Logs:Polishing
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| RL Date: 19 June, 2013 |
| Who: B'rant, Dal, Elise, N'muir |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: N'muir has the candidates cleaning The Glass Fountain. |
| Where: The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 6, Month 1, Turn 32 (Interval 10) |
| Apparently B'rant hasn't been here for too long, since the weyrling -- seated at the bar, his back propped lightly against it -- has only consumed about and eighth of his drink. On occasion, the tall young man shares a murmur or two with the bartender between sips of what might be some home-brewed lager, the bronzer also popping a palmful of beer nuts into his mouth now and then as he looks about lazily. With the beginning of a blizzard terrorizing the Bowl, most outdoor work has been forced indoors, and the Candidate chores have been adjusted to account for the weather. So too has N'muir's schedule, the Weyrleader having voluntarily taken responsibility for tasking (and apparently supervising) a small group of Candidates with cleaning the furniture of the Glass Fountain. There are rags and containers of a blend of oil and citrus for the pale wood, others clearly intended for cleaning the delicate glass. "And no, no one is climbing up to clean the chandelier," N'muir mutters as if anticipating that it needs to be said out loud. He heads for the bar to not so much as join B'rant but rather claim a central station for him to sit and supervise, turning his back to the bar to observe from the comfort of a bar stool. B'rant earns himself at least a polite, "Bronzerider." Over in a particular section of the bar, Elise is busily scrubbing at an overturned chair. Scrub scrub. Scrub. With a tiny little brush, and some oil and rags sitting nearby. She wears a messy bun, a pair of sturdy pants, a raggy sweater, and a surly, overly focused expression. People have to step around her to get by. Yeah, it's like that. Luckily she seems to be finishing this one up, or so her strokes tapering off might suggest. At one point she must flex her hand to ease a cramp. Ow. Dal still only has use of one arm, but having been released from the Infirmary, he seems determined to get back into the swing of things, even when it's just a little awkward. Cleaning is something that /can/ be done one-handed, though, and thus here he can be found, rag in hand, polishing up the wood of one of the pale chairs. N'muir's mutter regarding the chandelier has the candidate's gaze lifting, but Dal's only remark to /that/, made mostly to his fellow workers is, "Pretty sure you could just use a long pole or something, anyway, right?" He's not certain, for all that he's gotten an impressive introduction to cleaning these past weeks. And then, "Doing all right, Elise?" A quick and less formal salute is offered to N'muir, B'rant remaining mostly relaxed, since he's 'off the clock,' right now. "Weyrleader..." the youth notes back companionably, then holding out his basket of beer nuts towards the older man, his gray eyes shifting from his fellow bronzer towards the small gaggle of candidates. He recognizes some of them, but lets them be, given they're working. Is there a hint of subtle humor lingering about his lips? That flex of a hand from Elise doesn't go unnoticed and a smirk tugs at the corner of N'muir's lips, teeth briefly flashing in the lamplight. "Get used to scrubbing and oiling," he remarks and leans his elbows back on the bar, hip cocked and legs propping him up in a lazy, roguish fashion. "If you Impress anything out there, all you'll ever do is clean and oil. And shovel. If you aren't used to it, you'll kill yourself." His head rolls to B'rant. "Am I right?" It may be a subtle dig or it may simply be the Weyrleader's way of including the younger man, but that quiet smile on N'muir's face gives very little away. He lets his eyes roll up to consider the chandelier. "Could be." Poles. "Can't tell you to be honest. I don't usually stick around to watch people clean. You bunch are just lucky, I guess." "Yes, yes," Elise mutters back, and then, "my bloody hand is killing me." Not her literal bloody hand, they're past that. That fact that N'muir is watching them closely enough to see that she's having issues isn't lost on her, especially because he commented on it. After giving him a rueful glance over her shoulder, "/If/ I Impress," she stops again to shake out her fingers, and accidentally loses her grip on her brush so it goes /flying/. "Oh no!" Despite Elise's mood, Dal's glance at her is nothing but sympathetic-- and when her brush goes flying, he half jumps after it. If he had use of his other arm, perhaps he'd be able to catch it as it goes by; but he doesn't, and thus, it continues flying. His gaze flies after it, catching enough of his attention that he pauses his efforts to watch. Even so, his words are even: "I'm sure those of us who do Impress will get used to it, Sir. We're doing our best." It may be for emphasis that he sets down his own brush, and stretches out his hand awkwardly, without another one to brace it against. At this point, waiting for dinner to come to the living cavern /and/ in a decent mood after finishing up his daily lessons on flaming and formation drills, B'rant's willing to chalk N'muir's quiet smile and words up to humored sharing. As such, the weyrling replies in a deep tenor mixed with just the perfect hints of droll casualness and long-suffering wryness, "And don't forget reassuring, sir. Being woken up every three hours or so every night for a few months on end would crack the hardest nut." His basket of nuts is withdrawn, and more of the quick-energy food consumed, then set aside in favor of a drink of beer, the taste of which pleases B'rant muchly, given his smile at such. And then Elise's brush shoots out of her fingers at warp speed, and Dal's sort-of trying to pursue it, the little scene making the weyrling almost choke on his beer as he attempts to bring up a blurt of humored laughter, and fails instead. Coughcoughcough. The Old Man-ness is practically pouring out of N'muir when he utters, "Just be lucky you aren't out in that blizzard. When I was a Candidate-" Did the walls just groan? "-we would've had to shovel the whole Bowl in that kind of storm. We got no pity on account of bad weather." Whether or not that's true, he states it with conviction. "Thread had no pity. Candidates got no pity. Weyrlings got no pity. Dragonriders got no pity. No one got pity. I pity the fool who- oh!" Flying brush steals the show! He leaves the comfort of his perch at the bar to grab the brush as it clatters to the floor and bring it to Elise. He spares a glance back at B'rant's coughing. "I think that depends what kind of nuts you've got in the first place." Hazel nuts. Walnuts. Peanuts. "And what if you don't Impress? Will you run home?" It's a question that's for more than just Elise when N'muir's look is spread to Dal as well. Elise makes big eyes at the brush as it saaail awaaay from her, looking hopeful when Dal almost is able to maybe catch it, but then it keeps going and of course it would land near N'muir. She's already giving him a wry twist of her lips in exchange for his old-man stories. "Thank you for that." She reaches for the brush when he brings it to her, and does give him a thankful little smile-something, but his question makes her pause. Stuck staring, she has to blink to bring herself back and fumbles with her answer. "I... I don't know. Probably." She looks down quickly, tension in the furrow between her eyebrows. It would be out of character for Dal to outright /ignore/ a person, but he's certainly not paying B'rant much heed, not even when the weyrling chokes. He braces his hand against his knee to stretch it, now, and though his dark gaze slides sidelong towards Elise as she answers the Weyrleader's question, a frown just barely visible, it's quick to turn back to N'muir a few seconds later. "I've considered staying here, Sir," he answers, picking up his own brush again and returning to his labors. "If I can work it out with my family. I know they'd prefer me to go home. It won't be long before the hatching though, will it? Sir." Oh ghawd, here it comes. That's the look in B'rant's eyes, if not on his politically-correct facial expression, for N'muir's revving up towards his 'in my days,' comment. Thankfully, there's beer to look at, and beer nuts as well, though the Weyrleader's comment in that direction has the recovering weyrling trying to stifle another snicker, and just holding out the basket of salty goodies towards the other male again in offer. After a few more coughs, "Whatever nuts you like," manages to find its way out of the youth's lungs. That the candidates seem to ignore him is reason for the bronzling to smile way-too-keenly as Dal factors in that forgotten 'sir' to N'muir. "Well, you should figure it out before the eggs hatch," N'muir advises as he straightens himself. "Because if you Stand and don't Impress, you'll want to leave. But if you leave and before the next clutch, say, you..." He waves in gesture of Elise. "Say you get married off to some idiot who likes his ovines more than he likes you. Or..." A second wave, this one encompassing Dal. "Or you-... well, that example works both ways really. Ovines. Seriously. Some people have weird-..." Ovines are pushed aside by a wave of his hands. "The point is, you /could/ stay here. You /could/ Stand again. Or you can leave and maybe you'll be Searched again, maybe you won't." He shrugs and turns back to the bar, reaching for the offered nuts. "The eggs?" he calls back in question to Dal, and makes a sound of dry amusement. "Who knows. They run on their own time. The dragons will tell you when it's time. You ever been to a hatching?" The handful of nuts are tossed back into his mouth and crunched. "Hey, would you watch them while I go see if my daughter's just about ready for supper?" he asks B'rant. Elise does shoot B'rant a /look/ for all his smiles and comments, but the wiser choice is to keep her mouth shut so she does that. Besides, she's going to be busy staring at N'muir for the next few minutes apparently. When he touches on 'ovines' she makes a disgusted, offended face, open mouth and all, sharing that same with Dal when the Weyrleader includes him in that... scenario. She still isn't fully recovered when he wanders off again, but does put her lips together so she isn't agape at least. With narrow eyes she stares down at the floor, then with fresh resolve reaches over for the rag and the oil so she can attack that chair anew. "None of it matters anyway," she mutters, probably to herself. Ovines. Dal's brow furrows, suggesting that he's not entirely sure of what N'muir's saying, even if he /is/ giving a quick little nod of confirmation. Elise's glance has him twitching the right corner of his mouth in reply, head shaking just barely. But to N'muir: "No, sir. It will be a new experience for me, seeing a hatching." He may not even realize that he's paused to rub, gently, at the well-padded wound on his shoulder; it does rather seem like an instinctual thing, one that only partially distracts from the look on his face - hastily covered - when N'muir puts /B'rant/ on supervisory duty. To Elise, "Why not?" No 'good' deed goes unpunished, apparently, and when N'muir offers him the task of overseeing the candidates, B'rant internally groans, though he hides it well behind a sip of his beer. So much for relaxation. And here he was, almost chuckling at Elise's expression of outrage. That quickly disguised look on Dal's face at word of his new 'boss' tricks a wry little half smirk from the weyrling, but all he can do, in the end, is nod to the Weyrleader and murmur, "Yes, sir. How long should the task go before we call it for dinner?" He's concerned about them? Wait...maybe the bronzling is more converned about his own stomach. Whatever N'muir sees in Elise's chair-attacking lends the corner of his lips to once again flex in a subtle smirk and he reaches for a second helping of nuts to carry him on his way. "Well, hopefully it won't be your first /and/ your last," he remarks, and then gives B'rant a crisp nod as he turns for the door. "Oh, I shouldn't be more than a minute or two," he assures before he disappears out the door. "How long can it take for a toddler to get ready for supper?" The answer to which may be a lot longer than N'muir could ever anticipate. "Because. Either way it's a different life. If we stay, we get used to things here, maybe we get Searched again later, but maybe not. If we leave, life will never be the same." Those are heavy words to carry, perhaps, and Elise seems only too relieved to see them go. She pauses for a second, her shoulders hunched, but then carries on a beat later. It's timed well, that tension, with B'rant overtaking supervisory duties. Sigh. "I suppose now you'll make fun of us for having to do this," she guesses, once N'muir is out of the room. Dal opens his mouth, but doesn't seem to have anything to say to rebut Elise's remarks. Certainly, there's a flash of /something/ in his expression, and it's likely akin to acknowledgement... and maybe even regret. It's easier, then, to turn his gaze towards B'rant, too. He seems resigned, and yet not, and though his tone is even, his words edge on the less-than-polite. "Did your mother never teach you that it's impolite to smirk?" "Uhm... okay," B'rant notes a little hesitantly to N'muir as the older man departs, the look on the weyrling's face rather chagrined, since /he/ knows from second-hand experience that dealing with toddlers can take a long, /long/ time. Abandoned; yikes! Back to peanuts and beer he goes, a subtle kind of retreat; but Elise's rebuttal pulls the former-Holder out of himself, has his grays affixing to her a bit coolly, then snicking over to Dal at his utterance. In bland tenor, the bronzling notes with a hint of seriousness, "Since when did this become all about you two?" A lift of his slightly dimpled chin indicates the half-handful of other candidates keeping to their polishing and cleaning while they share the occasional word or laugh. "I suggest you look to your fellows, since it appears that you've need of better examples." Sip. Elise stops and stares at B'rant. She looks over at the other candidates. "Yes?" she replies, slowly as though she thinks he may have gone mad. "I did say 'us', did I not?" She checks. "I did." On his advise she looks again to the others and shrugs a shoulder. "Very well, we'll go about our business talking to each other." Very pointedly looking at /Dal/, she asks, "How is your hand, /Dal/? Mine is a bit better." She flexes her fingers and wrist to demonstrate, then beams a grin at him with her head tilted and mechanically polishes the chair like a robot. Dal doesn't /quite/ have the same ability as Elise to make those pointed remarks, but he seems very nearly pleased by them all the same. "Doing much better, /Elise/," he confirms, as airily as he can manage it. "With any luck, we can get these chairs done before dinner." B'rant? B'rant who? In fact, he doesn't have much else to say whatsoever after that, except the occasional quiet remark, until, /finally/, they're released for dinner. "Feel free to interpret that how you wish," B'rant notes dryly to Elise, his grays rolling a bit to the heavens for a moment. "That is, until your mouth and actions finally drift you over into the troublesome area...when, I'm afraid, I'd have to report them to the Weyrleaders...and the clutchparents." Another sip of beer. "Until that then...get used on your own time." |
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