Characters involved are: Khiea (RED), Brin (ORANGE), Sigurd (GREEN), Ildon (BLUE),
Logged by Brin

---

Ildon pages, "... how does one go about getting onto this accursed ship?" to you.
You page, "Hang on..." to Ildon.
Ildon enters the Maison's area.
Ildon has arrived.
A narrowed concentration in those silvery eyes, palely distressed yet with the worlds beyond... And with the disobedience of the darts to fly correctly. They can connect as she wants them to in the dream, but here they scatter, thrown more with the wild aimlessness of faint worry and even fainter ideas of actual accomplishment. Gripping one dart in an awkward fist, Khiea more hurls it than actually aims and tosses... As if the sheer force of sentiment, even thinly stretched across her numbed mind, could be all the worth of it. The sound of the metal tip clattering off the wall is a faint ring, and Khiea does not even bother to stare at its failure... No, her eyes are fixed upon the picture attached by still-trembling hands to the dartboard. But it is a wonder, still, that she is up and about. Months ago, she would have returned to her cradled sleep where none could touch. Correct that. One. It may be a sign of improvement that the fretting girl has not resorted to throwing these wild missiles in a world where they could connect with no effort--or it might simply be a sign of something worse.


Yggdrasil, Gun Room
As you enter this room, you are taken aback for a moment at the sheer spendor of this area. Lined in floor tiles resembling marble, this entire area has a noticeable aura of beauty and class. From here, you see a beautiful silver <stairway> leading down, the <Dining> Room, and the Maison's own <Counter>. An elaborate <doorway> leads out.
Contents:
Ildon
Sigurd
Khiea
Dart Board


The first thing striking the young Etone, on his first entrance to this room, is the splendour. Nothing on the cathedral, but...the at best greasy decor of the rest of the ship easily pales in comparison. Trodding slowly onto these tiles, tentatively, Brin enters. And the bundle of concentration catches his eye, deep in...not concentration, for anyone could see the shots taken were those of force, and rage, rather then of skill, and effort at accuracy. Thinking deeper, and stepping lighter, Brin quietly sidles over out of what he believes to be the line of fire, although given the wildly hammered throws of the young Princess, the entire room is at risk. Gently, he clears his throat, hoping he does not startle a defensive response from the wielder of pointy objects arranged in the shape of the girl standing in front of him.
Things seemed almost normal once again, falling into routing, driving the sandcruiser, and, in Sigurd's current case, helping tune up the neglected ship's engines. His footsteps echoed faintly through the room as the tall First Mate made his way from the engine room toward the spiral stairway, and up into the main part of the Gun Room. Curiously, he paused, blinking at Brin and Khiea, noting that, once again, he was letting his awareness of those around him slip in his relief of having some immitation of normal life. This was, mind you, about the only time Sigurd could be found as anything short of meticulously clean and proper, his long coat gone, the sleeves of his midriff turtleneck rolled up to his elbows and spotted here and there with oil from the motors. He himself wasn't too bad, dirt and oil wise, but oh, that poor cloth he eas holding, previously white, not stained gray and black from cleaning off its owner. Sigurd kept silent for now, however, offering a nod of greeting to Brin, and a gentle patient gaze settling upon the poor girl venting her frustrations... Or attempting to.
Ildon enters the room timidly, unsurely, as was his manner in this strange location. He was still getting used to things here, and this was his first time actually on the sand cruiser. He feels somewhat nosy for having intruded on the three people, Sigurd, Brin and the girl, each of whom he recognizes. The girl surprises him however-- he had last seen her in Blackmoon, when he delivered her the news of her Brother's death, an act of perhaps kindness, or mercilessness, from a complete stranger. Unconfortably, he shifts in his spot, for had never expected to see the young woman again, and hopes that his appearance doesn't serve as a reminder to her of her brother. On his shoulder stirs his young hobgob, whom he decided to name Winter, after a girl he once knew in Shevat. He calms her with a motion of his hand, and enters the room.
Strange how one can try to play a game one knows nothing of. But, well.. For all the worries and frets that have plauged the child-who-is-not's mind in all these last few weeks, it is actually a rather comforting irony in it all. And Khiea is preparing to hurl another of those small projectiles when... Noise? People? It was so easy to forget the presence of others these days, with her own fears and thoughts, and so many growing dreams strapped across the back of her focus. Yet throwing the darts with no sorts of grace and far too much force, she rather startles at the sound of other people about, which causes her focus to shatter there, throwing an already awkward throw even moreso off. And at a rather halfways angle, the dart collides into the wall just beneath the dartboard, thrown so off-centered that it hits more on its side, and never at the point. And then.. She pauses, glancing up rather shyly around the room to the crowd that has seemed to pop up of a sudden.. And diverting those pale eyes to the ground, she murmers a light, "Sorry.." As if she ought not have been playing such games at all.
Brin observes Khiea as she continues her game, oblivious. The force behind the throws... o 0 ( ...seems like...an intense anger...What is that face on the board?... ). Either it is some sort of anger toward the person on the board, anger in general, or...this is a -very- uncoordinated child. He assumes none of these, as Khiea turns to face him, the somewhat clumsy ast attempt at a throw bouncing harmlessly. Being relieved at this, and Khiea's lack of an obvious desire to follow it up with more random throws, he smiles gently at the girl. "Quite all right. That's quite the...energetic game you're having there..." He gives a conspiratorial wink, as an attempt to dispel any guilt she may have had. What is one child, having an innocent game, no matter how rough of execution, on this, a warship?
Slinging the cloth over his shoulder, Sigurd made no attempt to involve himself in the conversation with the girl at first. It was not cruelty, nor any form of hostility toward he, no, just an awareness than another had her attention already. If her mind was in a state even fractionally close to Hyuga's, she didn't need her attention torn in yet another direction. Instead, he set to picking up the darts quietly, as he had done so many times before when the Young Master would take out his frustrations on that poor dartboard. Or, more appropriately, the metal wall behind it.
Ildon frowns, and feels out of place. He doesn't know exactly what the situation is, what could possibly be the problem, in fact why the young Princess is even here. He stands in the doorway, trying to remain unnoticed, to see what unfolds. He can only hope that nobody thinks him to be eavesdropping, and that Winter behaves herself.
The young Princess.. Or the forgotten one? Perhaps even that does not matter in all of the clutter that has claimed her mind as of late. But dream and reality, reality and dream.. Such had become so desperately out of focus that one might even wonder if -she- knows why she's here, within the ship she was trained and told and taught to turn against and fight. And yet there is only a weariness to her, rather than that cheerful giddy childishness of before. There is no cheerful smile or wave to greet these who have showed up- so many names and faces she thinks she knows. Or that someone else knows? No matter. It is still one dream. "I.. I wasn't doing a very good job of hitting it, though." Well, she made her best attempt, at least, at driving something through that picture. It is a shame that so much else collides with her for her use of focus, her use of grace. There is so little left, besides those confused emotions. Nothing but tiredness.. "I.. I'm sorry.." So many people about. And.. Weren't Brin and Sigurd considered the other side? If still there were sides. If still she -had- one. "Should I not be here..?"
Ildon has disconnected.
Khiea has disconnected.
Khiea has connected.
The glass is half-full. "You'll get better with practice..." The smile widens. "Try not throwing it so hard next time...", as Brin, missing the point completely, grins, with what he thinks is a reassuring look. Perhaps the awkward over-eager throwing was just that, and Brin leaves it at that, and Brin leaves it at that, knowing that if it is any more, that can be remedied, with time. Children are resilient to this kind of hurt. o 0 ( ...and from her words in the dining hall...it seems there is a lot of hurt in there... ). He glances over at Sigurd, before continuing, "I'm sure it's all right for Miss Khiea to be here..." he looks back to the small, apologetic figure. "I'm sure there's no need to be sorry for anything. It's all right...". He smiles again, and notes how even in this state, a child can make him grin like a clown.
"Yes, of course she is welcome." Only spoken because of the glance given him as Sigurd comes to stand beside the Little Princess, politely offering her the assembled darts, 'feather' first so as to spare her from accidental injury. Perhaps it was just for thw reason of reassuring her that it was of to be throwing them, it was okay to vent her feelings as such. It wasn't hurting anyone, after all, was it? No, of course not. "Do not be sorry, little one. You were doing nothing wrong." Oh, changed our tune, hadn't we, Sigurd? Yes, and he admitted it. He also admitted his hostility toward her was selfish and brash, everything he was trying to teach his charge -not- to be. The girl had feelings too, and strong ones at that... On that note, Sigurd finally lifted his gaze to see just what exactly it was on that board that Khiea was so viciously attempting to hit.
But it is not that strange that Sigurd has changed his opinion of her, is it? For everyone, everyone in the world seemed to have changed overnight their feelings for Khiea. Its enough to make one wonder who her allies were. Or.. perhaps there is no such thing as friend and foe? It was all a little children's myth all along, that someone forgot to tell her was false before she turned her face to the complexities of more serious life. But she is grateful for that kindness, even if that thankfulness is but the quiet shift of some thankfulness within those silver eyes, but the faintest calm in her chaotic, unsettled emotions. Can she make sense of anything? Perhaps not. But there is kindness now that she can grant some hollow, distant smile to, although it clings to her face like something attached- something untrue and unfelt. There are many confusions. And only one thing to be so terribly upset about. She takes the darts with a faint, but honest, "Thank you.." And with that, but glances back to the dartboard. And no, she does not start violently hurling things just -yet-.. Rather, she gives answers to Brin's questions, in a tone quiet and worn thin of any emotion. It is tired. Everything is. "But there is so -much- to be sorry for... And I'll never catch up, at this rate." A pause, and she hurls a dart, sending it bouncing harmlessly off the wall, a shade too high, this time, "Will I hit it if I don't throw it as hard?" Its a concept that seems to ruin the point of things, true, but.. Well, missing isn't seeming too productive, either right now.
Brin nods quietly to himself. The child is more like an adult each time he sees her. A child, with very adult problems, all of them coming at once. o 0 ( ...so...sad... ). She has no-one she feels she can turn to, and that is...what Brin feels the most. He cannot pretend to identify with Khiea, but sometimes... "Sometimes, it is better to not catch up. This life is transient. If we were all to sit about being sorry for mistakes past, well, we'd be a sorry bunch, wouldn't we?...Life is too short, Khiea...". He looks at the ornate patterns on the tile he stands on, and ponders. He once had no-one to turn to. Now, he did. "Perhaps, like the darts, it is better to step back sometimes, and reflect on your situation, rather then rushing into blame for mistakes which may not be yours, or that you may not have cause to worry about...", he looks up at Khiea now, as she faces back toward the board. "If you want to talk to someone...about your problems? Sometimes, it might be better to share what you feel, and learn from the experiences of others. I am here, if you need someone to listen...", he again looks down at the floor, unsure of the impending reaction.
If she didn't throw it as hard? Yes, that would work, but Brin's rather... blunt aproach cut off any words of teaching Sigurd might have had to say. And thus he waits, ever patiently, a step taken back to not intrude. Khiea, if she was here, would most likely not be going anywhere any time soon. Perhaps he would teach her to play darts. Or at least how to throw them so they would hit the intended victim taped to the target.
"But it -is- my fault, Mister Brin.." And even in mourning, even with so many cluttered wonders going through her mind, she still has that habit of tagging on 'Mister' and the sorts before names. Perpetual habit. Odd, how she clings to such.. Petty little habits while everything else about her ever, always changed. "Its completely my fault. If I were a better person... A more useful...-" Weapon? Perhaps she had intended to say that, but rather she took that breath to hurl another dart, which -almost- seems to be flying point-first before it, too, finds itself aimlessly into the wall. "And that's very nice of you to offer, but..." And she throws the last dart that she had taken to her hands, sighing mildly as it, too, finds itself hurled far too hard and far too randomly, and rather hopelessly into nothing. "I can't even do -this-.." She adds, in a sort of tone so close to a whine that it almost grates- self pity added to all of this misery. How could she possibly be so miserable over one silly little person? Rediculous and silly it all. But she -is- but a child, after all. No matter what else she might be. "I... Don't think it would help to talk about it. And it wouldn't be very nice to make someone else upset about it, too.." A sigh, once more, "And I'm upsetting everyone enough just by doing nothing. I'm sorry..."
Brin scratches his head, and starts looking a little frustrated. It's not a mood that suits him. o 0 ( ...an almost unrelenting blame of herself...if she would only realise... ). "We are who we are. You or I can only be -so- good at something, and there comes a point where we must admit that we can do no more." he looks up "if you want the hurt to go away, you must first stop blaming yourself. It is not your fault you are not perfect. Nobody is..." He observes the ill-fated flight of the last dart, and sighs. "And, as for upsetting me, remember that it was me that offered...", he looks directly at Khiea, and a slightly high-pitched twinge comes to his voice. "It only upsets me to see someone so young so unhappy. Try me.".
Sigurd watches Brin with but a mild gaze, stirring only to motion after the last dart is thrown, gathering them all up in silence before he returned to them. "Perhaps she does not wish to try you?" An idle suggestion, make of it what you will, he cared not. Instead he placed a gentle hand on the girl's back, urging her foreward a few steps. "A beginner should not stand so far away. As you grow more skilled, you may distance yourself." Holding a dart out to her, he nodded toward the target. "Do not throw so hard, little one. It's a game of skill, not strength. Keep the point aimed where you desire it to go." He did not mean to be rude, and he tossed an apologetic glance to Brin as the thought that he had been less than polite crossed his mind. Let us work out the pain one step at a time. She needed this vent for her anger, not the frustration of being unable to complete such a task... The Etone was more than welcome to continue his words if he wished.
Khiea looks.. A shade confused, a shade reluctant towards Brin's words, such that she merely quiets to the.. comparative silence of her thoughts and emotions. Which are, all things considered, little more than gnawing chaos themselves. Instead turning her attention to Sigurd for the moment, she merely nods.. Well, its not as if she knew -how- to play the game, after all. She just had the vaguest clue about how it went and.. Well, come now. The picture tacked up to the dart board rather -begged- such a thing of Khiea. But even so, she walks up those steps, takes the darts once more.. And this time pauses, actually taking an attempt at -not- hurling the dart with all her might, and rather just.. Throws it, lightly. And strikes some insignificant edge of the picture. And while she finds it fit to frown, having -still- not put a content hole in the picture, she does note, "Was that.. Better, Mister Sigurd?" Rather sheepish, rather quiet. For it truly is strange for such a person to be so kind to her. And in other ways, not at all. And yet, those blue-silver eyes touched in their simple bluntness of loss.. She glances up to Brin. "Well, if you wish to have your patience tried.." A pause, and a sigh. And how can Khiea blurt out these following words, in a tone so even and so detached that its hardly hers at all? "Well. My father who wasn't my father told me he hated me because I wasn't very good about blowing things up when he wanted me to. And now I don't know if I can go back home. See? Its just a silly thing, a silly problem of mine.."
Brin calmly watches the exchange, and feels pleased that Khiea eventually succeeds in hitting the board. Petty, perhaps, but it was something she had claimed only seconds before she couldn't do. He feels somewhat taken aback at Sigurd's words, but... o 0 ( ...justified...I -was- crowding her, a bit. I really must leanr not to do that. She -is- still a child, nonetheless... ). As suddenly as he ponders this, Khiea, with the simplicity of the child he realises she still is inside, explains...and Brin takes it in his stride, not knowing the details, but accepting it as a rather abridged version of a story he doesn't know. He calmly scratches his chin, and can think of not much to say, that would not push her deeper into depression. "Do you want to go home?...", the words fade to nothing as he finishes them, anticipating how she, and Sigurd besides, may react.
"Much better, Miss Khiea." Silly formalities, look, she's even got Sigurd doing it now! Ah, but he's been doing it for a while, as has just about anyone who knew Khiea. He just listened after that, feeling that harbored hatred of Krelian kindle once more. He had heard vaguely why Khiea was in this state, but not from the girl herself. Quietly he walked to the dart-board and drove one of the darts he'd been holding straight into the portrait's eye with a force he should not have used, but much gentler, he tossed the last dart to Khiea's feet and began his walk to the room's exit. "Sometimes, it's just easier to cheat."
And.. Does Khiea -laugh- at this display? Faint but honest that sound echoes, quiet beneath her worn breath, but.. Honest. Truly so. It seems a strange sound, truly, to come when her expressions are still so weary and raw of all that troubled emotion.. And yet, calming just as suddenly as it started, Khiea shakes her head and manages, once more, that weakest little smile, "Thank you, Mister Sigurd.. I needed that." Just something amusing to wonder at. Something of sympathy to watch. For there are too many politics meddling in her worries recently.. And no matter how many times she hears how she was only put aside to force her into efficiency, she still gives no care to it. Without Luka and distanced from everything but her dream.. What is familiar now? At least.. At -least-, there is kindness, here. Encouraging, at least, for her to at least learn to smile once more, even forgotten. Even so. "Thank you..." And a pause, as she waves to Sigurd- some faint gesture as it is- since it seems he seems intent on leaving. "Goodbye, then, Mister?" A pause, as she scoops up the dart thrown to her feet, and casts a mild glance up to Brin, still unreadable, still but confused. "I want... I don't know what I want anymore. I want everything to be -right- again. But.. everything has become so utterly -confusing- recently.. Is anything 'right' anymore?"
Brin smiles down at Khiea. Perhaps he will never break below the surface with words what Sigurd just did with a simple childish action. He had a lot to learn. Still, words were what he knew, and... "Perhaps you might search not for what is -right-, but for what is right for you. I can only imagine how confused you must be, child. It will take time, to heal, and to figure out what to do. Remember that I'm here to help at any time..." he looks her in the eyes, and sees...utter confusion. "Try to calm your thoughts, and work out what you want. In your own time...". Breaking eye contact, he turns, and without a word, lopes gently toward the door he had entered through.
A glance spared over his shoulder, and a gentle, pleased smile rewarded the girl's laughter as Sigurd paused before the metal doors. "Yes, I'm afraid so. I'm a bit tired, and I'm a mess." Oh, one should not forget those oil stains on his shirt and the various smudges on his skin. "I would be glad to help you learn and practice with those darts tomorrow, Miss Khiea. But until then, I fear I must take my leave. Good night then. Pleasant dreams." Ironic, that. Turning his attention foreward again, his fingers grazed the button to open the door, politely allowing Brin to pass through first before he, too, followed suit and went to get a good shower, but not without a gentle wave to his young guest. And then the doors slid shut.
Sigurd has disconnected.
Khiea has disconnected.