Logs:A Hairy Situation
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| RL Date: 14 January, 2016 |
| Who: Catling, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Catling runs into N'rov, who is concerned about food safety. |
| Where: Kitchen, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 26, Month 9, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
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| Despite all the alternatives out there (the nighthearth, the food shaft, deliveries), it's the kitchens N'rov's nosing about late into the evening; he's currently leaning against a counter, a safe distance from where a pair of older women are washing dishes, gnawing on something crunchy and green. Catling comes into the kitchen as well, carrying a few plates, which she brings to the women. "Sorry these are so late," she says. "But they couldn't eat until they'd finished stretching the fur. I brought it as soon as they were done." The teen bobs her head, smiling, then adds, "Might I take a bun with me? Oh, thank you." She walks over to where some buns are resting and snags one with her fingers, then moves over towards the corner herself, warming her hands as she tiredly walks. More bites ensue; as long as everyone's preoccupied, the Weyrleader picks a bit of green stringy stuff from between his teeth, afterward engaging in the few long strides it takes to flick it in an arc into the wastebin. It lands safely enough, but then his attention's caught; he drawls, "Emmai, you didn't say there were buns." Emmai must be the silver-haired woman, as opposed to merely grey; she laughs at him, but a short bit of banter later, he's got his prize. Gray eyes switch to studying the original bun-finder, as long as he's chewing anyway; does she even look recognizable? The girl has her head down; as she nibbles on the bun she reaches up with her free hand to unpin her mane of fox-copper curls. Unruly, it tumbles down to her knees, and she rubs the back of her neck. She licks her lips, then sighs, leaning against the wall. She might be familiar, she might not. She's been here a month now, working here and there, behind the scenes. She glances up, and then her eyes widen as she sees N'rov looking at her. She licks jam from her lips, then smiles shyly. All that hair, such bright hair, must hold the bronzerider's interest for a few moments longer; once he's swallowed, N'rov says good-humoredly to those widening eyes, "Careful not to shed." The girl squeaks, dropping the bun. "Oh dear, am I? I don't think I am...." Then she looks down, stoops and picks up the bun, brushing it off. "I... erm. It just feels sooo good to get it down after a long day." She lets out a slow breath, then really looks at the man. Once more the bun slips through suddenly nerveless fingers. "Oh. Sir. Sorry sir." "Not yet," N'rov can only suppose of the curling mass, and watches the bun-dropping and the bun-collecting and the re-dropping with the quizzical interest of a man who's had quite the long day. His stays safely in his hand, what's left of it. Deadpan, "Quite all right. You'll excuse me if I stay well back, lest it prove self-willed and attack." "My hair or the bun?" The girl scoops up the bun once more, inspecting it critically. Then she bites into it, devouring it hungrily. "Well, then. The bun can't attack you now, sir. So.... I guess it's just my hair you have to worry about." No immediate answer from N'rov, who's been busy making what's left of it considerably less, beyond an easy and quite noncommittal shrug; the crunchy whatever it was has already disappeared. "That relieves my mind considerably," he assures. "Is it trained?" "Not by half," Catling sighs, brushing back tendrils that are already creeping forwards. "Still, it's worse when it's short. I mean, unless it's just shorn. But it's been a few years since I've had it cut." She looks up briefly, then shrugs. "It's a bit... unruly. Sir." "I see," N'rov says speculatively. "Some would say a good chopping would show it the error of its ways, but you're the one with the experience of it, of course," and he the one whose hair's cut curl-less close. "Has it acquired any prizes? Vanquished mere mortals or otherwise?" "Ermm..." Catling tilts her head a moment. "Erm... I...." She flushes red. "I got a chicken caught in it once," she admits, looking down at the oh-so-interesting ground. "Does that... that count?" THen she brightens. "We ate the chicken before the month was out after...." N'rov quite nearly crows. "I think it should," he tells her. "And eating the chicken after? Absolute payback. Let's hope it wasn't too," wait for it, "stringy." The teen blinks, then groans. "That's.... really bad, sir," she says frankly. "I mean...." She wrinkles her nose. "I mean...." She goes still a moment, equal measures of shyness and playful boldness warring in her expression. "If I were you I'd... ah... lock up that pun for good." N'rov sketches her a faux-respectful nod; "Alas, I shall not, though I be strung up myself for my temerity." He even glances this way and that, only to freeze. "Don't, " said as quickly as though he really had spotted someone, "tell them where I've gone." Not the main cavern, but the stores, though he takes up his usual easy stride just beyond the swinging door. "I.... I won't tell, sir. Wouldn't want to cause a hairy situation..." Catling watches the man, then shakes her head. "So. That's a Weyrleader. Huh. He's nice." And then she sags against the wall, sighing. "And too old. But.... kind of cute." She giggles softly, then claps a hand over her mouth as she scampers off in the other direction. |
Comments
Alida (23:31, 14 January 2016 (PST)) said...
You're OLD, N'rov. Oooolllld. ^^
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