Logs:Skewers
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| RL Date: 3 May, 2014 |
| Who: N'dalis, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Dal visits N'rov down south. |
| Where: Southern Weyr |
| When: Day 11, Month 9, Turn 34 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Ali/Mentions, Hattie/Mentions, N'muir/Mentions, Reesa/Mentions |
| Equatorial warmth and a fresh springtime breeze welcome the Fortians' arrival, and on that breeze, Vhaeryth's carrying, clarion trumpet; the bronze doesn't so much leave Isyath's swooping circles as extend their path to include Suraieth as well, so long as she doesn't descend. When she does, N'rov's greeting for her rider is considerably less noisy, but it also comes accompanied by a drink; the bronzerider's commandeered a couple of chairs on the balcony of the open-pillared Weyrhall, overlooking the water where the sun still hasn't quite set. He's tanned even more deeply since the last time Dal was here, about the same level of scruffiness, and that might even be the same pair of cut-offs he's wearing. At least he's probably washed them. "Hungry?" Back home at Fort, fall is in the air, and Suraieth's pleasure for this new-found warmth is obvious: sunlight glistens off of her waters, gentle ripples reaching out for Isyath - and yes, for Vhaeryth, too. She's not given to flight the way her parents are, but she joins them for the space of several wingbeats nonetheless, before circling downwards towards the abundant greenery below. By the time Dal arrives at the Weyrhall, he's removed his outer riding gear, though he still looks rather more formal than N'rov: his shirt's tucked in, his trousers appropriately ankle-length. "It would be poor form for me to complain about Fort's present offerings, but... yes." He'll even manage to smile for that, as he sits, gaze turning from bronzerider to the view, and then back again. Not only is his shirt's tucked in, he's wearing a shirt. "Thought so," says N'rov, with a chuckle that's all too pleased with himself, his guest, and the whole situation. "Won't have to cancel the order, then." 'Order' is a strong word, as it's the Weyrhall, but he leans back in his own seat rather than falling into any sort of line. With another sidelong look at Dal, "You warm enough? I can get you a jacket. Blankets. Furs." "Aren't you due back home, soon?" Dal's not above looking wryly amused for N'rov's self-satisfaction, nor above pointing out the semi-obvious. "It'll be quite a shock to your system, I would think, after all of this. Of course, the tithes are due sooner rather than later; perhaps that will make things easier." But won't make mealtimes less cold, presumably. "We're managing. How are things here?" "Quiet and drink your beer." N'rov grins all of a sudden. "Maybe N'muir won't notice if you don't tell him. Anyhow, coming back can't be much worse than Boll-to-Fort, I figure." Which doesn't mean, when he sinks even further back to prop bare brown feet on the railing, he doesn't stare past them. "I wish the place were doing better, is all. Things here are good enough. Ali's navigating all the men, and not just men, trying to pressure her; it's going to get harder, though." He glances back. "You heard she's pregnant?" N'dalis wraps his fingers about his mug, lifting it in silent toast. After his sip, he adds, "I would, of course, have many opportunities to remind the Weyrleader of your absence, given our long and close personal friendship." His tone is more serious than jovial, though the words themselves do suggest a certain amount of good humor. "I wish it were doing better, too. It's hard, watching it. Hard... well. I am glad to hear that Ali's doing well." He does seem to be, genuinely so: his pleasure for that last bit of news is unfeigned. "You'll pass on my congratulations, I hope." "Indeed." N'rov smiles into his beer, just for that moment, just before the more solemn nod that follows. "I'll do that." Possibly even unembroidered. "She says hello, by the way, along with polite this-and-that you probably care about more than I do. How's it going with Jasper? Funny, I haven't had any visits from Reesa, despite the close and... extremely long... friendship of our own." "Shall I make up my own polite this-and-that, and pretend that's what she said?" Dal smiles, at least, first into his beer, and then, as he sets it down again, out towards the last of the afternoon sun. He's relatively relaxed, for Dal, even in the way he leans back in his chair, not stiff and straight the way he so often is. "Jasper's fine. More settled than it was. Su still enjoys it, which is the important thing." Mention of Reesa has him pausing, his attention turning back to the bronzerider. "Reesa," he says, "is Reesa. She does what she likes." N'rov's got a loose-shouldered shrug for that; "If it makes you happy, you can make up impolite this-and-that," is easy for him to say, deadpan. As for Reesa, "Always has, probably always will. And," but then he turns his head, and in the next beat drops his feet off the rail; the server's coming with a platter of shishkabob, crispy-juicy meat and vegetables with a bowl of fruit to go with them. Napkins, no plates. She's a pretty woman, albeit old enough to be their mother, with a sun-crinkled smile for their visitor and some joking around to go with the offer of more beer. "What do you think, Dal, a pitcher? Half?" There's a hint of amusement in answer to N'rov, but Dal's prevented from making immediate comment by the arrival of that server. He's no longer a teenager, constantly hungry, and perhaps he never was the type to be so very focused on food; even so, the greenrider seems pleased with the repast on offer, straightening perceptibly in his seat. For the woman, he smiles, earnestly polite. For the beer: "Just a half. Thank you. Unless you," and for that, he glances back at N'rov, "intend to drink the bulk of it." "Half," N'rov confirms, and says to Dal with a shrug once she's on her way, "Seems like it goes further, here." The beer goes further, the air's warmer, and humor flashes more frequently in those grey eyes. "Be careful, or one of these days, you'll find yourself staying." With that, he waves toward the skewers just before taking one of his own. N'dalis studies N'rov, for a moment, dark eyes considering the only-very-slightly older rider thoughtfully, despite that good humor. "You want to, don't you," he says, not phrasing it as a question. As curious as he is, it doesn't stop him from taking one of the skewers for himself, or from chewing off the end of it with quiet but undeniably present gusto. "Stay, I mean. Longer, at least." This time there's no shrug from N'rov, no movement to his broad shoulders; not until, moments later, he tilts the skewer for another bite. "I admit it. It's like home." For whatever reason, he doesn't bother asking N'dalis to keep it to himself; of course, in the next moment he's leaning forward, waving the skewer like a wand, "Except for the weyrs, Dal. No real caves, they're little buildings instead, what's with that? I tell you." Home. The word is mouthed and not said, and half-obscured by the skewer Dal is eating from, but perhaps the sense of it is there: in the cant of his head, in the thoughtfulness of his gaze. "Little buildings. N'rov. Does that mean you've become a cotholder. Will you start talking about your garden, next? Your patch of dirt and grass? Does your roof leak? Are you collecting rainwater in a tank?" That look holds more than humor, though it's not devoid of the latter, and N'rov's already begun sliding the remainder of the skewer's contents onto his napkin between pinched fingers... the better to point the thin piece of reed N'dalis' way like an oversized dart. "This from the orchards man? Dal, Dal. Be good or I'll tell your mother on you." "As you say: orchards man. I'd be growing things, were I in your shoes." Dal does not clear off his own skewer so that he can start duelling the bronzerider, though the look he gives the reed suggests it might be a close-run thing. "I take it you haven't been enlightened as to the delights of building ownership." N'rov gets a gleam in his eye at that look, one that doesn't so much fade when the greenrider doesn't wield his pointy stick as loiter around, hands in its pockets, waiting. "All these so-called 'delights' make me want those little buildings even less. Though I suppose if I had a leak, I could glam it up like Fort did..." he muses leadingly. There's still hope: Dal's still working at his skewer, so it's not as though he's set it down. It even gets turned over in his hands, once or twice, this way and that. "There you go. You're thinking like a cotholder already. Give it time; I can see you becoming the house-proud type. Extensions. Home improvements. Garden parties." None of which sounds anything like Dal's childhood experiences. "I wonder how different the kitchens will be, when they're all rebuilt." "Yeah, no." N'rov's tempted. Sure, he'd be disarmed and then Dal would have two skewers, but will he let a little thing like that stop him? "Looked in on them yet? I'd guess maybe Fort would glam those up too if it had more marks, but as is, Y'ral's complaining about apprentice hand-me-downs. Like he's cooked a day in his life that didn't involve sticks," sort of like these, "and fire." "I try and stay well out of the way," admits Dal, the left corner of his mouth turning up slightly. "It sounds like it's all pretty messy, though. Fort has bad luck... you've heard that Elaruth hurt herself, I assume. I don't know the details of that, except that no one's concerned enough for it to be too serious." 'Bad luck' has N'rov leaning and not actually spitting to ward it off, the headwoman wouldn't countenance that, but the sort of facsimile that won't get him reported. "I heard," he agrees less happily. "Not easy on N'muir, either. She needs to be careful." One of Dal's brows raises for that not-spitting, but he acknowledges it with an incline of his head, as, finally, that skewer gets set down. There shall be no duels. "She does," agrees Dal, his words neutral, though his expression is anything but. "Especially without Ali, now. Not--" He's hastily in adding, "that I think she would let anything that bad happen, if she could help it." Which means that N'rov can now skewer him with impunity. Not that he does, yet; given that he takes a second helping, though, maybe he's just taking the opportunity to stockpile. "I can imagine Ali wringing her hands," he says neutrally. "I'm sure Hattie wouldn't want anything bad to happen," and there's not so much a period at the end of that as silence. Abruptly, "Tell me something good going on at Fort." Oh, an arms race, is it? Dal, without paying N'rov much mind, reaches to replenish his own arsenal. chewing the meat off of the end of it reflectively. "Perhaps," he agrees. "But she's trained, and the weyrlings..." They're still weyrlings. It's not personal. The abruptness of that last statement, though, has the greenrider glancing up, fixing N'rov thoughtfully within his gaze. His silent lasts only a couple of moments, and then: "Jay just turned six, and now tells me he wants to be a greenrider just like me." That's one. "The weyrlings are flying now - off in their own weyrs. They seem healthy." Two! "It's fall. Apple season. There's woodsmoke in the air. I enjoy this time of the turn." Three, even. Fort's not so bad after all. He'll pay him mind when the end of the world comes. Not that N'rov is competitive or anything! "Does he? Good boy." N'rov will drink to that. With more reserve, "Which one got Ali's weyr, do you know?" He should rightly be paying more attention to weyrlings, or at least a little; then again, he also should have submitted that paper to Ebeny long, long ago. "That is a good time of Turn, I'll grant you. At least, when the food's good. And... I will be going back, you know; I don't have any illusions. Too many reasons, even leaving leaks out of it." When the world ends, Dal will have wooden skewers. He'll be one of the lucky ones. "I don't know," he admits. "I haven't paid attention." Which gives N'rov an excuse, certainly. A better one. "We greenriders don't have much reason to focus on them." It's not bitter; indeed, Dal is entirely matter-of-fact. "I know you will. You'll no doubt slot back in; you'll forget you were gone at all. Will Ali manage without you, do you think?" Maybe the greenrider can learn to knit. It's possible N'rov won't be competitive when it comes to that. Possible. "No? I wouldn't have said focus," but when Dal puts it that way, maybe that's what it really is. It's enough to make him frown and then just when it's starting to recede, frown more deeply. "Of course she will," he tells N'dalis. "She's capable and she's gathering more good people about her," something he's done what he can to help with, "...completely independent of the bronzeriders sniffing around. I hate leaving her to them, but it'll have to be done." No doubt N'dalis will make a delightful housewife, in this post-apocalyptic future. That first frown makes the greenrider consider, eyes lifted above the rim of his mug; the second has his brows knitting, and the mug hastily set down. "Of course she will," he's quick to agree. "You don't wish to be her Weyrleader, then. You... think she needs a local. No more outsiders making her seem less a Southern Weyrwoman." His brows lift again: yes? No? It's N'rov's turn to give N'dalis a considering look; in the end he sticks to, "She needs to not have a Fortian. I need to be seen to step away from it, from even the possibility of it. I've made certain assurances to people here, and that's why I can do what I do for her," or at least that's what he seems to believe, though that might also have just opened the door for their further interactions to seal the deal. "Assurances to my girl and my wingleader, too. K'varl doesn't have to worry about any of that; K'varl can have the leaky roof all to himself." Then, since the pitcher's arrived, he reaches to top off the other man's mug before addressing his own. "Sometimes," and Dal's smiling, wry, for this, "there are definite benefits to being a greenrider." Adjusting his hand about his mug, he lifts it, acknowledging N'rov with a tip of his head. "To Ali's success," he concludes. "And your return to Fort. Su misses Vhaeryth, I'll have you know." For now, though, there's the dying of the day, the rest of the half pitcher, and-- well. Skewers. |
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