Logs:Most Don't
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| RL Date: 24 February, 2014 |
| Who: R'hin, Telavi |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: R'hin's incognito at the Woodcraft, but then there's (a grumpy) Telavi. |
| Where: Woodcraft Hall |
| When: Day 3, Month 2, Turn 34 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: G'gor/Mentions, Sabella/Mentions |
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| Woodcraft Hall A recent snowfall has layered the place in yet more white, though the paths are dark after a fresh shoveling, crafters wandering along them now and again-- and then the larger track of the road, less shoveled than stomped down in a long stripe with a splotch of Solith-green at the end of it. She's enjoying herself; the rider who's currently pacing beneath the roof of the porch has her hands thrust in her pockets and her chin ducked to the collar of her coat, her own expression quite contrary to the green's. Walking along the road from the Hold is what at first glance might look to be a Master and his apprentice; the elder walks confidently, murmuring something to the younger, who looks somewhat nervous and keeps glancing over his shoulder. They're dressed in relatively plain, serviceable sort of clothes, apt for the weather, boots crunching over the snow. The older man stops and slows a handful of steps over becoming aware of the green; not immediately enough to be noticed, perhaps, and turns as if suddenly falling into deep conversation with the apprentice. He doesn't seem to be noticed, not right away, but there is a sudden mini-avalanche of snow falling off the very edge of the porch, courtesy of Telavi's boot, and more importantly there is a Solith-nose reaching out in open curiosity, along with a pause from how she tromps that road-snow into submission. People. It makes Telavi look, and then narrow her eyes against the sun-glare off snow and... that jacket. That's familiar. The 'apprentice' is clapped on the back, hard enough for him to stagger a moment, and a moment later he turns and takes off roughly Hold-ward back up the road, though he kind of diverges slightly off the road on the way, crunching into the snow. The older man lets out a long exhale, breath clouding as he heads directly for Solith. He pauses as he nears, lifts his head to regard her, and there's the slight, respectful nod towards the dragon, before he turns on a heel to clomp, obviously, towards the porch. R'hin's not dressed like a rider -- no matching leathers or thick riding gloves -- yet there's no knot to indicate his affiliation. One of them is not wearing the jacket from the stores, and that one would be Telavi, whose brow hasn't entirely lost its perturbed furrow, but whose hands now rest on the sheltered rail to watch his ascent. She could greet him by name, now, and loudly; rather, lofted down to him like an audible snowflake, "Fancy meeting you here." Tela adds, "She appreciates it. Most don't." Acknowledge her, perhaps. She could, but she doesn't, and R'hin returns the favor, such that it is. "It's no coincidence at all; I've been following you." The bronzerider says it with complete sincerity; the glitter of pale, intent eyes is just par for the course as he draws to a halt next to her, head tipped down. The latter earns an almost dismissive, "Dragons deserve respect," it's a phrase-oft-repeated it would seem, and he glosses over it swiftly enough with the deliberate distraction of the speculation that follows: "So. Let me guess. A carved wooden chair...? No. A love seat to fit at the foot of your bed...?" "Oh dear," Telavi says brightly. "Let me sound the alarm." If she hadn't tipped her face up to see him, the better to exemplify wide-eyed dismay-- if interrupted by a nod for that respect-- it wouldn't be quite so obvious when the reminder turns her expression grouchy again. "Either of those would be simpler. Can you believe, they burned on the wrong initial?" "Let me brace myself." For the alarm, presumably, which involves putting non-gloved hands over his ears, because, well... when nothing happens, R'hin pushes them back into the pockets of that jacket for warmth. "Oh. You mean you don't spell Tela...vi, with a em?" "I don't, as a matter of fact," Telavi says, all mock-amazed, rattling her fingertips on the rail despite the evident cold; it'd likely seem idle to one who doesn't know drum code, and even then, it's not as though she seems to be paying attention. "Actually, it's that they made a 'G' into a 'Q.'" The frown darkens before she erases it, just a lurking line at the edges of her mouth. "How about you and your... apprentice?" "Well, that's clearly the obvious mistake on your part." R'hin leans back for a moment, head tipped. "Gee, hm? Like, G'chet? Gus..tro, the cook? Or G'gor, but he got sent south with the rest of Polaris. Or maybe... Ghislaith, but what a dragon would want with a chair is beyond me, but I've seen stranger things in my time." He frees his hands long enough to clap them together, presumably for warmth, which might be why he goes up onto tiptoes and back, grinning wholeheartedly. "I don't know what you're implying; I'm perfectly capable of spelling." Green-today eyes narrow, and Telavi crosses her arms like she's just not eager to be cozened-- which doesn't mean that the set of her mouth doesn't lighten somewhat anyway. "Journeyman Speller. Congratulations." No dimple. No dimple. No dimple. "And no, Melavi sounds far too much like melons. Is he a... nephew, then? Friend? Does his name start with 'G'?" No dimple. Where her mouth sets, his bends into an amused smile. His obtuseness (and obstinacy) is clearly deliberate. "Don't dismiss it," R'hin says, "My apprenticeship in spelling involved lots of whacks across my knuckles." Then: "Who? Oh! Oh," like he's just remembered, and, "Yes, I'd better go see that he hasn't gotten himself... something." And he's stepping off the porch as if in haste. And what does Telavi do? Snags and compacts a handful of snow and tosses it after him. That snowball splatters directly against R'hin's back, but the jacket probably protects him from the worst of it. With a look over his shoulder that seems quietly amused, he says, "You threw the wrong thing. You're supposed to throw yourself at me. Next time?" Now, he's heading up the road, past Solith with a twitch of fingers. Finally, involuntarily, laughter. Even if Telavi has her arms crossed. And there is no dimple. Solith? Once he goes past, it's back to delighted, delighted scraping and stomping... even if it's just in time for it to gradually start snowing all over again. |
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