Logs:Neighbors
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| RL Date: 15 08 |
| Who: Kh'tyr, N'rov, Mograith, Vhaeryth |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Kh'tyr imposes upon his new neighbor, N'rov, while moving in. |
| Where: Vhaeryth's Ledge and Kh'tyr's Perfect If You Squint Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 17, Month 8, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Lilah/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Also finally finished, back-dated! |
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>---< Kh'tyr's Perfect If You Squint Weyr, Fort Weyr(#1957Rs$) >-------------<
It's a small weyr with an ever-so-slightly slanted floor making the
whole weyr seem like it could slide down the incline and land in a muddled
mess on the ledge without at any moment. A dragon-passable curtain
separates the space from ledge to weyr, wall hooks and shelves carved into
the rock for storing all the dragon-care necessities.
As one walks into the weyr, the right side is dominated by the
cushioned wallow reserved for the draconic occupant with a hearth straight
back at the highest and deepest point of the weyr with tall rather than
wide storage cabinets on either side and a table for two set some paces
before it.
On the left side is a line of sliding doors that seem to have been
designed with just the right amount of weight that they can hold their
position even on the slight incline. Between the six individual panels
that slide on a ceiling track, one can completely close off the rider's
'quaint' space to give the (very unreal) illusion of privacy. Center of
the rider's space is a murphy bed hanging from broad, sturdy chains with
large hooks above so the bed can be more or less pushed up to clear more
floor space if the rider has the want. An Igen area rug is spread under
the bed (even if it has to push up against the walls uncomfortably where
it curves) and extends to the dresser on the left and the desk and chair
on the right. The double bubble ledge with its twin divots that look like they couldn't be possible for any dragon larger than a small blue or green and has thus been vacant for some time has seen a sudden surge of activity. The comings and goings of the angular, pale brown hauling furniture has made the future occupant clear since there's no pretty green puppeting him about in evidence. For the keen observer, Kh'tyr has dramatically explained with wild flaps of arms and points and shouts to the brown where and what he ought to be doing or not doing with the rider's items with every delivery, and surely his lavender shirt stands out against the dark stone of the ledge and weyr beyond. A colorful new neighbor to say the least. An intrusive one to say more since the brown angles toward Vhaeryth's ledge, a pop and sizzle of brilliant white-gold light heralding Mograith's landing. It's not the easiest ledge to land on at the best of times; if Vhaeryth had been lounging in the sun, disinclined to oblige a flash in the pan, this might have been a much shorter tale. As it is, having made room for Oryth to retrieve his rider a while beforehand and not bothered to move, there's space; he does mirror-upon-mirrror that light up a notch, bright enough to blind one less accustomed to such matters than the brown. That's hello. Because he can. Mograith shows his teeth as he lands on the ledge. He's smiling, really. "Hey-o!" Kh'tyr's deep voice carries the greeting in a way that's not yelling but can definitely be heard. Possibly, possibly, it could've been heard from the neighboring if not truly nearby ledge that Mograith and he have laid claim to. It's a greeting as much for the dragon as for his man, wherever he might be. Vhaeryth yawns. It's a grand, gaping yawn fitting for the summer's afternoon and the low rumble that underlies it. It's also no coincidence that his rider's emerging with a, "Yeah?" that precedes his visible existence; gray eyes are narrowed against the light, it must be. "Moving in," Kh'tyr jerks a thumb toward the ledge in question. "Happen to have pliers I can borrow? The bed's stuck." Mograith, for his part, simply looks at Vhaeryth, a soft tickle of fur in the mental space carrying his surface bemusement. N'rov eyes the shaggy-haired man longer than the flicked-at ledge; then, "It's been a while. Yeah. Yeah, I do." His gaze scans his dragon, the other man's dragon, and he scratches his opposite shoulder as he heads back inside. There's a yawn somewhere in there, more audible to dragons than humans, and some clinking. Vhaeryth lets it be known, through a tingling, wrinkling sensation after that fur, that he could sneeze. He could. When N'rov re-emerges, he's got a few things with him, and no longer barefoot. "Big or small?" Mograith might dare him, if he could be bothered to do anything at all. "Big," is decisive. "Do the pliers happen to come with a conveniently present set of hands that can be bought for the price of a bottle of Igen brew?" Harder than beer, to be sure. Kh'tyr seems to know the currency of moving in though. "It would be a faster job with two." N'rov's got a hint of a smirk at that, if hinted-at at the moment less from subtlety than lingering sleepiness; now that he's further from the weyr, the better light reveals a crease-mark across his cheek as from a pillow. He glances back over his shoulder, back to where that pillow's waiting. But, "Don't mind giving you a hand. The Igen'll make up for the landing," That last comes with a dry smile, as he drops the larger implement into the bag and, while he's at it, the smaller too. "N'rov; Vhaeryth." "As it suits you," Kh'tyr lifts a peaceable hand. As long as it only costs him the bottle of Igen brew, N'rov can explain what it buys as he sees fit. "Kh'tyr and Mograith." He gestures to the brown. "Want a lift over or you'll come on your own?" The man asks, mind clearly focused at the anticipated task than the matter of general introductions and small talk. N'rov waves them off, turning to his dragon by answer; he doesn't bother with straps, though there is another yawn along the way; while they're waiting for Mograith, Vhaeryth swivels his head all the way around and half-snorts, half just breathes into his rider's face. N'rov half-snorts, half-laughs, and then the bronze turns to eye the other ledge. From this vantage, would it take much more than a leap? Mograith only leaves his ledge to make room for Vhaeryth because Kh'tyr visibly shoos him off before retreating to the mouth of the weyr to ensure there's no unfortunate Rider Jam to clean from the ledge. The brown's flight is fluid and perhaps it will already prove unsurprising to the bronze pair that he lands a few ledges below and sprawls himself into a position that doesn't look like it could possibly be comfortable with apparently no mind to who the ledge belongs to while his is otherwise occupied. "Grateful for the help," Kh'tyr manages that much in the way of casual gratitude as he leads in up the slight incline that heads into the weyr. "Yeah, sure," as in sure thing; Vhaeryth's already taking flight behind them, not to his own ledge but up to the Rim where he can shake out his wings as though that cramped space still lingered, and start grooming his smoky hide. N'rov pokes the ridge between the bubbles with his toe, then walks along it, unhurried. "Nice to move in summer," he adds with an eye for where a sheltering curtain's not hanging. "Here, maybe; hotter than the bowels of Rukbat in Igen,"Kh'tyr answers in a way that manages to be both offhanded and emphatic. He's not unclean but on second or third glance one might take in the signs of having worked hard today in the creases of his clothes and the lines where dust has settled thanks to sweat in the fine lines on his brow. "Fortian by Impression or by birth?" is the first small talk question the man asks of him as he walks up the slight incline into the slanted weyr and toward the sliding doors that stand open to reveal the half-up/half-down murphy bed held by sturdy chains at the foot end and fold down supports that look serviceable if in need of some grease to ease their storage and use. To get out, "Even better," offhanded and lazily amused. N'rov's got a whiff of firestone about him, though he'd changed from leathers. "By Impression. Boll from birth," and still primarily by accent. He gives the contraption a professional look-over even as he digs out the larger of the pliers. "You and Igen?" "By Impression; Nerat can claim me as its own," if it dares says his tone. Kh'tyr moves to examine the hitch in the chain, one link bizarrely caught onto another. "Spent some of my misguided youth hereabouts at one of the Halls before I claimed my freedom at Igen." There's a laugh at that, less bitter than it is bemused by the jokes of the universe. "And here now because of a promise to a woman who isn't." He eyes the chain and then reaches out a hand without looking to N'rov, "Pliers." Stat. "Which one?" stands for both. N'rov, still considering the chain in his own right, doesn't so much set the pliers into Kh'tyr's hand as tap their handle firmly into his palm; the brownrider can take it, them, from there. Given that he's provided a set, Kh'tyr answers only for one, "The one that talk their feet down their throats and lack the necessary training to remove them without damage." This, as the man is working at one of the links with the pliers. "You never made that sort of mistake, did you? Committing your youth to someone or something undeserving?" S...mall talk? Perhaps what passes as for the odd brownrider. Left to his own devices, N'rov checks for any other kinks in the chain, for whether those props squeak when the joint's moved, for anything else that catches his interest; then he messes with the supports some more. "None of that for me, much as I might have liked." And some more. Amused, "Though there was a blonde once... for five days short of a seven." And more, especially if it squeaks. "Have any grease?" "It is quite the wild ride, especially when you're too young, dumb and cocksure to see the truths when you're faced with them." Kh'tyr allows this much to answer N'rov's hypothetical liking, "I always preferred brunettes to blondes when I had my choice and redheads are always trouble." The squeaking and question of grease has Kh'tyr pausing in his task and leaning to look. "Why would you want to be rid of a perfectly tunes squeak? Sounds like... 'Sleeeeeeep' to me." He gives the sound a voice. "Sound reminder; I do sometimes forget." "Trouble," N'rov agrees right off, though his baritone lends it an ambiguous quality: one that stems from the earlier-thought and only now noted, "You did say 'undeserving.' Anyway, it's all yours." He even steps back, if after a final squeak. "It can hardly be a misguided youth if whoever or whatever has garnered your commitment is deserving," Kh'tyr answers after a 'tch.' "It is. Woe to any woman who tries to make it hers. Or man for that matter." The way he says it doesn't indicate a preference if he has one, seeming to consider both genders equally ill-destined if they should make the attempt. "Are you a good guide as they go?" "Although, there's also going about it in a misspent sort of way," N'rov speculates, which may or may not mean the brunette is (was) safe. He ambles away, looking around the place, if with a brief glance back as the other man goes on. "Horrible. I have no proper appreciation for the Fountain in all its tastefulness, nor Dice with its exquisitely tiny ledge. Give me a walk-up bar and I'm good." "Did you waste what time you had committed to someone or something?" Kh'tyr's brows lift, pausing as he finishes wrenching open the link of the chain with a grunt. "Do you want to put your shoulder to the bed or straighten the links while I do?" At least he's offering the bronzerider the choice of duties. "I could probably find a prettier guide anyway," the brownrider decides with a cursory once-over of the bronzerider. "Still, I know a walk-up bar or two that might suit for a drink; I hear this bunch of weyrlings might drive me to it, as is the wont of weyrlings world-over." He speaks with the voice of experience. "Nothing worth taking back," says the man still early in the prime of his life, who can afford it. N'rov has an easy shrug to accompany his return, and as long as Kh'tyr has his pliers anyway, the bronzerider crouches enough to stabilize the bed with the lift of his knees; it's not like it's the weight of the world. From there, as he keeps an eye on what Kh'tyr's trying, "Take your time. Find five. Ten even." Guides, bars, and as for weyrlings (dryly), "Not your first time?" "What can I say, I like my riders in their prime for being misguided." There's a sort of pop-clunk and the weight of the bed (not insignificant) settles on the volunteer holder while Kh'tyr makes quick work of straightening the chain and putting the link back, provided N'rov's shoulder gives him enough slack to work with. "You ever--?" With the misguided youths of the Weyr. "Are you a worthy guide for finding guides?" is then wondered. "Pretty face with some thoughts to rub together?" Matchmaker, matchmaker~ N'rov chuckles on cue, and belatedly rolls his eyes sideways, the better (if not much better, not at this angle) to check for would-be splinters for shirt or skin. "Train weyrlings? Some. Never did write the essay," however that relates. When the chinking noises have stopped, he checks, "Done?" before he'll step out and efficiently ease it down into place. Regardless, he'll also name a couple names for Kh'tyr, no more; possibly he has his own unmentioned, or even unmentionable, traits to add to the list. Kh'tyr's tongue clicks in scold. "If I were any part still Harper, I'd have to tell you that the essay is the most important part." He infuses his tone with the utmost seriousness. "Done." He agrees, giving the chain one more assessing tug before offering the pliers back to N'rov. "Thanks for the help." And now that bottle of Igen brew. He moves to fetch it from one of the crates. It looks like he has more than one that is strictly bottles of the stuff. It's of decent quality, even, if N'rov is a connoisseur (if he's a novice, then it's great!). That would be a smirk, right there, and N'rov straightens his shirt before taking the pliers back; he flicks some grit out and then stashes them once more. "Sure. How far did you get in the Craft? Far enough to be able to require kids to set those essays to verse?" He tips the neck of the bottle to the other man in toast without doing anything so crass as to shake it. "Not far enough to require anything of anyone," Kh'tyr's answer is quick; he takes more time with, "Now, as an assistant weyrlingmaster... the power is nearly limitless," he wiggles his brows dramatically. "If my mind were more grounded in the first place, I might worry it would go to my head. But I can't afford hats so large as that, so I'll have to temper my madness." Power madness, surely. They wouldn't let a mad brownrider near impressionable weyrlings, would they? "It's a sad, sad haberdasherial concession," N'rov remarks, deadpan. "I would also have had to worry that it would interfere with Vhaeryth's wings." "Indeed, yes," is practically mournful. "Just think how impressive that would be," Kh'tyr must briefly do so because it makes him grin. "I need to finish settling in, but drinks, later?" Sometime. A hand waves to indicate an indeterminate point in the future. After a chuckle, "Later," N'rov says as affirmation or goodbye; he gives the man and his place another look, speculative, and then strides out toward his returned and longsuffering dragon. After all this, Vhaeryth will require quite the oiling of a bribe. |
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