Logs:Not Enough Beer... Yet.
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| RL Date: 10 May, 2016 |
| Who: Kh'tyr, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Kh'tyr and N'rov drink beer and ask the important questions in life. |
| Where: Empty Room, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 13, Month 10, Turn 40 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Olivya/Mentions |
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| It's not like there's a sock on the latch, but the carved wher hanging on the door is turned to flash its fangs at the corridor, and might as well read 'CLOSED.' N'rov prowls around his not-an-office deep in the caverns, stifling a yawn before tossing his coat at its hook; it catches, but barely, lopsided. He leaves it. "Flaming. Worth extra beer right there, Kh'tyr." If his sack is any indication, they won't run out. Kh'tyr's lackadaisical sprawl on one of the couches, his upper back propped up by pillows while one ankle rests haphazardly on the armrest at the far end, is practically the antithesis of N'rov's prowling. Only his brown eyes move with the man who here might not be considered the Weyrleader, but by this stage of the game he must understand that complaints of vicarious exhaustion will do him no good so he remains silent on at least that matter. Finally a hand moves to rub across his rippled forehead such is the lift of his brows at the mention of the word. "I'll be lucky to keep my eyebrows the next six days," he returns, tone (predictably) dramatic, but muted. He reaches out that hand that went to his brow and makes a 'gimmie' toward the bag o' beer. "If I find shredded and slightly ashy brown hairs floating around, I'll save 'em for you," N'rov not-quite-promises. He's only just careful enough with the bottle he retrieves that it won't go foaming all over Kh'tyr when, once he's cracked it open, he hands it over; he takes a second but doesn't open it immediately, instead rotating it around and around with his brows tweaked like it's hiding some secret he hasn't yet figured out. While he's at it, "Long as they don't make me sneeze." He squints at Kh'tyr, like that could all too easily happen. "If I find you saving me-- that-- I will ensure that every female worth looking twice at knows that you keep creepy love tokens to give to your Most Favorite People." Kh'tyr returns sternly, as if N'rov might here be the naughty weyrling and as though he hadn't left his knot at the door. Such a remark might make the bronzerider regret his contentiousness, but life near Kh'tyr is often littered with such regrets (and opportunities for delightful comeuppance). "I always suspected you had some odd hobbies. I suppose we can all be grateful for your limited leisure time in light of that." He eyes N'rov in a combination of accusation and contemplation. N'rov's grin is delightfully unconcerned; "Do that. Who needs to look twice?" His bottle pops on cue, manipulated by clever hands; he tips hs head back and drinks full-throated before slouching over to Kh'tyr's couch, the far side where the brownrider's feet are; he pauses there, then moves onward. "It could be worse, I'm sure. What token would you pick for being extra creepy?" as though Kh'tyr here could be the wise if irreverent weyrlingmaster. "Or Mograith, for that matter." "Forgive me my pickiness," Kh'tyr returns, expression grave though his deep voice carries an undercurrent of good humor. The question does require some thought, but evidently the brownrider can multitask for he opens his own beer while he does. "What creepy thing would I collect or what would creep me out the most?" He inquires. "I have always been grateful that Mograith is too much of a glutton to leave anything juicy on the bones I occasionally find gifted to me under my blankets." It's said absently, and as though it's completely normal, as many things are when it pertains to Mograith. "One of," N'rov stops. Side-eyes. Sits on the other couch, with a smirk. "One of each, yes. My dragon has not seen fit to gift me with bones as yet, juicy or stringy or cracked." It's worth a drink; worth eyeing Kh'tyr over the bottle's mouth. This (or the beer) requires that Kh'tyr (with a manly grunt of protest) wrests himself from his sprawl into something more upright, though one leg remains along the length of the couch (boot hanging over the edge). "Toenail clippings." He identifies after the first swig. "I might have once been known to jot down a woman's favorite-to-use phrases and quote them back to her at inopportune moments. But only if I really liked her." Mograith will take more thought. In the meantime, "Tit for tat. What creeps out the famous N'rov and Vhaeryth?" N'rov's eyes have narrowed, if not to clipping-thin slits, speculative; after a short laugh for that really-liked woman and a flicked not-quite-eyeroll for fame, his shrug is contrastingly loose, for all that he can't seem to keep his slouch. Too many meetings today, wings and Lords and all; not enough beer. Yet. "Not much I can think of. It's all 'the wrong kind of blank.' Wrong kind of sidling up to attach to my arm like a lamprey which, I'll have you know, tastes remarkably bad in wine." "Poppycock." Kh'tyr dismisses with a wave of his beer, "Clearly a matter of 'not enough wine.'" Then, he grins. He always prefers to keep a straight face through these matters of important discourse. "It wasn't that Bollian Lord that fed it to you, was it? If so, I say we withdraw all support from the region in answer to clear insult. You'd think they didn't have the wine to spare. Like we had a plague or something." It might be too soon given that that turns grin to grimace briefly before he swallows more of his beer. Not enough beer,for sure. Yet. "Can there be enough wine?" is almost rhetorical; N'rov's grin returns, widening, as Kh'tyr continues until it turns into a groan. "Yeah, it happens." Not enough wine. Referring to plagues. Not enough beer, though surely they do. "Got plans for after," he waves a finger, voice lifted right at the end there: after the weyrlings, after the great circle of life, after the craziness of it all. "Point," Kh'tyr will award the bronzerider, not even grudgingly because how does one argue with that logic? The brownrider doesn't deign to try. He doesn't address the rest because the business of tanking his current bottle has become important and he's even getting up himself to withdraw a second from N'rov's stash, opening it immediately, and letting it foam over his unconscientious hand. It might also drip a little on the floor, but he licks it from his hand as quick as he can, so he tries not to make more work for the cleaning staff. "How much do you like me?" might be answering the question. (Also might not.) N'rov lolls his head back, like he has to think about it, though his demeanor's got that amused quality to it; "Depends. Are we talking 'have a beer with,'" make that a bunch of beers, "'have for a neighbor,' 'have a bidding war over'? A three-way bidding war, even. It could happen." "I guess what I'm asking is..." Kh'tyr draws it out (quite purposefully, no doubt), "am I your type?" There's a long pause before he adds, "For Onyx." Such a long pause might cry out to be filled, but N'rov holds out, waiting for it; he has a crooked smile behind that bottle of his, one that he goes in for another draught. "Could be," he allows with interest, cataloguing his co-drinker with his gaze. "I don't know how you'd last; how'd you like to take my," it's always and ever a drawl, "direction?" "I've been dumped before," Kh'tyr replies, but not dismissive now. "The complaints have been varied but not listening would be among them." If N'rov weren't the Weyrleader, he might easily think Kh'tyr was including professional instances, and while that phrase 'doesn't listen well' might have shown up a time or two in early reports from his early life at Igen, once he settled into his preferred roles as wingsecond and then assistant weyrlingmaster, his professional record is rather spotless - recent tumult over the weyrlingmaster position not withstanding. "I think we've developed rapport enough that I imagine I'd know when taking your direction was important," which is not to promise that he always will when it's not... N'rov inclines his head, a faint curl to his mouth, but he is listening; "A certain amount of initiative is something I keep an eye out for," the wingleader observes, though certain of his wingmates may be more notorious for it than others. Then, abruptly, "I'd take you on. Like I said, I don't know how that'd last: it might, it might not, but I think we'd come out of it still drinking every month. And no black mark on your reputation," not unless there's cause, not with Onyx's reputation for going through riders... if most often to those riders' betterment. "What are you interested in, beyond sweeps?" Sweeps. Drills. Wiping the odd Lord's nose. "If Liv and I continue with our arrangement," Kh'tyr observes, "and you come out the loser in the bidding war, it might be temporary anyway," which is to say that he's not bothered by possible temporary states. The last is addressed after a thoughtful pause. He speaks with the bottle pressed lightly to his lower lip, "I'm exceptionally good at being irritating. Some don't understand the skill involved in being the right sort of irritating at the right time in the right place. You could replace irritating with charming or probably several other useful qualities. I'm interested in putting my talents to use for the Weyr, when the Weyr has a need. If it does. In the meantime, I can help train the riders you want trained in the way you want them trained." He certainly has experience with that. "Indeed," and N'rov toasts to that before claiming his own second bottle. "Since you don't seem to object to her, ah, winning, it could be beneficial to both of us. All of us. Give you a change, too, something different... which, yes, license to be irritating at the right time." And place. And manner. The bronzerider lounges. "D'vro's had some interesting ideas; I'd be interested in what else we could come up with. Let's talk again when you're free... and either way, give you a breather in beween," a wry not-quite-question: Kh'tyr does want a vacation, yes? In the meantime, lifting his own bottle, "Another?" Or is Kh'tyr good. "My objections never matter in a bidding war," Kh'tyr replies with flippant, habitual dismissiveness of his say-so over his own life. "I'm nothing if not a creature who appreciates variety. And time off." There's, briefly, a more serious expression - one that might hint that time off would be spent tending to some private, important task, but there's no darkening this lightening mood with specifics. "I'll need you to check on me on the second or third day of my time off, though. See that Liv hasn't tied me to her desk to re-organize the lessons for the next batch that comes through." Arguably, tied anywhere by a beautiful woman wouldn't be a bad way to spend a vacation either, but Kh'tyr seems wholly serious in his concern: bros ensure the freedom of their fellow bros. "Another," is readily agreed in light of all this serious business. (And probably another after.) |
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