Logs:Played
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| RL Date: 31 October, 2012 |
| Who: I'kris, Val |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: I'kris makes a (wrong) assumption. Val(lia) plays with and uses him. His mental state is still not her fault. |
| Where: Snowasis/I'kris' Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 16, Month 2, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
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| Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor, and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook. Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern. It's cold. It's dark. It's snowing. Of course it is. Inside it's warm, maybe a little too warm from all those overheated bodies packed into one cavern that isn't exactly the size of the Hatching Grounds. It's lit well enough for most people not to spill their first drink on other people, not if it's an accident anyway. And for those people who haven't bothered to wipe their boots before coming in, well, every now and again there's a bar-boy putting people's lives into danger by coming through with a mop. Just now, Val's got her back to the bar, leaning back with her elbows on the smooth wood, dark eyes following the young man's progress with a distinctly speculative air. Her skirt is long, just grazing the pointed toes of her boots, and her rings tonight are jeweled: layers of them, reds and yellows. Beyond, there's a more specific party monopolizing the majority of the place: a weyrmating in progress, or at least the celebration of same, a single cord knotted to unite the wrists of the two not-quite-as-young men involved. Luckily, it doesn't slow them from drinking, not at all. Three sevendays into their incubation, and the eggs are still... well. Egg-shaped. Svissath's fascination has not dimmed, however, and perhaps that's a good enough reason as any for while I'kris looks penned in and unhappy the moment he crosses the threshold of the Snowasis: so many people, so much cold/dark/snow outside. At least he's dutiful enough in stamping the snow off of his boots - the incoming mop probably has something to do with that particular gesture of thoughtfulness - for all that he half looks like he's about to turn tail and flee back into the night. But no; there's a bar to approach, even if there's no space to stand at it. Three sevendays: long enough that I'kris isn't getting drinks pressed on him the way some had done before the clutching, maybe, but at least long enough that he's recognized and not grumbled about, particularly. The mop-man brushes past to the ledge and the mostly-frozen bucket where he can wring it out, so there's at least that little trail of room if nobody's closed in already. Off to the side, the big party's chanting. Also, chugging. It's something Val can smile to herself about, even as those dark eyes sweep onward after the mop-man's passing, brush past the brownrider who's his replacement, and tilt to regard her drink. Her poor drink. So little in it, amidst the ice, and it had been such a lovely sunset-orange once. She can't be bothered to move from the bar, though surely she might, someday. Someone else will surely make room, someday. But 'someday' is not 'right now this instant', and I'kris does not presently seem to be in the kind of mood that encourages patience. Val is not the closest, but she's separate from the big (noisy and unpleasant) group, and she's facing outwards, and the combination seems to be irresistible (or possibly just convenient). "If you're not going to order another," he begins, once he's a few steps away, "I'd like to get to the bar." It's a few seconds later that he thinks to add a, "Please." There's a note of sulky teenager in his tone... or, wait. Is that desperation? Nearly-unhinged frustration? It's a treasure trove of analysis, really. Val does like her treasure, but generally not in the form of someone who's at least arguably masculine, and teenage sulking? Now that's a hurdle. Not that she seems to have noticed that I'kris is even talking right at first, much less to her, but sooner or later persistence pays off. She looks at him. Keeps looking. It's the 'please,' or maybe the maybe-desperation, that leads to a slow smile and a silent pivoting: there's a little room now. He can move past, now, if he's careful. Lazily, still smiling, "What's your poison?" I'kris' double-take, at that mention of poison, is followed almost immediately by a rush of blood to his cheeks, his mouth opening partway before it snaps shut again. Deep breath. His discomfort does not stop him from sliding in alongside Val, so that he can lean forward onto the bar with one elbow and not actually look at her. "Rum," he says, as much to the conveniently located bartender as to Val herself. "A double. Please." More desperation, and more audible and obvious, this time. It doesn't look like he's been sleeping very well. Val cocks her head, that smooth, shining hair swinging to one side, and watches I'kris with growing fascination even as he doesn't look at her. Of course, she'd looked at the mop-boy not dissimilarly. "Is it that bad?" she moves to commiserate, literally: that light pressure that would alight on his forearm, that's her many-ringed hand. For one second, and then a second, I'kris doesn't move, for all that he must have noticed Val's hand, and the words it accompanied. Then, finally, his head turns. His blush has subsided, but the exhaustion has not; the moodiness, at least, is quickly replaced by what must be a concerted effort to look light, happy and amused. "Is what that bad? High Reaches? The snow? Having my Svissath stuck on the sands? No," he continues. "I'm just tired. Ready for them to hatch so I can go home." Liar. Liar. Did he say that out loud, did she? She's got such a smiling, sympathetic voice today, donned it with the long skirt and the ring with the gilt filigree of some fine-winged insect. "I wouldn't blame you if you were." And then, "Isn't it nice, when rum gives us what we want?" Her sidelong look to the bartender doesn't replace what I'kris has ordered, doesn't offer to pay, but does arrange an upgrade. Even if it should wind up being wasted on him. It's an evocative look, Val's, but then she's had Turns to practice. Also, she lifts her hand: not far, only a fraction higher, so it doesn't touch. She's charming, and he... As she lifts her hand, he reaches out with the opposite one, half turning to make it easier, so that he can take her ringed fingers into his own - if only she doesn't pull away first. Maybe he's trying to get a better look at those rings. The smile is warmer, now, and perhaps a little more genuine, if still guarded in a faraway sense. "High Reaches has some positives, I'm pleased to admit," he tells her, with that youthful earnestness of his. "Despite... well. You know. Foreign places are always strange." Her fingers curl, not a great deal, an elegant curve. Perhaps it's instinctive pleasure, perhaps it's knowing what sets her looks off, but certainly it makes it more difficult for those rings to slide free. There's another that's filigreed, with tiny garnets inset, red as rubies and smooth as beads of ice. A larger oblong might be yellow topaz, naturally stained at one corner, its setting highlighting its asymmetry into sun behind trees. Others would take more study, at first glance just thinner, mostly golden tones but with a few moon-silvered. "They are that," Val says gravely, not making fun. Not like those other girls. "I won't say I don't miss my Benden, sometimes." I'kris' hand is unsurprisingly cold, given how recently he's come in from the snowy dark, and surprisingly smooth, as though vanity has him taking special care. "Kept in style by some wealthy m-," beat, "person, are you?" he remarks. A slightly older man, one more confident, might try and caress her hand right about now, but not I'kris: he lets go a moment later, turning back to the bar to claim his newly arrived drink. He lifts it in Val's direction - a toast - and adds, before his first sip, "You're not a local, then. Huh." Val's fingers are smooth too, though that might be less surprising, and they lift even as he turns to fan over her smile. "You might say that," she says, a note of surprised, genuine pleasure in her voice where another might cry offense. But then, she has Visigoth in her head, singularly entertained, as well as on the ledge of some favored green. "Not many would put that in so many words." If 'Huh' is less than scintillating conversation, for the moment she lets it be, as one of the drawbacks associated with youth. "Would you never see yourself living elsewhere than your home, for the delights of some f-," lighter, lighter beat, "person?" I'kris smiles around the rim of his glass, his belated embarrassment returning that earlier pink to his cheeks, though it's ameliorated by Val's pleasure - even if that leaves him looking ever so slightly confused. "Sometimes, I open my mouth before I think," he admits, rueful. "And I'm supposed to be an ambassador. I - don't know, is the answer to your question. Is that what you did? Moved across the continent for someone. From chilly Benden to... chilly High Reaches." Confused does not seem to bother Val, not given that little curl of a smile as she tips her glass to let the ice slide back and forth. Poor near-empty glass. How sad. "Everyone does," she murmurs with due sympathy, "sometimes. An ambassador, now. That sounds so important. Does it get you many dances?" Tip, slide, tip. "Also, yes, that is very much what I did." Would complimenting his perception be laying it on too thick? "For the most part, I spend my leisure time as I choose, though you'll understand that when he does demand my attention, he gets it wholly." For a weyrbred boy, I'kris seems surprisingly relieved by this reference to a he, though it's visible mostly around the corners of his eyes. "Of course," he says. "I imagine that's a reasonable enough way to... manage things." He's glancing at the rings again. It's probably related, somehow. A moment later: "Did you want another drink?" So he has noticed. "Dances? Some. It's not as important as it sounds. But I'm trying to make sure relations between High Reaches and Monaco remain strong." Which is to say: if Val were for sale, if those rings were directly from a gentleman provider, I'kris couldn't afford her. As it is, she smiles serenely, so-glad-you-approve. She also glances at her glass, as though seeing it for the first time, and gives it a moment of consideration before deciding, "Why, thank you." She'll even turn slightly further inward, a sort of quid pro quo, even if her glance slides towards the bartender first and she nods, briefly. Other women, working women, might have it understood that the alcohol gets left out to keep her head clear, with the difference in payment split between their pockets. Val isn't one of those women. "How is it working out for you thus far? I do hope High Reaches has been hospitable, and that you've been given enough Cromcoal and furs. We shouldn't have visitors catching a chill along with one of our queens." I'kris may not be able to afford, true, but he can dream - still, he seems to have received the message loud and clear, despite the fact that he's still making eyes at the other brownrider. Teenagers. He's still working on his drink, slowly, small sips made between sentences, but he slides his mark forward across the bar now: some for his and some for hers. "It's obvious someone was less than impressed with my arrival, given the weyr I was assigned," he admits, though at least he doesn't sound too put out. "But it has a hearth. I don't freeze. And the galleries are warm, which is nice since Svissath won't have me going too far from them. I'll be glad to go home, though. Monaco: where the girls wear significantly less." Yes, he's still looking at her when he says that. Not impressed? Her eyes round: so sad! Not freezing? So reassuring! Svissath staying by those sands? That gets a barely-delicate crinkle to her nose, but perhaps it only has to do with how the other brown must cramp his style. "So awkward," Val even sympathizes, only to hear about Monaco, which yields an admittedly delighted smile. "Why, then, I should go," the brownrider further claims. But, wait for it: "If I could manage a ride. What would you recommend I wear? You know, to fit in." "In another two sevendays or so," says I'kris, brightly, utterly magnanimous, "I'd be delighted to give you a ride. Svissath and I, I mean. I mean - I'm sure we'll want to come back to High Reaches off and on, to see Svi's babies." Only, then he turns his gaze away and stares off into the distance, swallowing hard and trying - trying so hard - to adjust his expression back to that earlier brightness. "Uh," he begins, and then, hurriedly, "Bikini and a light wrap is a good idea. Or a sundress. Something brightly coloured," he's pink-cheeked again, "You'd look great." Truly! "Would you?" Val breathes. "But of course you would, and I'm certain the little ones would like it, too." There's a clink of ice, her new drink first arrived and then sipped, and something in her expression alters with the cock of her head. With the way he looks away, the way he swallows like that. It's an odd sort of softening, the bare echoes remaining by the time he looks back, easing the edges of practiced banter. "Why, thank you," she says. "I think... with a light wrap, that might do. I'd love to sun, but my skin's so delicate, I wouldn't want to burn." She touches her own wrist, consideringly, her gaze dropped for a moment to those smooth, polished nails along creamy-gold skin. I'kris' enthusiasm has diminished somewhat, but that doesn't mean he's stopped making googly-eyes at Val. He's trying. "Svissath's so proud, already," he says. "It's sweet. If frustrating. You can't imagine... it's-- well. Anyway. Of course, burning would be a terrible idea. But even in the shade, it can be lovely, at Monaco. And the water's warm. It's--" He's losing his train of thought again. "I'll show you the sights. I know Monaco like... like the back of my hand." He drinks the rest of his rum in a single gulp, no doubt without really tasting anything but the burn. "I don't even know your name. I should, shouldn't I? I'm I'kris." No, Val can't imagine. Or rather: all she can do is imagine. But perhaps her subdued moue only sympathizes with I'kris's plight, and doesn't foreshadow pushing him off his own ledge after all... and then shoving his bed off after him. "Vallia," she offers as though it's a gift, and when she looks up from the back of his hand there's sparkle again in her eyes. "Warm, you say. Maybe I should hear more about Monaco, actually, before we visit. It's a pity I can't invite you back to my rooms, of course you understand... but you said your weyr doesn't freeze, I'kris?" How is he doing with that rum? I'kris' eyes narrow, abruptly, and his mouth half opens, rather as though he's attempting to determine Val's intentions. Because... did that... He sets down his empty glass, and does his hand look a little sweaty as he does so? He moistens his lip, and then says, oh-so-cautiously, "Oh, no. No - it's lovely and toasty in there. And I'd be... more than happy, to tell you all about Monaco. Absolutely." Beat. "Vallia." He's studying her expression, now, hope visible if only one looks close enough. And the way he says her name... If it's one thing that Val thrives on, that's food and drink and strong drink all in one, it's reactions. Could anyone have ever thought her avian, with such doelike eyes as she has now? "Marvelous," the brownrider claims, smiling up at him and his degree of focus on her. "Why don't we..." she doesn't drain her drink entirely, though she has a long indulgent sip, but rather turns the glass around and seeks to press it into his hand. That perhaps-sweaty hand, that she is most definitely not looking at. "Why don't you try for yourself, and then we'll go." No question about his brown, about Svissath's willingness to be rousted out: if I'kris can't handle him, why, he's not even trainable. I'kris is seventeen. This is important. It explains an awful lot. Perhaps it even explains why he looks so bewildered when Val presses that glass into his hand; perhaps it explains why he doesn't even look at it, not when he can (again; or is it still?) make doe eyes at her. "That sounds--" 'Wonderful' might be the descriptor he was looking for, but, "Good," is what he chooses in the end. Right before he drains her glass, utterly careless as to the potency. She's a girl; it can't be anything he can't handle. In the interest of letting I'kris go on thinking that for a little while longer, Val only beams up at him, without even a sigh for his bewilderment or, for that matter, letting anything more carnivorous escape. Besides, that drink of hers is a teensy bit watered down by now. Not that that means much. She rises to her feet in a swoosh of skirts and places that soft hand delicately on his arm, again: perhaps the tall strong rider might show her the way? And on that way, she'll snag a long cloak from the hooks just inside the entrance, never mind that it hadn't started out hers. Watered down or not, basically shooting the remainder - and after that double rum - is not necessarily a recipe for success. I'kris beams back as he sets the glass down upon the bar, then stands; he even leaves the change from his marks sitting there as a tip - and that's a pretty generous tip. Oh, I'kris. His hand lifts to cover hers on his arm, as, gentlemanly to the last, he escorts her towards the exit. "Svissath will meet us outside," he says, carefully: no slurring. "You really are beautiful, Vallia. I hope you get told that a lot." Valiantly, Val refrains from palming that tip the way she might dice, but then, the bartender hasn't spoiled her sport: he deserves it. And just as I'kris is careful not to slur, she's careful to get them out of there before someone who knows her better can interfere... or egg her on too loudly. Along the way, she bestows a melting look on I'kris for the compliment, adds, "Why, thank you!" and even steals an opportune time or two to lean on him a little during any particularly tricky maneuvers such as, oh, walking. Especially with those stairs outside. The cold really is a breath of fresh air, raising dusky roses in her cheeks. The steps could be slippery! She could fall! It would be tragic. Thus, he's terribly attentive as they make their way down to the bowl, and though he must be freezing without a proper coat, he makes a good show of not being so. There's no Svissath when they get down to the bowl floor, and for a moment the brownrider looks almost concerned, but then-- oh, thank goodness: there he is, backswinging down to a careful landing a few steps away. "I'll climb up first," he says, firmly. "And help you from there. You can sit up in front of me. Svissath, this is Vallia." Given the sudden sharp glance he aims at his dragon, only partially covered by his hurried step forward to mount the brown, Svissath is not wholly approving. Val has both hands on I'kris's poor bare shirtsleeve along those steps, as though that little touch could warm him enough to avoid freezing to death amid these horrible, nasty, dreadful snowy wastes. "Oh," she sighs breathlessly, blinking wide-eyed up at Svissath, though at least she stops short of saying he's so big. "Yes, please, do that." She dips a little curtsey to the young dragon, setting I'kris free for maneuvering in the process, and then sees about attempting some awkwardness in following his directions upward. It isn't easy with that skirt, even if it is full enough to let her still straddle this brown's more slender neck, especially without sensing her Visigoth's balance. Even for someone not unused to riding dragons other than her own. Gaily, "Thank you for the ride, Svissath! Don't you worry, you'll be able to go back to the eggs," all seven of them! "soon." Does I'kris want to hang on snugly, to make certain she doesn't fall off? Why, it's only his due. I'kris is more than happy to help Val climb up his dragon - especially if it means he can show off manly strength, and even moreso if it makes it such an easy progression from assistance in that to assistance in buckling her in. And - well. It's cold, even if she has a cloak on, so it would certainly be ungentlemanly not to wrap his arms around her to keep her safe and warm. "He says you're welcome" reports I'kris, which may or may not be the truth. "And thank you. Hold on--" And up they go, off towards the mid-sky, where a not-at-all-impressive ledge awaits them. At least he's cleaned it up - and the weyr beyond - since he moved in. It's solicitude that Val well appears to enjoy, wiggling back into the other brownrider in what could be a wholly innocent way. It is cold, after all: feel her shiver? And hear her gasp when Svissath obediently takes wing? When he does land, if she's eager to be off the other dragon, still 'first on, first off' applies. "Brr! I'll be so glad to be out of the wind," and that's surely sincere enough, even as she hesitates at the height of Svissath's neck. Surely, since I'kris has shown off so much, sliding into his arms will be next? And then, why, she'll have to see whether the weyr is indeed as toasty warm as promised, and whether she'll have obstacles such as socks to trip on along the way. She won't be able to see the smug pleasure on his expression, of course, but it's definitely there. Were it warmer, he might've instructed Svissath to take the scenic tour around the bowl, but - no. Instead, the younger brownrider is certainly quick enough to slide down onto the not-too-icy ledge, and to offer up his arms to help her down. If she ends up caught in them, well... why shouldn't she? "You and me both," he agrees, casting a glance towards the weyr. The hearth is lit, and, as promised, it is toasty warm (which is a little profligate with the cromcoal, but so be it), and not entirely messy, though yesterday's dirty clothes are in a pile on the floor. He follows, closing the curtain that protects weyr from ledge after him. Svissath? He's off back to the sands again. Of course. "Like I said," begins I'kris. "It's not much." Thank Faranth, no. Even Val might have been hard-pressed to ooh and ahh over all that in the dark and in the cold, though with a goal in sight... as it is, she lingers pressed against his taller frame for a moment after the descent, then goes exploring tip-toe with her skirt held up a little, rustling, playful. Dirty clothes? No sign of seeing them. Curtain closed? It gets a swift smile over her shoulder, more than a little coy. Hearth warm? Why, then she'll stand before it, backlit, and begin to slide the stolen cloak ever so teasingly down her shoulders. "Why don't you tell me about your weyr at Monaco, then?" Now, alone in his weyr with the deliciously cute 'Vallia', I'kris seems almost a little lost... for a moment or two, before he hurries over to the old table in the corner, where there's a half bottle of whisky. "Do you want another drink?" he wonders, sneaking a look at Val over his shoulder, and giving her an earnest, supposed-to-be-endearing smile. "At home, we have a view out over the ocean. Stretching out forever. And someone built a rainwater tank thing, once upon a time, so there's water piped in, even if it isn't hot. You don't really need hot water at Monaco, not as much, anyway. And you should see our beaches." Forget the booze: he's turning back around to look at her now. Properly. "I wish I could take you now. Under the moonlight... you'd look so beautiful." "After a while," Val murmurs, dropping her lashes a moment with the implication that there just might be a 'while,' at least if the rum hasn't done him in already. "That sounds delightful. Why don't you come here, aren't you cold?" If he does, she'll seek to slip her arms loosely about his neck, leaving the cloak to pool at their feet as though they really had come to dance. "We could put glows out, two baskets' worth, and pretend... although I don't know what the hearth would be, then. Light off the ocean, maybe? I'd love an ocean view. Promise me yours doesn't smell of fish, I'kris." Fish, so un-sexy, only there's also the way she's smiling up at him with such clear, playful interest in these minutiae. A real live girl. In his weyr. Unless she isn't really there: maybe he'd already drunk too much of the whisky, and this is too much of a dream? I'kris abandons the table, and the whisky, too, in order to cross towards Val, and, yes, let her put her arms around him. His arms reach to grab her snugly around the waist, and while he's doing that, he's dropping his gaze to look deep into her eyes. He's positively grinning. "I'll just have to take you to Monaco someday," he tells her, "that's all there is to it. Besides, maybe it's not so bad being here, right now." She certainly feels pretty solid right now, after all! Then, after a short exhale, he leans in to go for the kiss. "Maybe!" Val's brows do quirk up into fine, teasing arches, but she lets him get away with it: the kiss, too, for all that it's as yet close-mouthed, what might seem chaste but for how she's smiling against his mouth, pressing up and into him. "Mmm," she says, and at the risk of parting her lips, "Tell me more." She's not even looking about, just now, at what more beyond dirty laundry there might be to see. I'kris aims to draw her closer against him, using those arms behind her back to propel the motion. At least he hasn't tried to walk them back towards the (made!) bed. Yet. "It's warm," he says, "And I have a pretty girl in my arms. And a very comfortable bed, with brand new, clean sheets." And now he's going to try and nibble at her ear. Gently. "Brand new," and Val would sound so, so impressed by these new, not-broken-in, possibly-not-as-soft sheets, except for how that nibbling pulls her up onto her toes. "And are they sheets from High Reaches," she wonders when she can next steal a breath or two, "or Monaco? Because if it's the latter, it's almost as though you're implying that I ought to inspect those sheets.. for comparison purposes." Speaking of comparison purposes: he has an ear, also, if she can reach it. Possibly even two. "Monaco," says he, though it's little more than a breathy whisper, as close to her ear as his mouth is. "My m--" But now is not the time for mentioning his mother, whatever the context, and besides, his ear is definitely in reach, and-- well-- that's the point at which he does start manoeuvring them backwards, one step and then a second, towards the bed. She could push him back onto it, if she wanted. If she comes with him this far. Or he could do it himself. It's Vallia that I'kris takes onto that bed, the girl that Val never was, though it's because of Val that she has the core strength to hook her legs about his hips rather than lose her vantage or be allowed to fall. It's Vallia that lets them laugh, finding new versions of m-m-mmm along the way. It's Vallia who can play with undressing the other brownrider, piece by piece, but Val who's particular in other ways: ways that he may not necessarily accommodate. Though! At least there's no tent peg, or for that matter table leg. This time. For all his (occasional) bravado, I'kris is seventeen, and that's obvious enough in his unpracticed-but-enthusiastic approach (and abrupt end). At least Val(lia) is a cuddler: this is one night he doesn't need to be lonely-and-alone, at least not until morning, when there's a cold, empty space beside him. It's her note that prompts him sliding towards the floor to bury his face in his hands; it's probably a good thing she's not there to see him sob, for his ego if nothing else. Great? He's not great at all. |
Comments
Brieli (Brieli) left a comment on Thu, 01 Nov 2012 17:30:07 GMT.
< "At least there's no tent peg, or for that matter table leg. This time."
- DEAD*
Val is evil, I LOVE it.
Azaylia (Dragonshy) left a comment on Thu, 01 Nov 2012 19:41:38 GMT.
<
Val is evil in ways I never thought possible. FFFFFFFF. NEED MORE VAL SCENES. >:O
Also- WHY IS THE BABY CRYING. GUIZ. GUIZ. THE POOR BABOO. HE IS CRYING. WHY!? D: Poor baboo. ~<3
Varied (Varied) left a comment on Fri, 02 Nov 2012 03:30:50 GMT.
< Thank you, thank you. *blows on fingertips*
(I don't know why he's crying either. It was such a *nice* note!)
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