Logs:Newcomers at Dinner
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 5 January, 2016 |
| Who: Breirande, Catling, Mirinda, W'leri |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: The dinner line. |
| Where: Living Caverns, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 27, Month 9, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Blume/Mentions |
  |
| The weather outside is frightful-- but it's time for dinner, and that means the entrance from the bowl is flooded with riders on their way in. Mirinda is amidst the throng, less inclined than most to remove more than cursory layers; she's cold. The gloves come off, at least, and the hat, but she keeps on her heavy cloak as she weaves her way between the tables in search of the end of the buffet line. It might still be occasionally thundering (and often raining) outside, but indoors -- within the sheltering embrace of rock -- there's safety and warmth to be found for all. Having only arrived via an Istan green dragon approximately fifteen minutes ago, the tall form of Breirande is now seen to be striding into Fort's living cavern, his well-worn boots' heels making muffled clomps upon stone. He's trying to restrain it, but the teen's gaze is rather owlish at points as he continues to get his first good look at Pern's oldest Weyr...only the second Weyr he's ever been in, truth-be-told, and he sometimes has to excuse himself when he distractedly bumps into one resident or another. That it's dinner time surely does no harm in *his* book, the somewhat tired-looking and knotless young man finding that his growling stomach points him like a compass towards that chow line. It's only as he warms up that his drubby leather coat is absently pulled open, even as he adroitly snags a tray and plate, utensils, and gets into line. Still looking, oh yes, and still owlishly. Catling arrives in dry clothes, but judging from the rest of her, she's only recently changed into them, for her hair is drenched and her cheeks are red with cold. She walks in stocking-feet, and her stockings have been much-mended, it seems, with yarns of whatever colors were free. She mutters to herself, then rubs her arms. "Well. I've tried it. Here. And I still don't like laundry. Especially don't like laundry." She shakes her head, then shudders at the trickle of cold water from her hair down her neck. She takes her own place in the line, looking about thoughtfully. "Is there something that you like better?" Mirinda's knot betrays her rank to anyone who can read shoulder knots, even to a person who hasn't yet been introduced to her; still, the smile she aims down at Catling, over her shoulder, is reservedly friendly. "I don't believe anyone is going to force you into work in the laundry, if there's something you would be better suited to." The line moves, but only slowly: someone up ahead is being choosy. Mirinda happens to be the body who's two ahead of his own place, and so when she speaks to the teen girl nearby in line, the distracted Breirande jerks his glance down to take note...and ohhh no. Lots of loops and at least a couple of descenders -- and the gold thread within that knot -- advertise her status, and have 'Rand's grey-blue eyes widening, and him almost stuttering in his borderline baritone, "W-Weyrwoman." Perhaps to everybody's great relief, he's not trying to bow, at this junction. "A drinkin' we'll go, a drinkin' we'll go hey hey ho hey ho.. aw, fuck it," breaks over the voices in the living cavern, booming and raspy. It turns out it's from that scruffy looking bluerider sitting on the end of one of the tables, cradles a bottle while the riders -- all wearing the Malachite wingpatch -- sitting nearest him grab shoulders and sway in time to the off-beat shanty he sings. "Not you, Sh'vor. Not you." That Sh'vor, always causing trouble. W'leri points a finger at him blearily before hopping off the table and swagger-walking away; and remarkably, the farther away he gets, the less drunken he looks and sounds. "Weyrwoman," he elucidates perfectly, when the young man stutters. He doesn't look amused when his cold blue eyes fall on the goldrider, but his nod is (grudgingly) respectful. "I don't know yet what I am best suited to, Weyrwoman, ma'am," answers Catling. "But the laundry basket was bigger than me, and I fell into the cold rinsing pool. And got tangled in the wash. And got hauled out by my hair. And yes, it *was* funny, but also very, very cold." She shivers. "I'm trying to take a try at most anything, so that I can figure out what best suits me. Or where the weyr best needs me." She looks at the tall man and his lack of knot, then smiles gently. "Here. You're a visitor. You can come before me in line." Addressed by three people, almost all at once, Mirinda seems to struggle to know where to look-- Catling, first, and then Breirande, over her shoulder, and finally, finally, W'leri. "Wingleader," she says, tackling that last first in a tone that is neutrally polite and nothing more. Glancing back at the other two, she hesitates before suggesting, "Perhaps... mending? If you sew. That might be more appropriate, given... given." Her lips press together, and honestly, she seems to forget to move forward as someone ahead of her moves away from the serving table. Mister 'Boomy' out there gets another jerk of Breirande's eyes -- especially when he approaches and looks increasingly less drunk -- the teen's slightly hooded gaze narrowing a fraction as W'leri re-states Mirinda's job description better than he had. Huh? "Uh; that's okay..." 'Rand quickly responds to Catling when she offers her place in line. "Thanks anyway." No 'ma'am' for her, now that the beans of her position are spilled, though 'Rand's still polite. Oh crap; W'leri's ranking, too? Looking flustered and trying to be smooth -- typical teen -- the tall young man murmurs only a little tightly to the bluerider, "Wingleader..." just as his goggling eyes notice the motion and the space ahead of Mirinda. "Ma'am..." is noted low, with careful hesitation laced with hungry intent to the goldrider. Headbob, chin-lift, stare at the space. Your turn. People, specifically new people, that he hasn't ever laid eyes on before -- and that could be anyone! -- get all of the bluerider's consideration after his initial greeting to their venerated weyrwoman. W'leri cocks an eyebrow at the taller of the teens, but his eyes drift to Catling and therein does his brow darken. "Where the hell are your shoes?" he ask-demands of the short girl, his scowl eventually falling on Mirinda, like this is somehow her fault. "Given that drowning defeats the purpose of doing laundry?" asks Catling softly. "Thank you, ma'am. I can mend, as long as it doesn't have to look pretty. Harness... that's what I was *good* at mending. But thank you for the suggestion, Weyrwoman. I will try that..." She flinches briefly at W'leri's tone. "Drying, sir, and cracked, sir, and not in wearable condition, sir," she squeaks, ducking her head. The line of Mirinda's mouth tightens, gaze tripping from one person to the next and then back again; back, in the end, towards W'leri. "Don't blame the child," she instructs him. "I need to find out whoever was on duty... that should not have happened. There's absolutely no point in tasking people with things they physically cannot achieve." She still hasn't moved; despite her glance in Breirande's direction, she doesn't seem to have picked up on his hint. Damned teen boy-men and their stupid raging hormones. Breirande's shoulders stiffen just a little, his carriage tightening to make him try and appear even bigger when W'leri brow-cocks at him, though he's soon vaguely slouching once more when the bluerider rounds a bit on Catling. Reacting to the girl's squeaking, the knotless one swivels his now somewhat-irked gaze back to W'leri, those grey-blues and tight little frown silently accusing the Wingleader of being a jerk. Aaaaand *vindicated!* When Mirinda responds that way to W'leri, there's a faint nod of agreement and a flash of eyes from 'Rand...who now has to once again -- and more sheepishly -- respond to the Weyrwoman with a low, hesitant, "Uh...you're next in line, ma'am." Two sets of eyes on him isn't daunting enough, not for the wingleader to stop staring at Catling with a scowl and lack of understanding; even the posturing of Breirande goes without comment. "Didn't anybody point you towards the stores? Free shoes for all. Shoes in every size and color. Shoes for her to wear," he says, his eyes flicking to Mirinda, "Weyrwoman. Who's in charge of that? Blume?" And the way he says the Headwoman's name.. it's deprecating. "I'm fifteen, ma'am," Catling offers. "Just undersized.... so... she didn't make, you know, a little child do it, at least." She rubs her arms with her hands, then looks at the wingleader. "I wanted to get food first," she answers. "And my feet to properly warm up before I tried on shoes, sir." She shakes her head, and her long, sodden braid swings free. It might even smack someone in the line. "I didn't know it was wrong." Fifteen. Mirinda mouths the age, surprised-- surprised enough that it takes her a few moments more to properly register Breirande, at last. "Oh," she says, and steps forward, now turning her attention towards filling her plate, though she does so without seeming to pay it much attention. "Not wrong," she adds, glancing back. "Only we don't want you to get chilled. It seems unlikely that your feet will warm up on cold stone floors, after all." Belatedly: "Blume and her assistants. You've met our Headwoman, I hope? They'll make sure you're properly attired, and assigned somewhere appropriate." Cue another flick of stare from Brierand to W'leri, this one like a quirt across the rump, when the Wingleader sort-of continues to behave in the same manner. It silently accuses: asshole. The youth's gaze lurches back to Catling as she tries to defend her behavior, a low sigh spilling from 'Rand's lungs at her apology. His eyes and manner silently urge her to quit that apologizing to this waste of space. Lucky him; he's out of range of that sodden braid. With Mirinda's response to the other two comes more waiting...and finally the woman is serving herself... in time to the sudden and loud squeal of the teen's stomach. Wince. W'leri doesn't look surprised. W'leri looks bored, and he's suddenly remembered that bottle of liquor dangling from his calloused fingers. He grunts at them all, before ambling away in the direction of the inner caverns. Sometimes.. a guy's got to take a leak, or something. Who knows! "Well." Catling shakes her head slowly, then looks up at the Weyrwoman with a shy smile. Hungry was worse than cold feet. Besides, they're my thick socks.... and I hate asking for too much until I can earn my keep properly." She brushes her dress smooth, and inclines her head. "The Weyr has already given me so much." She only frowns, puzzled, at the teenaged boy. The glance Mirinda aims after W'leri is less than thrilled, but so too is the one she aims at Beirande, that pretty face delivering silent warning of her own: behave. Besides which, "Where is your knot? Do you even actually live here." Which is not to say that she seems inclined to keep either from their food: she steps away from the serving table, allowing access to those behind her. "I'm sure you'll do your part," she adds to Catling. "But you won't, if you get sick and need to be cared for." Well thank Faranth for small favors! W'leri's leaving, and that departure allows Breirande to both relax a smidgen and stare at the bluerider's reatreating back for a long moment. Dink. When conversation returns between the two womenfolk, his eyes move to them, finally looking quizzically at Catling's own puzzled stare. What? I'm on *your* side. He catches a little of Mirinda's 'look' for him, the teen suddenly looking both a little shamed *and* surly. While awaiting Catling'sown turn on line, the boy-man notes a little tightly to the goldrider, "I was brought here by request. My... By a greenrider I know at Ista." 'Rand looks rather business-like, by now, though his touchiness still lingers. "I work for the MineCrafters." Stare. "I'm looking for someone, here." "Looking? You've found someone," murmurs Catling. She ducks her head then, nodding to the Weyrwoman. "I.... I have on two pairs of stockings," she says at last, flushing a little. "I don't *mean* to be trouble, really. All this is just so.... new to me. I've never been allowed to just.... ask for things." Mirinda studies Breirande, expression even. "Please report to the headwoman at your earliest convenience," she tells him, not sharply but with a certain amount of attached force. "If you intend to eat our food. Assuming, of course, you're here to stay." Because if he's not... it may be coincidence that her gaze flicks towards the passage leading out into the bowl, suggesting that he can see himself out, if so. To Catling, "Well, that's the way the Weyr works. See that you get yourself what you need. Excuse me--" Plate in hand, she has places to be. The look Breirand awards Catling for her comment is withering, touched with some contempt. Moody little bastard. She's now officially on her own. What? Now Mirinda is turning on him, too? "I don't..." is noted with surly crispness plus some kind of odd, old anger in the background of his voice, 'Rand suddenly stepping out of line and noting with forced evenness, "I'll tend to my business and leave as immediately as possible. *Very* unspoken: bitch. "Weyrwoman." Distantly polite, that...and soon the hungry but too proud and angry to bend teen has set his tray back down where he got it from, and is marching right back out to the Bowl. Damned kids! |
Leave A Comment