Logs:No Dessert For You
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| RL Date: 5 February, 2013 |
| Who: Ainslee, Z'ian |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A breakfast interlude among the chaos of morning rush. |
| Where: Kitchens, HRW |
| When: Day 27, Month 12, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Inside |
| Mentions: H'vier/Mentions |
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| It's a cold, damp winter morning. The snowfall outside made for a particularly chilly round of early drills. The kitchen is a hub of activity at this point of the day, they're sending out their last rush of breakfast food and beginning to get lunch together. The workers are milling around, mostly distracted and not paying much heed to anything else that might be going on outside of their tasks. It's at this time that Z'ian slips in from the living cavern, the chaotic sound of a packed crowd following him in. Some of the snow from outside is still clinging stubbornly to his shoulders and hair. He clutches a plate of food and steaming mug close to his chest. Smiling real friendly-like at some familiar faces, he ducks into one of the out of the way nooks. Exhaling, he slides his breakfast onto the table and leans back in his seat, throwing his feet up onto the empty one across from him. Ainslee appears fresh from the baths: her damp hair has been combed out, a few of the top-layer curls flying away in airy rebellion. Escaping the chaos of the crowds outside, she glances in exasperation over a shoulder, and deftly dodges her way through cooks and crockery, somehow stealing a plate with a sticky-bun and adding liberal amounts of bacon. Heart-attack on a plate complete, she moves without really looking towards one of the nooks in the back, pulls up short when she finds a pair of boots on the seat she intended to occupy. "I'd say we need to stop meeting like this, but I don't know why I would," the greenrider comments to the snow-adorned Z'ian, perching a hip on the side of the seat free-of-boot with a rueful smile (and complete lack of manners - who needs /those/?). The man with his boots kicked up on the seat is probably the wrong person to look to for manners. Not that she was necessarily. He hasn't quite gotten to the point where he starts eating yet. Instead he's brushing the last remaining flakes of snow off of his shoulders and ruffling his hair to shake it all out. The sound of Ainslee's voice startles him and he pauses, fingers stuck into his messy hair. His eyes travel from her hip cocked against the booth to her face. He sports a slow easy smile for her as he pulls his feet off of the seating across from him. "I don't know why either. Maybe you're tracking me down instead?" He fires back teasingly as he pulls himself up out of a slouch. "Oh, that's it," Ainslee declares, lips touching up at the corners for the sight of Z'ian caught with a hand in his hair, eyes lingering with a hint of laughter. With a glance down to make sure it isn't especially messy, she slides over, moving her plate with her. She picks up a piece of bacon, uses it to gesture. "I'm really a tracking canine." No. Really. "Or, /maybe/ we both don't want to be out there in that mess?" She gestures airily with her bacon towards the caverns - by her tone, she probably is referencing the mass of people, instead of the weather outside. The madhouse of the morning rush. "You are? Could have fooled me." Z'ian remarks, flashing her a crooked smile. He begins to poke around at his plate, spearing some food with his fork. Her commentary on the living cavern has him unconsciously glancing in that direction. "Sometimes it's a little too much for me out there. This morning was one of those times." The bronzerider admits wryly, pausing between bites to begin unbuttoning the front of his jacket. "Tsanth and I were down in your neck of the woods the other day. Stitches." He makes scissor motions with his fingers. If that's what you use to take stitches out any rate. Ainslee leans back in a half-stretch before sliding forwards, chin cupped in a hand attached to an elbow propped on the table, bacon forgotten. "Hailstorm makes meals difficult. They're always so..." She gropes for a word, turning gaze upwards in an effort to dig out the right turn of phrase. "Awake." Wry smile, and she straightens again, this time attending to that forgotten piece of bacon. "Oh?" she queries, furrowing her brow; that aura of sleepy attentiveness sloughs away. "How's he feel? Was it wingsail? You probably want to keep an eye out for heat and swelling - sometimes when stitches come out, they like to do too-much too-soon." It's only after that automatic barrage that she half-laughs, shoulders dropping in embarassment, apologizing: "Sorry. Reflex." "It's too early to be this awake." Z'ian drawls with a roll of his eyes. Even though it's closer to noon than away from it. "I transferred into Avalanche almost a year ago from another wing. This is one is way more demanding, took me months to get over being constantly exhausted." He digs around on his plate, but he doesn't seem to actually be eating much of anything that's there. Just a few bits of hashed potatoes and maybe some of the eggs. "Yeah, caught a talon right into his wing. Nice tear." She apologizes and he laughs, leaning his forearm onto the table. "You're apologizing for what exactly? Telling a man who let his lifemate get into the equivalent of a drunk barroom brawl over a girl to pay attention and be careful?" He's certainly amused as he finally pops a bit of food into his mouth. "Don't worry about it." Ainslee concurs with that first sentiment, a throaty noise of assent. She reaches for a mug of klah that isn't there, furrows a brow down at the table in consternation as if somehow this is the table's fault. See? It *is* too early. Her laughter extends again at Z'ian's comment, less embarrassed and more easily-given, companionable. "I don't know if you can ever really use the word let in conjunction with a gold flight. Especially one that involved H'vier." Her eyes roll, though there's something affectionate about it - comrades-by-newness, perhaps. She brandishes a finger, slips out for the nearest hearth to fill a mug with klah and cream and sweetner. Thus fortified, when she returns, mischief must follow. "If you had asked me before," she can't help but tease, infectious incorrigibility in high-spirits along the line of her husky alto, "I would have thought having breakfast with you to be-- somewhat different than this." Impudent, that smile that hides behind a first bite of sticky-bun. "It wasn't really H'vier's fault, what happened." He admits, lifting his shoulders. Not that he's embarrassed or ashamed by it either. "And I've been a rider long enough to have better control. Goldflight or no, so." The bronzerider waves his hand to hopefully end the talk of him and his dragon. Z'ian's mouth curves when she's unable to find her drink that doesn't exist, eyebrows lifted humorously when she goes to get it. Meanwhile he's picked off what he's going to pick off his plate. It ends up pushed to the side, neglected. "You would have? What were you imagining" He asks, curious as he draws his mug closer towards himself and hiding his smile behind it. Slyly, "We could have had breakfast together, you know." Ainslee shifts, tucking a leg under her in that fashion of women everywhere. Thus tilted, she picks at her honey-bun and bacon with sparing regularity, but mostly nurses her klah. She doesn't pursue the line of flights and control, shooting Z'ian a brief, mock-dark look for his amusement at her failure with the imaginary klah. There's that eternal smile lingering, as teasing as her tone. "Oh, I don't know. I'm pretty easy." As if he doesn't know. Heedless, continuing, "A cup of klah and dessert?" She's probably not talking about food, the little heathen. Blue-green eyes are entirely lying, that expression of innocence given. "I've never been a big breakfast person, anyhow." See junk food on plate as reference. Z'ian tips his mug back, taking a tentative taste first. Once he's certain that it won't burn his tongue, he takes a much longer swallow. All the while he's watching her over the top of his drink, an eyebrow lifted speculatively for answer. He ducks his head and laughs, "Yeah?" Lowering his hands again, resting the klah on the table. "So something warm to drink and dessert, no breakfast. I'm sure that we could manage a do-over that includes that at some point in the near future?" Smile just a touch on the wolfish side, he props his chin into his hand. "Anyone ever tell you that you're a totally incorrigible woman?" Ainslee laughs; this one unfettered, all delight without that sly suggestion about it. "Only when around proper inspiration." She holds her mug towards Z'ian in dramatic salute, lowers it to take a sip, settles it back down to the table afterwards. A quick hand slips through her drying hair, smoothing errant curls back into total mass. "I'm sorry." Her second apology in the same conversation: this must be a new record. "I don't -mean- to be..." She pauses, hiding her smile behind her klah-mug and another sip of creamy caffeine. "Okay, so I /do/ mean to be. But please do let me know if I offend you. It's certainly not my intent." Winsome smile, there, sunny and bright. At least she's awake, now! "You know, I'm greatly offended. It bothers me a lot when attractive women approach me so that they can flirt shamelessly. You only want me for my body." Z'ian sighs dramatically, long and so put out. "You're just like all women. When will I find someone that likes me for me?" With lines like that he probably shouldn't hold his breath or anything. He taps his fingers against the side of his face before stretching one long leg out to tap against whatever limb isn't tucked underneath her body. He flashes her a broad, equally incorrigible smile of his own. "Please, please continue to offend me on regular basis." The swinging doors of the kitchen pop open and a rider with a patch similar to the one that the bronzerider wears on his own jacket, peeks in. He slides down in his seat momentarily. "Maybe he won't see me?" Ainslee plays her part to a tee, drawing her eyebrows together and leaning back, a hand fluttering at her throat. "But Z'ian," she protests, eyes wide, "I can't help myself! Have you seen yourself, darling?" Her actress ways fall to shambles when he bumps her leg, though, prompting a burst of bright laughter. "I'll remember t--" Whatever she was going to say is cut off by the entrance of the wingmate, turning to flash the man a broad smile, sunny and sweet. She also points a finger unobtrusively across from her, totally calling poor Z'ian out. See? Maybe she is a tracking hound. That's pretty bitchy, after all. His wingmate turns a confused, nervous smile onto Ainslee. Who is she? But he follows the pointing of her finger towards Z'ian and smirks, crooking a finger at the bronzerider. Found you. There's a narrowing of blue eyes onto the greenrider, "Oh, woman. I'm going to remember this later. No dessert for you." It's uttered low and quiet, just for her ears and not that of the eavesdropping rider by the door or kitchen workers. He sighs then and smiles helplessly, accepting his fate. She gets one more bump from his foot before he collects the plate, mug balanced on top of the uneaten food. He gives her a quick wave with his one free hand before he disappears into the chaos of the living cavern, just as loud and obnoxious out there now as it was before. Smile widens at the narrowing of blue eyes, Ainslee insufferably pleased with herself: "Oh, I'm counting on it." Him remembering, that is. No dessert is just wrong. She remains with her klah and her sweetroll and her bacon, lifting her mug in a salute in lieu of waving. And if she enjoys watching him walk away, well - what else is she supposed to do? Savor the moment. C'est la vie. YOLO. Something like that - whatever excuse works best! |
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