Logs:Louvaen Likes Lambics. Livestock? Less.
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| RL Date: 30 January, 2008 |
| Who: Leova, Louvaen |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Louvaen is a salesman. Leova talks to him anyway. |
| Where: Path Between TIllek and the Seacraft Hall |
| When: Day 16, month 2, Turn 15, of the Interval. A winter afternoon. |
| OOC Notes: Very first L&L log. |
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| Path Between Tillek and the Seacraft Hall The path widens here, where three ways meet. To the east the ramp is visible. A fairly level path curving around to the north runs around the hold, eventually reaching the beach. It is sheltered by conifers, and looks like a pleasant walk. Though travel here is easy going, the path south to the fireheights begins its upward climb, and looks as if it could be a bit steep. Tall pines all around this small cleared area provide shelter from the wind, and with a small bench to one side, this is a relaxing place to sit. A well-worn path leads southeast to the Seacraft Hall, entering the craft's courtyard. It's a rare blue-skied day in winter, warm enough that it could snow, clear enough not to. Even the wind is just a whisper here along the path and its protective conifers, although it nips at their branches and sets them shivering, dropping the occasional evergreen needle along the way. The woman who's stolen the bench has them scattered along her boots and in her hair where she sits sideways, knees up and face all but hidden in her lifted collar, stropping a fine whittling knife Likely it is that uncommonly blue sky that has Louvaen moving at an idle stroll along the path, coming northwest from the Crafthall's courtyard. There's a light satchel that he wears, its strap slung diagonally across his body so as to leave his hands free for stuffing into his pockets. His gaze is roving, mostly turned upwards to watch the breeze shivering through the branches, but it eventually falls upon the figure of the woman on the bench. Head tipping at a curious cant, the young man lifts a hand from its pocket to offer a wave as he nears. "Good afternoon," he bids with a smile. Leova doesn't look up at first, focused on finishing her stroke, lifting the blade vertically from the leather when the movement's complete. She begins to start another pass, even, but nobody else has answered, so the knife pauses. Now she looks over. "Afternoon," she agrees, her voice a little husky from disuse or just something she's born with, her gaze stopped on the man and his fine feathers. Her mouth curves up. Louvaen stops once he's beside the bench. There's an element of curiosity that remains about his features and eyes as he returns her gaze, notes the turning of her mouth. "I don't recall meeting you before... I'm Louvaen," he introduces himself, taking one more step forward to bring his offered hand into her range. It's only now that his gaze flicks towards her knife in afterthought. "Lou... vaen." Leova's smile deepens, then vanishes. "You don't look like a cousin," she says, only to dismiss the thought with a, "No. I don't think we have. Louvaen." She glances quizzically at his hand, and then at her own, and there's a long moment where she could question the man... but finally sets the blade on its flat to return his grasp. Bits of oil-slick abrasive and all. Now it's just her eyes that are laughing. "Cousins?" Cautious amusement mingles with curiosity in his voice. Her pause almost has Louvaen withdrawing his hand, and by the brief look that flashes across his face at the touch of her dirtied palm, he may have wished he had. Still, the sentiment does not extend to his touch as he holds her fingers with gentle firmness. The laughter in her eyes brings a lopsided smile back to his lips. "No, you don't have to worry," Leova reassures him, even as she tugs slightly, testingly against his grasp. She adds, "It shouldn't stain." Louvaen relinquishes her hand upon the tug, lifting his palm up for inspection. "That is reassuring," he says dryly. A quiet sigh lifts his chest as he rubs his fingers together. There's a sly light in his eyes as his gaze lifts back to the woman on the bench. "I believe you've completely taken the advantage over me," he notes with bemusement. Leova watches him a moment, then turns back to her work, but she's barely halfway through the next pass when he speaks again. She doesn't look up. Not until afterward, and that with a sidelong glance. "/I/ believe... that you sell yourself short. And why would you do a thing like that?" A short laugh chuckles from Louvaen's throat, humor dancing in his eyes. "It is more forgivable to sell one's self short, then to oversell, I'd think." With a sidestep he perches himself on the edge of the bench beyond her feet. "But, you do have my name and I've yet to receive yours. Plus it seems you've taken some amusement at my expense," he waggles the fingers of his dirtied hand in emphasis. "Perhaps..." Leova draws her boots closer, further from him, as he sits. Just as well, they smell of the stables. But with greater, genuine startlement, "Didn't I? I meant to. Leova. From Granite Hold," adding a chin-nod to her knot. "And I apologize. Although not for the rest, as you offered, and your fingers must be the softer for it, hm?" "I did offer," Louvaen admits, his slicked fingertips worrying together again, "though I don't know that my hands need the softening." With a shake of his head, he brings up his own foot to rest on the bench and drapes his elbow over the knee. "Granite Hold..." an eye squints in thought. "Away in the mountains, isn't it? What brings you down to the coast, Leova?" Leova preoccupies herself with strop and blade, checking the angle just until it begins to bite into the leather before reversing direction and pulling it away from her more firmly. Which doesn't mean she can't give him an askance look from beneath her lashes and slightly lowered brows. "Business." The stroke completes. "There's a mare in foal." She turns the blade so she can look at its edge. "You know it? What do you do?" Louvaen's eyes are distracted by the blade skimming along the leather, his fingers still rubbing absently together as he watches and listens. "Just the name, really," he says in reference to her home hold. "I work in trade - mostly by ship, but recently I've been helping my cousin so that's brought me inland on occasion. I was at the Weyr a few sevendays ago." Without pause, he continues on to question: "So, you raise runners? Work, or... riding?" For the first time Leova laughs, rich and free, although she cuts it off and clamps it down with just a short, "I would have guessed," as reason. She makes another pass with the knife, starts on another. "Work. Wagons, mostly, though the culls go to plow. They have a fine stud here. What do you trade in?" Leova's laughter stretches a broad smile on Louvaen's face. "Should I be flattered or offended?" he muses affably at her claimed guess. Nodding more soberly at her talk of runners, his un-dirtied hand reaches up to comb back through his hair. "Huh. Interesting. I'm afraid I don't know much about livestock. On the ship, I mostly help with the record keeping," he explains. "The cargo is rather variable, but I help with sales when I can. As for my cousin, he's a journeyman brewer so it's beer from him." "Whichever makes you happier, of course," Leova returns, temporarily setting blade and strop aside so she can better rummage in her belt pouch. A moment later, she tosses him a bleached flutter of cloth that turns out to be a handkerchief. "That sounds like the sort of thing that sells. Is his good, really? I'm not your market. You can tell me." "Hmm," is Louvaen's amused response to her advice. He blinks in surprise as she tosses something to him, catching it in his clean hand. Once he shakes it out and finds a handkerchief, he darts a look back at Leova. "Thank you." Mopping up his slicked fingers, he gives a little shrug. "We've been building our client base steadily. Some of it is really good, I think. The older stuff, his ales, is too bitter for my palate. I think they mostly appeal to the fishermen here. But the lambics," he touches a hand to his chest, rolling his eyes up. "Oh, they are amazing. Unfortunately, some of them need three years to age, so we're just getting to the point where we have enough ready to shop around." Leova just ducks her head in a you're-welcome, that's all, gaze dropped to cleaning the little knife. It turns out she had brought a small waterskin, hidden beneath her leather work apron. "How do you sell something you don't like?" she asks. "Three Turns seems like forever. Though it shouldn't. I don't know much about lambics either. Are they hoppy?" Louvaen is still wiping at his fingers, perhaps obsessively so, as he watches Leova work with her knife. "I may not like something personally, but if I can talk about its characteristics so those that like them can identify it as what they like..." He gives another little shrug, finally looking down to see the progress of his cleaning. "Perhaps luckily, his main ale is on contract at the Waverider, so it's mostly the lambics that I'm dealing with. They aren't particularly bitter. The brewing process can lead to them tasting less hoppy then the amount of hops used may be expected to lead to, I've been told. They've a more smooth and dry finish." The rest of the process is just the usual: cleaning her own hands, drying and lightly oiling the blade, replacing everything. "But can you talk about it with conviction?" Leova looks at him again, while he's looking down. "You might." She snaps a buckle, is reminded. "And. What name does he sell under? I'll try one. Next time I'm in the Waverider. I'm sorry; I need to go check on her." Louvaen smiles, his eyebrows lofting, and looks back up as she considers his sales technique. "Dolpho." Is the answer to her question. "Furious IPA is the bitter one that is usually on tap, but you may catch one of others as a seasonal right now." Since Leova mentions her need to leave, he gives a final scrub to his fingers and then reaches her handkerchief back towards her. "Not at all, I would hate to keep you. I hope everything goes smoothly." Leova's forehead wrinkles. "I... P... A... Dolpho I can do. It helps if they are easy to remember, you know." She lifts her boots up enough to swing them over, knees flexing nearly in a creak, finally making it all the way down with a thump before she takes the handkerchief. "Ugh. Been sitting here too long. It should go all right, she's not due to foal for a couple months yet and it's her third. But thanks.... Louvaen." A sympathetic expression twists on Louvaen's face at her creaking and thumping of legs. He's more graceful as he edges his one foot off the bench and flows to his feet, standing to bid her farewell. "You're welcome," he says warmly, bowing his head slightly. "Perhaps I shall see you again, if you are here awhile. It's been a pleasure meeting you, Leova." Leova scrutinizes him a moment, the stablehand looking on the well-dressed, well-to-do trader, the trader who had bowed even if only a little. She gives him a curious little smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes. "Visit the stables if you want," Leova offers as though they were a foreign hold, then turns to head resolutely down the path to the meadow and the pens below. |
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