Logs:Rimara's Come to the Wrong Person
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| RL Date: 12 March, 2009 |
| Who: N'thei, Rimara |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| When: Day 5, Month 3, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
| N'thei's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr(#412RJs) Rank certainly has its privileges; among them are amply appointed apartments. Two chambers connect to form a large weyr, the outer cavern larger and better decorated. Here are impersonal furnishings: a seating arrangement of sofa and chairs in front of a large, tiled fireplace with a blue-and-black rug before it; an antique-looking desk, dinged and dented in a few places but polished and well-kept for its obvious age; a tall cupboard with tack-hooks beside it, gear for dragonriding neatly arranged inside. Two tapestries hung from the high walls depict overdone splendor for High Reaches Weyr, one a long view of the snow-covered bowl and the other a hazy impressionist piece of dragons flaming over a springtime countryside. The inner weyr, a sleeping cavern and a bathtub, is smaller and cozier and less ostentatious. The furniture is sturdy but plain, bed and wardrobe and nightstand. A folding screen half-shields the sunken bathtub, usually with a towel slung over it and soap and wash rags within reach. The relics of a man's life are found here and there, large boots often kicked off carelessly in front of the smaller inner hearth, a rumpled tunic left where it fell, shaving kit by a washbasin. It's a lovely room, and N'thei's presence really doesn't do it justice. He must not have been home for so very long yet this evening, as his jacket's slung carelessly across a chair, his boots are clumped in front of the fireplace, the glowbaskets are flipped open-- adding their light to that cast by a high-burning fire to make the room see "too" bright. The man himself sits in the center of the sofa in the outer weyr, collar loose, his socked feet plopped on the table, and he reads. Despite the rumors, he's not a wholly ignorant brute. What he's reading doesn't seem to please him particularly, evidenced by the fact that he wads up the paper and lobs it toward the fire; it falls short. Rimara is on a mission. Not one for herself, but one for a friend. A friend who happens to be a little nervous about the Weyrleader. So, it's Rimara who approaches N'thei's weyr. She has work in the bar later, so is dressed for that, not social calls, but her being there has nothing to do with the bar or being social. No, she carries three map cases, and her leather satchel. The weyr entrance is approached quietly, uncertainly even. She can see light flickering on the walls, likely from the hearth, so it would appear N'thei is home. A clearing of the throat, a light tap on the door which is cracked open. Some nervousness in the pit of her stomach. After all, even though N'thei's been decent to her, she's not coming here as a bar wench, but as a scribe who needs approval for something official. "Excuse me...? Is anyone here?" she calls into the outer weyr. Thankfully, luckily, Wyaeth's out-and-about, which generally means he's perched on the Star Stones warding off the likes of any unfamiliar dragons, so Rimara's approach goes without question. But her greeting, that gets answered with a challenging, "Depends on who's asking." It's a woman's voice, so at least N'thei doesn't have to bother being threatened, but the only women that come to his weyr? Don't usually stop for permission. "And why," he tacks on as an afterthought, draws his feet off the table and leans back so he can peer over the back of the sofa toward the entrance, toward the voice, toward the uninvited. "It's Rimara," is the reply, "and I have some documents I was asked to bring for your approval, Weyrleader," is added immediately afterwards. She takes a tentative step forward, but not too far. "Is it all right if I come in?" No "sir" added to the request; she tends to overuse that word with authority figures, and she's trying to cut down. Besides, he's not her boss right now. Well, he is, but he isn't and ... it's complicated. Moistening her lips, and clearing her throat softly, she waits. N'thei, confused, "Who sent you with documents for my approval?" Slight stress on /my/, as if to point out that he's not really the rubber-stamp guy around here. His fingers flex briefly, a beckoning gesture that invites the woman in yet still manages to seem everything but actually inviting; it's a tough trick, but he's got it down pretty well. Standing himself, so as not to give the impression that Rimara's being invited in for a seat or anything, he drops an expectant look to the documents, waiting. "One of the record's keepers," is Rimara's answer. She enters the weyr, using as few steps to bridge the gap between them as possible. Three map cases are held out. "I've been helping to update the weyr maps," she explains. "Ananta isn't good with the maps, so she asked if I'd give her a hand." The explanation wasn't solicited, but it's offered. Likely she'd be asked why she's doing the maps anyway. "One of the maps I'm working on is of High Reaches coverage area, and needs quite a few updates. I was told to check before making those changes." She looks around the weyr. Maybe to see if there's a large enough table to spread them out on; maybe because she's curious about the man she works for. "If you have time, of course." With a healthy dose of derisive mirth, N'thei asks, "And you think I'm the person that would look at maps of the coverage area." His laugh is not so much amused as mocking, though he tosses his fingers to indicate the desk, currently most-clean and the only surface likely large enough to house a map. If she's really so inclined. "Better feedback from F'rint or L'vae or..." Any number of minions who would actually /care/ about maps. His shrug certainly isn't engaged. Rimara moves over toward the desk, not responding to that mirth. Finally, once she's got the tubes opened and two of the maps spread out on the desk, she turns to N'thei and gives him a curious look. "Why would you say that?" she asks, not rudely but blunt. "I mean no disrespect, but you are the Weyrleader. The way I learned about it in Harper Hall, men in your position are the ones who make decisions about the maps and all." She doesn't sound derisive; in fact, she speaks respectfully. "Besides, I don't know L'vae or F'rint, and you were the one I was told to bring these to." She studies N'thei with a neutral expression, perhaps trying to figure things out. Another chuckle, a glance at the maps, and N'thei resumes his seat on the sofa to sort through the little bit of correspondence still on the cushion next to him. "What you learned in Harper Hall," he echoes, shaking his head amusedly as if at a child's whimsy. "Here's a tip then, love. Harper Hall's not the real world. In the real world, the Weyrleader doesn't give two shakes about redrawn maps." Unopened, a letter goes sailing toward the fireplace; this one meets its mark, lands across a log, and adds to the cheerful dance of flames. A frown creases her forehead, and Rimara watches N'thei return to his couch without looking very closely at the maps she's brought. She steps toward where N'thei's seated. "Then why is he Weyrleader?" she asks before she can stop herself. Almost immediately, Rimara realizes she may have bitten off more than she can chew by asking such a question. "Sorry." The apology is sincere enough. "I know Harper Hall has a vision of Pern that's a bit---" She pauses, trying to think of an appropriate term. "Unrealistic. I've been in the real world for the past few months, and you're right about the Hall." More steps, closer to the back of the couch. "The record's keeper said Weyrleaders, but I came to you because the Weyrwoman terrifies me. You, at least, seem approachable." N'thei waves a letter by its corner, an indication of his current quarters, his current station: he simply /is/ the Weyrleader, regardless of why. "Do I," he says blandly, sends the second letter off to join the first; judging by his aim and the carelessness with which he flicks them, this is a fairly common way to spend an evening. Then, like he's throwing Rimara a bone, he clarifies, "You want the maps looked at, take them to L'vae, take them to F'rint, sure either of them could tell you if they're passable. But don't bother the Weyrwoman with something this trivial." There's an or-else quality to that, underscored by the brief but stern look he lights on the woman. "Frankly, I wouldn't approach the Weyrwoman unless my life depended on it," Rimara says flatly. "Once was enough. I'm not stupid, no matter what others might think." She continues to study N'thei for a few minutes. Spotting the crumpled paper on the floor, she walks over and picks it up. She doesn't open it or smooth it out. "This meant for the fire?" she asks, holding it up. Paper that close to a fire---not good. She's just being safety conscious. "All right then, I'll try to find L'vae or F'rint, but---" She stops. No, best to not go there. Some people would ask, would want to know where that "but" was going. N'thei, though, moves on unquestioningly, flicks his index finger toward the crumple of paper with a nod; meant for the fire. His words are meant for her first remark, satisfied, "Good. Keep it that way." He actually opens the next letter, gives it a bored-seeming scan, then sets it aside to deal with later. "F'rint comes into the bar often enough, L'vae...?" He waves his hand in a sketchy, doubtful way and finds there's no more mail to open, so. Unclear; "Maps? Barmaid? Still not rethinking the career path?" "Maps---more a hobby than anything else, now. Barmaid---because I'm good at listening to people. Career change---No. I don't want to clean weyrs and count stores. I did enough of that at the Hall." She turns, tossing the paper into the fire, standing there watching until it burns to ash. The flames are warm, and Rimara takes advantage of it. "Why don't you care?" she asks, turning back around to face N'thei. "I've heard some of the riders talk about you in the bar. You're not all that disliked. You're Weyrleader, and that's a powerful position even during Interval." Speaking out of turn, she is. "I don't understand." N'thei's come-again expression. "Care about what?" There's nothing particular in the room from which he might draw inspiration, but he gives it a once-over anyway before his attention lands back on Rimara. "About maps?" he guesses with another short, derisive chuckle. "You don't know me well enough to understand, love, so no one will hold it against you. Best take those with you, though," with a meaningful nod toward the fireplace that he's been feeding all evening. "No, about this," Rimara says, spreading her hands to include the entire room. "You seem to not care about your position, and all it entails. At least that's the way it sounds to me." She pauses, stepping away from the fireplace, approaching the couch. "The maps aren't important, but it just seems like you don't care about what goes on here---unless it has something to do with the bar or your own pleasure. Am I missing something?" She pauses, taking a breath before moving over to the desk. "Of course, I guess it's none of my business to question anything, but I hear things at Snowasis that make me curious." N'thei slouches down into the sofa, his arms folded loosely, his head tilted to cast a look up at Rimara, his smile vague. The fact that he's smiling at all doesn't do his face any particular favors, as his features aren't particularly suited to smiling. "Don't know what to tell you, love. It seems like I don't care, you hear things at the Snowasis, can't exactly argue with appearances and gossip, can I? Believe what you believe, doesn't matter. --Expecting company in a bit, the kind that doesn't welcome a third wheel." The first map is carefully rolled up and put back into their cases. "Guess it doesn't really matter what I think, either, then," Rimara says, shrugging one shoulder. "It's your weyr, and I'm just a transient bar wench. It's no skin off my back," she adds, trying to keep her voice even. "At least you've got something to fall back on when it all ends." The second map is in her hands now, being rolled even more carefully, since it's older than the first. "Oh, and speaking of which. I think someone's filching wine. I talked to the bartender, but a half bottle was missing last night." The maps are rolled up and replaced in their cases. "Enjoy your company." With a two-fingered salute, Rimara turns toward the exit. "See you at work, boss man." N'thei will deal with the wine situation, surely. Though, for right now, he just mutters something perfect time for Tiriana to be indisposed, along with the requisite profanity. |
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