Logs:Crafters and Boom
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| RL Date: 13 March, 2015 |
| Who: Irianke, Rafevan, Schuyler |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Late night conversations at the nighthearth. |
| Where: Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 1, Month 4, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
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>---< Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr(#1549RJ) >------------------------------<
With its entrance located between the kitchen and the living cavern, this
tiny bubble cavern is cozy, always kept warm and is filled with
comfortable chairs and a small round table. At the far end, there's a
hearth, outlined in ruddy, aging bricks, where a pot of stew simmers in
the evening hours. Generally quiet, the nighthearth is the haunt of
insomniacs and those seeking quiet from the bustle of daily Weyr life.
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Irianke F 37 5'7" slender, dark curly hair, stone blue eyes 0s
Rafevan M 23 6'1 average, Blond hair, Blue eyes 7s
Schuyler M 195'11" Muscular, Black hair, Blue eyes 1m
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Inner Caverns
>------------------------------------------< 1D 4M 37T I10, spring night >---< The midnight oil is burning, the literal oil lamps exuding a pleasant aroma of vetiver and vanilla. The nighthearth is relatively empty, which has allowed Irianke to claim the most plush arm chair nearest the hearth. Wrapped in a blanket with arm holes, a bowl of half-finished stew nearby, and a book, good by the way she's enthralled in it, in her hands, she's a picture of bookwormish happiness. Niahvth must be sleeping. If she weren't, given her noticeable habits of the last seven day, the goldrider would likely be at her clingy dragon's side. Schuyler hums as he enters the nighthearth, a small platter of evening snacks and a mug of klah fill the young baker's hands as he steps into the cozy room. He spots the gold rider and snags a seat nearby. "Evening." he smiles brightly to the bookish rider. He leans back in his chair and lets his eyes drift closed as he sips from his mug. Rafevan is a not infrequent visitor to the nighthearth; he keeps long hours, and the lack of a crowd certainly isn't a negative, either. A bowl of stew, a chair of his own, and then a slanted glance at the goldrider nearby, studying her while she studies her book. "Weyrwoman," he murmurs a deferential greeting of his own. The expletive Irianke expells is just under her breath. The way her mouth shapes, it's clear what she says to people looking right at her, or maybe ducking down to look at her lips, but there's no volume to carry it. Her finger plays up and down the spine, as if creasing it to stay open while she looks up to first the voice behind the actual greeting and then the voice with the titled greeting. "Late night for both of you it seems?" Her smile is of the familiar variety - the kind that aims to feel like she recognizes them, totally, but distant enough that it's clear she does not. "Stew's not bad, given it probably sits here all day unattended. I particularly love the burnt bits at the bottom of the kettle." Schuyler sits up for a moment and nudges the plate of far more appealing food towards the Weyrwoman. "There's a reason I'm not eating it. Those are cold but I promise you they're much better than seven day old pease porridge stew." he smirks. Rafevan, for his part, looks dubious, taking the rider's words as invitation to continue. "Is that how they make it in Igen, ma'am? Because I can't say I've heard anyone here go quite that far with it. But then, I'm told I'm still 'new' here by some standards." "Sarcasm, my dear man." Irianke slowly uncurls herself into a more formal sitting position, reluctantly parting with squishy comfort for the rank she holds. "The pot's left here most of the night. I'm not sure if anyone comes to tend it, but no one has in the last hour or so and when stew just sits, the bottom parts will inevitably burn. You learn a lot about this growing up on the road." The book, it receives one sad little look of farewell, see you later, is closed into her lap, and when she looks up, an effervescent smile claims the entirety of her face. "Thank you, but I actually enjoyed the stew, as long as I scooped from the top. And you are?" The pretense of knowing Schuyler, and then Rafevan with a side long inclusive glance, is shed. Schuyler shrugs and leans back in the chair, a glance to Rafevan. "You're welcome to something too, if you want." he offers. Back to the weyrwoman. "Schuyler, or Sky if you prefer. I'm a baker in the kitchens here." he grins a high wattage smile back at her. "I admit," says Rafevan, with a duck of his head in deference to the clear expert, "cooking is not my forte. I work with fire in an entirely different way. Rafevan, of the smiths." He stirs his own stew before taking an experimental bite; it passes muster enough for him to keep eating, though not without another look up at Irianke. He notes that book, following her motion to set aside the book. "I hope we're not interrupting something more pleasant?" he wonders, lifting brows slightly. "My life is a series of interruptions. But no," Irianke's lie is blithe and believable, "You are a welcome distraction. Both crafters. How fortuitous. Do you guys enjoy Weyr life? Been here long?" The only part of her body that's still clinging to casual are the legs tucked to one side. "Culture shock on arrival?" Schuyler chuckles. "I've lived here my whole life ma'am." a glance over at the smith though, as it appears he /is/ actually new. "Well. When you put it like that." Rafevan just smiles for that easily enough, with a shrug to go with it. "A... year, or so? Longer than that, actually. Time flies, I suppose. It's been--an interesting experience, to say the least. High Reaches never seems to want for that. How are you enjoying our wintry home? I've never visited Igen, myself." "Oh, how terrible of me not to realize that. My apologies, Schuyler." There is definitely a heavy lacing of tease in Irianke's mellifluous voice, and rife in the crinkle-eyed smile she favors the baker with. "And how are your quarters? I keep meaning to visit the much vaunted craft complex to see how they are, but like you said," Irianke responds with a tip of her fingers in a mild salute to the smith, "Time flies." Why, no, she hasn't answered Rafevan's question at all. Schuyler smirks at her tease. "Nothing to appoligize for. You can't be expected to magically know everyone." he grins and snags a nibble from his plate. He glances over at Rafevan. "I hear weyr life is hard to get used to. I rather think life in a hold would be harder for a weyrbred though." he shrugs, chewing thoughtfully. The lack of an answer is maybe answer enough; Rafevan doesn't press the issue for all he's watching Irianke between bites of his late dinner. "They're very nice, everything I could have wished for in communal living with people ten years my junior," he answers dryly. "I'd be happy to give you a tour sometime if you'd like, weyrwoman." "I've never lived in a Hold. Not really. But they never seemed to like to mingle too long with us traderfolk," remarks the weyrwoman, rising to get herself a mug of hot water and studying Schuyler and then Rafevan discreetly as she does so. A dried lemon wedge is tossed in with a short pour of liquid sweetener. One spoon to stir her drink later, and she's walking back to her seat. "Sounds as enchanting as living for two turns in barracks with dragons who fart and their riders who fart worse. En-" fucking "-chanting." It's not spoken. But oh, OH, is it heavily emphasized in the way she says that one word. Schuyler clears his throat. "Well...it's, uh kinda late and I have to be up for the breakfast rush. So...if you don't mind." he picks up his plate and heads towards the kitchen. "Night to you both, nice to meet you." he nods towards both of them as he saunters out. "Goodnight, Schuyler," Rafevan tells the man, though it's Irianke that holds the majority of his attention. He's biting back a smirk for her implications, his own tone as bland as possible. "It's quite charming," he tells her. "The place grows on you. I hope." "The barracks or the apprentice dorms?" Irianke asks, her voice suddenly demure after Schuyler leaves. "I have nothing against communal living situations. It's the only way I knew how to live growing up, with a foot in my face and someone's hair in my mouth." The brunette sits, but opts for comfort this time rather than formal and curls into the seat as she was before the crafters arrived. "Tell me about your work." Her hands curve about her mug and she holds it so the steam wafts into her face. Instant steam clean. "Yes," says Rafevan, which is not much of an answer. He takes another bite of his stew before casting a wry smile at her. "I am but a lowly apprentice, ma'am," he demurs, the false humility self-mocking. "I don't have much work of my own. I'm merely an extension of my Master's arm." Irianke levels a flat look at Rafe, allowing one brow to climb up. Her smile is all but gone, the only trace of it left in her expressive eyes. No, is written all over her face. "Don't do that. Tell me." And that, in turn, only strengthened Rafe's smile, and he sets the half-finished stew aside for the time being. "I'm interested in agenothree, predominantly," he tells her, meeting that flat look. "Production, alternatives, flamethrowers. Explosives, chemistry, things of that nature." "Boom," utters Irianke, the softness with which she almost whispers that word at odds with what the word means itself. She's pleased with the answer though and leans forward in her comfy seat, her elbows suddenly on her knees. "You like to cause big bangs." "Boom." Rafe does not dispute that fact; indeed, he looks quite pleased to have it terms that way. "I suppose you could put it that way, weyrwoman." "I'm trained in a flamethrower. What," Irianke's smile deepens over her mug of lemon water, "Exactly do you study with agenothree? How to make it more effective? Do you need research assistants? Cause you know, I have so much free time." And yet... "I'd be interested in learning what you find, whatever it might be." "I don't know that apprentices get research assistants," drawls Rafevan in response. "I mean, you may laugh--" she definitely did not laugh "--at my being my master's arm, but I'm still relatively confident that I am supposed to be the research assistant. In theory." What that comes to in practice, he leaves out. "I'd be happy to include you in any reports I end up with, though. It seems only fair, since out of the Weyr the weyrwomen are probably more likely than most to find personal application." "Surely, you have opinions and ideas of your own and look into them. Under the umbrella of your Master's will. But your own thoughts. I find it hard to believe you are an unambitious sort." Irianke's feet slide down and she reclaims her book and the blanket, all while gripping that mug in on hand. "Apprentices who are posted, in my experience, tend to be sent out into the world because one, they are either that brilliant in their craft that their talents exceed the confines of a Hall. Or two, need the world experience due to a sheltered existence." A tip of his head acknowledges what Irianke says. "It's true," he confirms. "But ambition and intelligence tend to find themselves on the outs with the powers that be when untempered by wisdom." A beat. Straight-faced, he adds, "Myself, I'm but from a small Nabol hold, though." "Would you consider yourself wise then, young man?" Irianke, amused, gets to her feet with her belongings. "Not often, ma'am," Rafevan answers promptly. "But for my masters hopes springs eternal." "Wise enough." Or wise guy. Irianke winks and walks past Rafevan with another of those side long studies that lingers in all the right ways. "Have a pleasant evening in your shared quarters." Rafevan just sighs in answer. "Good night, weyrwoman," he tells her, before picking his stew up again. One more bit, but it's cold and congealing; and he ends up abandoning it instead for his crowded quarters. |
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