Logs:Damsels and Spies
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| RL Date: 10 June, 2014 |
| Who: Evanthe, H'vier, Suireh |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: H'vier unsuccessfully tries to take advantage of being single. |
| Where: Living Cavern, HRW |
| When: Day 10, Month 13, Turn 34 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: R'hin/Mentions |
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| It's just post-dinner rush, where the living caverns begin to quiet and some measure of clean-up begins. At this very auspicious moment, there is an impressively loud, resounding crash from the direction of the kitchens - followed shortly by a number of irate shouts that send a small blond-haired girl speeding out. The girl is red in the face, plainly flustered, with some sort of tomato-based sauce dripping down her shirt. She's walking fast, head down, arms crossed across her chest - and naturally, not looking where she's going, just about trips over a chair leg and nearly goes sprawling. Such is the graceful stylings of one Evanthe. Post-dinner is often a more likely time to see H'vier in the living caverns unless, for some reason, he's eating with his wing. That doesn't seem to be the case right now, though, which puts the big bronzerider, who apparently didn't here the crashing, stepping right into Evanthe's path as she's trying to right herself from the near-trip experience with the chair. Fortunately his reflexes are fast enough to try catching her instead of just letting her smash into him and bounce back off. "Careful, kid," is his greeting slash warning. Evanthe is caught, saved from the inevitable knee-elbow-face smashing that follows such an ungainly fall. By way of thanks, she jerks herself upright and away from the rider, briefy flailing at the fine fair hair that is now obscuring her face, with an automatically irritable mutter of "I'm not a damn kid." Only then does she really /look/ at her convenient blockade - or, up at him, more like. Be it his height, his knot, or some other facet, her eyes widen just a touch. "Ah, shit. Sorry. Thanks?" It's some kind of recovery. "Sure you aren't," says H'vier mildly as he watches her, and her hair, with some measure of amusement. It's not until he notices the sauce on her shirt, because of course his gaze isn't just going to stop at her neck, that he glances down at himself to make sure none of it made its way onto him. "Don't worry about it. Maybe watch where you're going, yeah? Not everyone's as nice as I am." Which might be kind of funny if she actually knew him. Fortunately she doesn't. Evanthe gives a low sigh and leans over the nearest table to grab a discarded napkin. It's pretty ineffective at doing anything at all to the stain down her sweater, but she certainly tries. "Yeah, I know. Was distracted." She is well and truly convinced of his niceness, though, it's true. She even manages a quirk of a smile up at him, while swabbing tomato sauce out of the ends of her hair. "You're inordinately tall." Keen powers of observation, here. "I'm Evanthe." "You're inordinately short." Does that help with her thinking he's nice? He sort of says it in a nice way, so maybe not. "H'vier," he offers his name since she offered hers. And since he doesn't appear to have any of the sauce on himself, he instead watches her work at her own stains. "You good? None of that's blood, right?" He probably knows what blood looks like and that it doesn't look like that, admittedly. Evanthe can't help the scowl that accompanies his own observations about her height - but she nods grudgingly. It's so true. The scowl may be half for the stain, which with her dabbing and rubbing has now spread further and, if anything, intensified in color. "Good? Yeah," she says with a snort. Feel the implied sarcasm. "Not blood. Leastways, not much of it. Though wouldn't be surprised if the current cook was fantasizing it was." The sweater is a lost cause. A colorful expletive is muttered under her breath, and she finally gives up, tugging the sweater off over her head, which leaves her with more grouchy swiping at her hair to get it settled again. The sweater is thrown over the back of the nearest chair, and Ev squints up at her newfound companion. "Were you gonna eat or something? There's no tomato soup, but. There's other stuff. Didn't mean to..." She gestures vaguely. "Get in your way." So very literally. "Aye, I'd planned on eating," admits H'vier, gaze lifting briefly in the direction of the kitchen before returning to the now sweater-less girl. "Have you? I wouldn't mind the company of a little thing like you so long as you promise to keep swearing like that." How does she feel about being his entertainment? That's really the question here. Evanthe is actually taken aback by the comment. Really, she pauses with hand in mid hair-swipe, to peer up at the rider. When it's determined that he's not making fun of her - or at least not just making fun of her - she shrugs. "Well, fuck!" That she can oblige, one reliable talent, a coarse vocabulary. "S'pose that'll be all right. I can hide behind your mountainous self when the cook comes to thrash me out again." The kitchen doors open, though it's not a cook that comes out with a willow switch but a slender woman with a late supper of some sort of haphazard sandwich in hand. There's a crystalline dampness in her hair, suggesting her foray into the kitchens was a brief one, an warm interlude on her way in from the winter without. "Hey," is a greeting sent her way from somewhere near the sweater-less blond and mountain of a man, causing Suireh to switch her steps from heading back towards the bowl to this side venture. Low chatter of the familiar and quite superficial variety ensue from that corner, not so far. H'vier grins at the little blonde. "Good. Don't worry about the cooks. You can save the seats and I'll grab something decent." Because saving the seats at this time of night is super important. Their could be a rush of people at any second. Really. The bronzerider turns to start heading for the kitchen rather than trying to see if there's any scraps left sitting out, but he's easily distracted by a pretty face. If he happens to end up accidentally intercepting Suireh's particular path, that's probably just a coincidence. "Well, hello there, gorgeous." Evanthe has been given a job. She nods resolutely, tucks her hair behind her ears, and stakes her claim - a table off to the side, so the nonexistant crowds won't be a nuisance - and she can melt into the walls until her mountainous blockade returns with food. She throws her grisly sweater on top, to warn off interlopers, and then plunks her wee self down, feet propped up on the chair next to her, arms crossed across her (modestly dressed in a sleeveless shirt) chest. And waits. "Hands," is all Suireh says, not skipping a beat otherwise, in her conversation with her friend. Hands, as in, watch them, back off, but there's a deliberate lilt of a tease in the harper's words that travels from mouth upward to a little tic in her flickering gaze. Is it why she concludes her conversation so soon? Or perhaps, J'mren really did have to go relieve his weyrmate of his brand new not-so-joyful bundle of joy. "I hope you didn't mean him. He's not one much for men." With Evanthe tucked away on reserve, H'vier maybe forgets that he's supposed to be on his way to the kitchen. That would be pretty typical of him. He might need a reminder. "I didn't mean him," he assures the woman, lifting his hands for a moment to emphasize the fact that he's not currently feeling her up or anything so brash. "I meant you. Obviously. What's a pretty thing like you doing sitting around alone anyway?" Never mind that Suireh hasn't actually been alone since she walked into the cavern. It's only now that he seems to remember there was another girl and he glances over his shoulder toward where he'd last left Evanthe. Evanthe is still waiting, more or less patiently. Her foot has started to tap, though, her gaze to wander - and when she catches H'vier looking at her, she raises palms up in general what's the hold-up sort of gesture - not that she should be grouching about it, given that she's scared to go in the kitchens herself now. The harper's thin lips purse, the levity of her pale eyes brightening as a thought seems to just occur to her. "I could say 'waiting for you', but that'd be trite and I'm sure I'd have to turn my knot in for such mundane banter. But if I said 'mind your own business, and go back to whatever it was you were doing over there with that child,' that'd probably just pique your ornery interest and then I'd have to deal with the aftermath of her broken heart and an amusing, and I'll allow," she concedes with the low words of bringing H'vier into her confidence, "Exceedingly attractive, puppy chasing after me." The confidence with which Suireh says this and tosses her loose, dark curls, is inspiring, realy. "The safe answer would be to send you on your way without invoking any sort of interest, but I'm afraid we've gone past that point. So I'll join your young friend over there, for a moment, long enough to finish my sandwich, while you-," those pale eyes shift, sizing H'vier up, "Go handle some meats and return to us." Does she wait for an answer? Would she be Suireh if she waited to see if H'vier did as she bade? No. She's well on her way to gap the short distance to make Evanthe, singular, into an 'us'. The bronzerider doesn't get all that much chance to interject. But versus a harper, there might not be much he could (or should) really say that wouldn't turn her off anyway. As Suireh rises to go join Evanthe, H'vier turns to watch her walk that way for a moment with an appreciative sound that's meant to carry, flashing a brief smile to the blonde at the table like he's sure she'll be okay with all of this, then continues on his way to the kitchen. He'll be back soon enough with the goods, never fear! Really, it wouldn't occur to Evanthe /not/ to be okay with all this - the wary look in her eye as Suireh approaches is based more on general distrust than any supposition that she was supposed to have H'vier to herself. But H'vier's smiling, the harper is coming, and Evanthe shrugs and slips her feet off the other chair so as to sit up straighter and offer an uncertain, awkward gesture at the table for Suireh's benefit. Table. For sitting. "Have a seat, then." H'vier, the sound, whatever he's doing, dismissed without more attention paid than what was given before she'd walked away. "I don't mind standing." She's not here long. Suireh, hip to table, munches on the edges of her sandwich in an atypical circular way, row by pinwheel row. "I'm Suireh." And you are, is what the upward flick and stayed hold of her lashes inquire of the sweater-less girl. When H'vier comes back out of the kitchen doors, it's with a generous haul of various things he sweet-talked out of the cooks. Or demanded because he's an entitled jerk. One of those things. "Thought you were gonna sit, keep us company awhile, gorgeous," he says like this is Suireh's name as he sets a plate in front of Evanthe and pulls up his own chair to settle in, kicking out a third for the harper. He's not very subtle. "Think they were still cleaning up the mess you made. How'd you even spill that?" is asked as an aside to Evanthe. Evanthe shifts uncomfortably, looking up at Suireh - Suireh... Suireh... the name sounds vaguely familiar, and her eyes narrow after a moment. "Harper?" she asks, managing to imbue the word with faint suspicion, as though it's a profession to be distrusted. She introduces herself, though, amiably if quietly. "I'm Evanthe." Then H'vier is back, bringing with him the feast, and Evvy is shifting to her knees on top of the chair in order to peer more thoroughly at the goodies he's brought. She makes a low noise of appreciation, reaching to snag some something or other. As for H'vier's question? "Fucking talent." It's grumbled, half around her bite, because she's a classy dame like that. "Thanks." "Could be. Sometimes. Not today though." Suireh may have keyed into that suspicion, the slender lift of her shoulder nonchalant about her vacillating allegiances. "Daughter, mostly. At least this trip. He might think more unwitting spy. Who knows." This, added, as if the various hats in her life are so easily swept off and then put back on. Daughter. As for 'mess', 'cleaning', and 'fucking talent', the dark haired woman has nothing to say, though she surely must have seen some aftermath of that back in the kitchen, where she got her sandwich. And she still doesn't sit, but a foot finds a rung on the bottom of the unsubtle chair to rest on and a free hand rests, seemingly, the entirety of her weight on the back. Since H'vier is not so dense to assume that Suireh doesn't already know who he is, given her reaction to him thus far, he doesn't bother with his own introductions. "Might wanna think about aiming that talent somewhere else," he suggests to Evanthe. To the not-harper daughter, he says, "I have a talent of my own for upsetting the dear old daddies of hot daughters. You should think about it." Because, judging by the up-down look he gives the dark-haired woman, he's thinking about it. And he has lots of ideas. "Yeah, thanks, the very advice that was missing from my life," Evanthe says to H'vier regarding her 'talent', though it's offered good-naturedly enough. He's fed her, he's in her good graces, for all that he's a tall, adult, male /rider/. She's still nibbling at the roll she claimed earlier when H'vier begins laying it on, and hopefully her overly amused snort doesn't kill the mood at all - or the coughing that follows as she inhales crumbs. After expelling them, it's just "Busy evening, bronze. Rescuing damsels and wooing spies." Presumably she's the damsel, and she didn't miss Suireh's comment about being a spy - so that's how the woman is now branded in her head. Even as she's talking she's gathering more of H'vier's acquired foods - using her shirt, held up a little, as a makeshift basket. It seems she's preparing to leave, but certainly not empty handed. "I couldn't do anything but," is Suireh's wry answer. The circularly eaten sandwich is polished off, crumbs licked from the tip of a finger, which then lifts to make faux air caress at H'vier's nose. She might as well add to that mood that has Evanthe snorting, or coughing for that matter. Lay it on thick, for sure. "Socketing away food for the upcoming apocalypse, are we? Or using this opportunity to show some bare skin in the middle of winter?" A beat. "Also known as, would you like some help squirreling your food away so we can leave this bronzerider to dream of what far more interesting activities we might be up to with his," empty fingers squish to play the tiniest violin, "Brain can come up with?" "Leaving already?" H'vier almost sounds disappointed by the prospect of his little blonde friend already abandoning him. Maybe not as disappointed as he might be if the somewhat older young woman weren't here. Except that Suireh is talking about abandoning him, too. "Oh, you'll be up to all sorts of activities. My brain is pretty good at coming up with those. But don't worry. I'll make sure to keep you in my thoughts later tonight." Back when he's alone in his weyr with only his hands to keep him company, no doubt. Enjoy that visual. "Maybe you should give me a peek, though. Just to make sure I get all the details right." Evanthe is totally showing skin in order to entice, it's true. Nothing like a fishbelly white abdomen to get a man going, particularly when attached to a young lady that is making off with half the table's food. "Yup," she says pleasantly. Leaving already. "Gotta go, got more chores to do-" Presumably that's what she was doing when disaster struck in the kitchen? "'Sides, I'm fed now." Suireh's offer of help, and of cruelly abandoning their dear new friend is given due consideration, and she nods agreeably. Sounds good. H'vier's latter comments earn another snort, then she's gathered up her ruined sweater, nodded to each, and made to leave - only to pause, and nudge at H'vier's shoulder with a hand /not/ occupied with taking his food. "Thanks again. You're decent." Little does she know. With that, and another nod at Suireh, she's off to wreak havoc elsewhere. Suireh gives Evanthe a head start. There's not that much food left to gather after the younger woman's likely taken more than her fair share. "I think your imagination could concoct far more than I could ever show you, love." If that term of endearment is just a trifle forced well, it is H'vier and she is Suireh. All it needs is a cheeky tweak of his cheek, but that'll have to wait for a time when her hands aren't filled with one ... cracker? And a pie? "Till we meet again, infamous bronzerider." "Probably true," H'vier admits about his imagination, completely shameless. "Oh, we'll meet again, gorgeous." And who's going to stop him from watching her rear end as she leaves? Nobody, that's who. It's not much of a butt; she's not a shapely creature for the most part. But in the end even slender girls have some sort of feminine shape. And well, when she's making efforts to make her bottom more appealing, (deliberately?), there most be something to look at. Cruel, tormenting harper that she can be. Sometimes. |
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