High Reaches Weyr . PernMUSH: August 22, 2005 Candidate Sewing Circle Search Cycle: Summer 2005 Candidate Sewing Circle Aug 22, 2005 Please feel free to have said you were here (if you couldn't make it in person), if you'd like to have heard the story in the IC sense, rather than through the gossip grapevine. This knowledge should be public for most candidates who showed up for the candidate sewing circle as well as any Weyr residents who may have been hanging about for entertainment or to assist. HRW-LC> A small stream of women from the lower caverns, well three, come in hauling three large bins of robes in varied states and arrange them loosely around the hearth. Little baskets of needles, shears, and thread are set down, interspersed on the tables that surround, along with large pitchers of fruity drinks. Prepared is... well, prepared. You wander through the archway, into the lower caverns. Lower Caverns(#1090RJs) HRW-LC> Sria walks in from the tunnel to the bowl. HRW-LC> Sria has arrived. "No, no, over there," Cullen is saying, quite emphatically, to two small children hanging on to his legs, one on each side. He's gesturing, too, toward the resident quarters. "I'm done for the day. Go back to the nannies." The two children, a boy and a girl, make big eyes up at him, complaining about the nannies being boring. HRW-LC> Sria deposits a small heap of old robes, a few more wrinkled than the others despite all being neatly folded, at the hearth with the rest, and moves away toward the serving tables. Satiet, her hands wrapped around a mug, makes her way out of the storage caverns, brushing dust off her shoulders. "Be careful with those," her alto follows after the trio of woman carrying off the robes - though why they require care is a bit odd given the robes look fairly musty. "Candidate," she nods, acknowledging Cullen with a cool nod of her head, and tilts her head towards the living cavern. "If you need help with your robe, or want the first pick, you might as well join in." HRW-LC> An elderly seamstress, her own basket in hand filled with the various tools of her trade, makes her way across the room with slow creaking steps, assisted every so often by a male mirror image of herself, albeit a very young one. She bypasses Sria without a word for the Weyrsecond. "Just let me set over there, no, not by the hearth," she protests, her voice weathered but quite strong, "I'm not some invalid, there, next to the food." "Oh, robe, yeah," the candidate responds, a bit frazzled after a day spent tending children. He finally picks one of them up, unwrapping the girl's hands from his legs, and places her close to the stairs to the residents quarters. Next, he does the same for the boy, then shoos them up the stairs. Cullen looks relieved once they're finally on their way. "Haven't started it yet." He crosses the cavern, moving toward the archway to the south, pausing by the entrance. "Too bad ma's busy, she could've helped me," he murmurs. HRW-LC> G'non strides into the cavern from the lower caverns. HRW-LC> G'non has arrived. Satiet nods curtly, the fingers around her mug tightening in response to the presence of children, and the slender girl draws the steaming klah closer to her abdomen. "It'll be good to work on them together. At least they're giving you time now, in my candidacy," she begins sharply, perhaps unaware of how little time has past and how much this may seemingly date her, "We had to find our own time to mend robes, and those who didn't know how to sew were left hapless." But those words said, the goldrider steps past Cullen, an arrogant set to her chin, and saunters into the living caverns herself. You stride through the archway, into the living cavern. Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr(#1000RJs) Cullen strolls into the cavern from the lower caverns. Cullen has arrived. Jiran comes wandering out of the kitchens, taking a bite from a fresh-looking sweetroll as he walks. He moves just a bit once inside so he isn't easily visible from the kitchen, and then looks around curiously at those starting to gather. Sria watches the old seamstress pass, with her mouth hovering by the lip of the wide juice glass held between both hands. She takes a drink, and looks over at the candidates that have started to mill about the sewing supplies, some with fabric in their laps or spread on the table before them. A few desperately attempt to thread a needle, while others are already double-stitches into their garment. G'non strides in, intend on a hide of some sort. He pauses to get his bearings and looks around. "Evening, Sria...am I in the way?" A few candidates, still on kitchen duty, strain their neck, a nervous whisper racing through them with the common them of: 'Don't let all the good ones get taken.' With respectful, if distracted bobbles of their head, they set out their various wares and hurry back into the kitchen to wipe their hands and shed their aprons. Josilina strolls in from the tunnel to the bowl. Josilina has arrived. Terlan walks in from the tunnel to the bowl. Terlan has arrived. "Not at all," Sria says to G'non, grinning his way. She seems privately amused about one thing or another. "Come enjoy the show. Or the bloodletting, if too many of them are unused to sewing." From the lower caverns, a handful of minutes after the initial arrival of the trio of woman, Satiet makes her way in, having already procured a mug of klah moments before, the still heated tendrils of steam rising to tickle her chin. She's, perhaps, a few steps ahead of Cullen, a clipped pace and purpose in her stride as she makes a beeline for a table close by, but not within the loosely formed circle of chairs and baskets. On her way, a glance is spared Sria, a tacit nod and lifted brow acknowledging the presence of the Weyrsecond, and then another for G'non, though there's a considerable lack of familiarity for the latter. G'non raises an eyebrow. "Oh...it's that time again, is it?" Satiet's nod is returned, and Josilina is greeted with a respectful "Weyrwoman." G'non *she and Josilina are. Josilina strides in, looking a little thoughtful, though the expression lifts as she approaches the general bustle of the forming crowd. "Evening, all! Do we have all the robes, or are there still those extras I should grab from the storerooms?" She asks with a cheerful smile, nodding to G'non as she's addressed, "Hey G'non - it's Josilina, for Faranth's sake - going to watch people learn to sew with us?" The junior weyrwoman's recommendation to get in while the gettin's good causes Cullen to bring himself, rather quickly, into the living cavern, winding a path to the bins of robes brought in earlier. He sorts through them with the eye of a weaver's son, settling on one that, while it's seen better days, appears to be made of strong fabric. This he collects and carries over to a table where he chooses a seat near some candidates he knows, but doesn't dive in just yet, first spending some time selecting a suitable needle and thread for his work. G'non's nose wrinkles wryly. "Old habits die hard," he murmurs. "And I have a great deal of sympathy for those learning to sew." Near the old woman, an unfortunate sort of girl, graced with acne scars across her forehead seats herself, pawing through the nearby basket with slightly grimy hands. "'N iffn' we know how to sew already?" The question is voiced for no one in particular, though her eyes immediately veer to the largest knot in the room: Josilina, and then, as if embarrassed for no apparent reason, flicks her gaze away to find the old seamstress seated next to her. A flush darkens her cheeks and she's quick to snatch up any old robe by that point, something that's far too wide for her gangly figure. Jiran gives a wave to Josilina as he spots her coming in, and for Cullen and Terlan. Then, taking another bite of his sweetroll, moves quickly over to a seat somewhere near the candidates, where he'll be able to watch. G'non grows a bit more serious. "Then it'll stand you in good stead," he replies, "Should you Impress. Well-stitched straps can be the difference between life and death." Terlan slips in not too far after Josilina, somewhat subdued. Though, once he's back in the mix of things he just grins and wanders over to look through the bin for himself. Nope, not one with an eye for fabric at all, he just grabs the one with the least holes. Nevermind the fabric isn't likely to hold up to any sort of roughhousing - it's the one that requires the least work now out of what was left. He invites himself over to sit with Jiran and grins, "Where's mine? I got you pie last night after all." He teases. Josilina's gaze flicks to the scarred girl, catching her question, and she grins. "Then you get stabbed less," Jos replies promptly. "By needles, I mean." She returns Jiran's wave, calling to the boy, "You any good with sewing?" Satiet's entrance is noted, however belatedly, with a nod and a quick smile. The girl, some of the candidates may know her as Pockface, others call her by her given name, Wren, turns an even darker shade of crimson at G'non's advice, and Josilina's rejoinder, and looks from side to side for what to do. Next to her that old woman seems to grumble a bit, muttering something blurrily under her breath that sounds suspiciously like: boring as all fardling shards -- except that it's mumbled and a nice, wee little old lady wouldn't say that kind of thing anyway, right? "We need somethin' to liven you alls up." It's telling the boy that accompanies his grandmother - for what else could she be with those features so similar and the age difference - groans. Groaning grandchildren are never a good thing. Though the robe's fabric remains stitched together in some places, Cullen rips through the seams so that they can be redone. The shape of the pieces seems to be a little big, but laziness gets the best of him and he doesn't do any trimming. He settles into his seat and draws the fabric up to begin anew the ripped seams, slowly drawing neat, small stitches beginning at the bottom edge and working his way up the side of what will, eventually, be his only protection from heat and dragonets. Jiran starts to say something to Terlan with a grin, but as Josilina calls to him he looks up, surprised. But then, with a smile, he nods emphatically, "My mother's a seamstress, not crafted or anything but she's still good, and my father makes boots, I knew basic stitching before I was even fostered here." Late in coming, a younger seamstress, hurries from the lower caverns and then just stares a moment at the old woman. Her steps slow to something more seemly, and she begins to make her rounds through the groups of candidates to give kind pointers out here and there. For the males, it helps that she's a rather buxom sort, the kind unaware of her rustic, good-natured charms. For the girls, deft hands come down to point out slight deviations in the stitch line. And still, the old woman seems to mutter under her breath, the threads of a memory that's too faded grasped and then relinquished, and then reached out for once more. It's clear she's not there to help, this white-weathered woman, but instead provide the amusements for the night, and suddenly sharp beady blue eyes lift to stare at Pockface next to her. Sria offers a smile back to Satiet, in contrast, and merely nods to G'non before turning her long gaze on the candidates once more. Eventually, she removes one hand from her glass and takes two steps to the side, where she discreetly amends the actions of a small candidate concentrating hard on placing a thimble on the wrong finger. "Oh, /good/! Can you help me with my robe then? I know you want to." Terlan suggests, though at the sight of the seamstress that comes to help, he gathers up his things for the help. Yes, there's no complaints from him about the buxom woman helping his stitching. He even goes so far as to hold the fabric down low, so she'll have to bend over further. Sly sort, isn't he. The elderly woman, whom longtime residents know as Magdya, sinks forward, rifling through the nearest basket of robes. "There, lass," she mutters to Wren, "Ye want to pick up something more to your size to adjust. No need in wastin' fabric. Now, where was I? Oh yes, spice'n things up." Withered hands withdraw to the only folds of mostly white in her lap, "The tragic story of the Weyrleaders Constance and M'tai. They were in love see, and all love stories, if they're the romantic sort, end in some sort of tragedy. Though not the kind ye might expect." She's careful to keep her words steady, the creak of age in them kept at bay long enough till the end, where she clears her throat, a plaintive request of: "Some whiskey in a cup please?" made to anyone who'd be obliging to do so. "Katia, your collar," is added calmly as the buxom lass leans forward too close in assisting Terlan. Josilina nods at Jiran's answer, suggesting lightly, "Then maybe you can help some folks who're having trouble? If you see any, and you're not busy that is." She moves towards the serving table, picking up a glass of juice before returning to the group, pausing to help a curly haired girl thread her needle, though she'll glance up as Magdya begins her story, smiling faintly when she hears the subject. One of Satiet's delicate and well-groomed eyebrows inches higher as Katia makes her rounds. The sour expression that hovers along the creases near her eyes becomes quickly distracted by the mug of klah at hand. She's no hand at sewing, and obviously is not there to do much but 'supervise' -- meaning sit down, look pretty, and keep her mouth shut unless something requires a sharp or snarky comment. But she does gesture to Sria, in case the brownrider would rather join her than make her own rounds midst the candidates. Terlan is surely not paying attention to the sewing task at hand, more focused on the girl helping him. Unfortunately, it means he's not watching as he shoves the needle through the fabric and subsequently pierces his finger in the process. "Yeowch!" He yelps, then sucks on the finger pitifully. A toothy smile, crooked, is offered to a dark-haired boy who jumps at the chance to bring her that mug, and Magdya continues, stitching a merry path of white thread along the hemline of a robe. Of course, a sip is taken first, and it seems to do vast amounts of good for the old woman's vocal capacity. "M'tai and Constance, what a pair, glorious to look at by all accounts, and desperately in love. He was Crom Blooded, his father the seated Lord there, while she was originally a shepherdess from Sattle. She, lovely to behold. And /he/, quite handsome I'm told," the thin cackle that escapes conveys precisely what this aging woman is imagining in her head, the glint of youth revived glittering star-bright for one second, "And it's no wonder the two took to each other instantly. Those were good times for High Reaches." But why, the elderly woman fails to elaborate, instead clucking her tongue as if times could be better now. In this moment, a look is spared her old crony at arms, Jemah. Jiran nods quickly to Josilina, with a smile, "Alright." Since Terlan obviously has help, he (finishing the last bite of his sweetroll and wiping his hands), wanders around the edge to watch everybody work. though he glances up frequently to listen to the story. Sria doesn't wait to see that the candidate works out the rest of the process for himself - instead, she refills her juice, smiling into the jug when Magdya's words reach her ears - and proceeds to make her way toward Satiet. Cullen absently sews his robe, though with the activities and stories holding most of his interest it's slow going at best. He pauses to lean over and point out something to the candidate next to him--she seems to have sewn the robe to her shirt--then resumes his stitching. "Good times, good times." Fortified with more whiskey, the scent of which seems to make Wren quite ill, Magdya is silent for a spell as she peeks from side to side nosily. Katia, and her low collar, go unnoticed, even when the younger woman giggles a bit at Terlan's predicament, gentle hands reaching out to try and rescue the fabric of white before it gets soiled with blood. "Crom and the Minecraft were happy with the Weyr, though t'was an Interval, and fairly far within," a look is shot Josilina as if the entirety of the Weyr's future rests on those slim shoulders in the same way it rested on Constance's. "And M'tai had an excellent habit of winning marks, marks enough to ensure he'd keep a huge winning streak for over five turns." Toothy, though now with her mouth wider it's clear she's missing a few here and there in the back, she flashes Terlan and the preoccupied Katia a grin, knowing of course. She's old, she can be knowing without reason. "The more marks ye have to put in, the easier tis to win, 'course, first rule of poker. Or is that the second. No matter." Noting Sria's path towards her, Satiet scoots along obligingly, freeing up the end of the lengthy bench for the Weyrsecond and playing fingers across the table in an idle, if soundless, pattern. "Think she's had enough to drink yet?" The goldrider intones in mock-quiet for the brownrider's benefit, as Magdya downs yet another rather long gulp of whiskey. Josilina continues to make rounds, eventually settling by one of the younger candidates who seems to be struggling with the act of sewing as a whole. She takes the slight boy's robe in hand, demonstrating a few stitches before returning it with some murmured instructions. With half an eye kept on the storytelling Magdya, Jos shifts uncomfortably under that look, glancing away and back to the young candidate - Lymir by name - and his work. Terlan isn't bleeding that much, though does snicker at the girl next to Cullen before he realizes that Katia is helping him keep the blood off the robe. "Oh, no. Allow me, sweetheart. It's my job after all." He says to her, trying to get it back from her though he doesn't look up at her face, nope, he's looking elsewhere. Positively distracted, he'd be unlikely to be able to recount any of the story if asked. Cullen shoots a look at Terlan, something along the lines of 'pipe down', that probably goes unnoticed what with Katia's assets on display nearby. Not paying close enough attention to his work, his thread gets all tangled and knotted up, requiring that he snip it and start anew. Sria loops her legs over Satiet's bench and rests her glass on the table, glancing over. "Does it matter?" she returns, following the old seamstress's gaze toward Josilina. "You're tangled on the other side," she tells a candidate one table over, who's too focused on the fabric she can see. Jiran ends up sitting by a girl a couple of Turns older than him who's having trouble, offering tips in a soft voice, so not to interrupt the story. He isn't the best teacher around, but at least he's found someone who isn't needing it that much. "Katia, your collar dear." The old woman's voice gains a note of sharpness entering as her first warning didn't get heeded by this younger girl. "Y'can't catch a man with your melons on display." True to form, the weyrbred lass just shakes her head, adjusts her collar accordingly, and reaches out to try and pat Terlan's hair, much as she would for a younger brother, and moves on to the next candidate. "Now a smart man might do somethin' with those marks, perhaps get himself some better attire, or buy rounds of drinks for the entirety of the Weyr. Not M'tai," her words come quicker now, as does her needle fly faster threading an aimless row of stitches into the mostly white fabric. "Why?" Wren hears her thin voice lift, unbidden, "What'd he do?" / "Ah, dear, that's the happy and sad part of this story. So infatuated was he with the love of his life, his secondary bonded mate some called it, after Kakistoth, that he would flood her with jewelry. Unusual cuts, expensive. What I wouldn't give for a man as stunning as our Weyrleader to give me a gift like that, eh, Jemah?" Satiet's comment goes unheard - discriminatory hearing. True to form, Terlan doesn't notice Cullen shooting a look at him, just gives a bit of a sigh as Katia adjusts her collar. Pity, that. He isn't going to stop her from patting his hair, and no matter that it was more like a brotherly pat than otherwise - he's still quite pleased with himself. However, his robe needs more work so he focuses more on that, with occasional looks at Katia to see if she's going to come back. Xeledyr walks in from the tunnel to the bowl. Xeledyr has arrived. Josilina glances up at the elderly woman's mention of jewelry, gaze flicking Sria's way, and her free hand drifts upwards, briefly brushing at her neck. Her attention's soon pulled back to Lymir's robe, and she points out where his thread's been pulled too tightly, bunching the cloth under it. Satiet purses her lips and then smirks, "I suppose not." The story, however, catches her attention more than she'd like to admit, the overly casual slant of her eyes betraying her interest. "Stories come to life with real tellings, as opposed to dusty records." Magdya bores holes into the roaming figure Katia strikes, both sharpness and at the same time wistful yearning for the youth the other woman bears, clouding those beady eyes. "But good things don't last, nope. Like youth." The whiskey paints circles of red on the elderly woman's pasty skin, and she stifles a hiccup to try and grasp the various threads of the story once more. "Nope, good things don't last t'all. When Lord Crom passed prematurely, and M'tai and Impressed himself out of the line, to the glee of Vorand, things changed. And suddenly the Minecraft as well as Crom Hold had little use for the festering leech of a Weyr." The last, sarcastically said, is imbued with a haughty disdain that draws the old seamstresses chin up high. Perhaps that red isn't all alcohol induced, though that thought is dashed by a timely belch, that has the young teenage boy at her side hiding his face in shame. Terlan's not the only one infatuated with Katia it seems. "High times were over fer th'Weyr then." Jiran, once the girl he was helping is settled, (and a bit embarassed from needing help from a child), stays put, as his chair gives him a good view... though, now, he's totally drawn in by the story, watching Magdya more than the sewing. The thread of the story causes a slight frown from Cullen, drawing connections between the behavior of the hold with something that could happen any time, what with the beginning of the internal. A shrug, though, and he shifts in his seat, keeping any remarks to himself for the time being. The robe work progresses, one side almost finished. It's from the bowl that a sore looking Xeledyr shuffles in from, the ash-blonde youth rolling his shoulders and flexing his elbows with the odd occasional groan. The caverns are given their usual scan for friendlies - and a hand goes to hide his face as he sees the group gathered. "Shells." Is muttered under his breath as he lengthens his stride to make his way over toward them. A respectful distance is given between himself and Josilina before the youth coughs in an attempt to catch the Weyrwoman's attention. Sarisia wanders in from the tunnel to the bowl. Sarisia has arrived. Sria finds herself listening, despite the distracted sense that indicates she might already be familiar with the tale. A slight nod agrees with Satiet, "Not half as interesting, written down in note form." She cuts her gaze toward Josilina, then, and now across the piles of robes and their menders. "It started with something like what's going on now." What other people voice in private conversations, Magdya, with alcohol in her, has little restraint from remarking cattily. "History repeatin' itself, 'course. Or mebbe not? I'm sure our fair Weyrwoman hopes otherwise." Another toothy grin is gifted to Josilina, the genuine regret for making the lovely red-head a focal point brief in the wrinkled features. "Little things taken, little things disappearin', and people in'n out of the Weyr like randy dragons after a glowin' green and her rider. /Thievin'!/" The boy, who had to this point started to look back upwards to seek out that well-endowed creature, dives back down to study the floor _again_. "Ye couldn't trust anyone back then after th'Weyr lost the affections of Crom and Mine, and Vorand liked that very much. His coffers grew while the Weyr's dwindled and it became such a problem that one bright woman hatched a plan." Her pun may be lost on many, but it pleases her enough that she finds Josilina once more, veering to including Satiet and Sria in the look before studying each candidate in turn to see if they're paying attention or not. Wren, who is by now completely captivated, is given a sharp look, "Close your mouth, dear, you look dumb." Katia makes her rounds, the buxom lass gesturing towards the new arrival candidates towards empty seats, the bins filled with robes in various states of disarray, and the baskets of sewing supplies placed intermittently along tables and between more comfortable hearthside chairs - most of which have been claimed already. It's towards Cullen the girl goes, pausing to hover and watch the lad's progress. Josilina looks up from helping Lymir at that cough, murmuring for him to keep trying on his own as she scoots her chair away and turns to face Xeledyr. "Evening, there - need help with anything?" She gestures to the piles of robes and sewing supplies, adding, "Everything you need's over there, if you want to work on a robe." Hearing the referance to herself from Magdya the Weyrwoman glances that way, almost sharply, and while she's quick to turn back to Xeledyr - with only a quick nod to Sria in the meantime - her shoulders hold a little tenser as the woman's story goes on. Magdya's latest, with the mention of recent events, draws Sria's attention across the candidates once more. Cullen snorts softly at the tail end of Magdya's last remarks, shaking his head, though he looks thoughtful at the storyteller's comments. As he sews, his lips are pursed in concentration, almost like he's ready to pucker up and kiss his robe. The first side finished, the young man begins working along the bottom edge of the sleeve, though his work grows sloppy as it goes on: his stitches further apart, less even in size. Maybe that's why he ended up in the kitchens. He looks up, unable to quell the curiosity, "What kind of things were stolen then?" Terlan just keeps to himself for the time being, though does grin over at Cullen as he's given attention by Katia. He sighs a bit and does catch the bit about stealing, and all. However, he has his own problem what with his clothing and things strewn about next to his cot in the candidate barracks. Unfortunately, there's actually women's clothes in there too, skirts and underclothes to be seen among his own. Who knows what people will think about him after that. However, he just starts paying more attention to sewing than anything else. Jiran's eyes widen at the mention of that kind of plan with the stealing. He glances up to Josilina then, and seeing her tenseness, bites his lip. He doesn't say anything, though, turning his attention back to the story quickly at Cullen's question. "Bright. Seems a prerequisite to be Weyrwoman, 'course, dun see this spate of thievin' ending any time soon." Magdya continues complacently, and reaches over to down the last droplets of her whiskey. "More whiskey, please," the beady eyes immediately veer towards the once obliging brown-haired boy. "Well, 'ccounts differ, though there's only one account really told now. Seems Vorand was lookin' for something, and he didn't know what. No one knew what, but he had called out for a reward if someone could find it secreted at the Weyr. Why M'tai would just have it _lying'_ around, who knows? But personal items were stolen, jewelry, scrolls, hides, anythin' people could get their hands on. Some treasure of sorts, but treasure's a different thing to different people. I would count this boy," her grandson, "As a treasure, and that one there," she nods distinctively to Terlan, "Would consider her ample things as treasures." She pauses, long enough to see if there are more questions, apparently delighted that there is any interest in her tale, however tall it may be. The whiskey arrives, slid into the curve of her waiting hand and she buys time with another sip. A polite 'thank you' is murmured to Josilina, Xeledyr tilting his head as well. His attention focuses on the pile of robes available once he straightens, and for one reason or another the youth seems to tense a fraction at the prospect of having to do a little sewing. Shoulders slump a little as he steps over to the pile, mouth twisting a little as he starts to shift his way through the robes, looking for something in particular. Eventually he seems to find something suitable to his needs and gathers the appropriate tools and finds himself a seat to examine the state of the robe he selected. If Satiet notices Sria's distraction, it's not apparent as she too is enthralled with the story, more transparently now as she's turned to face Magdya full on. "Too much whiskey," she repeats, though not displeased with how loose it's seemed to make the woman's tongue in giving her opinions. Josilina's thin and tighten through Magdya's story and attached comments, and after nodding to Xeledyr she drifts towards where Satiet and Sria are sitting, plunking down beside Sria - on the bench, if there's room, otherwise on a chair. She nods to both riders before angling her head to mutter something to the brownrider, her gaze remaining on the candidates, watching for sewing problems and whatever else. Magdya continues, seeing as there's no more questions, though beady eyes rest on Cullen for a beat longer, and then drift to take in Xeledyr's arrival with a curl of her lips where her tongue pokes out to the side. "Constance concocted a plan to provide a foundation so the Weyr wouldn't go hungry in leaner times, using the entirety of her vast jewelry collection, every piece M'tai had gifted her with, to put to the Weyr's good use. Good head on that woman's shoulder. _He_ should have done that from the beginnin', but men infatuated seem to lose their brain to their pants." Placidly, the woman goes on, "Like I've heard that brownrider might have for the Weyrwoman now, or that Istan for our ice lady." Her crotchety voice lowers, as if imparting the secret of secrets, though there's a larger crowd gathered now, and Jemah's busy little ears are within hearing distance. "They created a storage, hidden within the bowels of the Weyr somehow, using the skills of an Impressed Smith to build... somethin', or perhaps twas made by M'tai's own hands to keep the secret kept. I heard some snippets of it a few turns back but things seem to have hushed up right quick." The elderly woman nods sagely, a bit of what seems to be craze circling each of her eyes: conspiracy theories galore spoken in their depths. "Wonder if any of 'em were related to M'rek," Cullen mutters under his breath, remembering the antics of the rider before the first eggtouching--he never did find out what, exactly, he was building. The young man attempts to concentrate further on his sewing, meaning his uneven stitches grow less so. Good thing his mother's not around to rap his knuckles and redo the work. Looking up, briefly, he spots Katia and nods to her, grinning slightly, then it's back to sewing. Katia gives Cullen's robe a cursory inspection and then suggests, "When I learned to sew, my mam made me draw a very faint charcoal line and keep my stitches on the line. It'll help. But good job." Her voice is dulcet and warm, lifting to include the candidates near by in that little piece of sage advice. "I'm told that's how some of you will be fashioning your first straps in a few months time." Across the way, a brief smile is granted Terlan -- she definitely hasn't forgotten him yet, though duty calls and it's to the next candidate, a visibly close-lipped Wren, for whom quite a few moments are spared. Sria presses her lips together, moving a bit along the bench to allow Josilina more room, leaving her mostly-empty juice glass the place over. She murmurs something back, quickly, with raised brows over eyes that don't leave the seamstress's rapt audience, shifting to Cullen, Terlan, and everpresent Katia in the meanwhile. Terlan isn't about to let Katia's attention fall over his head, nope, he's watching her out of the corner of his eye and when she looks at him, he shoots a charming smile right back at her. But, the story and the robe are succumbing him to the idea that he should get to work rather than fool around by watching the girl make her rounds. Jiran is totally fascinated by the story, especially as a mention of a hidden storage room comes up. As such, he doesn't even notice that Xeledyr's arrived, or the discussions of stitching. Totally fascinated, it seems. Josilina breaks into a grin at Sria's reply, and even Magdya's mention of her and a brownrider doesn't dampen it, though she shoots the woman a look. She nods at something else, glancing briefly upwards before looking back to the candidates and others nearby, calling out to one girl to make sure she doubles her thread over. "Legend says that only three people knew of this stash at any one time, that if one leader passed on, or retired, it would be conveyed somehow to the next Weyrwoman or Weyrleader, and so forth. There was -always-," the old woman emphasizes this word with a lift of her bushy brows, "One person who knew. But time's change, and iffin' you know the nature of people as well as we do," where we apparently means the old and experience weathered, "People rarely remember much of anything after enough time passes." Silent a beat, Magdya watches Terlan from her spot, "I'd be surprised, boy, if you had more than three stitches in that robe of yers. I suppose you hope to go on the sands in one with patchy holes ever'where." Jiran is accorded a more grandmotherly smile, an eye crinkling grin afforded the younger boy, and finally Wren, poor pock-marked Wren is given a cluck of exasperation, "Ye'll never catch a man if you dun take better care of yerself." The trace accent, uneven in places, grows heavier after another drag from the mug. "Somewhere down th'line, the location was given up to lost, and efforts to preserve it," the woman's eyes narrow into thoughtful slits, "Well, not all of us kin be as smart as Constance or as handsome as M'tai. 'nother whiskey please." But by now the young lad has had enough, and a staying hand reaches across to discourage first the candidate and his grandmother from more nonsense. Maja walks into the cavern from the lower caverns. Maja has arrived. Xeledyr's attention is solely focused on the robe in his hands, the needle and thread picker he picked up put aside - the picker tucked under his leg, and the needle through cuff of his sleeve as he inspects the robe and its stitchings. Fingertips rub at particular joins, and nails scratch at others. Finally both hands take a grip of the material either side a seam and give it a swift tug. Impressed is not how the ash-blonde youth looks as he tugs the needle out of his sleeve and sticks it in his mouth, the thread picker is removed from beneath a leg and he starts on removing the stitches that hold the garment together. All those around him are forgotten for a time, as old skills appear to surface. Terlan just blinks those silvery blue eyes of his at Magdya in an attempt to feign innocence without having to say anything at all. However, his smug smile and shrug gives him away more than he might like. No, he doesn't have much work done on his robe, and his gaze does seem to follow Katia around far more than it ought to, but he keeps shifting the robe on his lap to seem busy. He peers at the needle in his hand, and then at his other where it was pricked and seems discouraged to even try sewing the robe. Jiran seems to relax at the end of the story, at the mention of the ocation being forgotten. He looks to the candidate he was helping before, giving a couple more quick tips, then stands up. Quickly, he moves over to pour himself some redfruit juice. As Magdya's tale seems to draw to a close, a whisper here and there turns to a relative din of 'and -this- part' and '-treasure-' and 'oh, to have a love like that..' murmurred hurriedly across white fabric and whiter thread, as candidates fill each other in on potentially missing or begged repeated pieces. Cullen nods once at Katia's recommendation, but doesn't seem to take it to heart as he simply continues on his path of stitching without anything to follow except the edge of the cloth. He puts the robe down briefly, to help the candidate next to him; this time she's made a mess of the work, not by sewing it to herself, but by sewing the sleeve to the bottom hem. A few snips of thread eventually right it. Katia gives Wren a few pointers, low in her throat so as not to embarrass the girl any more than she's already been by Magdya, and then rises at the story's end. "If you require more assistance, I'm sure any of our experienced riders and former candidates would be happy to help," the friendly girl winks towards the table of Josilina, Sria, and Satiet, then affords another wide-set smile for another group of riders close by. "And we'll be around more to answer any of your que...well, pertinent questions." A thoughtful tug brings the pretty girl's lips into a flat line as she watches Magdya be assisted out to the tune of, "I haven't had too much to drink, oh shush, it's not nonsense, s'truth. Somewhere in th'caverns there's buried treasure." Ahem. "Well..." and the buxom lass makes her rounds once more, though each candidate receives scant attention until she gets back to Terlan. Josilina crosses her legs in front of her as the old woman's story ends, murmuring that, "It's been a while since all that got told over." - "You're pulling too tight - be gentler," that's advice called to one of the sewing candidates. Terlan holds up the needle to Katia, the one he's hardly used and hopefully won't be reprimanded about later. Nope, he's been waiting for her to come back to him and offer help, there's still plenty of holes in his robe and at this rate he's going to be sewing it on the hatching sands.. Sria shakes her head slightly to Josilina and twists on the bench, curling her legs over without displacing the goldriders on either side. She leans across to collect her glass - catching Katia's wink in the process - and says to Josilina, "Worth double-checking, so we don't have any fingers sewn together." Again with the unable-to-keep-his-mouth-shut: "So who believes what she said?" Cullen asks of those at his table, though his voice is loud enough that it's probable heard by most of those nearby. His on-again-off-again relationship with the robe he's sewing is off again, the project put down on the table as he considers the departed seamstress' tale. "Buried treasure," he scoffs, and it's easy to see whether he believes. Maja arrives quite late, pausing at the doorway to admire the peculiarities of a living cavern full of sewing candidates. Businesslike, she crosses the caverns towards the weyrwomen, head straight in front of her in an obvious attempt to cold shoulder anyone who might think it funny she was so late. "I'm sorry, I got... caught up." Jiran sips his juice, though comments to Cullen at his question, "I do! I dunno about the treasure, but there's probably a room down in the caverns somewhere. Probably way back where almost nobody goes." He looks up and waves to Maja. Blonde brows are knit together in concentration as Xeledyr teases the two sheets of material apart, deft fingers separating the thread from it. Apparently he hasn't particularly noted that the story has reached its end. Cullen's query results in a faintly confused look from the youth, "Treasure?" Though with the needle in his mouth, the way his lips move as he speaks is almost amusing. He pauses for a time and glances over toward Josilina, "Excuse me ma'am? But may I have a few of these robes if there are extras?" Rising from the bench, now, Sria bids her goodnights to those nearby - Satiet, Josilina, and a candidate working hard to disentangle the opposite side of his hem - and she crosses toward the kitchens with glass in hand, only smiling a little upon overhearing a few ensuing conversations. "Definitely worth." Josilina agrees, "Do you remember how?" And hearing Cullen she smiles faintly, calling out to the candidate, "What bit don't you believe?" She does, at least, glance over at the storytelling woman first, making sure she's too involved in her post-whiskey mumblings to take offence. As Maja approaches she nods, "Don't worry, too much. You missed a bit of a story, but you can still grab a robe and work if you want." - "Um. Yes, probably - wait, any particular reason?" She asks for Xeledyr, curiosity evident. Satiet sits silent, thoughtful it seems, and flicks a glance to find Josilina and Sria in quiet conference. There's a difference between being in proximity of a conversation and actually being involved and for a moment, the younger woman looks vaguely irritated and lost. With a nod for those gathered, the slender goldrider excuses herself and her now cold mug of klah. Cullen, on her way out, is given a flat look that borders on a glare, and the belated arrival of Maja garners a bristling rising of the raven-haired girl's shoulders. Sria steps away from the tables and heads into the busy kitchen. Sria has left. You walk outside to the bowl.