Logs:Inappropriately Relevant
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| RL Date: 3 June, 2014 |
| Who: Alais, H'vier |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: The newest journeyman healer is welcomed to the Weyr in typical fashion. |
| Where: Nighthearth, HRW |
| When: Day 21, Month 12, Turn 34 (Interval 10) |
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| Night has fallen though the hour is not yet terribly late - nonetheless, Alais has sought out this quiet refuge from the bustle of the living caverns above. She's perched on a chair at the round table, an intimidatingly thick book spread open in front of her, and her chin propped on one hand as she peruses it. Her other hand is absently turning her glass of wine, as yet undrunk, on the table just to her left. H'vier arrives much like he usually arrives anywhere, without very much consideration for anyone else. His path leads him past Alais' claim and to the hearth where he pours himself a mug of klah. It's not until he has that, and he's taken a drink and topped his mug back off, that he bothers scanning the small cavern at all. No surprise, really, that the bronzerider focuses in on the small blonde with a smile. "Hey there." Alais remains peacefully oblivious of comings and goings - until the greeting is offered, and her dark eyes flick up from the page... and up... "Hello," she says, and with automatic politeness she gestures towards the other seat at the table - despite there being plenty others free. "Do you care to sit?" "I think I do, in fact," says H'vier as he moves the chair somewhat closer to the woman's rather than taking it where it probably ought to be on the other side of the table. Once he's seated, he sets his mug down and pulls a flask out of an inner pocket to pour some of its contents into his klah. "Not sure I recognize you." Not that he probably recognizes a lot of women in the Weyr. But it's a good line, right? Alais takes note of that proximity with a thoughtful look, which then travels intently to the pouring of mysterious liquids. She just observes, doesn't comment. Mental notes. At his words, her gaze goes to his face with faint surprise. "I'm quite certain I don't recognize you," she returns, and for a moment seems she'll leave it at that. But, instead, she marks her place in her book and closes the heavy cover, sitting a bit straighter in her chair, and extends a slender hand across to him. "I'm Alais." "Then we obviously haven't met before, Alais." There's clearly no other reason she wouldn't recognize him. None at all. "H'vier. Bronze Reisoth's." Because the knot on his shoulder doesn't already tell everyone the color of dragon he rides. Oh wait, it does, actually. It also says he's a Wingsecond but he must not feel the need to whip that one into conversation just yet. "You're just a tiny thing, aren't you. How old are you?" Maybe he should wait for the answer before he's leaning to give her as much of a once over as he can from where he's sitting. "Obviously," Alais repeats in a murmur. Her own expression has taken on a sort of fascination, perhaps partially in response to the revelation that he's a bronzerider - there's a blatant glance at his shoulder knot when he names the dragon, as though double-checking the fact. "How..." she hesitates, turning slightly widened eyes up at his face. "How old I am? How ever is that relevant?" she asks, though her tone is more one of interest than of offense, despite its being a fairly impertinent question. "Twenty-two, sir, and a journeyman." As long as they're sharing. "How old are you?" "Age is always relevant. It wouldn't be very seemly if I were thinking inappropriate thoughts about, say, some fifteen turn old." She probably shouldn't read too much into that comment, but he seems approving of the answer she gives. "Older," is the only response H'vier offers in return, though. So apparently age is only relevant if you're female. "What's this about?" he glances briefly at her impressively-sized book. Whether or not she should, it is difficult not to. Alais leans forward, just a little, to look at him more intently. "/Are/ you thinking inappropriate thoughts?" she asks - and again, far from offended, she sound almost... enchanted. Positively enchanted at the idea. There's even just a trace of a smile at the corner of her mouth as she drops her gaze to her book, and traces her fingers over its cover. "It's about much and more." More specifically, "I was reading up on reattaching severed tendons." Light bedtime reading, you know. H'vier studies the small woman for a moment before admitting, "Not anymore." Except his gaze shifts down before coming back up. Okay, he wasn't until just now. But she brought it up this time, so he can't be held accountable. He takes a drink from his mug, leaning back comfortably into his seat to cross one ankle over the opposite knee. "Sounds pleasant." Not really. "Have you ever done that before?" If the once-over makes her at all uncomfortable, it's shown only in the slight coloring in her cheeks. Otherwise, Alais looks only faintly pleased, and doesn't press him further on the subject - apparently the fact that he /was/ (or so it's implied) is enough to satisfy... something. "Not really," she says, echoing the silent commentary. "But yes, I have, though not in some time. I've just been posted here, though, and I'd like to be sharp when I start in the infirmary, make a good impression. And what do you... do?" she asks, with a vague gesture. A little unclear on the mechanics of dragonriders. Maybe he can tell that she doesn't take his lack of subtlety too poorly. H'vier smiles but he does make a somewhat larger effort to not let his eyes go roaming further. "I'm sure you'll make an impression." One way or the other. Sort of hard not to, Havi. "I'll admit the idea of a little thing like you putting people like me back together is amusing. In a good way." As for what he does, "A lot of sweeps. Some paperwork. Drills. The usual." Alais places one of her hands on the tabletop, slender fingers stretched expressively. "Small hands, better for stitching," she says sagely. "Wouldn't want some great big clumsy fingers trying to patch together your severed bits. Especially tendons." And he's received his wise advice of the evening, so her hand moves to her wine glass to finally bring it to her lips, and she settles back in her chair. She watches him as she sips, listening to his description of rider-life. "Do you enjoy that, then?" H'vier looks at her hand as is probably to be expected since she puts it on display. In turn, he lifts one of his own, comparatively big and clumsy. His fingers flex while he looks at it, then he's settling it back against his mug. "Good point. I've been told I'm good with them, though." His hands, presumably. "Sure, I suppose. Wouldn't much matter if I didn't, though. I'd be a rider either way. Sweeps are possibly the most tedious activity yet imagined. But Reisoth enjoys them, so it evens out." Alais watches his own returned hand display with a nod of appreciation, both for the illustrative flexing and his being 'good' with them. "It's good to have a talent," she comments, completely innocuously whether through art or obliviousness. "I've always thought that seemed... difficult, from what little I know of dragonriders. To have no choice. Though perhaps if the life were going to be unbearable, one wouldn't impress," she muses, the thoughts half to herself. She sighs, and glances first towards the door and then back to her impromptu companion. "It's getting late, sir." "Becoming a rider is a choice. You choose to Stand. Usually. Whether you Impress or not is out of your hands, but you make the choice to make it a possibility." That's almost philosophical for a man like H'vier and probably recognizable as such even to people that don't really know him. He's not especially difficult to figure out, after all. "It is." The way he looks at her might suggest he'd like to say something that would suggest him bringing her back to his place. Or she bringing he to hers. But he doesn't. "Welcome to High Reaches, Alais." "True," Alais says musingly. That's all, just filing his bit of philosophy away in her mind for further perusal. She gathers her things, the book and a few papers are cradled in one arm, the other holding her wine, and she rises to her full insubstantial height. "Thank you, H'vier." She turns to go, then turns back with a trace of a smile again. "And thank you too for your comments bordering on the inappropriate," she says, perfectly genuinely. "I'd begun to fear all the warnings I'd gotten about bronzeriders were for naught. It was a pleasure to meet you." And with that she takes her leave. H'vier doesn't respond to that with anything but a grin that suggests he's entirely too pleased with himself. |
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