Logs:A Gardener's Duty
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| RL Date: 18 March, 2013 |
| Who: Barnabas, C'wlin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Bones and C'wlin discuss plants and investments. |
| Where: Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 10, Month 4, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: A layer of patch clouds covers the sky. The air feels cool and damp, but there is no rainfall today. |
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| Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr(#634RJ) Partly sheltered by the curving stone overhang, partly exposed to the weather, the wide stone patio serves as a balcony for socializing or just plain drinking on a sizable scale. The repurposed ledge might once have let two large dragons land, but now there's too much furniture for that: two rustic tables with attendant chairs, plus a couple more in particularly good weather, and a wrought iron bench situated to make the most of the view of the western bowl and the lake beyond. Other changes include rough little niches carved out of the stone walls to hold glows in colored bottles at night, the climbing plant that's being trained to grow up along the overhang, and the blue ceramic pots of flowers that dot the edge of the ledge as a colorful reminder not to fall off. An archway leads to the Snowasis itself, housed in the ledge's former weyr, while a few wide steps descend along the wall to the bowl. A layer of patch clouds covers the sky. The air feels cool and damp, but there is no rainfall today.
Crash! A sudden cacophony of crashing dishes and toppled chairs from inside the snowasis, the sound of which carries easily out onto the patio. "Awww shit, sorry. Sorry about that. If you could just move the... the.. thing? Yeah, okay, now I can-" A second terrible sound, this one of broken glass and a dissaproving onlookers. "Damnit, yeah that was my fault too. Look I'll be out your way in just a second here, just lemme..." Bones finaly emerges from the snowasis and onto the patio pushing a heavy cart of potted plants, a long pair of pruning shears tucked into a belt loop. The crashing sounds coming from the Snowasis rouses C'wlin's attention, who swivels to leaning on one elbow on the back of the wrought iron bench, pale brows raising. The continued cacophony rouses the baby bronze from his slumber, though he doesn't move which leaves his rider free to stay in his (once relative) solitude. "The cart of," deadpan delivery is full of wry, dry humor, "mass destruction. You look like you know how to wield that thing." The plants, the sheers, the man himself (another bear of a man -- this weyr breeds 'em tall!), all lead to one conclusion: "If you've come to wreck havoc out here, I think the iron might withstand your plant war." "Hehe, don't normally do this durin' normal business hours." His roundabout explanation for the chaos he's causing is spoken with surprising timidity. "But it was such a nice fuckin' day, compared to how this place usually hammers you with ice and rain and everythin' in between." The cart is pushed warily between tables to get towards the ledge itself, where potted plants line the precarious drop. "Just ignore me!" Easier said than done, with the grunting that follows as he loads older dying plants onto the cart, and replaces them with newer ones. "Isn't that the truth," C'wlin's smooth tenor is perfectly enunciated, the calm coming back to the weyrling as the days stretch away from the moment of Impression, when everything got all shook up. Contrary to Barnabas' statement, the boy watches the other man push his cart, an eye on both plants and man. Rather than continue to stare like a creepster, the bronzerider pushes himself away from leaning against the back of the bench and more properly focuses his attention upon the plant-man. "You do this often?" he queries, curious. It's like watching the glows get changed! It's like magic! Only not. Bones answers in the middle of a lift, more than likely using more of his back than he should to raise a dead, yet still very heavy plant. "NNnnope! Usually they just grow legs and walk back to the greenhouse." A heavy sigh of relief leaves him at getting the pot back to the cart, and he sets about replacing it with something fresher and greener looking. "But yeah, snowasis' rather have the pretty ones that die more often, than the ones that can actually last on this stupid mountain." His animosity towards High Reaches probably had more to do with his current task in it than anything else. "That would be a sight to be seen," C'wlin drawls, watching Barnabas at his work, "To see plants grow legs and walk off. Next thing you know, they'll be eating people." Just call him Seymour. He raises his glass to his lips and takes a slow drink, not really jumping up to help but not being too creepy about the watching. "Don't all plants die when winter comes? Especially winters here. I'd think everything would die except those never-dying trees." Naturist, C'wlin is not. "Well yeah, nothing grows up here. Even if you do dig under the damn snow to get to the earth underneath, it's damn near as hard and dead as the rock." There's a pause in his explanation as he moves to the next plant, finding it still alive enough to only warrant some pruning, which he does with a few efficient snips of his shears. "But that's why we got a greenhouse. Y'ain't ever been? It's insulated and built on a hot spring, so it stays toasty year round. S'fuckin' awesome." "I've heard of the greenhouse," C'wlin comments, idly watching the man prune the little bit of plant that's still viable. "Been once, I think? It was pretty awesome, being all cozy while winter raged outside." He steps closer, peering up at Barnabas and then down at the plants. "So they like all the pretty ones, huh? Doesn't surprise me. Most folks like to be visually pleased." Offering up a hand, the boy introduces, "Name's C'wlin." For once, he doesn't stumble on his new name. With a fistful of clipped branches in one hand and his pruning shears in the other, the gardener is left glancing between the two of them in a moment of indecision. Ultimately handing over the branches to his shear hand, his wide grasp clutches both so that he can wipe his free palm over his pants and then take a firm grasp of the weyrling's hand. "Bones, I'm the gardener. Duh, right? Hehe!" Bones, C'wlin's visibly musing over the man's name. Interesting creature! A firm shake later -- not too concerned with any possible dirt clinging to the gardener's hand -- and the bronzerider's saying graciously, and a touch too formally, "Pleasure to meet you, Bones." A thin smile quirks, "Gardener, huh? It must drive you crazy, then, when people don't take care with your plants. How long have you been at the weyr?" Small talk now, helped along by the lift of his glass again for that drink. "When I arrived, I was a harper senior apprentice." It's gotten lost since then. Or maybe taken away. "How long? Aww man." After releasing C'wlin's hand, he brings that palm up to his forehead in a show of how difficult that question is to answer. "Math ain't my strong suit, but let's... let's see here. I think I had a turnday in there somewhere so, maybe a turn?" His break from work is ended abruptly, heading back towards the cart to unload his pruned branches and then investigate the next one. Another that'd likely do fine for another seven or so, so long as it had some pruning. "A turn? Not too shabby," C'wlin comments, nodding his head slowly. "I've only been here a little bit myself." Cold blue eyes are pulled to the weathered bronze that shifts position out in the sun patch in the western bowl, "I managed to entirely changed identities in that short span of time, so being here a turn and still holding the same job? Good man." Bones is stable. And tall. "Do you like it here, would be the better question." Maybe he's nosy. "I've been pretty much the same dude I was since I got here, with the exception of the plants thing. Read a few books and suddenly I'm the local expert, hehe." He investigates a particular leaf with rapt attention, giving a little grimace at finding a small white spot. "Hmmm?" The question takes a moment to hit his ears. "Ehh. It's too cold, literal and figurative if yer catchin' my drift. People are wrapped up too tight, worryin' about shit that don't matter." He snips that white leaf free from it's plant and brings it over for C'wlin to see. "Frostbite. These puppies are dyin'." There's a sigh of defeat at that. "Interesting take on that," C'wlin says, moving closer to the gardener as he shows him the frostbite on the leaves. "Perhaps, you could suggest," he states, glancing at Bones, "That they put the pretty ones all in side, and put hardier ones outside. Make them realize how many marks they're losing by wasting plants. Surely, they have to purchase seeds to grow them, not to mention your own time's value of investment." He pauses, then adds, "People understand value and investment and if you make them realize they are investing more than they're getting out of... you might win the battle of using the right plants." C'wlin? Helpful? The world's ending. "Value and investment? Pfft, they'll be as wasteful as they want, so long as things look good on the surface." There's a small scoff at that, but a smirk of self-realization that follows. "Not that I'm tellin' 'em how to run a business. They value pretty, and they'll invest extra on it. Not my job to run the numbers at the end of the day." The third plant is nearly brown, and so he doesn't move to prune, only to lift and replace. "Just my job to grow the replacements." C'wlin chuckles, "Well then. I think you've got it figured out there, Bones." Finishing his drink, C'wlin again tosses a look to the darkly weathered bronze, frowning. "I'd best get back to it, though. Duty calls." Duty is said with a questioning grit to the word, as if this duty is not the duty the former harper is used to. "Good to meet you, and perhaps, someday, I'll get a potted plant from you." Blue eyes turn back to regard Bones. "They're supposed to be cheery, right? A potted plant? Anyway, I'd better be going." With that, he tosses the man a formal salute an turns to head towards the bowl. Athimeroth has already pushed himself to his feet, flaring wings and all. Whipping tail. Good to go! Hungry! The howling wind-like sound of his roar can even be heard from the patio ledge. "Duty, right." Another smirk. "I hear that word a lot around here. Take care of yourself weyrling, and drop by any time to browse the greenhouse eh? I got something for everybody." As C'wlin drifts away to tend to his new bronze lifemate, Bones gets back to work making the ledge look pretty. |
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