Logs:Lead By Example
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| RL Date: 28 April, 2013 |
| Who: Mave, Azaylia |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: While stepping in for a downed kitchens worker, Azaylia teaches Mave proper work ethic. Yes. That's what happens. |
| Where: Kitchens, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 19, Month 8, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air. |
| Mentions: Barnabas/Mentions |
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| Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr Polished marble and granite surfaces, gleaming metalwork and pale woods characterize the vaulted fastness of the kitchen. Several large hearths gape red-mouthed against the outer wall of the cavern, their fires almost always stoked for the constant cooking the Weyr requires to feed its denizens. Sinks line the wall to one side of the hearths, providing ample space to wash large quantities of dishes, while to the other, cabinetry and a deep pantry provide storage space for items commonly needed on a day-to-day basis. The remaining wall space is taken up by passageways and extra seating: swinging doors that lead variously to the main living cavern, the inner caverns and the storage rooms, a counter-height pass-through for food service to the Snowasis, and a series of nooks equipped with tables and benches for quick, out-of-the-way meals any time of day. "The sharding dish was chipped-- " "It's broken now..." "Anea, go on to the healers, then." From the dish-washing station near back, Mave rests her chin against her shoulder, watching as her washing-mate's stolen away by a nasty slice between her thumb and forefinger. The plate in question's been detained, marked to be sent off; the girl morbidly contemplates if it were aware of its fate, sitting there wondering to itself if it feels fixable or not-- whose right is it to determine?-- before a splash of water brings her 'round to her new double-duty. No one can be pulled off of clean-up in the caverns for the time being, leaving her to whip the drying towel over her shoulder and manage both wet and dry. As she drives her hand into the soapy water, she wonders, far too late, if there are any other dishes of the broken kind waiting to snap from the depths. "Amfia?" The injured's name does it's best to be heard from around a mouthful of meatroll, Azaylia following the progress of one who's only vaguely familiar. The rushed chewing slows, chugging along as her thoughts pace as she tries to place the wounded teen's face. With her mind and mouth occupied, her feet are able to weave a non-intrusive path closer to dish washing station. "Mave." It's not as certain as she'd like, willing to take a gamble in not asking beforehand. "Are you sure they got all of it? Here, you want me to..." The weyrwoman falters, fingers dusting themselves free of crumbs before plunging both hands into the water. It's more of an apology when paired with that small smile, "Just until they're able to get someone else?" Does the girl mind? It may be why she's just feeling at the bottom of the basin, at first. Three arms extended in causes the washing water to jump up with rising splashes, lapping at the sink's boundaries. Mave yanks her own out, flicking excess soap suds passively at both females. "Azaylia," she greets with proper respect for the goldrider's position, bobbing her head and a smile as she wraps her hand in a towel. No more sharp edges come out to bite anyone; it's just for drying in preparation for the dishes handed to her. "She dropped it on the floor just after getting cut, so you're more likely to step on something." No problem for the girl's thick soled sandals, but she sways back to glance down; she gets about halfway before deciding, if anyone, the weyrwoman has it under control so sets her sights on the sinks. Igen inspired slippers offer minimal defense against plate shards, prompting Azaylia to glance down as Mave does. Her attention lifts, synchronized and worth a soft laugh, "Thank you for the warning." The first inching of her hand beneath the surface is slow. Only when her fingers are greeted by smooth ceramic edge does she begin to move with careless efficiency. There's little worry for wetting the pale sundress she wears, "So..." Small talk isn't terribly agonizing, at least not in the way Mave might expect, "I hear you've been getting beaten up by big hairy men." That much quiet cheer is intentional, made all the more obvious by her pinched lips, losing the battle against a smile. Given who her weyrfriend is, the goldrider's knowledge of such things shouldn't be too much of a surprise. "Oh, just the one," sing-songs Mave matter-of-factly in return, though her cheeks brighten sheepishly a moment first to have potentially been spoken about, "I like to start things off slow." Cutting the side of her hand through the air to demonstrate the bottom level on which she's begun; it's joking, and soon discarded for the easy-going promptness of her work. A sneaky glance out of the corner of her eye marks the smile on the goldrider, letting the last of the girl's already fading self-consciousness vanish as if it never existed. "Although, maybe I should step it up. He says he's gonna grow a man out of me, but I tell ya," reaching back from the dish she's been drying, she smacks herself on the breast, leaving a trace of water there, "I'm just not feelin' it." "He would." is fond enough, gentle exhale one of casual resignation without any of the annoyance one might expect. That ran out long ago. Azaylia is in no rush, though there's an effort to keep Mave's towel in motion as busy as the teen's mouth. "I don't think that's very fair of him. Taking a cute little girl and turning her into a smelly man. Doesn't the Weyr have enough of those?" It would sound so much more empowering-- worthy of their Acting Weyrleader, if spoken with any sort of conviction. Really, the few bubbles floating to freedom likely have more weight to them than her playful words. "Maybe it's an infiltration thing," remarks Mave with as much carelessness; idle chatter while work carries on briskly throughout, "If I'm still me inside, I can sneak amongst them and find out what they really think." A wrinkle of her nose rings truer as to the male of the species being somewhat beyond her grasp, but she clings not long to worry of that. Between dishes, she watches one of those bubbles, reaches out a hand and, with two fingers, flicks at one. It pops. Azaylia does her best to stifle a laugh, the first quiet hiccup kept at bay behind tightly pursed lips. It halts her hands for only a moment, damning enough as that is before the scrubbed dish is offered to dry. "You," Voice only slightly strained, "Make it sound like it's hard to figure out what they really think." Victory is granted in the light clearing of her throat, smile aimed at the bubble that isn't there seconds later. Only after she's thought about it does she concede, "Well. After they grow up a little." She's a bastion of maturity, dipping into the pile of bubbles nearby and flicking them into the air. She aims to give Mave more to pop, but the weighty, white pile may not be so accommodating. There'd almost be admiration in Mave's eyes if not for the general understanding that, naturally, Azaylia knows better. Her glance to the weyrwoman's merely a polite bit of eye-contact between dishes, as she hums in the back of her throat. "Older men," she considers soberly, "That's a tho-- " a clump of soapy discharge makes a break for it, jumping over the side of the tub from Azaylia's flick, and dropping with a heavy plop on Mave's reaching hand. "-- ught..." Without quite thinking at all, not even a small glimmer of teenager's vengeance, Mave jerks her hand to free the suds, whipping them off of her and straight at Azaylia's upper shoulder and chest. "Oh!" It's not so terrible, and still Azaylia feels the need to apologize for bubbling up Mave's hand. "Sorr--" Another sharp inhale, this time with a tell-tale squeak of shock as the low ruffle of her sundress is covered in suds. Surprise isn't worn for long, the weyrwoman's face already dropping into something far more mischievous. And then back up, scrunched in mock annoyance as fingers are flicked of excess water in order to try and dust... wipe? However one gets rid of bubbles, she attempts to save her dress. In one of those clearing strokes she reaches too far, intentionally grabbing up a pile and lobbing them at Mave! "Oh." A caricature of her earlier, genuine gasp, "Sorry!" Hands are back in the water, as if to wash away the crime as well as the girl's short term memory. Who dunnit? With a wet slop, soap suds smack Mave in the cheek, quickly dripping down her shirt collar as she stands there, lightly dazed. Sliding the back of her hand across the spot, she surrenders to Azaylia's purported industry, smoothing out a towel in preparation for the next dish. So eager is she to return to business that she extends a hand for the plate too soon, finding fingers over the sudsy water so that, as she goes to retreat to rectify the enthusiastic mistake, some heavy bubbles are batted straight back onto the weyrwoman. "Oh," chimes in the younger voice, carrying much of Azaylia's tone, "It's nothing!" All's quite forgiven. There's a hurry to busy those hands before Mave gets a chance to retaliate, not that it does Azaylia any good. A dish is still half submerged when her fingers spread in a jolt of shock, plate harmlessly drifting back to the bottom of the basin. The weyrwoman traps a shriek behind tight lips, face scrunched as bubbles cling to the damp fabric at her chest and her nearest arm. Lips are set to rolling, landing on a pursed battle against a grin, "Assaulting a weyrwoman." She accuses for absurdities sake, doing nothing to hide her intent as another handful is aimed to leave a sudsy print on Mave's cheek. "Shouldn't you be drying?" The hypocrisy finally does her in, scolding words littered with guilty laughter. The giggle that the shriek elicits is swallowed quickly by Mave's hastily reticent teeth at Azaylia's accusation. But the slap and bubble of fingers leaving soapy streak-marks on her face drops Mave's jaw with a budding of disbelieving enthusiasm. "My face or the dishes?" She retorts, a flicker of hesitance laid waste by the laughter she's hearing. A spying glance gives her the weyrwoman, as well as lets her pointedly lift the back of her hand to cautiously touch her cheek, as though expecting a bitter wound. "And here I was only following the weyrwoman's example." Drifting her weight to her further foot, she settles into a few seconds of dedicated work pattern, leaving a fair bit of the smear still dribbling down her jawline and onto her higher shoulder. "Both, probably." Not as flippant as she'd like, Azaylia has gone and given in to genuine delight at their sudsy mischief. Hearing her title twice in a row proves to have some effect, the weyrwoman turning towards their shared chore just as Mave does. Only in the din of their unspoken truce does the goldrider notice that drip-drip-drip out of the corner of her eye, a curious squint given to the teen. Her nearest hand lifts and gives a few slow, deliberate shakes, an effort to get dry that she'd rather not have mistaken for another assault. When it's only damp and not dripping, she reaches for one of the topmost, sheer layers of her sundress in order to give Mave's cheek a quick swipe. Damage undone, there's little evidence of their shenanigans... other than a few soapy splashes by their feet and the impish skew to Azaylia's smile. |
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