Logs:Old Dogs and New Tricks
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| RL Date: 24 April, 2013 |
| Who: Barnabas, C'wlin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: C'wlin and Barnabas talk music, and changes in lifestyle |
| Where: Greenhouse, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 9, Month 8, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
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| Greenhouse, High Reaches Weyr(#2203RJ) A rustic and unadorned vestibule leads in from hewn spiral steps to a refitted ledge, enclosed by limestone pillars. Sturdy wooden framework captures elongated glass panes, tilted to absorb the most light during the day. The wash of heat from within, lush and humid, persists even into the dead of winter; the air is heady with the scent of fresh-turned soil and various flora. Long, deep troughs of soil line the inner stone wall, planted with an assortment of broad, leafy tropicals - practical and decorative alike. Fruit and vegetable baskets hang from rafters, optimizing space, tempting in reach with a perpetually ripening harvest. A series of stone shelving is devoted to flourishing, aromatic herbs and new green shoots; even the softest touch releases a burst of savory scent from tender leaves. Amidst the greenery, a handful of wooden benches have been scattered, making this a temptingly warm and secluded spot to sit. Shuttered vents serve to regulate humidity and heat given off from a small hot spring recessed into an alcove at the back; a secondary pool with cooler waters siphons off to provide a constant, fresh supply for irrigation. A small potting station nearby is cluttered with watering cans and gardening tools of various uses, with a wooden bin for composting materials tucked underneath. Late afternoon sees Rukbat fallen to the western sky, the orange-yellow rays of the late-day sun casts warmth through the windows of the greenhouse. Though it's not the most ideal place to find time alone, it is a place that the young bronzerider has sought out. No dragon, no straps, not weyrling duties; nay, he's positioned himself out of the way, firmly set upon a stone bench of sorts, with his stringed instrument in hand. Fingers flow effortlessly over the strings, the time away from his studies not affecting the base knowledge of how to string notes together. It's a soft melody; easy and relaxing this calm, late-afternoon summer day. "D'ya know Taetra's Last Biscuit?" Emerging from the foliage is the resident gardener, clutching a straightrazor to his neck in what at first seems a self-threatening manor, untill the repeated scraping of stubborn stubble reveals him to be dry shaving his late afternoon away. "Or how about uhh... oh! The Whore's Dirge? I love that one!" While initially his questions are unexplained, he starts to hum and reveal what it is he's after. Song requests. Judging from the grimness of his growly voice, he's singing the tune of the latter. "A strange man," C'wlin's music did not jangle to a stop -- he's too well trained for that -- but does come to a softly abrupt end at the appearance of Barnabas, "to be wielding such a blade 'round the treacherous plants." A sparkle glints in icy eyes, hints of amusement in the uplift of the corners of his lips and the slight uptick of pale 'brows. "Though I do know..." After a moment's pause, a jaunty tune follows that is similar to what Barnabas requests, though skewed as songs do when they have regional sisters. "... the Whore's Succulent Twin." Snakeish, the grin that curves 'pon the entitled boy's expression, mischief teasing in otherwise proper and cool eyes. "I know many more, though none that you ask." For now, the music flows to a halt as conversation reigns supreme. Bones' lower lip juts out as he looks upwards at nothing in particular, considering this Succulent variation of his old favorite. He gives a simultaneous nod and shrug of the shoulders, accepting it as a suitable version. "I was just messing around." As if he could do anything but. "Didn't expect you to know 'em. They're old sailor songs, got just the right rythm to do boring ass ship work with." He lifts his chin high to scrap off the last of resilient neck hair, even a man as resilient as he forced to give a wince at how uncomfortable the process is. "You want somethin' from the greenouse in particular, or just thinkin' my plants make a good audience for your tunes? Ha!" "I've ears to hear a song a-plenty," C'wlin comments, idle-look towards Barnabas (up at Barnabas) coming from beneath pale lashes. "And I've an ear to remember. A tendency the harpers thought would serve me well in the craft, and that it did." Contemplation sneaks across his demeanor, brief, before attention once more settles upon the gardener. "I figure the plants can't talk and I've a need to practice at what I'm truly good at. Do you think they'd complain?" The plants, that is. Or he could mean the weyrlingmasters. A toss up! Wiping his blade across the side of his thigh, Bones then folds it up with a flick of the wrist and slips it down into his boot as he answeres C'wlin. "Well I don't know much about proper music, but yours sounds damn good to me." With razor secured, he lifts himself back up to his full height and then some, stretching his arms up above his head, his lower back giving a few audible crackling sounds as it straightens out. "Whatcha mean by what you're truly good at, eh? Sounds like either you're real damn proud of the tunes, or down on yourself someplace else." With stretch completed, he scratches at his belly. "Hopin' it's just the first one?" "I thank you," C'wlin demurs, though it's patently false, given the way the boy seems to know of his own, shall we say, talent. An answer is not immediately forthcoming to Barnabas' query, but neither is it summarily rejected without answer. After a bit, and a few test strums of the lute, the bronzerider says, "Talent, I suppose, comes to me for music and writing." He grabs the instrument by it's neck and balances the end on his thigh, staring at it while he speaks, "Dragonriding is not something that comes natural, is all. I am, I should say, not at all talented with the making of straps." Lips thin, press together. The boy is obviously not used to not being good at something he's put a mind to. "Hmmm." Bones ponders C'wlin's words with a nod. "Well, you seem like a bright kid, so I probably ain't gonna drop any knowledge on ya that you ain't pondered on your own." there's a pause in his thoughts as he takes a seat next to C'wlin, lounging his long arms behind the stone bench and leaning back, legs kicked out in front of him. "But usin' myself as example, I went from working on a boat in the high heat, to growin' plants on a frozen mountain. I'm damn lucky I didn't just kill off every one of these little green bastards my first day! Hehe." Joke aside, he has a point, and he moves to dig it out. "Point is, I'm sure you're doin' way better than you think you are. You're just comparin' it to your music there, which ain't fair, eh?" While verbal acknowledgment is not quick to follow Barnabas' helpful words, C'wlin is listening, given the sneaky side-glances given upwards to the man's large presence until he sits down to a more respectable height. Oh the trials of being a short male. Finally, silence gives birth to the mulled thoughts of contemplation, as the boy slowly twirls the instrument upon his thigh. "You speak the truth." Not quite grudging, but not quite gracious either. Here is a boy, on the cusp of manhood, who does not want to feel the slight weight of scant age in the lack of wisdom proven by one who's older. "Music is." Pause. "Was my life. It is something new now, but --" Here words are broken again, full weight of icy gaze settled upon the gardener to ask, seemingly at odds with the broken statement, "Was it difficult to change?" "Yup." No drama or trepidation in the acknowledgment. "Real hard. Real hard, kid. Of course I've heard it said that anything worth doin' tends to be that way." He pauses for a moment, and scoffs. "Pfft. That's somebody else's words, not mine. I prefer the easy way." There's a smile aimed C'wlin's way at the admission. "But hey, it ain't like you gotta stop doin' what you did before. Just because the dragon's moved in, he ain't kickin' your music out. You'll get the hang of this weyrling stuff, and when y'do? Y'can be dragonrider and music man, right?" He gives a few solid pats to the middle of C'wlin's shoulders in reassurance. The few solid pats to the middle of C'wlin's shoulders has the boy almost caving forward until the muscles spring to action, halting the forward movement. Wryly, he glances to the gardener. "It's worth it," now it is as if he is convincing the gardener, "I just hate not being able to make a damn pair of straps." However, where there's a will, there's a way and what one might not excel in, bribery always works. Or, rather, purchasing the skills of another. "I prefer the easy way too," again the wry look surfaces, almost softening the bratty expression that holds the norm of C'wlin's looks. "Tell me, which do you love more? The gardening or the seamanship?" Bones seizes the opportunity to talk about himself once again, though not entirely for selfish reasons. Getting C'wlin's mind off of his weyrling duties seems a good idea. "They both have their good parts. The gardening is nice and even, y'know? No big surprises, no danger, no competition..." he pauses as he ponders the old days of working on the water, and after a few seconds of silence, he gives a chuckle. "Being on the water got excitin' though. Hehe." After his moments of thought, he turns his head to C'wlin with a grin. "You find yourself a good catch, a good haul, and you live like a king for sevens. You lose one, things run dry, and you're suckin' on boot leather for a snack." A light, dry chuckle escapes as C'wlin listens to Barnabas' anecdote. "I bet that boot leather tasted divine enough when a little imagination was applied." His mind, definitely, is turned from his own continued building blocks of weyrlinghood -- not something to excel at in one fell swoop of life's paintbrush. "The seas would have provided a juicy breeding grounds for an epic poem," the bronzerider comments, this time with a lopsided sort of smile which takes the sharpness off his spoiled features. "Live like a king for sevens. I like that, ol' Bones." Sly comes the look now, the boy having heard a well-known nickname, but for all it's familiarity to the weyr at large does not keep the expression from yon face. "How many times did you revel in riches? Or did you suck the old leather from your boots more often than riches?" "To be honest?" He debates how much truth to offer the youngster, but holds nothing back. "I was drunk most of the time, don't remember too well. I'm guessin' it was more leather than luxury." He unwraps his heavy arms from around the back of the bench, and pushes his palms to his knees to help him lift his bulky frame up back to standing. "But speakin' of tasty treats, I'm damn close to starvin'. I'm gonna go see if I can't get myself some chow before I put in a night's work." He heads towards the greenhouse entrance, but pauses not too far away to glance back over his shoulder at C'wlin. "Hey, you don't gotta be good at everything. Just keep movin' forward, right?" He gives a little chuckle as he continues onward. "Or maybe you should be workin' harder on things. We old dudes like to think we know everything, don't we? Ha!" It's as he leaves that he gives his final greeting. "Take care of yourself C'wlin." |
Comments
Comments on "Logs:Old Dogs and New Tricks"Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Thu, 25 Apr 2013 06:00:31 GMT.
Good ol' Uncle Bones. X3 Seems like everyone gets a bit of salty, sage advice from that ol' seadog, even if they don't go looking for it.
Interesting to see how C'wlin is handling not just being amazing at everything. Wonder what Athimeroth thinks about that.
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