Logs:Smiley with Chance of Dimples
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| RL Date: 3 March, 2014 |
| Who: G'laer, Telavi |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Tela comes to check out the cooking fire at the lake. Because what else would proddy G'laer do but make a cooking fire at the lake? |
| Where: Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 23, Month 2, Turn 34 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Alida/Mentions, G'then/Mentions, Gheara/Mentions, Meara/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Backdated. |
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| Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself. A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one -- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly tempting stairs.
Fires attract moths in nighttime; during the day, though... it's not summer, for Tela to wear clothes as light and fluttery as brighter insects' wings, but word's gotten around and so the tragically bundled-up greenrider really must come see with her very own eyes. Her glance to Teisyth lingers a moment, returns to the fire, G'laer, the fire-- "Are you going to burn something on it?" she asks as she wanders up. Something other than, presumably, its fuel. It's not immediately apparent, but once Telavi's up close, G'laer's boot nudges a bucket next to the fire. Drawing nearer would reveal a chicken, plucked of its feathers (no doubt eviscerated) and skewered. "Hopefully not burn," G'laer's answer comes. "Pull up a rock." There are others. "We wanted to go to Southern, to hunt and relax on the beaches. But." His free hand waves a hand at the air, since she can plainly see this is a far cry from that. "Grounded." He should sound more disappointed, but the lazy smile ruins it. Telavi does pat a rock as she wanders by it, circling the fire to get a better peek at the bucket and then peer at the fire proper. "No hunting for you," she says, not quite singsong. "But it looks like you're surviving, that's good. Keep it up. What did you do with the feathers this time?" "That's not strictly true," G'laer answers, shifting to let his ember-stirring stick lay on the ground and he reaches back behind the rock, lifting briefly his quiver into view. "Not like sticking a chicken in the feeding grounds really counts as hunting, but..." And it's probably not the kind of thing he should be so freely admitting to. But at least he's going to eat it, right? Teisyth shifts at the question. And a well timed burp has a feather fluttering free from her maw. The rider glances her way, "Waste not." "What--" Telavi starts, then just laughs. "Fish in a barrel." That laugh doesn't so much fade as settle into a smile, following his glance. "You know, we still have feathers popping up every now and again. I half suspect someone of sneaking in with a handful, just to keep that... atmosphere. How's your grandmother?" No segue for Telavi. She continues to idly round the fire, though it's less of a circle than an arc, staying upwind of the smoke. "I know it's confusing, but Lythronath and I are actually different people," G'laer drawls in a tone that clearly communicates jest. "I had nothing to do with those feathers." And if Teisyth sometimes hides paw-fulls of feather here and there in the barracks when no one's looking... well, G'laer's not telling, even now. "Gran's fine. Saw her a few days back to get some seedlings to start for my planters." Beat, "Run out of tea, yet?" An arch of his brow and his smile teases with this question, and his dimple might just wink briefly into existence. "Mmmm. You know, I refuse to imagine what might have happened," those last three words gone theatrically low, complete with a blue-eyed glance askance. Telavi pauses to examine her hands, though, in their neat knitted gloves that aren't nearly warm enough for between, and wiggles her fingers towards the fire without getting close enough to make singeing too great a risk. That she's done already. "I'm surviving, somehow," Tela says, "Although a top-up wouldn't hurrrt." Perhaps she's rationing. Perhaps she's down to dust. Perhaps she hasn't drunk a thing! "How do she and Teisyth get on?" "If I'd been born a dragon? It's a pretty intimidating thought." G'laer's baritone is playful, "But I'd like to think I'd've made a particularly virile and ferocious bronze." He smirks for this description of himself. "I'm not running low on supplies, so you have but to ask." And surely there's an invisible string to the asking, but that's all he says about the tea. "Oh, Gran doesn't really understand dragons. Treats Teisyth like an overgrown canine, really," As so many do if they're not outright scared of them, "But that suits Teisyth. She doesn't really care how she's treated, so much as that she's liked." "Do you." Telavi gives him a look that's more bemused than anything except, perhaps, entertained. Funny thing, she just doesn't ask, not right this moment, only files it away with a bit of a nod-- and a smile that's quick once it slips free, this one for his dragon. After a little while, "I know girls like that." "I'm glad she's not a girl like that. Girls like that need more self-respect. Dragons... well. When it comes to Holders, it's probably better that she doesn't get her back up about it." G'laer answers without a lot of thought before opening his mouth. Then he rises moving to pull the chicken up out of it's bucket and place it over the flames, resting the spit on two metal stakes obviously fashioned for this kind of thing. "Going to stay for dinner?" "Probably," though Telavi's tone is ambivalent. Less so, with a lift of her shoulder, "Why not? Thanks." Only, later, she's circled back conversationally for all that she stands still in front of the fire. "It's probably more practical, but I don't know that I like them being treated that way. Children, I suppose, older folks maybe... but they're special, not canines at all." Even Solith. "They are." G'laer's agreement is absolute. "But I know Teisyth would rather be treated like something simpler than she is than to be feared. I imagine not all dragons, Lythronath, for example, would agree. Which isn't to say I support anyone who actively disrespects them, like the holders who know better, but..." The ones who don't? He shrugs. "Not that it has to be that way either, one or the other," Telavi notes-- or possibly reassures, if only herself. She moves to a rock after all, pulling herself up onto it; a moue marks the sudden cold, then fades as she pulls up her knees, too, encircling them with her arms. "Would you tell me a little more of your gran? Her... favorite color, even? If you do notice these things, anyway." She doesn't look at the other greenrider, though, only at the fire, leaping and alive even as it burns itself up. "No, of course." G'laer's agreeing again, "I'm well versed in the variety of reactions of Holders to dragonkind. One advantage of living at the Hold for so many turns." One more adjustment is made to the spit and then the man is settling back on his rock. "Purple, like violets. Not like plums." There's a fond smile on his lips. "What else do you want to know?" He cants his head to one side, and where usually it doesn't occur to him to just volunteer things, he does add, "That one is my father's mother." "So more blue-y," Telavi muses, "and maybe deeper? That dye's harder to hold," but by the reflective sound of her voice, worth it. "Though sometimes there's that dusting--" it's a color tangent, though, and she lets it slip past the way she mightn't with other girls. "'Father's mother'... mmm. Anything, really, what it was like. Little things. I'd only ever lived in the caverns and with my uncle, you see." It's pensive still, quiet in the crackle of the flames. "I think that's why she likes it, really. She was always fond of appreciating things as they are, in the moment when you could. Flowers and herbs have cycles that are relatively brief by comparison to the span of our lives. She said they could teach us a lot, because the days that a flower finds its most beautiful bloom are limited. It's the same way with people. After that, there's a certain amount of wilting or other abuse from life if not just time." G'laer's the philosopher for this moment. He reclaims his gaze from the flames and reaches for the stick that stirs the embers and begins to poke here and there. "She was warmth. Kindness. Nurturing. I mean, she's not only those things. She's hard and life's hardened her. She doesn't sweetner-coat anything, but by comparison to life in the guards..." He shrugs, letting Telavi draw her own conclusion. "I needed her when I had her. I know people think I'm too serious and too -- whatever, but without her, it would've been worse. She helped me keep my humanity. Through everything." And in this moment, everything sounds gravely serious. "Tell me about your uncle," The topic shift is abrupt but not unrelated and it doesn't seem like it's meant to preclude continued conversation about his Gran, just shift the focus for now. She listens, does Telavi, and without interruption; her gaze travels to him eventually, and to what he does with the fire, a gradual wandering not triggered by any one thing but also not, quite, adrift. So too does she look at the lake in time, but it's always back to the flames. "She sounds amazing," she says, and it might have been as reflective as before-- except for how her gaze has flicked to him after that shift. It's not time now to move back to wilting and and pounding and steeping and dyeing, or dying; now, "Mmm. Benden, of course. I can't imagine that he expected to wind up with a kid out of the blue, and a little girl at that, but... he never did complain about it in front of me." Which, to some, might mean not at all. "She is." G'laer answers simply. His eyes slip away from the fire and then over to the other greenrider. "That's not really telling me about him. Funny how you can find similarities with people. Maybe that's why it vexes you so much when I don't answer what's asked of me in the way that's expected. Because you do it too." He uses the ember-lit stick to make a point in the air and then brings it close to blow out the bit that was just starting to blaze. "Do you let anyone in? Tell them about your past and everything, I mean." "Isn't it?" comes as, if not an overt dispute, nothing rhetorical. Conversational, though, that it could be. "'Vex.' I rather like that word," could count as tangential, especially with the more wafting intonation Telavi gives it. Neither is something she leaps up and runs with, though; when she circles back, there's an inevitable quality to it. "As it happens, G'laer, I did rather think I was telling you about my past. If you'd rather have height and hair color instead of knowing he's the sort of man to take on a burden and try very hard to make sure she doesn't think he regrets it... I may resort to that in the future." Her hands stay still, without tension, looped together on one knee. The 'isn't it' doesn't end up with a reply after all she says. "Do you think you were a burden on him?" is instead what it is asked, a brow raised to indicate his interest. He rises from the rock to adjust the skewered chicken's positioning over the flames, rotating it a quarter turn. "Of course." Telavi doesn't weight the words; neither does she wait. "I do like to think it's not been unmixed, of course. I even spelled his name right on my first sampler... the second time," giving it a lilt in lieu of an outright smile. "Interesting." G'laer decides as he reclaims his rock. "And do you think that has shaped your view on who you are and how you treat people and how you let them treat you?" Talk about the hard questions. At least he still seems relaxed and not driven and pressing for answers. "This," Telavi says with delicate humor-- she's staying with humor just now-- "is beginning to resemble the stereotypical visit to a mindhealer," and here she pats her rock, "right down to the comfortable couch." The not comfortable at all rock. "Oh, yes. Exactly so." G'laer's answer is deadpan and then he grins wide, uncharacteristically. Teisyth shifts and stretches behind him before her nose is coming to lay on the ground just beside G'laer's rock. "And you evaded the question. Just like a visit to a mindhealer." Tela's gaze diverts to Teisyth, though she still has that smile teased from G'laer's grin, or from that he grins; "You'd know?" Rather than accusation, it's question in its own right, ever so light. "Nah. Just what I hear tell." G'laer answers, though it seems an honest response, not an evasive one. "Believe it or not, but guards aren't encouraged to get their heads shrunk. They probably figure our minds are already so small..." He jokes with a smirk. "Imagine that. I wonder if it's expanded or not, since you've been here." Private humor lets a dimple emerge, just for a moment. Then Telavi says, "Perhaps I've missed out on visiting one myself; not only might I have thought about your question before, I'd have more room in my helmet for my hair. As it is...." Tela pauses, if only to pat her braids where they emerge from beneath her cap. "I donno," G'laer seems to be sincere about answering the wonder. "Some would argue that it must have, if only by grace of being mentally linked to a woman," Because it seems like he does so well with the fairer sex, right? "Why do you keep your hair braided like that so much of the time?" He asks then, eyes tracing the outline of her face, and more specifically the braids visible under the edges of her cap. Telavi gives him an arch-browed-- though not an arch-- look, though it does also bring out a smile that stays as she glances to Teisyth. "Mm." And for her hair, "Mostly, it's to keep it from getting tangled, keep it out of the way, and keep from shedding on people who wander by," which has the lilt of what might or might not be a joke. "You know how we're supposed to get our hair cut as weyrlings; two of us," here she lowers her voice temporarily, "talked our way out of it. And--" this time the lift of her brows is more questioning: is he all haired out? Because there's more, if only a little. "And?" G'laer prompts. Evidently the topic of her braids hasn't lost his interest, even if he's rising to turn the spit another quarter turn. "And besides, it's fun. So many designs! Spirals and interlacing and simple and only-looks-simple and not simple at all... And," Telavi's willing to say lightly to this G'laer, the one altered by the influence, "it makes for such a contrast when it's loose." "So what you're saying is... Quinlys was playing favorites even before you two knocked boots?" G'laer draws the first part out and then lets the rest of the question play catch-up. Weyrlings pay attention to rumors. Especially when they involve one of their teachers bedding another (even if dragons were the reason). "Mmm, that was Meara. Quinlys tried to..." how to put this? Telavi decides on, "...draw more of a hard line." Light, light, light. "Did she?" G'laer asks, his lips pulling into a smile. "I bet that was hot." Yep. He said it. Just like that. Tela's brows go up in something akin to shock, but she doesn't miss even a full beat, her tone staying light; "It took quite a bit of persuading," she relates. "As you'd expect. Between me and Alida, though..." "Did she put Meara in a headlock?" G'laer wants to know next, getting back on topic just like that. "Oh yes," Telavi says brightly-- and transparently so. "There was a duel right where... you know that table that looks like Pern? It's covering up the dents in the," stone, "walls from the smackdown." G'laer smirks but has no answering words for Telavi. He takes up his fire poking stick and starts poking again, this time standing beside the fire. She stretches then, linking her hands and lifting their palms up to the sky, and settles: apparently content with silence, for all that-- upwind though Tela is-- she sniffs for a possible hint of cooked meat on the light breeze. The bird is certainly cooking, but it has at least a quarter turn left to go. It's about the time that G'laer moves to turn the spit again to that last uncooked quarter that he speaks again, "So do you think you'll take another go at it? The A-W-L-M thing." "Mmm. I do believe I will. It's worth it, you know? And between you and me and the chicken, I don't much want to go back to Boreal.... How about you, would you do it?" Telavi slants a look towards him. "If Quinlys put you in a headlock?" humor bright in her eyes. "I'd prefer if she knocked my boots. Headlocks don't hold much appeal. Which isn't to say sweetner over vinegar, but..." G'laer shrugs, nudging one of the rocks that rings the fire back into place with the toe of his boot. "I'm not sure I could be trusted. You both have a lot more patience with childish behavior than I do. I'd probably be more likely to put them into headlocks." The weyrlings with the predictably childish behavior. Metaphor or no, Telavi glances towards his boots anyway, and with an effervescent laugh. "That's true. Though maybe Q would like muscle for that. You never know. If it was a well-done headlock, anyway. Are your headlocks well-done?" While she's at it, "Is the chicken well-done?" Chicken. "If you're asking if I could kill them with the right kind of twist or let them live another day, then you could call them well-done." G'laer's answer is simple, and he's smiling an easy smile that makes it all the more disturbing. Perhaps in this moment, some parallels might be drawn between himself and a certain bloodthirsty bronze. "Chicken'll need a bit longer to be well done. Don't want to eat it under-cooked." "That is gruesome," Telavi tells him, not completely without relish; after all, death is so foreign to even a winter's afternoon, with a pleasant fire burning and a no-longer-so-cold rock to sit on, if you're her. At least, not feeling so cold; some numbness may be involved. "No, definitely not under-cooked. I've done that," though not necessarily chicken, "and lived to not want to remember it." "Nah-uh." G'laer disagrees. "If you want gruesome..." But some part of him stops to think about that. "Well, it'd ruin the chicken, I'm sure." He decides moving to poke the bird with his finger, testing the tautness of the tissue. He purses his lips a moment, but seems to decide it's ready, so he reaches for his beltknife and cuts free a drumstick, offering it over to Tela. "I didn't bring a fork." So drumstick is probably the easiest choice. "The chicken should not be ruined," Telavi most certainly agrees about the fowl, the meal, and the afternoon. Though she does eye the drumstick with some hesitation; it hasn't been so long all that since he said it'd need longer, but then he had checked it and-- in the end she slips off the rock to, lightly, take it. "Thank you. To surviving! And food. And surviving the food," lifting the drumstick as though in a toast; at least, if the fowl does turn out to be underdone, neither of them will be the only one to suffer. |
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