Logs:Storytime at the Snowasis
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| RL Date: 19 September, 2013 |
| Who: Anvori, Telavi |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Anvori is doing the books and Telavi's embroidering; she puts her foot in her mouth less than she thinks she does. |
| Where: Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 3, Month 11, Turn 32 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: G'then/Mentions, Varian/Mentions, Veylin2/Mentions, Via/Mentions, Z'ian/Mentions |
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| At the witching hour, the hearth is low, with just enough coal and wood to keep the immediate area warm, the books are out behind the counter and a pencil is stuck behind Anvori's ear. Indeed, it's far easier to find the owner in his bar at the start of the evening busy time until well after closing. The unused stools are upturned and placed on top of the counters, chairs are pushed into each table, and the cavern looks relatively clean. There are only a handful of people here, a few at the bar, and one in the coziest worn down chair by the fire. There have been nights of late where Telavi's been the one in the chair or, even better, the couch; she's frequented the Snowasis more often in the past couple of sevens, not even acquisition-oriented or, necessarily, with her Boreal wingmates. If she's never a big spender-- though she does tip generously where warranted-- still she attracts at times people who are. Tonight's worn down to sitting alone at the bar, however, by all appearances comfortably, with a few extra glows to let her embroider now that it won't disturb anyone; perhaps those help with the books, too. At the end of the next part of her motif, nothing too outrageous with its slate blue leaves on brown, Tela goes to take another sip and is denied; she hesitates, perhaps gauging the time, then looks over to Anvori after all with that wide, shallow mug still in hand: waiting until he too seems to pause... or seems like he won't. He's not scribbling just yet, just turning the pages from a few months ago, to a time when he wasn't quite as present. A hand splays across one page, one finger trailing down to match day's totals to the week's and then to months, and every so often, he indents the hide with the tip of his nail to create a distinct notice me mark. For later. It's in his inconsistent, but frequently so, sweeps of the bar that he finds Tela in front of him, utilizing the glows he's gathered for his work, with the empty mug in hand. A smile threatens, but never fully makes it past the creased tired of his face and Anvori reaches blindly for the klah pot and a clear bottle of something or other. "You're not going to be able to sleep much tonight at all. Unless," he ventures, "That's the point." The other hand, with the clear-liquid bottle, pours about a shot and a half worth of something delectably pepperminty. "I'm getting used to it," Telavi gives him in return, sparing a brief, appreciative smile as she watches him pour. Her voice is quiet in deference to the hour, its Benden accent smoothed. "Next seven, I expect to be up all night and not seeing daylight except for sweeps. Oh, and wearing black." Her glance drifts to his books, less an attempt to read upside down, more passingly curious about his handwriting, his columns, how neat and even they are or are not. The older man skips a beat, the pucker of his brow line indicating his bewilderment as he latches on to one of the few things Telavi says: "Wearing black? Anticipating some mourning?" He goes back to glancing at his columns once pot and bottle are put down. They're neat and legible on one side, precisely so, and a little more scattered on the other. "Oh, no. It just seems as though it should be part of the theme, blending in and all." The younger woman's voice makes it light, easy, unhurriedly teasing the trope more than anything. "People I know can work the black leather during the daytime, dramatic and all, but I'm just not there yet." Clearly a failing on her part. And, after a sip of her refreshed drink, "Thank you." "There are stories," Anvori begins with, his pencil plucked from behind his ear and utilized as a spinning instrument rather than a writing one, "Of beings, who were once people. Stayed up too late, drank too much klah. First," his voice lowers conspiratorally, "Their eyes turned reddish from the lack of sleep. Then their canines descended into fangs." A hazel eye disappears behind a wink. "But you know, just a story I've heard." The pencil drops, deliberately, though it's not placed, and Anvori reaches for his own glass, and pours out a double of some sort of whisky. "What are you working on?" Stories. It's the sort of word that draws Telavi closer as though on some invisible line, or perhaps it's more of an angle: a slight, steepened lean that has her gaze lifting to the man as ever did a niece's to her uncle, for all that hers is back at Benden. She's smiling then, can't help it, brighter at the wink and the closing and the drop that summons a quiet but utterly unselfconscious laugh. After a moment, "Just a story, of course. Is that the sort of thing you tell your daughters and... your children, isn't it, now? This is just," and she gives it a wry look, "a blouse I'd like to wear in the next seven or so, and I could wear it unadorned, but it's so much nicer with." He recognizes that vanity. It sparks a light in those tired eyes that fades a little into something a little more mellow at the recollection of his children. "Not yet. Perhaps some day. Via would probably spin the story into something truly terrifying and be thrilled, and then have trouble sleeping at night later." Oh, parenthood. "She's a character, that one. Growing up too fast. They all do," is the age old, repetitive mantra of parents everywhere. "What stories were you told, growing up?" Seeing it, she smiles all over again, and after another sip of cooling klah, picks up her needle and resumes. Her pattern isn't marked, beyond a chalk center line; she stitches freehand, the leaves similar but different, even but fanciful. "I can just imagine," seconded by a wry nod for growing up fast, as though she were so very old and wise herself. "I felt a little of that, seeing the hatchling greens outside the barracks. Stories? Mmm. We had the usual with dragons, being a Weyr and all; there was also the Lord with six, or was it seven wives? and they got along swimmingly and had him under their thumb, or so Nanny Frieda had it, and it wasn't until I was twelve that I heard it any other way." And then, oh the tragedy of having been betrayed! relates her amused, expressive face. "A Weyr?" Quizzical brows arc upward and he's distracted from his almost-return to the account books by this, "But not... Reaches, I am venturing." He doesn't get out much, don't mind him, is written all over his disarming sort of head tilt and full bodied shrug. "Benden," Tela provides. "Where everyone is descended from Lessa or F'lar or both," this with a pert smile that shows one dimple, and only one. But her upward glance's reminded her of his work, so she adds, "But I shouldn't keep you from your books. Not that I'm not suddenly curious how the Snowasis did in the time of short tithe, relatively, and since... but that would be nosy," she says with a sigh of regret. And then, of course, she has the luxury of being able to stitch and listen-- or talk-- at the same time. That. That shatters Anvori's exterior or somnolence and draws forth a laughter that's not heard as often these days as it once was. "Give my regards to your great-great-great-great grandmother then. I've wondered what kind of woman she was." And then some. Every boy's fantasy, right? Right? But as for the books? He just reaches for the pencil and places it to mark his place on the ledger lines. It remains opened, but he does lean forward to brace his hands on the counter top, shading himself over the books. "Anvori. And you seem to know enough about me but I'll be frank, my brain doesn't retain names well so if we've met before, I apologize." "Next time I time it, I surely will," Tela's pleased to assure, the more warmly for that laugh of his. Though when he leans so, she grows hesitant, apology rising in her eyes like the blush on her cheeks. She never has looked for numbers, and she doesn't now. "Telavi. I ride Solith? In Boreal wing?" Especially with his hands planted like that, she doesn't reach out with hers. "It's just, oh. When you were closed for business when they were born, you see, then we all knew they were there to be born and... I'm sorry, I don't mean to go wittering on. Curiosity gets away with me sometimes," she admits, genuinely penitent, "more than it should." "Ah, the Weyrleader's wing. Nice," Anvori says off-handedly, feigning a lack of notice of her hesitance or apology. It's waived away without significant attention or mention. "It's nice to have some sort of stability in the Weyr finally. After things were unsettled for so long. I hope his age helps balance out the Weyrwoman's youth." A beat, as if appraising Telavi, "That is, I mean," there might be a faint note of a tease there, "What are your thoughts on your wingleader?" She offers him a smile for it, even so, lest he think she takes it for granted. After another sip, her hand steady, Tela pushes out a breath and on the next one says, "My wingleader... aside from being the most fantastic wingleader that even wingled?" Her glance at the bartender holds a bit of humor again; her mouth purses briefly. "I'd say he's practical. It matters that things get done, he gives some direction but doesn't specify everything to the last detail. It feels like he has goals even if we don't always know what they are, yet, the specifics anyway. Though 'still getting to eat,' that definitely counts as a goal." Her brows tilt up at the older man: how's that? For the lengthy opinion piece on Z'ian, Anvori has but a smile. And a final shot of something for her mug. "For the road. You know where to return the mug." But then he's reaching for his ledgers and closes it to tuck under his arm and turns for the office behind the bar. "Good night." "Good night," Telavi murmurs after him. "Thank you--" and with that she quiets, the only peace she can give him before the door once again closes. As for the shot... it'll help wash down that taste of foot in mouth. |
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