A marked difference assaults the senses as soon as one enters this large cavern. The sheer roominess of it contrasts sharply to the slimmer, winding, inner tunnels of the weyr. Some ancient lava flow pooled here, eventually carving out a good-sized space put to good use by busy weyr residents. The ceiling rises surprisingly high, the walls draping with fair smoothness to a well trampled floor - turns of scars and scrapes from boots, chairs, and myriads of other activities marring the surface.
Partitions split the room into various sections, all of which are movable depending on the projects at hand. During the day the room fairly buzzes with activities of every sort - a variable collage of sights, sounds, and smells that changes day by day.
Type 'look areas' to see the various sections and activities, then 'look' at your selection.
Emilia is here.
Early morning finds the workroom in readiness, a marvelous place where the mess of one day magically disappears like a cloth wiping a slate clean to reveal the promise of a new day. Few people have arrived for their morning duties, but down near the laundry area a lone figure paces a meandering path in and out of the rows of washing that were strung out to dry over night. Emilia takes slow steps, heel, toe with the occasional pivot as she trails the fingers of one hand across the crisp freshly laundered sheets. Her head is bent low and tilted in thought with the tumble of distinctive curls shrouding her face.
Quorra enters with the ease of entitlement, the surety that she belongs wherever she chooses to go, and a plan that keeps her smile light, her step casual, and her mind spinning. She's come in search of Emilia, having been directed here by the drudge she questioned, and she heads immediately for the path Emilia treads through the crisp lines of clean sheets. "Pardon me," she's polite to exactly the correct degree, "are you Emilia?"
At the sound of the voicing of her name, Emilia lifts her head, eyes brightly inquisitive and a cheerful smile already forming on her face. It falters in surprise just briefly as she recognizes the person who seeks her. Ah well, she did expect this eventually, that much she had figured out. A quick wry grimmace and she offers instead, "Bertha really...," then tosses her head and admits, "yes, I'm Emilia. Hello Lady Quorra." There, the nicities are all done. It didn't quite go as she had planned, but then few things ever do, really.
How quickly the Blooded forget the names of the lesser ranked! But when Emilia turns, realization dawns on Quorra, though not embarrassment. "Ah, my apologies," her smile is quite winning, though secretly insincere, "it's been a... crazy few months." She leans back against a table, placed near for the folding of laundry, with her palms curling over the edge. "I heard you were having a baby," she says, all casual good-will. "Congratulations."
Ah yes, but since Emilia knew the blooded when she just had plain ol ordinary weyr blood squishing through veins she doesn't stand on ceremony and just does polite. Bluntly. Squinting one eye half shut she snorts softly at the mention of the time and then shrugs her head to the side, "Thank you I think. I'm working my way to that stage at least." One hand will continue to dance fingers upon the nearby sheet, letting it ripple back and forth. Less casual but definately perky is offered back, "I heard you were engaged," a couple of times, "Congratulations as well."
Quorra's eyes narrow, but her expression is smoothed so immediately back to calmly amiable that only the most observant would catch it. "Did you?" She manages to convey so many things in so few words: surprise, indifference, a hint of arrogance. "Thank you. Detrim and I will be handfasted within the year. My father is very pleased." It's a test, of sorts.
What is it about Igen incubus and now Igen succubus that makes her want to roll her eyes and snort at every opportunity? Emilia widens her eyes and beams back brightly at the woman before offering a somewhat sarcastic, "that'll be tricky, but good luck with it." She'll lean into the sheet just a little and raise an eyebrow of pointed inquiry, "Does that mean I can sleep with him in the meantime, because I have some mighty odd urges in that direction lately."
"I think you'll find," Quorra says, with the same air of studied indifference as she inspects her nails, "that that particular course of action would not be very wise. In fact, I think you'd be quite miserable if you chose to satisfy your... urges with him." She's a master at the meaningful pause, and her meaning is quite clear: if Emilia didn't find herself miserable, Quorra would make sure she became so. And quickly.
"Good," is the determinedly cheerful response aimed back at the woman, "he deserves that." Was that her own test? Though she does have to consider for a moment, "well I think he does. I'm trying to give him the benefit of the doubt anyways." There are a lot of lies to crawl over in this odd relationship and Emilia shakes her head imperceptibly as she watches the other woman. "And try to get him to stop saying nasty things about himself while your at it, would you?" Her hand drops to her belly briefly and she will offer an honestly worried look, "I want him to be proud of his father."
Whatever reaction Quorra was expecting, that was not it. Surprise registers on her face, a more genuine emotion than any she's allowed to show so far, and her hand drops back down to her side. "He's a man," Quorra says, in an odd droll way, as if that explains everything. "Best not to expect too much. But we'll -- I'll not hold the baby against you. I'm not holdbred, for all that I'm a Holder. We'd foster him, if you wanted, though he can't be in the line of succession, you understand." Her offer is magnanimous, if a bit difficult to give. She does not offer to find a place for Emilia in the Hold.
Emilia tosses the froth of frizz back and actually laughs at that for a few moments, face crinkling up and shoulders rocking, before she eyes the woman with a canny grin. "He's leered at me, called me a whore, made me cry, lied to me, got me pregnant, yelled at me. My expectations really have no where to go but up at the moment." It will settle a tad cautiously at the offer, "Thank you no, I'd go home before I'd let that happen," and her tone might reveal that she considers that the worst option in her opinion. Her independance has been fought for and hard won.
"Ista Hold would do well by him," Quorra insists, relieved that Emilia seems disinclined to take her up on the offer, but considering the woman's tone an insult. "There's no need to speak as if fostering at Ista is the same as being dropped between."
Emilia will straighten, drawing her inconsiderable height up against the considerable height of the other woman. "I want it," she says plainly and succinctly even as she rises up on her toes. The flecks of gold within her hazel gaze flickering a tenacious and stubborn determination. Politely phrased she states simply, "No disrespect to Ista but out of that misery," and she refers to the chain of events, "it's a gift that I'm inclined to keep." A small shrug finally, "I've a place here and I like Kezia and so we'll stay for now."
Mollified, Quorra nods, shortly. "I've no wish to separate you from your child. But the offer stands, if you should change your mind." It's the second time in as many days that she's given that particular invitation. She adds, "it's only proper," and Quorra is nothing if not a stickler for propriety. "Speaking of Kezia," she's more than happy to have a change of subject, "do you know where I might find her this morning?"
Emilia will incline her head curiously, not quite ready to change the subject. "Will you try to prevent him from seeing it if he chooses or wants to?" and her chin rises defiantly to the potential answer. That is something she does want and not for her ownself. But rather then wait for the answer, she drops back to her heels and nods a bright smile to Quorra's question. "She'll be at the morning meeting in her office in about a candlemark's time, though she's down at the fisher sea cots likely now."
Quorra only just resists rolling her eyes. She doesn't hide her exasperation. "I said I'd not hold it against you. I offered to foster it. I'll not stand in his way," she says, as if it should have been obvious. "I've no need to prescribe what he may or may not do," though apparently she has need to warn women away from him.
Emilia is inclined to think she needs to warn women of him or atleast she did. She shakes her mass of curls and smiles then, "alright, that's good to know." Taking a step backwards into the sheet, she tilts her head towards the woman, "he does love you." Not that she thinks that needed to be said, but offers it up as assurance for whatever it's worth. Perhaps a final test?
That draws a sharp look from the Lady of Ista, but she finds nothing untoward in Emilia's expression. "No less than I him," Quorra says, stiffly, fiercely, drawing herself up to her full imposing height. "Remember that." It's a final warning, perhaps unnecessary, but delivered nonetheless. "Thank you." Considering that enough of a farewell, she sweeps from the room with the same stately, entitled stride that she entered with.