Logs:A Time for Tea
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 16 March, 2014 |
| Who: G'laer, Telavi, Solith, Teisyth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Telavi asks G'laer for some of Gran's Special Tea. Unexpected adventuring ensues. |
| Where: Crom Hold |
| When: Day 9, Month 4, Turn 34 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Chilly |
| Mentions: Aughan/Mentions, B'gherio/Mentions, Baeli/Mentions, G'then/Mentions, Gheara/Mentions, Ghena/Mentions, H'kon/Mentions, K'zin/Mentions, Laghnei/Mentions, Riola/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Back-dated. Sometimes my (G'laer's) phone eats part of my poses; I've tried to fix. Shoot me a message if I missed something! |
    |
| The room is small. Not so small as the closet-like rooms of those with just enough rank to get out of the large communal barracks rooms, so G'laer must have had some reasonably impressive rank when he was Gallagher. The fact that the room isn't terribly difficult to locate also speaks to his former rank, as one with a lesser position would surely be tucked back in a forgotten corridor and not easily accessible to whomever was on shift. It's fairly empty now, most things already transported to the Weyr, but there's still some packing to be done. That is surely why G'laer is here, settled on his knees, angled so he faces the cracked-open door but can still reach to the twin sized bed upon which are sitting several piles of books and a handful of knickknacks that must be keepsakes of some variety or another. There are other things, small pouches on the small sturdy table that must have served as meal table and desk, stacks of hides, and some pairs of boots. Mostly, it's down to the things that are harder to pack because they don't clearly fall into one category or another, or there aren't enough of them to warrant a whole bag or box to oneself. He's paused, head bowed over one book, the binding cracked and the leather of the cover well-worn. The book is open and the greenrider's lips are moving slowly. A different sort of meal table might have delayed the other greenrider, given the timing, but then Telavi might also have been on some errand or other; those have taken her to Crom on other occasions, leading to conversation upon crossing paths, even bringing up fresh hot soup when he's on the fireheights and she's on her way out... but she's never sought G'laer out like this, not this far into the Hold. Solith's more than glad to meet up with Teisyth and exchange the latest and greatest-- at least, in two greens' views-- but then, she always is, even if this time she's also a little jittery and apt to alternate between leaning against the far-sturdier Teisyth and moving away to peer off the fireheights' edge. Her rider, even when she's completed her other activities, doesn't take the direct route there; or, rather, she stops and starts several times until finally reaching the end of her mental map, and it's not from confusion about how to get to G'laer's quarters. No, the path kindly sketched midair by the older man she'd run into-- kind, maybe, but also hiding a smile-- was very clear indeed. Hers would be just another set of footsteps walking by that open door, if it weren't for their hesitancy, and then how they finally stop; when she does look in, there's nothing secretive about that or her quiet, "G'laer? It's me." By the time Telavi looks in, the guard-turned-greenrider's unsettlingly intense stare is already there to meet her. What is perhaps more unnerving is (if she thinks about it), either he's clairvoyant or he's guesstimated her size and stature, or perhaps the more disturbing thought is that he might know her steps. The fact that he doesn't look the least surprised might lend credence to that last thought, but then again, when has G'laer ever been known to look surprised? "Yes." It is her. Obviously. The book in his hand snaps shut with a soft clap and he places into the box in front of where he kneels. "Come in," the invitation must be because obviously she didn't come to stand outside his door. But then... he waits, eyes resting on her, the silence expectant even if G'laer's look doesn't seem to be. It's not a habit of G'laer's to ask when he's the one approached. Teisyth, on the other hand, has questions! Once she's told Solith all about the trundlebug she found in the courtyard while she was waiting for G'laer to finish something totally irrelevant (like meeting with the captain of the guard about transporting some guards to the further holdings for a change of station), she's quiet for a time, watching the older green and her jitters. Even with the watching though, when she asks, « Wassamatter? » there's no sense that she's drawing a conclusion from tangible clues, but rather plucking a sensation out of thin air and running with it. Maybe it's just a bad guess. It wouldn't be the first time. Unsettling enough that she's paused atilt, one hand on that door's frame-- if not with an expression that's particularly cerebral, those blue-green eyes heavy-lidded with weariness despite their stilled focus on the man. Later on, it's not impossible that intuition might tug ephemeral images from dream-deep depths to trouble her; later on, she'll have all the time in the world to think... or to try not to. Now, Telavi simply walks inside. Perhaps she misses the expectation; perhaps she glides right through that silence, eyes drifting over the books and lingering on the knickknacks, those things that might tell something of their stories without her having to read. She yawns, then, the back of her hand rising to her mouth just a moment too late. Solith is more communicative, at the very least, hunched close to the very-very-edge with her shoulders up and her neck scrunched in. « It's always sitting and sitting and sitting, » she says with a sigh, one hind leg pulling up but only to scrape something invisible away. Associated imagery suggests flitting about with others, twos and threes, but it's not the same as... not the same as some nebulous Before. Others have their wings. Solith... sits. A quippy response like, 'Come to help me pack?' invites unwanted nosiness, but some things are plain to see: a small doll constructed of straw, a jar with mark-pieces, each hewn across the familiar wood stamping with unfamiliar carved markings, a map of Crom with etched symbols scattered across it, a number of framed sketches of flowers and herbs with names in elegant script (not G'laer's), and a sketch of an attractive young woman bearing no resemblance to the man among others. And depending on Telavi's reading tastes, the books most immediately viewed are poetry, with the occasional unmarked one tucked into the stacks. Since Telavi is not taking the initiative, G'laer begins where he typically does before she can peruse too much. "Is this a social call?" He is off-duty after all, it's a logical question. Teisyth thinks. She thinks and she thinks and she thinks. It probably even seems like a long time to dragons who are not her. Finally, « I got it! » A brilliant idea, complete with the cartoon imagery of a glowbasket uncovering in a previously dark room (not that this image seems a willful creation; it just happens). « You should fly instead! » Ta da! It really, really would have, even more so under normal circumstances. As it is, although Telavi's gaze lingers on those oddments, it lingers uncharacteristically less, and there's another of those yawns; her hand stays loosely curled when she lets it fall. "Mmm." To the map. "I suppose so. It's not a duty," or booty, or firestone-sooty, "call. I hope your grandmother's well. Is she?" She hadn't yet asked for the promised visit; she had explained, harried, how she'd have liked to but with everything-- not yet. Her eyes are resting on one of the labeled flowers, now. For her part, Solith has no problem with waiting, sitting but not resting as she is, now and again tipping forward before drawing herself back; quite possibly it's welcome, this silence that's not empty so much as filled with all that thinking. Though at the end, « I... did? » Teisyth's so certain and Solith... well, she had been flitting about before, she thought. But... maybe she missed something? There's silence and stillness as G'laer regards Telavi. Then, "She's well. Likely asleep at this hour." Not that it's late, it's just that time in the evening when people of a certain age simply opt for sleep after the evening repast. "And your uncle?" He watches her, still patient in manner. « Oh. » Teisyth's disappointment can be felt. Yes, Solith did say only when Teisyth was thinking, she was thinking only about the sitting part, not the rest. « I could fly with you? » she offers, hopefully. Would that fix it? Make it like Before? She blinks at the frame. "Also asleep, I suppose." Not as old, but... timezones. Neither of them seem too terribly certain about fixing, but, « I would like that, » Solith decides. That would be Better, certainly, even if it isn't like Before. She glances over the slope of her shoulder with appreciation for the other green, and waits for her before taking wing. Telavi likely hasn't been waiting as such, however. Telavi is looking, even if it's 'in the direction of' more than precisely 'at.' "I've been thinking of your tea," she says, more directly than she sometimes might. It's not that she looks young exactly, nor old, but somehow both and neither. "I'd appreciate it if you'd spare me some, G'laer. I think. I did bring marks, for your time." Teisyth, with her usual over-exuberance, obliges, leaping gracelessly into the sky. She's considerably more graceful once airborne, but even so the concept is lost on her. At least it will be fun, even if it's not like Before. G'laer blinks. There's no other change in expression to go with it, but perhaps this is G'laer's Surprise Face. After a look that might be called measuring, he asks: "For yourself, the healers, a friend or some combination thereof?" Has Solith ever been bothered by others' lack of grace? Possibly if claws or uncomfortable bumps are headed her way, but otherwise... likely all she notices is that Teisyth's up, she's flying, they're both flying, it's good, all of it perceptible through her increasingly sunlit influence. Telavi, not so much with the flying. She turns to look at G'laer, or perhaps to let herself be looked at; "For myself," she says. There's nothing in her expression to indicate otherwise, but then, there's not a whole lot of expression there at all. There's silence and the weight of the definitely-blue-and-never-green eyes. "I don't want your marks." Which doesn't mean it's free. It never does, not really. Under that weight, what she does is wait. "I want a future favor." Simply. Her fingers lift, curl: go on. "That's it." Sorry, Tela, it's not so neatly close-ended. G'laer watches her. "All right." It may be acceptance, it is acceptance, but it's not an agreement struck; not with the way she half-turns, looking away and higher and around the room as though imagining it different, the way it was. Or, perhaps, the way it might be when it's someone else living here. "One more trip, you think? And then you'll be done here?" "Why the change of heart?" He asks as he rises smoothly from the floor. As for the rest? Presently, it's ignored. Did she really want to talk about that anyway? Turned away, one hand flattens over her inner hip; turned away, her eyes don't narrow but they do, momentarily, shut. But it's only half-turned, even now. "It's nice tea," when she knows she's drinking it. "But that's too much." She doesn't wheedle, doesn't dwell, only explains; there's no bargaining there at all. "Nice tea," G'laer repeats, clearly this response does not cut it judging by his bland tone and equally unimpressed expression. "Do I really need to go into what happened before I ask again?" Then a slight shift of his weight. "Afraid of what I might ask for?" Does he really need to... perhaps he does, given how Telavi's giving the corner of the room a bemused look; but then-- then she's laughing, not loudly exactly, but enough that an eavesdropper might be forgiven for thinking that G'laer's a funny, funny man. "I'd like," she'd really, really like-- for once these days-- "to know what I'm getting into." Perhaps something about his phrasing shed light on what he might really have been referring to; perhaps the laughter shook something loose. With a backward glance of surprise, "Don't you remember? What I wanted was to make my own choices. It's no change of heart at all." "You women and wanting to make your own choices." G'laer actually does roll his eyes. Then he takes the seven or so steps over to the door, extending an arm to grasp the edge with a hand. It might seem an ominous move until, "Think you can manage to choose to stop browsing my personal effects and choose to saunter, stride or sashay your way to Gran's workshop?" The hand not on the door makes a gesture toward the hall. In G'laer's inexpressive expression there might be the mingled ghosts of amusement and annoyance, but that might just be the figment of an overactive imagination. "Crazy, I know." It's successfully dry, but a truer sign of where Telavi's at may be how there's no particular attentiveness to his control of the door, concealed or no. That, or she has some strange degree of confidence in G'laer. He gets another glance, another surprised glance; the poetry-- the poetry!-- gets one too, and then she's turning to join him and then move past, ducking under his arm to do it. It's not a sashay, definitely not a strut or a slither; it could count as striding, possibly, but certainly shorter than her usual, and once she's out she waits. As it turns out, there's no danger lurking for Telavi in passing under G'laer's arm; maybe it wasn't even an intentional power play. Maybe. Either way, he simply snags his long brown coat from the hook by the door and steps into the hall behind her and shuts the door. It's a long walk. A long walk. The night air is chilly, but no more than is usual for Cromian spring. Their breaths scamper into nothing after billowing into small clouds before their faces, and the former guard sets an efficient (read: quick) pace. Once they're passing through Crom's gates and out into the moonslit countryside, the younger greenrider might be starting to get a sense that Gran's workshop is yet a ways away. Through all that, Telavi's as silent as she gets, short of no movement at all: no questions, no chatter, not even observations about the night or how her boots are meant for riding. She does glance discreetly at those few with whom they cross paths, not only the people themselves but how they react to the two of them; along the way she buttons up her short riding jacket, then pulls up its collar, then finally locates a knitted cap in one pocket and tugs it down over her barely-braided hair. That so-efficient pace isn't something she can keep up forever, though, not with her accustomed easy stride starting out stiff and then turning increasingly awkward despite force of will, until finally-- just past Crom's threshold-- "Slow down, okay? I'm cramping." And then the only chatter comes from cold, gritted teeth. Already paces ahead, the words necessitate a sudden stop and about-face, which happens swiftly enough that he can, with the noise, discern the chatter. Whatever G'laer thinks in that moment sets Teisyth a-guffawing. But whatever it was, he's not saying aloud as he backtracks, shrugging out of his long coat and extends it to Tela on a finger. "Choose to take it; you're cold." That much is obvious. "You're cramping?" is the next. "Legs? Side?" These are the obvious choices, right? His coat. He's handing her his coat. His long brown coat. Solith is curious, though not anything as earthly as that; she's all-of-a-sudden, « What, what? » circling to look at the other green and then the rest of the sky as though she could spot it right then and there; maybe someone got a vtol up her nose? Telavi takes that coat, after a moment that isn't so long that the coat isn't still warm, and she shrugs into it with a mutter of thanks-- followed by a glance askance at the clothing he has remaining to him: won't he be cold? "Side." Then, "...Sort of. In the bleeding sort of way. It happens." Monthly. Surely he gets it now? Solith will be lucky to find out, because as soon as the idea of a vtol up her nose touches her mind, she's excitedly trying to sort out what would happen. Would it fly up her nose and bounce around her head and silhouette against her bejeweled eyes before she can sneeze it out? If G'laer will be cold, he's not complaining for all that the long sleeved shirt is of a light-weight construction aimed at flexibility, not warmth. "Sort of--" Yes, now he gets it. He shakes his head a little. "It's close enough dragons would be silly." He glance skyward; especially problematic because with the wonderful flying, it would take the energetic greens some minutes to arrive. "It's far enough that it'll take too long if we slow down." So, clearly there's only one option. Does Tela have to be offered a choice if there's only one option? G'laer, unfazed by the woman business, turns his back to the female greenrider and takes a knee. "Climb on." Then over his shoulder, "If you choose." Which might sound a little more like, 'If you dare.' Solith would like to know-- but she wants to know about this vtol experiment too, now; Teisyth should totally do it! Maybe it would get stuck in her nostril until she sneezed it out, at someone-who-is-not-Solith. Or maybe... Telavi wrinkles her own nose, unconsciously, looking up at the sky before it's back to G'laer. "How would it take too long if she's already asleep?" Only then that question's-- not forgotten, exactly, so much as supplanted because now she's looking frankly aghast at the other greenrider and his proposal. He wants her to do what now? Which would require... moving her hips? And then her hands have swooped up to cover her mouth, not so much in dismay but to hide an odd choking sound because this, this has been a surreal evening when she's short on sleep already, and she's been walking and walking and she hurts and this might hurt too what with the straddling and all, straddling his back, only it's dark-minus-the-moons and it's not like she's wearing her own jacket, not with its knot visible anyway, and when else is anything like this going to happen, never! That's when. So that's when Telavi takes him up on it, murmuring, "In for an eighth, in for a quarter," with tongue in cheek as she... climbs up. And she's laughing, stifled moons-lit hilarity even through the inevitable wince or two or four. She does not ask G'laer if he thinks this a good idea. "Because it's cold, Telavi." G'laer intones as a Harper might a very obvious answer to one of his pupils. The man might even be distracted while Tela addresses just how surreal the night is because Teisyth is suddenly mournful, « G'laer says I cain't! » Woe! No vtol experiment for Teisyth. Still, the man is paying enough attention to ensure his arms hook under her knees once she's mounted him. He sets a quick pace once more; surely G'laer has trained with packs of supplies equaling and likely exceeding Telavi's likely water-retaining weight. It's not an overly long time when they arrive, though they do have to pause a handful of times for G'laer to re-adjust the woman on his back; these moments might be more wince-worthy than others. The place they have come to is dark. G'laer pauses outside a rundown stone wall to deposit Telavi on the ground, and if a hand sweeps back to check the back of his shirt for evidence of this once-in-a-lifetime ride, will Tela really see that in the dark? Maybe he was just straightening his shirt. "This way," is then the instruction as G'laer takes the lead down a cobbled path, "Watch your step. Some of the stones are loose." He has to pause outside the door of the structure to fish for keys in his pocket and then find the lock before opening the door and ushering Telavi into toasty air and the gentle glow of a hearth. As G'laer steps in behind, he seeks the woman's gaze and presses a finger to his lips.
From the outside, the cothold isn't much to look at. That anyone still lives here certainly would count as a surprise, but the worst of the exterior damage has been repaired, leaving it weathered and worse to the eye, but functional. Once inside, the state of things is improved dramatically in contrast. Cozy is a good word. Cluttered is another. Bundles of dried herbs of all kinds hang from the low rafters, so low that the tall will have to dodge. The main room houses jars and boxes and crates of all shapes and sizes, each meticulously labeled, on a plethora of shelves. The rear center of the room, by the hearth, has table with patched and sagging, but comfortable looking chairs. There are two doorways besides that which leads to the exterior, each shrouded by a long more purple-than-purely-maroon curtains. The room is dark except for the low glow of the hearth, until G'laer partly uncovers a glow beside the door. "Gran racks out in the back room most nights when it's chilly enough to bother her bones on the way back to Crom," the man volunteers in a quiet murmur as he wipes his boots with care before moving into the room with the grace of intimate familiarity. There had better not be evidence. Telavi's laughter hadn't outlasted Solith's distraction by all that much, though every now and again, briefly, it turned up out of seeming-nowhere; she'd tried to be a good... backpack... by clutching his shoulders rather than his neck, generally speaking, and by not vocalizing discomfort even when she tenses from the odd jolting step or otherwise, though the odd muffled swear word surely isn't anything he hasn't heard before. Well before they'd reached the cothold, she'd subsided into whatever rhythm there was, mute; finding her feet was a chance to hold still for once and then to, cautiously, stretch while he was dealing with those keys. Entering, Tela's own boots-cleaning is as habitual and thorough as though this were her own weyr, but her eyes reflect the light as she glances about with far more interest; it's only his explanation that she turns back for, to respond with a nod and then to look for that door. Not that she approaches it, and not just because she's only gradually starting to unfasten her coat-- his coat-- toasty air or no. She's also slow to get back into talking; what she does do is step to the side, to clear the path to the hearth. With G'laer not wasting any time in moving to a cabinet full of small drawers, Teisyth begins to take the fun flight of fancy above and give it more purpose by way of a destination. The man frowns as the first drawer opened doesn't hold what he's looking for. Then another, then-- a groan. And a sigh. He turns away from the still open drawers to return to Telavi. To reach for Telavi and her slow unfastening. Maybe this was his plan all along!! Get her alone in a dark cothold with no help in sight, her dragon led cleverly away. (This is obviously the least likely piece of an imagined nightmare along these lines because... Teisyth... clever? At least in a devious way? Ha.) Still, G'laer is reaching for her, or rather, as it turns out, for his coat, which Tela might have noticed is a little oddly heavy. He's going for an inner pocket, easily missed with the darkness at the hand-off but which would prove to be one of many upon closer inspection. At least he thinks to include an "Excuse me," as he fishes a moment. For it to have been a really clever plan, it probably would have involved dropping her into a river or at least a really big puddle, oops. As is, Solith is interested in this destination thing that Teisyth has going on, a thought's fresh breeze flitting Teisyth's way in lieu of some incongruous sunbeam; this place that Telavi's wound up at, Solith's gotten herself an interest in visiting it too. Not that she's not distractible to some degree... nor is her rider, who'd been engaged in an activity very like that earlier 'browsing' rather than taking advantage of the hearth herself; that groan, that sigh, they instigate the first curve of her smile, though if she's made any internal bets about whether they'll be immediately followed by a drawer-slam, she loses. But then again, G'laer is almost certainly not a teenaged girl. When G'laer makes with the reaching, Telavi winds up side-eyeing him but not entirely skittish, though she does tighten those core muscles to get her navel heading towards her spine; "What are you looking for?" He'd had the keys earlier-- There's a grunt from G'laer as he's poking his fingers into the targeted pocket before a mote verbal, "Light," and, "Gran stopped using my organization system." His fingers close around the slender cylinder and withdraw it as he mutters, "Or any system." The clutter in the cothold? Clearly Gran's doing. The man opens his palm for Tela to see the thing, whose end-cap he removes to reveal the gentle glow from within. It doesn't cast far, just enough to ruin one's night vision but to be able to see things close by in glow-light. "Ahhh." Stepping back, "Maybe it's just a system you haven't discovered." She's smiling, all set to follow after him-- or wander around if he isn't going anywhere anytime soon-- with her hands going in the outer pockets for... warmth. Since it's just for warmth, Telavi certainly won't be disappointed that the outer pockets only contain woolen gloves. "Yeah, it's probably the same system she's been using for seventeen turns." The man replies without a hint of levity before he turns to head back to the drawers, heedless of any blonde tagalong. "It's the 'Gallagher, where did I put that again?' system." This is muttered as he turns the glow stick's exposed end on the drawers and begins thumbing through packets. "So, are you going to tell me what's going on that you, quite out of the blue, want some of Gran's Special Tea?" She's not above fingering the gloves for their make and quality, whatever can be discerned by sensitive fingers, and then' investigating the other pockets while she's at it, more keeping busy-- if also nosy-- than a full-fledged hunt. "The question is, does she ask that when you're not around..." trails off into a peek at those packets before Telavi's wandering off past the best of the light. Which leads to a muffled thud partway into his question, toe or maybe knee on wood, revealing just where she's gotten even before she replies. And it is a moment before she replies; it's also a different sort of reply here in the dimness and after that trek than it would have been, back in his room in the Hold. "Probably." Quite possibly she's smiling, despite that thud and despite the rest; after that pause, her voice and thus the rest of her stays in one place, not moving about now. "It's been a pretty awful time." The smile in her voice has fled. "You'd have heard about K'zin," even so gets a half-questioning inflection: who knows about Crom. At least he doesn't need to rely on his wingsecond for news. Wistful more than hopeful, "I'd like to smooth it over, for just a little while." "At her age, I don't doubt it." G'laer answers as he continues through the packets, but something stops him. Maybe it's a sound and he twists to eye the woman. "Hands to yourself, Telavi." It's not exactly threatening, but more like a Harper who's caught a pupil sneaking dried apples from inside her desk during class. He waits. He watches. This time, the rustling of fabric and leather is deliberate, when Telavi looks back at G'laer: palms sliding along opposite biceps, along his leather, all too slowly before coming to rest at either elbow. She's just... folding her arms. That's what that is. Hands where he can see them, nowhere near any pocket at all-- unless one counts that stiff piece of something beneath her right hand, something that gets a startled glance; evidently she hadn't expected anything there. G'laer does not believe her. "Careful, it's sharp," answers the startled glance that is not missed even in the dim light. He continues to level the look on her one moment longer, and then he twists back to the drawers with their small packets. "The bronzerider injured in Telgar." G'laer identifies, "He's something to you?" He flicks through a few more packets. That sounds like permission. "I'll be careful," Telavi promises, whether or not she's liable to break it any minute now; certainly she does explore that narrow pocket with caution, thumb and forefinger tweezing out... well, now. The slender bit of metal gets treated with respect and no, Telavi doesn't go and test its point on her finger. "Yes." Instead, with that, the stiletto goes right back in again. "For a while now." "And he's not doing well?" This much is a relatively easy conclusion to draw from 'rough time' as a description. The soft, rhythmic 'plep, plep' of the packets hitting one another as he moves his fingers to the next and the next and the crackle of the fire are the only sounds to detract from the focus of the conversation. Could anyone blame Telavi if she wished for more? "No," carries with it regret and worry and weariness; Telavi gives whatever that is in front of her, shelving or something, a trial lean and when it doesn't squeak, adds enough of her weight that she can rest her hips. From there, again volunteering a fragment that she doesn't have to, "My stomach keeps hurting, even beyond this," surely accompanied with a wrinkle of her nose, "and I'm told more alcohol isn't good for it." G'laer frowns, but he does it where only the drawers can see him, so it doesn't count, does it? As showing human expression? His face is bland by the time he turns his head toward the woman, closing all the drawers, with no packets in hand. Could it be he's not going to give it to her after all? "Some would argue that this wouldn't be good for it either. Drinking, whether alcohol or tea, in times of trouble can seem to encourage some to make it a habit and indulge in excess." Once he's said that, he's moving... toward the door? Could be. Telavi looks at him. Telavi does not like this possible plan. And Telavi does not move towards the door. "Mmm. For people prone to such things, I suppose that's logical," she says with a lift of her shoulder. "You know about your tea more than I do. Given the limited supply, what are the chances that I'll come crawling on my knees, all 'G'laer, G'laer!'" This gets a high voice, though the rest has more of the tone of an intellectual inquiry. "'Give me more of your special stuff!'" The man stops and turns back toward the woman, his voice low but not particularly soft. "I don't know, Telavi, how crappy do you anticipate your life to get?" So sensitive. "I don't exactly specialize in crap," is Tela's quick retort, for all that nobody marked her calendar with 'tragic accident will happen... here.' "Yeah? So the thing that's driving you to drink or to otherwise forcibly relax yourself, that's just going to vanish tomorrow and you'll be back to drinking merely for the pleasure of it?" G'laer challenges, rocking forward onto a foot. Is this worth it? Is this, really, worth it? Even after having, literally, gone this far. But he'd made as though to help and gone just as literally out of his way, with no sign that he'd intended to come here all along-- Telavi draws in a deep breath, if a silent one, and she says more moderately, "That would be nice." Which doesn't prevent her from contending in what's not quite the same tone, "'How crappy' sounds like 'a higher level of crappy' instead of 'protracted crappy.' So that's what I answered." G'laer's head shifts in a way that implies a shake without actually shaking. "I asked you how crappy you anticipated your life to get. Optimism never produces realistic answers. You may not specialize in crap, but clearly you've got some now. So. What's the real answer, Telavi? Is this just a crutch to get you by or something that you'll turn to whenever you break a nail after you get used to it?" One could argue that he's concerned for her well-being. But maybe he's just a dick. "There's a difference," Telavi says, "between optimism and extrapolation based upon prior experience as well as a concerted effort to de-crap." The syllables roll trippingly off her tongue, though something about the set of her shoulders beneath his leather, the lean of her spine, suggests that she's deliberately holding still rather than shift from even physical discomfort. "And speaking of prior experience, I don't know where you'd come up with the idea that I'd just fall all over booze, or this, or," here comes the flick of one hand, movement or no, "whatever. Not from when you were a weyrling, that's for sure." "That's precisely the point of asking. Because I don't have anywhere to get an idea from." Most people would probably wait to see sign that they should worry or otherwise, but this is G'laer. "I've never seen you go through crap." Probably because they're not really friends. Are they? "So to answer your question, I don't know. I hope you won't show up begging for more because things are going crappy and you're out. But there are, I'm told, other ways to handle this kind of thing." That gets an arch of fine brows. "Apparently I didn't wail loudly enough when I did break a nail." And for his not having seen it, "Good." Though then Telavi goes on to add, leaning forward a little as she shifts her stance, "While I'd ask about these other ways-- and if you'd been told by someone reputable-- I've got to know: is your... brew... really that potent, that people turn up begging for it?" "If Gran's tea were the best you ever felt, because the rest of your life is so crappy that a few hours of forced relaxation is as good as it gets. If that were you, wouldn't you beg when the pot ran dry?" G'laer counters, answering the question without naming names or really truly verifying what's implied. "I'm not saying that is you, but I've no interest in helping make it you." And now he turns again, moving more... toward the door? It's still not clear. Despite everything-- "Oh, it's not the best I ever felt," Telavi can't help but murmur as he talks, her smile vivid for all that dimples still seem to be out of stock. It gains his last surmise a distinctly dubious look rather than a roll of her eyes, and in the end she leaves the tea be. Though on a very different note, "You know, that's one thing I do like about you: how you care for her." Telavi's murmur is ignored; he said, if' it were. This makes her statement moot. Likely those for whom that would apply are closer in age to Gran herself with too many ailments and not enough occupation otherwise. It turns out that he's not going to the door, of course. Instead he stops at a set of shelves beside it, running his palm light over the items there, picking up a small bowl. Maybe G'laer didn't hear her, or maybe he just doesn't care because the response he issues is a predictably emotionless, "If you want your tea, you'll come help. I don't have enough hands." Not with the light and the bowl and what he needs to do next. It's the bowl he's prepared to hand off to her with the simple instruction to, "Hold this and follow me," before he sets about gathering ingredients from various jars on different shelves about the room, depositing each carefully into the bowl in her hands. Bemused, Telavi approaches; of course she does, having protested neither the thought of leaving tea-free before nor the prospect of being put to work-- 'work'-- now. She does slide coat and jacket off together along the way, afterwards pushing up her sleeves and duly following him around with the bowl... and with an eye for how much he gets from where, even though in the dimness it's hard to really see. Sometimes she pokes the mixture. Once her nose wrinkles and she sniffs and sniffs again with a peculiar noise, a barely-stifled sneeze. Later she wonders quietly, "Who trained her? Her grandmother... grandfather?" The first time Telavi moves to poke things, he catches the movement from the corner of his eye and his hand is wrapped around her wrist faster than she could say lickity-split. "Don't." Then a nod to the bowl and with his words, the untrained eye can likely see what might have been missed before in the dimness. "I'm keeping them separate," ish, "in case I've extra when I'm done." Indeed, the chaos growing in the bowl with every addition is of the ordered variety. Some things will surely be more difficult than others since some leaves are quite small and scurry toward the center. "Waste not," he adds a moment later before releasing his never painful but firm grip and moving on. "The Healers," is his answer. "And her mother, too. Gran wasn't exactly planned, you see. Her mother had had some fanciful romance with some holder's son. When her mother, barely more than a girl herself, told him she was with child, his father paid her handsomely to pursue her dreams that didn't include his son. Being with child, she couldn't apprentice at healer, but thanks to them, she had the marks to buy an education. She'd always loved plants, Gran said." So seems it all worked out for the best. "This way," G'laer's murmur interrupts the thread of the story and he turns toward one of the curtained doorways that leads to a workroom plainly made for processing what's collected and compounding them into what's needed. Once within, he cracks the lid of a glow on the table, though the hearth seems to face this room, too, and, in fact, seems to be the center point around which the rest was constructed. Thwarted. Though Telavi instinctively tests his hold, it's only in the tensing of the muscles beneath his hand and up her arm, no movement to actually dislodge him; they ease, mostly, even before G'laer explains, and that explanation gets a murmur of assent: an interested murmur that accompanies her looking at the bowl's contents more closely. The bowl is not dropped; its contents don't spill. Though she does have to complete just as quietly, "...want not," even though the unnecessary words might go against the spirit of the saying. Following along, more audibly, "It sounds as though he was quite the holder, to be so well-to-do... I like that, 'pursue her dreams that didn't include his son,' it sounds nicer for everyone." Especially compared to 'buying her off.' "Except for the son, maybe-- oh." The light's brighter; she can look around, now, and does. "Gran never found out who it was. For all we know, it could have been Aughan's predecessor. With as old as Gran is and her mother long gone, we'll probably never know. Not that it matters anyway." G'laer chooses this part to respond to, leaving it there as he reaches for the bowl Telavi was charged with, and making to select parts of its contents to feed the mortar and pestle. "Mmm." It's so contemplative. Then Telavi's staying near but watching what he does with all that dried ?greenish and brownish? stuff, leaning against the edge of the table but at least having the decency to stay out of the light... though admittedly the placement of the glowbasket must help with that. After a bit of the herbs-grinding, she wiggles her fingers towards the mortar; "May I...?" Be put to work? Do something other than lean there? 'Squish' things? The working man considers the request. "If you get bits in your tea because you ground too much, you won't blame me," The tilt of the pestle is stern as it's leveled at Telavi like an extension of his finger. "Yes, Weyrhealer," Telavi murmurs dulcetly, aiming to pluck away the pestle like pulling off that finger; of course, it's easy for her to agree now. G'laer jerks the pestle up and possessively back toward him before wagging it at her. "This one is mine. He twists and reaches with his free hand to snag an itsy bitsy weensy teensy mortar and pestle that would easily fit in Telavi's palm. It must be the novice version. "Here." He extends the pair to her, expression serious. Telavi stares at it and him. Just stares. "What," she asks, which doesn't mean that she doesn't take the mini version, "is so special about your big stick?" Surely she knows the real word for that pestle. ...Maybe. "Nothing," G'laer answers coolly as he turns back to his work. Then, a grin is manifesting on the greenrider's face. "I just wanted to see if you'd take that one." Movement in his peripheral vision just might be Telavi brandishing the mini-pestle in a less than socially-acceptable fashion. "'Nothing.' I believe you," she says regretfully. "You realize, though, it'd take a long time to get the job done with this one." Especially as long as it's empty. Grin fades to smirk. "You know, I hear parents will give their children a small version of whatever it is they're doing to keep them occupied and out of trouble." Not that G'laer would really know, since he's never really been a parent; but he must have been a child once, right? He lets his 'big stick' settle in the cup, and extends a hand to reclaim the mini version while he grabs another regular sized one off the shelf to trade for it. "You hear all sorts of things," Telavi muses, but then inquires less darkly and more ingenuously, "Did anyone try such a thing with you... and did it work?" Amenable to the trade, more or less familiar with the tea mixture given to her at the Weyr for other things, still she eyes the relatively large leaves all set for the squishing; in the end, she circles the pestle lightly around the mortar's edge before setting to work. How hard can it be, really? "Baeli did it to me all the time when I was real little. Worked better than most things." G'laer answers candidly, as he starts working his way through the ingredients, placing each ground substance onto a scale, checking the weight twice before scraping it into a second bowl. Only once does he hesitate and decide after a moment that there ought to be more. "Mmm." Tela lifts 'her' mortar enough to peer underneath, to give it a light whack with the pestle to see if it sounds remotely drum-like. Dissatisfied, or else prioritizing work, she gets back to the literal grind. "Baeli. Do I know Baeli?" Should she know Baeli? Not even a little like a drum. Stone hitting stone. "Probably not. Unless you hang out at Southern a lot or her Hezalth has happened to fly your Solith when she happens home for a visit." Speaking of Telavi's Solith, Teisyth has landed outside the shuttered cothold now, wings stretching and folding. There's a sense of disappointment from her now followed by impatience. "Not yet," Telavi says cheerily. She switches hands. "Would you recommend him?" Un-impatient Solith's still airborne, for now, and doesn't even feint a landing atop the cothold like that long-ago ship; it's been a good distraction, and not just for the green's rider. "Statistically, you're more likely to find yourself in bed with someone who is my sister than many other groups, so take your pick. Depends on what kind of person you want to wake up with. Do you have a preference?" G'laer queries as he continues along according to what surely is a recipe he knows by heart. "What are the choices?" Telavi wonders practically, as if anticipating a buffet. "There's always the usual, not too old, not too young..." did she linger on that? Oops! "...not apt to steal one's flight jacket," this with a wrinkle of her nose and a dark look at the no longer so big leaves. "Baeli and Hezalth - brown, if it matters. Don't know what she's like in flight, but she's sort of the 'in charge' type. Always knew what to do and where to go and led us around like a mother goose leads her goslings. Her Hezalth is-- fast, but easily distracted and comes on strong. She's been a rider longer than the rest of us." G'laer taps his mortar to coax out the last of the ingredient he just finished with. "Then there's Laghnei and her blue Cerzoth, but they're from here and visited during weyrlinghood so I'm sure you met them. Then there's Riola out of Telgar. I don't doubt that if you got out of the guest weyr with only scratches as evidence, you'd be better off than most. She's a handful, and Teisyth says her Cekath is scary." The shrug shows the man isn't bothered by what he likely knows of the dragon. "And Ghena and Knioth you know. So that's all of them, the riders anyway, unless Kozeranth beats them all." Telavi goes with the mortar-tapping maneuver, less for dealing with the last bits and more to even things out some from where they've wedged against the stone sides... and possibly, just a little, as part of some sort of ritual. Then the regular sound of grinding follows as he continues, right until the end when whatever he might have said... all of a sudden she reverses the pestle, the better to try and poke his shoulder with the non-business end. "Don't even, G'laer. Do not let even the shadows hear you. Faranth." Not that it couldn't be said to be worse for him. At least he doesn't have to worry about: "There's a tea for that too." If assumption will make him an ass, he doesn't seem to care, but he does sound amused. At this point, the man twists to pull five packets from the shelves and after stirring the mixture as carefully as he weighed each ingredient, starts dividing it into the packets, without ever stopping for Telavi's leaves. Tela flicks her fingers at him for that, audible like shooing off a vtol, and gets back to grinding a few recalcitrant bits. That'll show him. Only... "Are these going on top?" Her leaves. "Of course not." Don't be silly. "Tell me, Telavi, when a green-fingered girl comes along and wants to stitch on your embroidery project, do you let her dive right in or give her a scrap to practice her stitches on first?" Once G'laer folds down the last packet, he twists again and reaches for another packet. "Do you think you're done?" There's a gasp at the very idea, followed by Telavi's spending a few moments looking more horrified than strictly necessary. Some of it's surely for effect, but the rest... "G'laer, this is breaking small things into smaller things," and should not be compared to sewing. "You've already done the... expert stuff... of following the recipe and measuring and such; you led me to believe that the worst that could happen would be extra silt in the tea-- oh yes, and I am done, or rather it is--" here she slides the mortar towards him, and it's not the most even in the world but the herbs are neither chunks nor dust, "and how tragic can that possibly be? It's not like a little rinse-and-spit is the end of the world." "Telavi," G'laer mimics the tone in which she addresses him, "This is my craft. Sewing is yours. And after all, isn't sewing just poking a pointy thing into fabric over and over again?" The greenrider must know there's more to it than that, but it draws a comparison. "It's not like a little crooked stitching is the end of the world." He eyes her and not her not-powdered mashing as he pours it into the pouch. "So you'll brew this and tell me what you think you got right and wrong if you want to learn more." He concludes before setting about tying each package closed with pre-measured string, and marking each with a pencil. "No, no. You're missing a crucial part. Which is," Telavi draws out a significant 'wait for it' pause before continuing all hushed, "also poking it out again." There, the secrets of seamstresses revealed! She might have added more, perhaps about where crooked stitching belongs, but right after her mouth opens, it clamps shuts and one hand moves to her hip again; by the time she's focused on G'laer once more, though, she's smiling. More. "Will you really remember what it's like? Or just nod sagely," so to speak, "and 'Ahh'?" "I don't need to know what it's like. It's not my journey. You already know the end point. And mint is an easy one. I'm sure you're resourceful enough to find some professionally made mint tea for comparison." G'laer answers as he scrawls 'mint' on the packet before handing the greenrider all six. "The others should do something for your stomach in addition to the usual effects. Remember to exercise good judgment about when to imbibe, and never more than two packets in a day." He gives her what sounds like the standard advisory before he unceremoniously places the extra equipment back on its shelf and lids the basket, leaving them in dimness once more. 'Not my journey.' Telavi presses her lips together, enough that they only hint at a smile and escape words altogether; instead she nods solemnly. Then, not only solemnly but sincerely, "Thank you." It's followed by another nod for the instructions from before, but without enough pockets to stash the packets, she winds up shifting them quietly from hand to hand before stabilizing them in both. The lights go dim when she's still looking at him, thoughtful; then she turns to seek the way out. There are a jacket and a coat to extricate from each other, after all. A hand touches lightly to her wrist and there's a gentle tug. It's a silent offer of direction in this place that G'laer could probably easily navigate blind, and easier still with the low glow of the fire. If Telavi's amenable, the path is led back through the curtain, the man holding it to one side for her, like with the door to step through before he's heading for the coat-and-jacket mishmash. |
Leave A Comment