Logs:Point Taken
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| RL Date: 30 April, 2013 |
| Who: Azaylia, I'zech |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: After getting rid of a messy firelizard, Azaylia deals with another pest: I'zech. Even if he kind of makes sense. |
| Where: Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 26, Month 8, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
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| Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr Polished marble and granite surfaces, gleaming metalwork and pale woods characterize the vaulted fastness of the kitchen. Several large hearths gape red-mouthed against the outer wall of the cavern, their fires almost always stoked for the constant cooking the Weyr requires to feed its denizens. Sinks line the wall to one side of the hearths, providing ample space to wash large quantities of dishes, while to the other, cabinetry and a deep pantry provide storage space for items commonly needed on a day-to-day basis. The remaining wall space is taken up by passageways and extra seating: swinging doors that lead variously to the main living cavern, the inner caverns and the storage rooms, a counter-height pass-through for food service to the Snowasis, and a series of nooks equipped with tables and benches for quick, out-of-the-way meals any time of day. The kitchen is bustling doubletime on the tail-end of dinner, which always results in a frightening increase of dirty dishes. As if that isn't bad enough-- "GET 'IM!" A firelizard, too young to be properly trained or just that willful, is snapping up what scraps it can. It wouldn't be an issue if the blue hadn't already knocked a stack of clean plates to the ground, breaking some but ensuring that those left intact will need another washing. Azaylia is a bright yellow blur, sundress swishing in her efforts to help catch the unfamiliar creature, chasing him high and low. It's when the blue is perched precariously atop another pile of dishes that the weyrwoman thinks to stop, hands suddenly slapping onto either hip as she aims a pointed look at the 'lizard. With a startled chirp, it leaps up to blink between. The tail-end of dinner means all the good stuff is gone. The chances that I'zech has some 'friend' in here that could slip him some better food are pretty slim, and so what brings the bronzerider to the kitchen? Maybe it's all the noise. Not that he's helped at all. He just leaned a hip against the counter, arms folded, and watched as Azaylia threw herself after the little criminal. Judging by the way he smiles at the animal's evasions, he might just be rooting for the firelizard, and when the wee beast disappears, he lets out a sigh, sorry that the show is over. He starts to straighten up, a twist of his mouth and a glance trying to remember what he was doing in here in the first place. See, even he doesn't know. There's some guilt in the way Azaylia looks at those fallen plates, at the upturned scraps on various counters. Both hands rise to her cheeks, squeezing out a soft sigh with words that sound suspiciously like, "Should have thought of that sooner." It's the last moment before she's bending down to help scoop up the bigger shards and carefully dispose of them. During one of her trips to the trash, I'zech's expression catches her off guard. With a blink, and not too much accusation in her tone, "Was he yours?" Could that be what the bronzerider is looking for? The show is over; maybe I'zech will just mosey off. He starts to step away from the counter, but his boot lands on a piece of plate that has skittered across the floor, the crack of it under his step obvious. He lets his weight sink back against the counter and toes the splintered pieces back toward the pile of wreckage. It's like helping. "Yeah," he remarks dully for her tactics. "I guess." He's not invested. "No, I don't have one." He looks around the messed up kitchen and smirks. "Thankfully." For now, it seems, he'll just watch her work. Does he shake his head a little? Maybe. "Oh." Azaylia wasn't expecting to be heard, surprised by I'zech's first answer before he's denying any ties to the little blue nightmare. Even after the ruckus, "No? I think they're wonderful." Cue muttering from several, less forgiving workers. The weyrwoman is eventually handed a broom, much more effective when cleaning up the smaller, sharper chunks. As she sweeps, "If you're not here for the firelizard, what do you need?" It's not a demand, an offering to help him find what it is that's brought him into the warm kitchens. Dark eyes may lift, watch the faint movement of his head, but if she does notice, she makes no comment. Instead she tries, "Looking for someone?" Wonderful? I'zech cranks a brow up, wrinkling his forehead. "You're joking, right?" His gaze catches on one of the muttering workers, a brief promise of solidarity before they go about their business. He might not mean for Azaylia to answer that question. Meanwhile, he taps a boot against the side of the cabinet, as if there are bits of glass to knock free, as if her broom is really reaching so far as his feet. "You're here for the firelizard?" The man looks dubious. "Isn't there someone who is, you know, specially trained in sweeping?" That gets another glance from the mutterer, this time not looking so to conspire with him, more like a warning to shut up. Must be someone specially trained in sweeping. Whether he means for Azaylia to answer or not, she just gives a helpless shrug and smile. Yes, wonderful. "I'd like one." Someday. Her broom rhythmically brushes over the stone floor, sometimes accompanied by the tell-tale tinkle of ceramic pieces. The tapping of his boot draws her attention, frozen in a sweeping stroke as if looking for possible bits that might fall from the leather. There's a distinct feeling that she just might reach as far as his feet if need be. "Ah, no. I came in to double-check tomorrow's menu. The firelizard just happened." And here she is, cleaning up after it. Not that she's specifically trained, "I... don't think so? That would be an interesting craft." Said with a laugh, no real thought given to her joke. "Why don't you have one, then? Can't be hard to get. For you." She can sweep under his feet; I'zech catches that look and he steps back, sliding his hip along the counter. He 'ah's silently for the menu and ignore her joke. "Where's a weyrling when we need one," he cracks his own joke with no more interest in it than he had in hers. But it's not a weyrling he's eyeing now, just a girl carrying an empty serving tray in from the living cavern, making a face at the mess and sidestepping around it on her way to the wash basin. I'zech looks back to Azaylia and tips his head in the girl's direction. Hint hint. With I'zech moving out of the way, there's more of an obligation for Azaylia to reach for whatever has been shaken loose from his boot. Seems as though she's at least prepared for that particular question, "I wouldn't want someone to miss out just because I'm..." She searches the pile of pieces for the appropriate words, giving a nod of thanks to a worker who brings over a dustpan. "Because someone thinks I'm more important. Besides," Her soft smile is aimed at I'zech after she's gathered the pile up in the pan, "It'd be more fun if I was able to find a nest myself. Don't you think?" By the way the goldrider is biting back soft laughter, she may already know the answer to that. The girl with the tray is spared any additional chores, hint either missed or politely ignored, "Weyrlings? Oh." The bronzerider has been recognized. "Well that's dumb," I'zech says with a twist of his mouth, head drawing back to crease his scruffy neck below his chin. "Think of it as saving some misguided sap from having their shit destroyed while they figure out how to train the thing. If they figure out how to train it." As the broom comes near, he swings a foot forward to step on it and pin it to the floor. "Just grab her and tell her to do this," he says more directly, flicking a pointed look at the girl who is just about done fitting the tray in the basin and has tuned to head back toward the living cavern. He stares at Azaylia afterwards. She can recognize him all she wants, right now, he's looking at her like he's waiting if she gets what he's asking of her. "I don't think it is." Azaylia disagrees, whispery soprano lacking any inclination for a real argument. If anything, it hints at the apologetic to the ears of one who might be more familiar with outright aggression. When he halts her broom, there's a faint tug to test the weight of his boot pressing down. When escape isn't easy, "Why?" A faint pinch to her brow, "She's already doing something, and it'll just take a second." Or it would, if he'd lift his boot. Another tug, "You're the newest Assistant Weyrlingmaster." Forgive her for sounding faintly surprised, more than she means to for the sake of manners. "No, I'm sure you don't," I'zech rumbles out, derisive even in 'agreeing' with her. "It'll just take a second for her, too. Any reason you can come up with..." But it's taking too much time to explain and the girl is passing by again. He has to lean a little awkwardly to keep his foot on the broom, but he reaches a long arm out to snag the girl by the elbow, dragging her stumbling feet to stand with them. She looks surprised and all, but at least she's not fighting him off or anything, pliable thing that she appears to be. "The weyrwoman has something to ask you," he tells her. His position gets to take a backseat for a moment as he waits on the goldrider. Both he and the girl look to Azaylia expectantly. There's a jerk as Azaylia's spine straightens at the sight of I'zech dragging the momentarily confused worker over. Her grip on the broom tightens, lips thinning as she first glances at the girl, then aims a stare at the bronzerider. It persists, even as she speaks with the worker in mind, "Could you please," The goldrider's gaze softens and drops, "Get the rest of this into the pan? I've already swept up most of it." The simple request has the girl reaching for the broomhandle, an awkward glance given between the two riders. What's all this? Azaylia hands the broom off, striding with purpose up to I'zech and aiming that flat, displeased look up at him. "Don't do that again." Demand comes in a low murmur, all that's needed given she's invaded so much of his space. "Don't grab them." Don't worry. I'zech doesn't hurt the girl. He just handles her surely and once she's standing with them, even that grip lightens, just a touch at her elbow to keep her there. As Azaylia actually does request help, the bronzerider's smirk spreads wide. Maybe he's proud. Maybe he just enjoys the discomfort. Either way, when she passes her work off to someone more suitable, he lifts his boot from the broom, freeing it for its new mistress. The girl doesn't really appear to mind doing the sweeping, at least not outwardly, particularly since it gives her a reason to linger nearby and eavesdrop on whatever is about to happen next. Which is I'zech grinning wryly while Azaylia comes right up to stare straight at him. "I need an apple right now, don't I?" he asks, as if that makes complete sense. Even even mimes it, lifting an imaginary ball of fruit, turning his head aside from her threats to take an imaginary bite out of it, all teeth and curled lips. He cocks a brow at her and his smirks returns. "Good work, weyrwoman." Does he even realize he's being admonished? There's a good chance Azaylia's annoyance has more to do with I'zech's audacity than the girl's reaction to such. She lingers in his space for a moment longer, stare's intensity spiking in that instant before she pulls back. With a huff of an exhale, her arms cross loosely over her chest as features soften and the bronzerider is given a gentle nod. "You're welcome to one." She feels the need to add, "If you get it yourself." Quiet voice has a trace of that authority, and yet it's so much softer than her attempt at a reprimand. His approval only has the corner of her mouth lifting, "Is this what you're teaching our weyrlings? Not to do things for themselves?" From someone else it may have sounded snarky. Instead, Azaylia is honestly curious and a tad concerned. That softening seems expected, if the dip of I'zech's chin is any hint. It's not a nod, by any stretch. "Do I have to do everything myself? Should I fly to Nabol with an apple seed? Plant it? Wait for endless turns before it becomes a tree? Should I go out and water it? Trim it? Or do you think we can let someone else do that job?" There's more sneer on his lips that smile, a feral expression. His steady hazel eyes stare back at her for a long moment, letting her questions hang in the air. And then he lets out a mirthless laugh. "Fuck it. Yeah, I tell them to sit around in their own filth, wait long enough and someone else will take care of it for them. I know a girl." He flashes a smile then, wide and sly. A brow bounces, "Don't forget your menu," and then he turns away. "Apples." That's what he wants now. "Maybe." Azaylia's quick little retort isn't charitable. And yet, the longer that list grows the harder it is for her to fight off the amused curl to her lips. For the last is another "Maybe." Maybe they can find someone else to do all that, as I'zech does have weyrlings to look after. Sneer is met with a smile, the curl to his lips prompting a curious focus from the goldrider's dark gaze. Her chin dips at the arrival of I'zech's true smile, peering up at him from the delicate ridge of her brow, "Point taken." Lips have twisted into something wry though unapologetic. "Apples should be over there." She points, the first hint that she intends to watch him while he's in the kitchen. A true smile? That's more likely the one she gets now, for the point she awards him and the twisted grin she does it with. It's still not a soft thing, his smile, but satisfied, smug. And for the apples, I'zech lifts a hand to give her a jaunty bit of a salute as he alters his path to get one before leaving. She can watch, it doesn't seem to bother him. He plucks up his apple with a toss and a catch, looks at her as he takes a nice crunchy bite, and then he's on his way, chewing as he goes. Azaylia doesn't just stand there and watch the rider during his hunt for the apples. There's the menu to look over, though glances are stolen when she can afford them in order to keep track of I'zech's progress. There's no attempt to keep him in the kitchens, but neither does she shoo him out-- there's a suspicion that if she did, he'd stay out of spite. Catching his eye once he takes that first bite, her smile is encouraging before the weyrwoman's attention drops back down to the hide in her hands. Perhaps against her better judgment, she trusts I'zech in being able to find his way out. |
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