Logs:Our Children and Their Mother
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| RL Date: 4 January, 2016 |
| Who: Kh'tyr, Olivya |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Kh'tyr and Olivya discuss their children and their children's mother. |
| Where: Living Cavern, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 24, Month 9, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Latieva/Mentions, Mirinda/Mentions |
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>---< Living Cavern, Fort Weyr(#513RIJMas$) >--------------------------------<
Fort's enormous Living Cavern is a vast, echoing space, with deep set
windows carved into the outer wall to let in light and fresh air. Large
enough to house the entire human population of the Weyr with plenty of
room to spare, the most common use of the living cavern is as a communal
eating and gathering space. Long tables with benches usually line the main
part of the cavern with a table set aside for the Weyrleaders on a raised
dais, as well as other smaller tables set along the walls for quieter
dining. Tapestries depicting historic moments in the Weyr's history and
scenery from the coverage area decorate the walls and lend the space a
warmer feel than bare stone.
To the east, a large doorway leads out to the Bowl, with a sturdy metal
door that can be closed during inclement weather or Threadfall. The
Nighthearth is tucked away in a little alcove near the door. The large
main hearth is used for cooking and for heat, though chairs are often
pulled up nearby for the Weyr's elderly to enjoy the heat. A swinging door
not far from the hearth leads into the Kitchen that shares the wall behind
the hearth. To the west, a passage opens up into the Weyr's Inner Caverns.
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Kh'tyr M 33 5'9 solid, dk. brown hair, dk. brown eyes 0s
Olivya F 31 5'8 firm, blonde hair, blue eyes 7m It is late enough in the evening, well past dinner time and with most of the weyrlings put to bed, that most of the tables in the living cavern go unoccupied. Of course, this is a Weyr and there is always a meal available to be found, and it's that that Olivya has at hand; a simple thing of soup and bread. It mostly goes untouched as she focuses on hides, however, with her fingers buried into blonde curls and her bright jacket long since discarded on the bench next to her. Kh'tyr sits with his elbows braced on the table, hands on either side of his head, gripped into his hair staring down at his steaming, recently refilled cup of klah. Someone is preparing for the long night shift. "Are you sure-" he begins not for the first time, not looking up at the weyrlingmaster across from him, "-that I can't just tie those boys to their cots? No one needs late night chit chat or goodnight handshakes," especially not Kh'tyr. Olivya underlines a sentence in the hide that she currently has in front of her, before picking it up only to drop it on top of the pile in front of the assistant weyrlingmaster. "I think that you can try, certainly. You're likely to be dealing with more panicked baby dragons that way, rather than being able to pass the night in relative quiet, but-- Whatever makes you happy," she offers with her usual edge of dry humor in turn. "You never know. I'm an attractive man. They might like it," Kh'tyr lifts his head enough to give her a very straight look. He must be kidding, of course, but he sells it so well. Olivya's gaze rakes over Kh'tyr as he looks to her, silently judging as she considers the man's words. She counters, "Maybe three or four of them. How would you handle the rest, though?" Her fingers disentangle from blonde curls as she straightens, sliding it over one shoulder before she reaches to tear off a piece of bread. "Speaking of. Latieva, she hasn't started making moon eyes at you yet, has she?" "It's just the two I'm worried about," the boys. She knows the ones. Kh'tyr makes his eyeroll expressive, finally pulling hands from his hair (leaving it more mussed) and straightens, picking up his klah. "You suppose there was a time she didn't? Even if there was, after the gold flight," he frowns. "When she's not busy making eyes at one of the others. What that dragon of hers thinks is going on, Faranth only knows." "They're only a problem if when you go to tie them down, you find them in each other's beds," is what Olivya suggests, humor twining easily onto her words as she leans across the table closer to Kh'tyr, only to tap on the hide she placed in front of him. "Do you think it's an issue, yet? She hasn't said or implied anything to you, has she? She's still focused enough on her dragon?" "Uch," Kh'tyr grunts to the first, unhappily. "Remind me why I asked you for this knot again?" It's hard to remember at this hour, even with klah that may or may not be spiked. "No, you'd have heard about it if she did." That much is cleanly professional. "It's never a good idea for the one having eyes made at them to explain the inappropriate of said eyes." He considers the greenrider before saying coolly, "Although sometimes, one has no other choice." He would make an exception for Olivya, no doubt. Olivya doesn't even miss a beat in offering him the answer with an off-handed carelessness, "I believe it was something about you not being yourself without it." But she accepts his answer with a soft, thoughtful noise. It's the latter coolness that receives the quirk of a brow upwards, not very much mooniness in her soft blue eyes as she meets his. "Then leave it. If it becomes something more, than I'll have the conversation with her. We can still hope that her attention will get caught and held by one of her fellow weyrlings. -- Hopefully when they have their own weyrs." "Remind me never to get that blindingly drunk again," Kh'tyr says low, into the drink that still may or may not be spiked. "It makes a man go out of his head. Say irrational things he can't take back." Not that he would, of course. It's all bluster. "Let me as you a question," he leans forward, setting his mug down again. "Have you ever had to apologize to Weyrwoman Mirinda?" He seems to have totally forgotten the mooniness in favor of his own interest. This is certainly a more interesting topic, and Olivya is willing to let the other topics slide easily to focus on it. There's even a quiet thoughtfulness in her words when she answers, "We've been friends for fifteen turns, Kh'tyr." A pause, before she adds in explanation, "Which is to say, yes, but not often." Those blue eyes are back to studying his, interest unhidden. "What have you done?" "I made her uncomfortable when she surprised me with a job interview. I'm rather certain she wanted me to fail," Kh'tyr give Olivya a level look. "Interrupted my cake. Didn't even know she was there. So I was-- not my best self. I went to apologize to her today and ask to start over, and she was--" he hesitates, "Somehow insulted. Or unhappy. Or something. I thought women liked it when men lay themselves low?" It should be that simple. "I've never had wonderful luck with goldriders, though, so perhaps it's just that." Like it's a Thing. Olivya quirks her brow at the classification of goldriders as a whole, but she only pops a piece of her bread in her mouth to chew, slowly. After, she'll ask as if she were speaking with a weyrling, patient and ready to teach, "How did you apologize, then? That insulted her?" Brown eyes linger on Olivya, taking in her expression. "I said I was sorry. That it was unfair of me. I mentioned your esteem for her and that it helped reverse my not-as-high-as-yours opinion of her." What's so wrong with that. He doesn't seem, really, to know where it went wrong. "Do you think it's possible she just hates cake? Or men? I suppose it could just be me. Some people don't like me, did you know?" As if it might be surprising to the weyrlingmaster. Olivya's brow curves even higher at that last. But instead of criticizing, she offers as food for thought, "Mirinda doesn't hate anything. The Weyrwoman-- She is a very empathetic person." A hint of a frown catches briefly in her features, her weighted gaze studying Kh'tyr as if he might deserve what she says next. "Don't focus so much on saying you're sorry. Focus on explaining your side, without blaming. Let her understand you and where you were coming from, and then let her explain for herself, if she wants. Then she'll likely be ready to decide how you both will move on from there." At the lift of the brow, Kh'tyr nods meaningfully. "I know. I don't see it. I'm delightful." Delightful. "I didn't really explain. Just asked to start over. Only she thought I was only apologizing for your sake, which wasn't the case. Goldriders," he taps the table with a finger. It's in the blood, it must be. "I don't expect she wants to talk to me again. Maybe you can play bridge. I don't want to spend turns at odds with the Weyrwoman before she comes 'round to seeing my delightful qualities. My many delightful qualities." That prompts him to ask, "Does she like a nice song? Something bawdy?" It's difficult to say how much of this is humor. "Darling, sweetie, as much as I am glad that you are back on my team and that we are working together-- I am not going to play go-between with you and Rin," Olivya answers lightly, but there's no give that suggests that she might be convinced otherwise. "I'd suggest getting her between the sheets rather than singing, if you want her to find anything delightful about you." "Oh, no. That's-- no." Kh'tyr says it firmly. "It would be my luck that my charms would leave her with a token of my esteem in the form of a squawling brat she'd have to tend to if she didn't catch it in time," which might sound a little harsh, but well. He's delightful, right? "I don't want to get the Weyrwoman in bed in any case, no matter how beautiful she is. I'd just like to not offend her with my presence and still be able to be in her presence. It's a professional interest, Olivya," a slight arch to his brow suggests she might have trouble telling the difference. "That's darling, sweetie, assistant, by the by." Must keep things professional and all that. He lifts his klah and drinks. The oddly specific reaction to her suggestion gets a sharp study from the Weyrlingmaster, a prolonged thing that is paired with the hint of a silent question in her expression. But Olivya won't press, instead she only smiles for a moment. "Well, my assistant, then I wish you the luck of that. I am sure you will figure something out without talking to her again, though hopefully it won't end up with you serenading outside her weyr with bawdy songs in the middle of the night," she muses. "What," Kh'tyr asks as though the sharp study were studying something wholly normal. "You're fortunate yourself," he adds, charmingly. "I'm virile as well as delightful." Probably, he has some proof of that to say it with such certainty, but then again, this is Kh'tyr, he could probably sound certain that a green dragon was purple if that's what he wanted to be certain about. He sounds certain of the next. "I'd better get to the barracks before our children get into trouble. Why did we decide to have so many, Weyrlingmaster-dear?" He asks it as he rises. "And more to come," reminds Olivya as Kh'tyr rises, tapping a finger on the hide in front of her that she'd already shown him earlier; a vague, first draft of a plan for how they will split duties once the next clutch arrives. "Have a good night, Kh'tyr. Hopefully a quiet one, too." "Oh, darling, but I'm already exhausted. And think of my figure," Kh'tyr quips in the appropriate tone and phrasing, letting one hand even find his hip girlishly before that hand rises up to tip sloppy salute toward the greenrider and with his trusty mug of okay-yes-it's-definitely-spiked klah, heads onward, into the night in the name of duty. |
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