadying. Grounding her through softer smiles and grey eyes. “So young,” for the ages of the sisters, a tone of curiosity rather than surprise. “Perhaps too young for a story of flesh-devouring wolves in the woods…,” she agrees, words fading away with another sharp inhale for feral looks, for pointed looks, for eyes that drop to her mouth. And here hands curl into the blanket once more, muscles tighten and pulses race because Sephany is not innocent to the world and she is well aware when someone is looking at her in ways that speak to intention, and movement, to the closing of distance and stealing of breathes until… there is a voice through the silence of the library; a name that means nothing to her until she connects it with the person sharing her nook. Now it is committed to memory, murmured under her breath so that she does not forget it. There’s a pause, a hesitation before parted lips close and her mouth curl once more into a smile of spirited mischief as she most certainly withholds her own name even though she’s learned his. “Maybe,” is echoed as he departs, gaze following him until he’s vanished into the shelves and stacks of books. It is only when he is gone from sight that she all but falls against the side of her nook, head tipping back to stare at the ceiling to allow quiet laughter to fill the silence.


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