Logs:Interior Decorating with the Weyrwoman
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| RL Date: 14 June, 2010 |
| Who: Tiriana, Kessian |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Tiriana has shoe issues. |
| Where: Lakeshore |
| When: Day 7, Month 13, Turn 22 (Interval 10) |
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| The wet, heavy snow that's been steady all day has finally relented. It leaves piles and drifts across the bowl, and the brave who venture out to the lake will find that the chill of winter has finally frozen the water, slick and solid. Some are taking advantage of the newly formed ice: couples twirling in slow motion (gag!) and a group of teens, some sliding on boots and an intrepid few braving skates for the first time that year. Kessian is not skating; he's all bundled up and his nose is tucked into his scarf and he's drifting around the edges of the ice, footsteps shadowing him all around the lake. Among those leaving the lakeshore for the moment is Tiriana, but the Weyrwoman first has to get rid of those pesky skates that have her wobbling precariously off the ice and over to a big, snow-covered rock to plop down on. Even then, the skates aren't exactly cooperative, and some air-blackening language ensues as Tiriana tries to pull them off, unlaces them more, tries again, unlaces more, and so forth until finally, at length, she gets one off and throws it down the shore toward Kessian--surely unintentional, that last part. "Damn thing." The profanity might cut through the air, but it's no sharper than the blade of a skate and Kessian's either damned lucky or perceptive to stop right where he does. Considering the slow lift to his brows, the sudden turn to his head, it's likely the former; the skate bounces to a stop and the Healer coughs mildly into the curl of his hand. Bending to pick it up, he angles a look sidelong to trace the skate's path of flight and there, aligned, is Tiriana, so the snow-dusted figure trudges that way. "Your skate," he offers. A double-take in the dim, tacked on sharply: "Ma'am." Tiriana, too busy glowering at the offending skate to bother unlacing the other one right away, shifts her glower after a moment to Kessian himself as he picks it up for her. "Thanks," she says, not quite happily and certainly without reaching for it right away: /now/ she decides to fix the other one, and this time around she unlaces it properly right away, like she should have done from the first. Accordingly, it comes off without a hitch, and--still without taking the other skate back--she fixes Kessian with another look and asks, "Where are my boots?" The hand holding the skate dangles outstretched for a hesitated moment before Kessian drops it to his side, laces looped around his knuckles. Weight shifting to one foot - then the other - then back again, that hitch to his brow moves slightly higher, the pursing of his lips deepening. "I suppose they would be where you left them, Weyrwoman," he murmurs without a hint of humour and a bit of a sigh. "But if you would be so kind," he offers again the skate, "I would help you look for them." "Well," is Tiriana's dry answer to that, though she does take the skate. "What else do you think I'm going to do, wander around in the freezing wet in my socks?" As though this is somehow his fault, she sniffs and eyes the skate now dangling by soaked laces from her fingers before she gestures vaguely at the surrounding snowy terrain. "They're by a rock here somewhere. On this side of the lake, anyway." Kessian replies with the slightest curve of his mouth: "no, naturally not. It wouldn't do to have you catching a cold. But -- a rock, ma'am?" As if searching for confirmation, some wrinkled brow scan of her face to determine whether she's being facetious. He gives the snow - and the lumps underneath it that may or may not be rocks - a perfunctory glance. "Would it be easier for me to simply fetch you another pair of boots from the Weyr?" He gives a faint sniff, unwittingly mimicking her own. Tiriana weighs that answer for a moment, clearly tempted; and her eyes even get that unfocused dragon-rider conversation look in them for a moment before she shrugs. "You know which one's mine?" she asks, though it's not phrased very questioningly. Of course he knows, right? "The other pair's in the entry, by the coat hook on the right." By and large, Kessian would likely prefer a short trip back to the Weyr than to be rooting around in the snow for the next hour, so although his agreement might be a bit strained, it's an agreeable-enough, "I do, Weyrwoman." Only the faintest emphasis on the title. He doesn't trot off right away: instead, he lingers to ask, "You won't lose any toes to frostbite while I'm gone? I don't believe I could carry you back to the infirmary." He adds, a heartbeat later than might be appropriate, "With... all due respect." Tiriana's eyes narrow slightly, and while generally speaking this isn't the best sign, her mouth does kind of half curl into a tiny smirk. Or maybe it's the light. "Are you trying to call me fat or something?" she wonders. "Or are you just that weak?" A sizing-up sort of look seems to settle on the latter, for she waves him off with a gesture and, "/I'll/ be fine, thank you very much. I'm tough enough to handle it." The Healer remains only long enough to receive the dark-haired woman's response. With a soft chuckle - or maybe it's just a sigh - he pads into the dusk with only the crunch of snow underfoot proof that he's heading in the right direction. He does come back. Eventually. He's gone long enough that he's had time to fetch a thermos, too, and two mugs - and yes, those boots, laces knotted so that there's a boot dangling over both front and back. "I don't usually make a habit of startling dragons." Just an observation, made as he hooks his thumb around the knot and swings the boots down toward Tiriana. The arrival of mugs and thermos lifts Tiriana's brows more than anything else. She's folded her feet up under her, cross-legged so her toes stay warm within their socks, and now she twists to eye Kessian and his offerings before reaching for the boots first. "You can't startle Iovniath," she says then, matter-of-fact. "She's smarter than you, and anyway, I told her somebody was coming. As long as you didn't try to mess with anything else?" "/Is/ she," Kessian murmurs, fascinated. "It wouldn't surprise me." He makes a half-hearted effort to brush off a drift of snow caught up on stone; sitting, he draws up his knees so he might balance a mug and pour a cup of something warm and steaming with the scent of chamomile. "I didn't touch a thing, naturally. You think so little of me?" Offers her, first, that mug: twirls the cap back on the thermos. "She's smarter than pretty much everyone, if that makes you feel any better," Tiriana says, almost charitably, as she leans over to take the mug from him. "And yeah, pretty much. You're alone in the middle of the Weyrwoman's weyr, and you don't even want to poke around a little? What kind of boring person is that? /I'd/ do it." Cupping gloves around his own mug, sapping what little warmth might be had from it, Kessian smiles faintly. "The kind who favours his job and newly-appointed position. And limbs intact, should your Iovniath object." It was all in the name of self-preservation, then. Curiously he asks: "Not smarter than you, naturally, Weyrwoman?" Mildly. "She'd object," Tiriana concedes that point as she raises the mug to her lips for a sip. "But she'd leave the limb-rending part just for me. It's my favorite." This is accompanied with a not entirely reassuring smile over the rim of her glass, before she shrugs and lowers it again. "It's... different kind of smarts. She's smart about talking people into doing stuff they don't want to. I'm smart about beating them into it. So if one of us can't get the job done--well." Kessian chuckles into his mug, steam wrapping into the air before dissipating. "You're well-matched, then," he summarizes. "And I don't imagine I'd be likely to get away with much. If anything. And so: boring as I might be, I do keep the use of all my... appendages." A wriggle of his fingers in demonstration, and then a small drink of his own. "Although your decor may be a bit too plush for my preference," he decides. That compliment, such as it is, inspires another lazy smirk on Tiriana's part, and she settles back on her rock with toes wiggling for a moment before she stuffs them down in her retrieved boots. "Too plush?" she challenges that latter comment, though. "Too plush? What, you want to sit around on a cot with one sheet and a fur all day or something? Please." "Why, Weyrwoman," Kessian replies with a widening of his eyes, maybe easy to miss in the dark, and his tone hints at something like wry wit, "I am currently stationed in your Weyr's very own resident's quarters. All I /have/ is a cot with one sheet and a fur. What else shall I compare it to?" Tiriana snorts at that, dismissive of his objections. "So?" she challenges. "You can still make it homier. /I/ did, anyway, back when I lived in the dorms. The candidate and weyrling ones, anyway--I never actually did the resident dorms. And /those/ were always worse than the real dorms; at least in the real ones, you get the littler rooms and stuff, so it's not just one huge-ass room." In his defense, deferring: "I've a tapestry on the wall. And it's not as though I spend so much time in my room that it's in /need/ of redecorating." At her last words, maybe for the unexpected curse, he breathes a puff of laughter. "I do, at least, have my own. I'm not in a huge-ass room. If I may, it is hard to imagine you living in such confined spaces with others." "Used to," Tiriana confines, "back at Ierne with my daddy, had half the weyr to myself. And then I got stuck at Telgar with my aunt and uncle and their kids and it beat the dorms because at least they're /family/ and I am /not/ living with a bunch of--of commoners." The very thought! Her nose wrinkles up even now, before she shrugs. "But now I got the place to myself--well, me and R'uen, and the dragons of course--and I am going to enjoy it." Which she apparently plans on doing now, for she stands up and turns that way. "Thanks," is tacked on, with the lift of one foot to indicate the fresh boots; the other pair's left behind somewhere in the snow when she turns to trek home. Maybe they'll turn up before spring. Maybe. Kessian listens very politely to all of that, chin tipped sideways. He watches her stand to leave, and tilts his head to follow the motion; remains behind with his mug, regardless, and offers a quiet, "You're welcome." And stays there for some time before he, too, gets up - kicking at the snow, here or there, on his way back, maybe looking for those boots. Alas: no boots. So instead, Kessian goes to bed. |
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