Logs:Big Ol' Bruise
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| RL Date: 19 January, 2015 |
| Who: K'zin, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A lunchtime Pretty Boys Club meeting. N'rov may have to surrender his card owing to an absurdly large bruise. |
| Where: Somewhere in the Ruatha region |
| When: Day 11, Month 11, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions, Ali/Mentions, Azaylia/Mentions, Cece/Mentions, M'vyn/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions, Telavi/Mentions, Wakina/Mentions, Wazan/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Way back-dated because I totally forgot I had this folder of scenes to post. |
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| The Fortian bronzerider's staring at his wine. Wine. Cheap-ass wine, up-charged but still running fewer marks than the beer these days, even in this otherwise hospitable backwater of a place. He's got a plate that's only partly the usual, sour slaw and redfruit sauce but the porcine shredded off the bone... plus days' worth of beard and only partly beneath it, a display of purpled bruise. Staring doesn't actually transmogrify the stuff, though; it also doesn't keep away the redheaded server who keeps offering to top him off (nor does the bruise). Once he's turned her down, again, he self-distracts with a glance down the length of the internal courtyard, at the table of gamblers, past the singer and drummer with their 'safe for family' songs that will change later in the night. Except, does he have a bit of gristle between his teeth? He picks at it. Into his line of sight comes K'zin, stepping aside to let the redhead pass, pausing briefly by the singer and drummer to observe the musical offering with a smile, and then on down until he's approaching the Fortian with brows already raised. "You get into a fight with a door?" He asks by way of greeting gesturing to where the bruise would be if it were on his face, however unnecessary that might be. "Before you got here. 'S what I get for being early," N'rov claims once he's set down his fork; his speech isn't the clearest, but he's got a quick, upward grin even if it ends in a wince. "Get your food, I'll tell you. Short version: begins with a 'g.'" Maybe K'zin can guess. Once K'zin has gotten his food, for which he opts to go to the counter and speak to the redhead, returning with his food and mug of juice or whatever boring drink he's having, he thumps into a chair across from the other man. "Reasons to get a bruise that start with the letter 'g'. Girls. Guys. G---oing to bed with someone?" Booze starts with a b. So that's what he's got so far. "Greenrider," N'rov grumbles, though there's enough of an underlying smirk that it couldn't have been that bad. "So no, yes, yes." He takes a swig of his wine, sour enough that he starts eyeing even that boring drink with something like speculation. "How long's it been since you got hit in a flight?" "Oh." K'zin purses his lips, considering the other bronzerider, "Win? Lose? Before or after you won?" Assuming he means a flight, given the follow up. "Actually, turns." The bronzerider looks embarrassed a moment before he looks down to his plate, "Ras hasn't been chasing. Maybe he will when Hraedhyth rises again, but..." He shakes his head and shrugs uncertainly before he does the safest thing: shovel a piece of open-faced sandwich far too large for his mouth in there (it makes a bit of a mess, but most if it manages to get in anyway). N'rov waves it off with an easy, "Whichever." They all count! "This one was right when we got her," and then, then his gaze rakes over the other man with now-surprised speculation. "Damn." Afterwards, it's as though he remembers he has a fork; balancing a pile of slaw atop its shredded meat turns out to not be an instant job. He finishes before, "Not even interested?" "Was it she or he who didn't fancy you?" K'zin's query is casual. He takes more bites before answering in an uncertain tone. "More like... Too distracted to notice most times? Since Iesaryth..." He glances apologetically for bringing it up. "It's just been different," he concludes. "I'm not sure what's really up with him. It's confusing at the best of times these days." He frowns and looks with disinterest at the plate in front of him (probably not the food's fault). "He. Used to be a harper," like that could matter somehow. N'rov shrugs a little uncomfortably; it serves the mention of Iesaryth too, better that than not saying her name at all. Once he's further with his eating, he offers, "Sounds better, I guess, than noticing and getting all heated up and then... nope." But still troubling. "I'd expect so. I'd imagine Tela appreciates that I sleep with fewer people this way," K'zin contemplates that a moment with some amusement. "Then again..." He shrugs. Maybe she wishes he came home with interesting stories. "So this harper fellow. Doesn't he know you have to look pretty if you expect to keep your membership to the club? What's the story there anyway?" N'rov's got a shrug for that too as he eats, only that's of the 'women get these crazy ideas, don't they' variety (he has a repertoire) and amusement of his own. Until the story, anyway; "It could have been worse. His dragon freaked some when he did, hurt her wing, but Vhaeryth handled it; got himself a little banged up, but not so bad. Then she was happy." The initial anecdote might have been light, funny, but with actual dragons/situation/something, it's just not polished like that. "Did you punch him back?" K'zin asks; there's something to be said for giving as good as one gets. "Can't imagine you were much happier than he was, all things considered." The punch is included and probably weighty in all things. "Nah, I just grabbed him." N'rov shrugs, again, this time as though it was a fair trade; maybe he really did get the better end of the deal! The good humor (smugness?) might by contrast let the underlying frustration show when he drops his voice and continues. "It's just, my wingmate, she's all 'why do you have to let him chase' and she's a brownrider, she should know." "Your wingmate sounds like an idiot," he dismisses out of hand. "I've never been able to keep Ras out of a flight he wanted in on, not even when he was still recovering in Telgar and the flight was happening in 'Reaches." K'zin chews thoughtfully, "I managed to force him down once, but only because his not yet healed wings were distracting him, I think." The bronzerider doubles back after another bite to ask, "Why do you care what your wingmate thinks?" "Yeah, but she's our idiot," N'rov can be offhandedly generous now. "Only the once, huh? That could have been some accident if you hadn't," less offhanded and more aware of the realities of the situation. No judgement there. He might have spoken of Vhaeryth, but K'zin had asked; he leans on an elbow, idly turning his fork around and around, turning back to 'their idiot.' "Cee's good people. She's pretty savvy, pretty loyal, funny; she'll go above and beyond if you need her to. Don't remember if you met her when you visited Fort; about yea high, lots of blonde hair if she lets it out?" "Ahhhh," K'zin's tone is one of deep understanding. Perhaps he's someone's idiot. "Could have," he agrees about the accident. "Don't remember Cee in particular." He shrugs. "To be honest, most everything except you and Ali is a bit of a blur for me. The crash and--" He rolls his shoulders in a shrug. Sort of eclipsed the whole 'hang out at Fort and keep an eye on eggs' thing. N'rov's tone is much the same when he says, "Yeah." All that. He stares off into the distance, gives it some silent respect; the wine's too sour for commemorating. When he does look back, there's wryness for the comparative shallowness of his words. "So what else is new?" "Not too much, really. Same old. Back in Taiga's hands completely for now," K'zin would definitely rather be working for Quinlys even if it meant spit-shining dragon wallows, but as that's already come up a time or two, the bronzerider doesn't reiterate. "But at least that means time climbing and at the forge, time on beaches and in the jungle." All of which K'zin likes better than Taiga. He doesn't mention, of course, the most current of current events because he doesn't know yet, and why cause trouble if there's no proof yet? What he does say is, "Working on a side-project or two. Will tell you about them if they turn out." It's very casual, just a normal part of conversation making it the kind of thing not worth getting into just now, but not a total lie. "What about you? More rooftop-running lately? Any broken fingers or toes I should know about?" This has some of that wryness of N'rov's borrowed and infused into K'zin's query. "Out in the Wilds of the World," N'rov supplies with a low laugh; whether that makes Taiga civilization can be another story. He has an easy nod for the side projects and their delays (delays /happen/) before, as unhurriedly and much more amused, "Were you planning on stepping on them? Hear me scream? ...Nah, couple months more before we can bribe 'em, unless you have wheat to spare." He gives K'zin an expectant look, brows hooked oh so seriously up. "No, just building up my case for kicking you out of the club. Enough broken limbs with a bruise'll revoke your pretty boy card in a heartbeat." Which would mean poor K'zin would have to take over as reigning Prettyboy Bronzer, woe~ The brunette grins at the older man. "If I had spare wheat, I'd be commissioning some pretty baker to bake me a cake to celebrate." His prettyboyhood, presumably. He's no help with the bribing. "Hit any gathers lately?" "Right, right." How could N'rov forget? "You can have my card," he allows, lounging. K'zin can impersonate him or something! Collect them all! "Not like I've been using it; the baker could look like the backside of a draybeast if that cake'd taste good. Gathers," remind him, given how he leans forward again with sudden impatience to explain to K'zin. "My mother. My mother. 'Oh, you don't have to get me anything,' except if you don't," he drawls out to what could as well be infinity... if he didn't cut himself off. "Trouble." K'zin sighs for the cake that might have been. Then his brow rise for the explanation. "Aren't you a little old to be giving your mother gifts?" It's not judgement but honest wondering aloud. There's an expiration date on that, isn't there? Maybe he's just a bad son. "Not for Turnover I'm not," N'rov says darkly. "Mother, aunts, sister. Turnover is coming." That makes K'zin laugh. "Shells, I guess I've been falling down on the job. Then again." He shrugs. "Saw all my immediate family recently. Had to ask for favors and it was pointed out to me by one of my brothers that save my sister, and Waz who stood at Fort," if N'rov recalls, "They haven't really known me for turns. So maybe not doing turnover gifts makes sense. My brothers used to give me punches, most of them. That wouldn't fly these days." K'zin would punch them back, after all, and it would hurt. "Your family's your family," the Fortian bronzerider says with a shrug; it doesn't have to be like anyone else's, is the implication, certainly doesn't have to be like N'rov's. As for punches, though his tone is somewhere between dubious and amused, "That's one way to 'start the Turn off right.' Did they drive a hard bargain? How is Waz?" "Or like idiots." K'zin isn't amused so that might point N'rov in the right direction for how punches started off the turn in his family. "You're close with yours?" It's more for confirmation. "Dunno, I was always black and blue come day one, but once they left me at the Weyr, turnovers were better." He chews for a few bites. "Waz is doing better. Taking his journeyman exams early, though he's not overly optimistic about actually passing, or even if he did, about walking the tables. Who knows how the beastcrafters decide such things." He shrugs. "I asked him if he'd thought of Standing again. He said he probably wouldn't pass up the chance, but his craft wouldn't be thrilled. There's a choice there in his future, I think. Even if he doesn't Impress, being asked to Stand and accepting will mark him as not a serious crafter, I think. Harder for the ones who don't Impress the first shot and want a second." "Damn." N'rov shakes his head, chewing that over even as he more literally chews his meal. "Guess your Weyr really can 'be a better place,' even without the dragons. My family.... not so close, but close enough," said as slightly more supposition than pun. But, "Does Waz want it? To ride a dragon, now that he's seen some more of a rider's life?" Seen Fort Weyr, he likely means, but then there's always his brother's crash and burn. "Waz likes the idea of it, certainly, though I still think he has trouble thinking of dragons as wholly separate from the beasts he loves to work with." K'zin pauses, even stops eating to consider a moment, then says candidly, "I think he'd do well. Even if he got a complicated lifemate. Maybe he'll Stand at 'Reaches when Hraedhyth rises. I wouldn't hate having him around." That last is wry with decided affection. One brother he likes! "Wouldn't hate, huh? Where's the excitement in that?" N'rov's got a lazy grin for it, though he's starting to look speculative; "I wonder about that. 'Liking the idea.' It's not like there are as many eggs these days, and a whole lot of kids that really want it." "I'm not sure any of us can do more than like the idea until it happens and we find out one way or another." K'zin answers without having thought too hard (look, ma, no smoke!). "There was a time I'd've said, if I could have, that I wished I hadn't. Things are better now, but if I'd been able to stuff Rasavyth back in his shell then, I would've. That's probably why they grow so big so fast. Make sure we don't have a fighting chance." There's some amusement there at the whole prospect, even if the original sentiment wasn't amusing in the least. He looks back to his plate to find it empty and sighs a little longingly before pushing it toward the edge of the table with his fingertips. No smoke? Let's just see about that. "Do you think," N'rov drawls after his chuckle for that fighting chance, "we'd do better to Search those who like the idea but who aren't all, 'Searchrider, searchrider, take me now? Or, I suppose, do you think they would do better," not necessarily the same thing. "I think we're better off taking the ones who like the idea but aren't fanatical. I think they're less likely to have preconceived," big word! "notions of what riding is going to be like and therefore less disappointed when they find out what riding in an Interval is like." K'zin reaches for his napkin (not sleeve!) to wipe his mouth. Manners. (Tela: +1 point) "I think the ones who haven't romanticized it too much will do better with it now. It's not like most lack affection for their dragon or, by extension, the position, once they have it. Even if some aren't enthusiastic about what the position requires nowadays." Still, no smoke. Try harder, N'rov. That N'rov, he's lounging. "Do you have a lot of disappointed riders at your place, K'zin?" High Reaches, presumably, but... "Pardon me. Unenthusiastic riders." Amusement and inquiry crook his brows a hair higher. "Don't know," K'zin quips back, "Job satisfaction is not my department." The smile he gives the Fortian is cheeky. Next? "Didn't stop you from having an opinion before," N'rov notes like a vaguely disappointed preceptor. "But if you really aren't qualified to opine about positions," so be it! "Maybe what they really need is a startup lecture before they sign on. Pros and cons." "I'm trying to be a better brand of bronzerider," K'zin replies, with no thought or truth behind it. Just a grin. "Yeah, can't trust candidates to find out these things for themselves. The older ones think they know everything already and the younger ones are too stupid or too yellow to dare the question." "Nah. Not in time, anyway." Then N'rov laughs. "That too. Not to mention their having to listen to someone who's already got what they want. I suppose that's the advantage to Weyrbred candidates: they know what's going on and if they don't, it's their own damn fault." "Dunno, I was sort of weyrbred and I didn't have any expectation that Ras'd be as he is. Nor that riding would be so sharding boring day in and out with the sweeps and the drills and the monotony." K'zin sighs. "Damned depressing." He decides and changes the subject. "So, mother, sister, who else is there in the who's who of N'rov's roots? And is your sister pretty?" He adds it offhandedly as if it's not the tease it definitely is. N'rov's nodding to however that other dragon is (dragons: always something) and, while he's at it, to the monotony too; he's even affable about going along with the subject change. "Father, brothers, uncles, possibly a wher or two, and she is pretty." Of course, it also sets up his grin a beat later. "Pretty married. But she'd probably dance with you." "That's the kind I like best. For dancing. So long as she doesn't have a crazy husband. Did that once, wasn't fun. Ended up with something a little like that." K'zin gestures to the purple. N'rov chuckles. "Protective more than crazy, which shouldn't reassure you any. The last fellow who stepped on her toes, he didn't get a second chance." He eyes K'zin, his usual baritone closer to bass. "Are you a toes-stepper, rider?" "No, no. Any partner will assure you I'm quite quick on my feet," which is different than light on his toes, but he's that as well. K'zin grins at N'rov letting the grin become inappropriately cheeky. "I'd offer for you to test the theory yourself, but something tells me you wouldn't look good in a gather gown. Not with a beard and a big ol' bruise." Deliberately inauspicious is N'rov's harrumph. Then, a frowning stare later, he lets himself laugh. "A moustache would make it so much better." Worse. "What about those chin patches? You know, the ones where they look like they're about to fall off. Those can't possibly count as real beards." "I'm not sure you can pull off the mustache look, really," K'zin says seriously. "Or the goat-licked-you-and-something-stuck thing," he makes a gesture to where such a thing would be on his chin. "No, purple-blackish-blue is really your color," he decides, "stick with that." "Look, I could do a mustache. I could twirl a mustache." N'rov can do serious too. He could, probably, keep the amusement out of his eyes; he doesn't. As for 'his color,' "You say that now. It's already turning green." Then what's a man supposed to do? K'zin's lips pull wide, pressed together, not a smile but an excessively dubious look as he shakes his head. "Nah, I really don't think you could. I can't see it." The mustache. "I mean, you're barely managing the beard, and... let's face it, you're not going to get free pastries with that. Not these days." There's a wistful sigh. "'K'zin, Facial Hair Advisor to the,'" stars? bronzeriders? N'rov's leaving that open with an eloquent shrug. His tone is all too somber when he says, "You're right." Trimming the beard would probably help, not that it's had time to reach 'Wild Man of Bolleo.' "Only place I get 'em 'these days' is my mother," mother's cooks' kitchen if they're being technical, "and that can't count." "Previously misguided?" K'zin suggests with lifted brows. Obviously, N'rov falls into this category anyway. Then he looks forlorn. A lack of ready free pastries is a sad, sad thing indeed, quite trumping all this talk of N'rov's facial fashion sense. The local representative of the Arguably Misguided allows, after due consideration, "Yes, that should work." N'rov grins at the other man in all his woe, then finally pushes his plate back. "On that happy note..." Done. "We going to do something? Or just--" A hand gestures to the food. "You wanted to show off your pretty new fashion statement," is K'zin's guess in the end, leaning back in his chair to regard the other bronzerider. "That's right," N'rov says blandly. "Making the rounds, you know. Next stop..." he draws out the pause, winding up with, "Let's go with Ierne. Except for the part where I have to rest my weary head." The younger man rolls his eyes, "Getting old, N'rov. Early bedtimes is one of the first signs." K'zin warns out of the goodness of his heart, surely. "Are we still on for climbing?" "End of the month," N'rov confirms as he stands, the remnants of an easy smirk still in his voice. On the surface not much more serious, "One good thing about Isyath having risen, it's safe to head back down there again. Later, K'zin." "If you can call it safe," K'zin answers, deadpan. After all, who knows what those southern heathens get into. He lifts a hand in farewell and then slouches in his chair to look around for some moments before rising to quit the place himself. |
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