Logs:Bread and Circuses
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| RL Date: 7 September, 2015 |
| Who: Faryn, Z'kiel |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: An extra-friendly Faryn helps Z'kiel beat haste with supplies while Roszadyth is glowing. |
| Where: Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 24, Month 9, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Farideh/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: A tiny backdate as we move forward from the misery of goldflights. |
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| "She's definitely glowing." "Doesn't make no sense, Niahvth just --" "Yeh, well, she is, dincha see her? Or are y'blind from jerkin'--" That, or some variation of it, is everywhere in the caverns today, since the first person noticed that delicate sheen of light that seemed to emanate from Roszadyth's hide as she slept on her ledge in the pre-dawn. Faryn, for one, is not contributing to the gossip. She's set-up in one of the breakfast nooks, the bowl in front of her filled only with the hard crust of bread she's finished with, and she's propped her feet on the seat across from her, listening with a small bemused frown. Agitation is a rare emotion to see in Z'kiel - but it's on full display now. He's already in his riding leathers - sans helmet and goggles, which are, no doubt, with Ahtzudaeth - and his uncharacteristically stiff stride into the kitchens is marked with a tightening of his jaw and furrowing of his brow. He's grinding his teeth and his fingers twitch with the the not-at-all-concealed desire to transform hands into fists. It's likely only the bronze's influence that keeps him from submitting to that urge. It's also the bronze that might have convinced him to get food directly from the kitchens, rather than the main cavern. He is neither amused, nor intrigued by the gossip and his stormy passage is enough to silence those before - and replace the gossip with other murmurings in his wake. It keeps going. "I din't use my hand, Malin, I went off with --" "I don't want to know, don't tell me who you--" "Are you done with the sharding potatoes?" "No, we're working--" "Sounds like yer gossipin'..." and so forth. Faryn has relegated it to background noise, if her relaxed pose is an indication, but she does seem about ready to go, because she's just picking at the soft pieces of bread that cling to the crust and not really getting anything done, or learning anything she can't learn by existing. Except there's Z'kiel. Close enough to touch. "You look like you're about to break your teeth, Zak. Don't punch them. I need them to finish." He might be many things right now - like a ball of raw nerves and possessed of a short fuse - but he is not oblivious. Z'kiel's attention snaps immediately to Faryn when he passes - and she speaks. "No," is grated out through gritted teeth. To what, and why - well, that's ambiguous. He does stop, though, and he forces his hands to relax at the cost of his shoulders and neck tightening up all the more. No punching happens - and it looks like it might be hurting him not to hit something. The look he levels on the goldrider's assistant is not pleased, but it's obvious that the recent glowing of yet another gold is getting fiercely under his skin (and how). "Where'd you get that?" A chin lift indicates the bread; curious, rather than accusatory. Faryn remains lackadaisical, tapping her boot rhythmically against the edge of the table and eyeing Z'kiel with a knowing smile. "Yes. You let them finish before you knock their heads together." That seems fair, even if it's openly clear he was saying no about his teeth. She drops her feet from the bench and gestures. "Sit down. I'll grab you some." And she does move to stand, pushing her satchel into the corner and scooting to the edge of her seat. "They're picky about who they let pilfer from them. You have to be skinnier," an up-and-down look for Z'kiel, "or they make you wait. One? Two? Half a loaf? A whole one?" To which there's a notably caustic grunt and a narrowing of his eyes. No, he will not be sitting. Z'kiel remains standing, arms crossed, while Faryn gets up. A short, sharp breath is exhaled through his nose before he replies, "Two. Whole. If there's trouble..." is trailed off, because Ahtzudaeth seems to be exerting some kind of mental pressure. His eyes fog out and his jaw tightening relaxes just a little at something or another. A moment later: "If there's trouble, just one." Not the words he wanted. But, those are the words she gets. Faryn laughs at him, a little snort through her nose. "Two, alright." She doesn't have much trouble interjecting herself into their conversation, and it's not long before she has made her request. They seem delighted she's asking for food at all. "Too damned skinny, girl," is the verdict as the oldest of them moves to a wooden box and reaches in, removing three loaves like he's sneaky and wrapping them in a towel. It's visibly more than she asks for, even wrapped up like that, but she smiles brilliantly at him. Uncharacteristically brilliant. Even they notice, and one of them says, case in point, "Ain't you cheerful? Better watch that gold, Fay-rin." "Thank you," chirps - chirps - as she returns, holding the towel out like a prize to Zak, rocking from toe-to-heel and back in front of him. "Three. Are you leaving?" Again? He stands. He listens. And when Faryn returns, Z'kiel finally unfolds his arms to let them hang, dead, at his sides for a few moments until the bread is offered up. He takes it neatly enough with a grunted, "Thank you." Is it too much? Maybe. But he puts the bread-filled towel on the table in the nook and starts to knot things just so to keep it all together. It gives him something to focus on and that helps. A little. He cuts a sidelong look to her at the question and his jaw tenses, if briefly. "Have to." A beat. "Not sure where." His attention slides further to the cooks she'd dealt with a mere minute or so ago. Considering, if for a moment, but then it's right back to Faryn. "She sending you off to do things for her again?" "Welcome. They're always trying to feed me. I guess a seven is hardly enough time to suddenly be ready," Faryn acknowledges, rocking a few more times and watching him tie the loaves. "She's better than Niahvth," comes cheerfully, exactly influenced by that lazy, polite nudge of affectionate lust that is already characterizing the junior gold's proddiness. She scoots by him just so she can slide back into her seat and reach for her bag, pulling it close. "She hasn't yet. I think she doesn't care much about weyr business about now." Hnnnh. "Not sure why," says he of the cooks. "You look fine. Healthy." His shrug is lopsided and tense, his gaze momentarily distracted by something - or nothing - to one side. Of Roszadyth's proddiness: "They're all the same to me," Z'kiel replies flatly. "Always have been." He tucks the bread-filled towel into the crook of an arm and, it's only after Faryn slides past him that he finally steps back and away. There's another grunt, the melodic sort of hum-grunt that implies more than just thinking - but it's short and ends with, "If she does, call. We'll take you where you need to go." A beat. "Or, if you just want to go." Unlikely, but. "Too skinny," Faryn counters, an argument she doesn't seem invest in, wrapping her thumb and index finger around her wrist like a bracelet demonstrably. "Boys," a touch wry, "like a girl with meat on her bones." Faryn considers him with a smile, propping her chin in her hand. "Well. It depends on where you're going. If it's warm, maybe. But I can't call. If you're gone, you're gone. I guess I could have Edyis ask Akluseth to ask Ahtzhudaeth...but that seems very complicated just to get somewhere, when there's a transport rider somewhere." There's a snort and Z'kiel adjusts his delicious parcel just so he can mirror the gesture - thumb meets forefinger around his wrist, if just barely. "Too skinny?" One eyebrow quirks upward. "No." He'd fold his arms again if he could, but that's a gesture he'll have to live without. He sucks his teeth instead, considering. Logic is met with a shrug; the offer exists, at least, regardless of whether she's willing to take it (convoluted though it may be). Rather: "Where do you want to go?" "Well. Do you like me?" Nevermind that Z'kiel is technically not a boy and hasn't been for some time. Nevermind that she's been doing maybe fine with T'mic. Nevermind that she's generally not interested in what someone thinks on that front. Faryn's question still stands contextually sound, and she looks at him obliquely, if only for a moment. A distance away, someone stops chopping potatoes and starts cooking them. "Maybe Ista. Or Monaco, or Southern. Honshu." She shrugs, dismissively. "Somewhere it's not raining, but preferably where there's a kithen, so I don't have to ask for more bread." It is, in all fairness, a contextually sound question without another layer of context. Z'kiel's brow pinches a little at the question and his reply is just a few steps shy of naked incredulity: "I like you. Wouldn't talk to you if I didn't." A beat. "Why would you think I didn't?" But, even while he's listening for an answer, he's half-turning away with a gesture toward her - a sweeping one, as if that'll pull her out of her seat. It might. It might not. In either case, he's going, if only to save his teeth from being crushed into powder. "Ista. Shouldn't be raining. If it is, then Monaco. Southern. Honshu." In that order, probably. Faryn's smile is smug, like she's caught him in a trap. "I don't mean like that, and you know it. Don't be obtuse, you don't fool anyone. Especially me." She reaches for her bag, making sure it's fastened before she slings it over her shoulder to stand. "I predicted your future, remember? You're still here." Slender fingers reach out to finger at his knot, briefly. "I can't go with you." To Ista, Monaco, Southern, Honshu. "You won't bring me back until after she rises, and I have to be here." For reasons. "Maybe next time." "Ask me again after she's risen." Deadpan, that. Z'kiel allows the contact with his knot, however brief that it may be - but her reply elicits a throaty grunt. No talk of predictions here; it's the rest that finally sees him turning away properly. "Ahtzudaeth's waiting," is a fact, much like the next: "You'll be waiting a long time, if the next goldflight's what you're waiting for." Flatly uttered, all of it, and the last is pressed through teeth that threaten to grind together as before. Some measure of reprieve was bought in the course of conversation but, now, it might just be the bread will be crushed long before it's carried outside. "In a few days then," Faryn agrees amiably enough for the first half, with a winning smile more suited to literally anybody else. Same goes for the way she tucks that strand of hair behind her ear, delicate and almost coy. "No, no. You can take me some other time, even if they're not going to fly anytime soon. That is, if you go running off any time that isn't when a gold is rising." The challenge is lightly delivered, but she doesn't reinforce it at all. "Come to think of it, I've never been to Honshu. Hmm. Have a safe trip, Zak." Her farewell may be to his back, but she's already turned to take her bowl for deposit, careful not to get caught up in whatever the gossip has turned to now. |
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