Logs:Sugar Rush
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| RL Date: 2 December, 2015 |
| Who: A'sran, Mirinda, Niryce |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A'sran and Mirinda are both really sweet. |
| Where: Kitchen, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 9, Month 6, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Hattie/Mentions |
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| Supposedly, there's a plague around these parts! You wouldn't know it from the complacently normal interactions in the kitchen, where cooks cook and kitchen staff cleans, washes, and preps. A bump and a thump and a whistle herald the curly-headed bronzerider bearing a burlap sack over his shoulders like he's brought home a prized rabbit-- or wherry, or whatever it is those Fortian heathens eat. Instead, it's a sack of grains that he sets down next to one of the kitchen islands. His whistling ends sharply, but his wide, white-toothed, dimpled smile takes its place as he leans against the counter, blue eyes turned to the cook that's kneading dough at his elbow. She has the face of someone used to being displeased, and yet she slides him a cookie off the sheet anyway. "There never was a better woman, Niryce," he avows with another charming smile; she scowls. Mirinda's made a point, these past six weeks, of getting to know the caverns as best she can (as foreign as 'caverns' are as a concept-- where are the open spaces, the wooden huts, the air?). It's probably not a surprise, then, to find her off to one side, chatting somewhat woodenly with one of the more senior cooks, her hands pressed flat to the smooth line of her skirt. Whatever the substance of their conversation, it leaves neither seeming particularly pleased; just as A'sran collects his cookie, Mirinda begins striding back towards the exit down a route that will take her just past the bronzerider and his scowling friend, the latter of whom earns a quizzical, hesitant glance. It is with great luck (or bad timing) that A'sran takes a bite of his bribed treat, and turns his focus away from the familiar thunks of the dessert-making station, at the same time the new Weyrwoman walks past his field of vision. He coughs into his balled up fist and sets the cookie back down as inconspicuously as possible, straightening up to his full height. "Weyrwoman Mirinda," is a respectful murmur as she passes, whether or not she chooses to acknowledge the bronzerider. And the cook, she's still scowling, paying little to no mind to either of the dragonriders or their respective emotions. That scowl, in addition to the lack of response, seems to be enough for Mirinda to make up her mind; whatever the issue is there, she's not getting involved. But for A'sran? There's the faintest flicker of amusement for his conundrum, acknowledged in the tip of her chin and the brightness of dark eyes. "Bronzerider," she returns, voice even and sure and unquestionably Monacoan. "Please don't choke on my account." No amount of coughing could staunch the boyish grin that surfaces in the wake of the Monacoan's words, not even when he has another near-cough experience slightly after. His takes two steps to the side and away from the island, and subsequently away from the angry cook; then he extends a hand to the goldrider. "I would never be that rude when we have only just met," A'sran swears, valiantly, his blue eyes atwinkle with laughter. "A'sran, bronze Leczuth's. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, ma'am." The pause that follows the extension of that hand is minute, but certainly present. Mirinda extends her own, taking the bronzerider's hand gently, more with fingertips than the whole hand. "A'sran," she repeats. "Leczuth." Her dark eyes study his face; perhaps she's trying to determine if they have met-- in passing, forgotten. It's always a possibility with bronzeriders at Fort. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, A'sran. Do you seek to make the kitchen staff unhappy often, I wonder?" The question is intended to be light; not, perhaps, an actual joke, but certainly not admonishment either. When the moment passes and their hands (fingertips?) have touched, A'sran shoves both of his in the shallow pockets of his wherhide pants, which just bunches up his shoulders around his ears and makes him look reminiscent of an awkward teenager. "Yes ma'am," he confirms, of both their names; any deeper reflection on her gestures or words he's not prone to show. Head cocking to one side, he smiles until the corners of his mouth strain. "Niryce?" His blue eyes fly to the cook, but he leans in to Mirinda to whisper not-so-quietly: "I do think she thinks she is smiling."
Who can fault the bronzerider for trying to amuse the weyrwoman? Niryce can, apparently. She eyes them both with disdain, and simply.. walks away, with a batch of kneaded dough to deliver to a different station for baking preparation. "Unfortunately, I have never seen the woman smile in the whole ten turns that I have been at Fort," A'sran tells the goldrider, smile not budging from his ruddy face. "I do. I cannot complain about my life, and I am told it is my most favorable trait." "Oh dear," says Mirinda, glancing after the departing cook. "I appear to have lost another potential friend." She's not-- can't be, surely-- wholly serious with the 'friend' bit, though the regret is real: maybe 'friends' may not be on the agenda, but 'enemies' certainly were not the desired end-result. Still, A'sran is smiling and the goldrider, in the face of that, can't seem to help herself but respond. "Ten turns. That makes you practically a local, doesn't it? I admire optimism. It's such a positive trait." The goldrider's words are enough to fade his smile somewhat, to have his brows knitting as he glances to the retreating cook. "Niryce.. you should not worry over her manner. She tends to be short and gruff. It is not an indication of her acceptance towards you." A'sran looks back to Mirinda with his smile reintroduced, blue eyes dancing with laughter. "Ten turns makes me practically ancient. I can tell you the local haunts and the things to avoid, like Iaxa's mystery meat pies on the second day of every month.." He shudders at the memory.. or memory of a taste. "Thank you, ma'am. It is nice to have that infuriating quality lauded." Mirinda gives a careful, little nod for A'sran's explanation of Niryce, acknowledging this truth-according-to-him without further comment; it's possible she's ever so faintly relieved, though if so, she's subtle about showing it. For the rest, her smile is considerably more genuine-- warm and bright and close to cheerful. "Mirinda," she says. "There's no need to call me 'ma'am.' Do you think I can convince this Iaxa to avoid the pies? That might be over-stepping my bounds. It's... tradition, probably." "Mirinda," is both repetition and his good-natured acceptance of her request, "it will take time to adjust to saying your name instead of calling you weyrwoman or ma'am. I have never called Hattie anything else. Forgive me if I lapse." A'sran is an honest fellow, however smiley. "I would stand behind your decision," cue brightening smile, "but many.. like them. They put hair on your chest, cure your breakouts, and give you breath as fresh as a summer morning." "I," says Mirinda, lightly, "am not Hattie. Which is neither bad thing nor good thing, I hasten to add; just fact. I'm not sure that I'd be comfortable calling her anything but weyrwoman, if we're being honest." The wryness in Mirinda's expression lasts only a moment, but it is there. "Hair on your chest. Breakouts. I begin to understand the interest... it wouldn't do to interrupt that. How would anyone keep warm without their chest hair?" As if for emphasis, she shivers exaggeratedly. Reddish-blonde curls get ruffled as he listens, and smiles. "You are not Hattie. Do you wish to be like our former weyrwoman?" A'sran asks the question, but he seems as one genuinely interested in her answer and less in the woman of which they speak. Mirinda's mouth opens, and then she pauses. "No," she says, finally. "I don't, and not just because I imagine coming in here and trying to be Hattie version two would win me even fewer friends. But I--" She stops, abruptly. "I think we would all prefer to be known for what we have done, and not... not other things." Beat. "I'm sorry, you probably didn't need me to go philosophical on you. I admire your former weyrwoman. She was enormously capable, and confident in her opinions." His fingers tangle temporarily in his curls, but his fingers eventually find their way back to his pockets, about the same time that he angles his head to the side to contemplate Mirinda. "I know that. Hattie was one of a kind. She had her strengths and her weaknesses, but I like that you are not like Hattie. You are Mirinda. Mirinda might save a family from a burning cothold one day or restore Fort, and its protected lands, to all of its former richness one day. I look forward to seeing who it is you are," he says, still with that smile. That, all of that, puts a faint pink flush in to Mirinda's cheeks. "That's an incredibly nice thing for you to say," she tells him, genuinely pleased. "I will... do my best. To be the best weyrwoman Mirinda can be. Because that's... that's all I can do. The best I can do, anyway." A'sran makes smiling so widely, creating dimples in his cheeks, look easy. "It is hard coming to a new place and starting all over, and you are starting as weyrwoman." He appears pleased that he has in turn pleased her, but gestures widely with a hand, palm up. "I am keeping you from your duties. It was.. great, meeting you finally." Politely, as ever, he gives her that opening to leave. It may be 'opportunity' rather than 'request' but Mirinda takes it as a retreat; she flushes, hastily drawing her shoulders back, and nods. "Of course. It was a pleasure to meet you, too, A'sran. I'm glad to get to know people. It's..." But she stops herself, smiles, and then takes a step back so that she can turn and retreat. Flee! It is nothing but another grin that follows the goldrider's retreat, but once she is good and gone, A'sran steals a cookie from the counter, and the one he had been snacking on, before making his departure with his pilfered goods. |
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