Logs:Rude(ish) Awakening
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| RL Date: 27 February, 2016 |
| Who: Breirande, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Late at night on a food run, Breirande unknowingly meets N'rov, and the two Weyr residents have an imprompteau chat. |
| Where: FTW: NightHearth |
| When: Day 19, Month 2, Turn 40 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Steady snowfall. |
| Mentions: E'dre/Mentions, Kh'tyr/Mentions |
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| It's 'lights out' time for the candidates, but when did such things ever stop a stomach from squalling loud enough to waken and *keep* awake Breirande? Apparently never, because - yet again - the tall teen is donning sloppy clothes, and slipping from the barracks into the nighthearth area, soon availing himself of a large bowl of whatever stew-type concoction the Kitchens keeps alive over the banked fire. Nobody at this later hour has ever seen him or bothered him yet, after all...so he just keeps on returning, when necessary. By this point in time, 'Rand is settled in one of the big stuffed chairs, a blanket casually tossed over him, eating away at said stew with hearty appetite...and heavily-lidded eyes. That's when an abominable snowman tromps in, except this one must be a leper, for he's lost most of the chunks of ice that had coated him; the few remaining pieces huddle in the crevices of his leathers, melting or threatening to fall or both. Said snowman pushes back his hood, though it reveals only a balaclava beneath, and grunts at what passes for humanity on his way to the hearth. Abominable snow leper, meet sluggardly sandman. With no knot to identify him, 'Rand is just another Weyr resident getting a very late meal, apparently, and - while his eyes first widen a tad guiltily when he jerks gaze up to stare at the 'leper' - he soon slips back into his whole 'nobody' guise, taking up eating once again after an answering grunt back. On occasion, those grey-blue eyes raise and lower to keep him assessed of the other guy's intent. Currently, the intent seems to involve warmth. And, soon, food. A first bite later, make that a would-be first bite, N'rov stops with a grimace that's all too visible even through the knitted fabric; he tugs the gear off, revealing hair that isn't messy and sweaty only by dint of how short it is, and marks on his face from his gear that soon begin to disappear. Then he's leaning back against the hearth, his backside starting to steam, and... starts to stare at Breirande. Or maybe he's just eating, and happens to be looking the lad's way, because why not. Later in the night will tend to keep things more quiet in the Weyr, and 'Rand was all too glad to not have to chat with aunties or uncles...or the occasional Kitchen worker or even 'rider that have 'pestered' him on previous excursions to the 'hearth. Tonight, however...there's a snow-'leper' eating, warming up...and peering at him. A sudden, massive yawn can't be held back, the teen soon replacing it with more food in his yap, followed by a low, quiet, "Hello." Sounds more neutral than welcoming, really. "Evenin'." N'rov, conveniently, doesn't pester. He just eats, and looks, more or less: the boy, the way he's dressed, how he carries himself, the invisible yet possibly lurid sign on his forehead if the growing crook to the rider's mouth is any indication. Then he pushes off, leaving what's left in his bowl on the mantel, heading for the towels. Dressed like a slob suddenly out of his bed: check. Rumpled old clothes and rumpled hair: check,, though neither of them stink, thankfully. Carrying himself like a tired teen, check: proud enough to fight his urge to fall asleep while eating, and only partially succeeding, since he continues yawning a few times. It's that potential 'invisible sign' - well, more like N'rov's continuing gaze and increasing smirk - that finally have 'Rand looking directly into snow-dude's grey gaze as he only slightly-sullenly inquires, "What?" just before N'rov rises and nabs up a towel. It doesn't slow him any, the bronzerider sauntering over without so much as a hitch in his stride. He wraps that towel about his head and scrubs before replying, amused, "What, 'what.'" Like Breirande could, genuinely, mean all sorts of things. "You were lookin' at me like I had a tattoo on my face, or something..." Breirande mumbles around another spoon of stew, his tone a little guarded, kept from being truly cranky or too teenager-ish by his tiredness...and his 'couldn't be assed' attitude. Playing at adult already, eh, kid? "Yeah?" N'rov gives him another look, this one seriously looking; then, with a shake of his head, "Don't see one. Know a guy who does. Well, a couple. One had a Threadscore, got it made into a," he gestures onto his own face, across one cheekbone and down to pull against his mouth. "Design. Thing. Don't know what it looked like before he got wrinkled, but it's reasonably impressive now." "Count me relieved..." 'Rand murmurs with some cockiness, though he drops it rapidly while grinding at one sleepy eye with the back of his knuckles, finally to look up in honest consideration at N'rov when the man speaks of threadscores and tatts. Okay; count the often blase teen somewhat impressed...he's even thinking about that some before inquiring a little more 'delicately,' "Does it work, then?" The design incorporating the scar. Beat. "Does he live here?" "He likes it, good enough for me," N'rov supposes. But, "Live here? Nope," and the bronzerider pops the 'p,' as a passing thing rather than more solid punctuation. "Off at Benden. The way he tells it, he was flying up into the sun, and got out of line. Popped between just in time." He's wiping down his coat now. "The way he tells it when he's had drinks in him, he was supposed to cover his wingmate, who died." The gray gaze rests on Breirande. 'When he's had more drinks... but that might be cheerful enough for you already." That 'popped' 'P' is what gets Breirande nodding to N'rov, the teen making a low whistle of appropriate appreciation for the 'just in time' comment of the Benden rider. When the next bit comes, though, his expression instantly shifts to concerned, even a little guilty...definitely darker. It doesn't stop him from eating, though. Again, priorities. Nod. After some moments for more thought, a cautious, "I might be wrong in assumin' you're a rider..." a jerk of his chin is given to those riding leathers to show what might have tipped him off "...But if you are...what's it like?" Another gesture - a sort-of sloppy scribble of fingers near his temple - indicates exactly what he means. N'rov must read that expression, but he doesn't stop him from eating either. Priorities, indeed. "Which part of it? Impression, dragon talking, dragon listening, my dragon, knowing I'll die if he does, knowing he'll die if I do? For starters.' Either details were lost in translation, or N'rov never was that good at reading finger-scribble, but he seems patient enough for the moment. Some riders he's asked before have just left him standing there in silence, so Breirande quietly appreciates N'rov's receptivity to his sudden inquiry. "More about...two in one head. Personalities...challenges versus easy fits." He won't go as far as to say he's talked to enough other 'riders about this subject, because that would be a dead giveaway as to his status. "I got lucky," N'rov tells him with a crook of a smile. "My challenge, he's the right fit. Now, the last wingleader I had, he gets headaches all the time from his dragon. Then again, he's pretty fun to spin up and shoot sparks, so I can't say I blame Wroth... except when E's cranky enough to get the rest of us cranky, but that doesn't happen so much anymore. Think of it this way: hardass or sweet young thing, you'd probably like it. No, you'd love it. Rainbows and everything." The look on Breirande's face says it all: Lucky, eh? A faint dimple of a near-smirk upon one side of mouth shows up on the teen's face, though his eyes betray only guarded amusement. Only after another spoonful of stew is down the hatch does 'Rand note, "Sure I would...'cept you forgot to mention the ones like Kh'tyr and his brown." Point scored; gotcha! This time, the kid's smirk is wider. Again in cocky fashion is murmured, "My ass," before he's back to eating and looking at N'rov for the other's response. There's scoring, and then there's scoring; "Yeah, you're no Kh'tyr," N'rov's grin slow and easy with a sort of sheathed sharpness: going easy on the boy. More or less. "You could do worse." He sees that devil in N'rov's expression, and 'Rand is both cautioned and yet intrigued by it...finally giving in to the latter with an exploratory, "Lucky me. Imagine two of him everywhere." Smirk. "He outright admitted to me both he and his dragon are assholes." And what does N'rov think of that? "Do you think that was supposed to fend you off," N'rov inquires, gray eyes lucent before they drop that he might switch one towel for the next, "or entice you?" Okay; N'rov's response now officially has the tired teen thinking a little bit more (well, as much as his brain can, right now) instead of firing off smooth (or maybe not-so-smooth) ripostes...and it shows. His features take on an unguarded moue of cogitation around another mouthful of stew, the kid finally shaking his head a couple of times. "Neither. It was just...was." Beat. "Is." Shrug. "Reality...and a not pleasant one, either." N'rov's efficient about concluding his drying off, practiced enough to transfer the water where it needs to go without paying much attention to the task. "Has it?" A beat. "Fended you off, in its lack of pleasantness." Another shrug is given for N'rov's rejoinder, 'Rand now scooping up the last of his stew...and looking at it for awhile. "I suppose..." A small chew of his lower lip presages another look up to the other man, and a slightly intense, "So, he wants me to not bother, then? Maybe I shouldn't." Nevermind that he said he'd go out and Stand, anyway. The subtle shrug N'rov gives him is neither a yes or a no. "That I'm not saying," he says, a slight pull to his mouth turning wry as though sympathy tastes peculiar on his tongue; that, or the bowl he's just reclaimed has gotten cold. "You were the one there. For all I know he wants you to bother, to not take the safe and easy life. Maybe he just wants you to go in with your eyes open, so you know the wool wasn't pulled over them. Maybe he just wants to fly that asshole flag. Which they can be, but that's hardly all that they are." Thanks for nothing. Snert. That's the look Breirande's now giving N'rov for his first answer, the teen shoveling in his last mouthful of stew, and chewing around a large sigh. Finally he ventures, "I think people like him get their jollies off being the way they are, screwing around with others' heads." The dark look in light eyes, the frown and nose-wrinkle again say it all: if so, he's NOT playing *that* little game. That's time enough for N'rov to finish his, as efficiently as the rest, and set his bowl atop the other dirty dishes. "Ask yourself," he suggests before moving to depart, "Even if that were so, what else he'd have to be to be well-respected: enough that three different weyrlingmasters have trusted them with their vulnerable charges. Ask yourself what you haven't seen." If there's time to catch him, there isn't much. "Good luck." He hadn't thought of it that way, before: Kh'tyr must have *something* worth him being allowed around vulnerable weyrlings. Still, it's hard for 'Rand to see it, especially right now. Tired. And finally half-full, again, his stomach quiet enough for sleep, once more. N'rov's comments earn him a slight bob of dark blonde head, and his' good luck' a vague look of surprise, followed by a twist of lips. Obviously he was still too direct to hide his candidate status. "Thanks..." is rumbled tiredly to the departing bronzerider, the teen soon enough rising, depositing his own dirty dishes in the tub, and wandering back off towards the barracks to fall asleep again within 10 minutes. He's still too young and relatively unencumbered to do the 'stay up and worry all night' thing very well. |
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