Logs:Harper Songs
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| RL Date: 18 September, 2015 |
| Who: K'del, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr, Southern Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: N'rov runs into K'del while the latter is recuperating at Southern. |
| Where: Southern Weyr |
| When: Day 3, Month 10, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: Backdated! |
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| Southern's an outdoor Weyr by nature, the weather and architecture both encouraging open breezes and wide skies. Now that K'del's on the mend-- slowly!-- he's venturing further afield than simply his borrowed cottage (and Ali's, nearby), making the most of the warm weather while he's here. Today's fine afternoon finds him nursing a single beer outside of Southern's bar, far enough from the crowd that he has relative privacy and peace, but not so far that he can't-- if he wishes-- signal for another. His loose shirt covers his healing wound, at least, but even that glass can't hide the fidgety restlessness of his mood. Vhaeryth comes and goes where Southern's concerned; today's not the first time since the elder bronzerider's incarceration, featuring the usual brief landing before ascending once more to view with Isyath and the others. That was hours ago. Now there's a plink and rattle along the bench K'del sits on, what turns out to be a sixteenth mark, and behind it Vhaeryth's tanned rider with his second-best hat shading gray eyes and a slight, slanted smile. "Is this one of those... sixteenth-mark-for-your-thoughts scenarios?" K'del glances up and then across, tone mild as he registers the other bronzerider; this is neutrality at its finest. "Or should I be taking some other meaning? N'rov." "Hardly." N'rov's grin is quick, white. "Way I figure it," he ambles a couple steps closer before leaning casually back on a heel, "you've probably had enough gawkers who didn't pay for the privilege." A twitch from K'del's expression, then. "So I'm an exhibit, now. And? Think you're getting your mark's worth out of me? Need to see my manly scar, too?" Not that it's a scar yet, but it has aspirations! N'rov waves that off; "Don't feel obliged." Southern Boll's not the only Southern that shades his voice with its underpinnings of hilarity. "I have one of those too, you know. Blame my brother. I was seven." K'del, off the hook with the scar-display, takes a sip from his beer instead. "Does it count as manly if you were seven at the time? Surely that's a boyish scar." Surely. N'rov eyes him, him and his beer. "Don't say that. You'll hurt its pride." He glances askance towards his own left leg, brief as can be before he's back, lowering his voice. "But between you and me, yours does have a more exciting tale. At least when we're talking about what really happened." "What, your brother didn't stab you in the back? Or trip over his own feet while holding a knife? Or--" K'del may be forgiven, surely, for not having a whole list of fancy stories that could be behind N'rov's scar; he's a man in recovery, after all, though his colour makes him look perfectly healthy, now, thanks to Southern's sun. "Not literally," says N'rov dryly. Though it apparently must be said, "Not figuratively either, most of the time... We did have some dignitaries looking on, though I don't believe we thought so high as a Lord. Nor a harper." He trifles with a grin. "Not that yours would have required one present, I suspect, to be made famous." Dryly, "Lord, Lady, Holder, Holder's husband, Harper, Healer, Goldrider--" K'del breaks off, making a face as he does so. "Do you suppose they'll make songs about my adventures? Something bawdy playing on knives?" More beer. He hasn't picked up that mark piece yet, either, nor invited the other bronzerider to sit. Some things never change. 'Thief'? "Sounds like a children's game already, the way you put it," N'rov says on that note, and whistles a few more in what might even be a tune for that verse; his drink being invisible, though, he doesn't bother to toast. "Possibly a deck of cards, heavy on the red." "It does, doesn't it? Alas, no sweeping grand epics for me, just children's songs and warnings." K'del shifts his position, wincing ever so slightly as he does so; he must have twisted still-healing skin. "But I'll take it. Least I'm alive to hear it." "Just wait." N'rov doesn't elaborate, but at least it was timed for 'epics' rather than 'alive.' He tips his hat against the sun, saying, "Good thing, too." It has the cadence of parting to go along with the timbre of truth; but then, out there over the water, Vhaeryth is descending in grand sweeps and spirals. Just as the bronzerider starts to turn, though, he glints a look at K'del and adds a sidelong, helpful, "Hope it doesn't itch." "Your concern," returns K'del, straight-faced, "is touching, truly." But then he's smiling, and gesturing after the other rider with an idle wave of fingers. Off N'rov saunters, without even a look back towards that poor abandoned sixteenth (lost! on a foreign continent!) nor a pause at the bar despite a brief conversational exchange, but he does luxuriantly reach back to scratch his own spine. Off he saunters, whistling. And K'del? He does, eventually, pick up that sixteenth, tucking it away in his own pocket for future use. His. |
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