Logs:Tapping... On Ice
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| RL Date: 23 April, 2016 |
| Who: H'kon, N'klas |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: N'klas is going to join Alpine. He just doesn't know it yet. |
| Where: Lake, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 26, Month 2, Turn 40 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Cold and clear. |
| OOC Notes: Backdated. |
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| A couple days-- nights-- after graduation, the air is frigid... but that doesn't mean there isn't a bonfire, or rather a brazier-fire, not just next to but on top of the solidly frozen lake. Three braziers surround a cluster of youth, several of them ex-weyrlings, about a fourth; one young bluerider is less strumming than plucking a gitar with the specifically altered tips to his gloves, the singers' breath white in the fire-caught darkness. This song's all uproarious humor, but as it ends, he segues into the first measures of a minor-keyed murder ballad from the Tillek hillsides, pitched to dramatic-- melodramatic?-- effect. Walking on ice is always a short-stepping affair; more so when your steps are short to begin with. H'kon is not in any hurry, either, which makes his progress slow. Overhead, airborne, Arekoth circles, silhouette suggested only by how he blocks out the stars - the moon's aren't high enough. Snow squeaks against ice beneath the ballad. H'kon draws near, his own breath allowed to cloud. No stealth here. He gets a few passing glances, some automatic straightening up-- an adult! a responsibly-ranked adult!-- followed by self-conscious slouches: they're grown up, dammit. Nik looks over after the first rustlings, yet it's none too bright even with those braziers, and there's playing to do for all that his fingers must have memorized the poor cold-tortured strings. Khajith's out there, somewhere, nosing about someone else's weyr. After another couple measures, there's more rustling across the sort-of-circle. There's something like room. H'kon draws nearer, and stops short of that not-bit of room, the disapproving look given those conscious slouchers turned into more of a glower by the light of the fire. "You've lost your tuning," comes out the lips of the next-Harper's son, the Harper's brother, the Harper's step... H'kon. At least he waits until the song is finished. But if anything, brows draw closer together, and that furrow gets worse. Oh, sure, let the harper-relation come by. Nik slews a look at him, a pained look, because yes, the tuning's slipped since they first started but who in the circle had really noticed? Especially with that drink being passed around. "Yessir," he says even so, for the older man's rank-- and the truth of it. So he raises his voice into a cheerful, "What's next? Tuila, your go?" and lets the others descend into song-picking argument while he starts to tweak. H'kon is not placated, even by that 'sir'. "Hm," grunts the brownrider. One eyebrow raises to some of the 'discussion' going on. A moment, and then H'kon steps forward, nearer to N'klas. "Give your instrument to someone. I'd have a word." A skeptical look around that group of friends, though no comment to suggest whom he'd pick. N'klas barely has to look, and then he's shaking his head, swinging his gitar back as he stands to his still-growing six feet and change; he has an interested eye for the brownrider, the wingsecondly brownrider, but he doesn't give his instrument up, calling instead for someone else to get out that little thing he calls a drum. "Last time it didn't end well," the teenager explains, humor-- and that same interest-- easy in his voice. "Bringing it away from the heat," mused the brownrider. "Not that it's an even heat." H'kon shrugs, and steps back, away, into the dark, into the cold. Arekoth still circles, and for a moment, he and his rider cover the same ground. But even then H'kon doesn't look up. He's watching N'klas, and he's waiting, his hands clasping loudly behind his back, gloved hands muffled in their quiet contact. More, automatic tweaking ensues; N'klas can, it seems, do that at the same time as he walks, can enfold it in a furry wrap while he's at it. "If it were picky," he says, "I wouldn't have brought it." He looks overhead, just a glance on the heels of his smile, then pauses there in the snow-reflected starlight a questioning pace or two short of the other man. H'kon watches the bluerider's dealings with the instrument, in no rush, still, not now anymore than before. He lets N'klas question a moment, and then nods, one sharp motion. "You've graduated. You'll need a wing. Alpine drills tomorrow morning." No comment on the short notice, or on much of anything else. A breath escapes N'klas, surprised or something, certainly not hidden; "Yeah? All right," might as well be all riiight. He makes a decent attempt at looking all sober and restrained. "The usual?" is more a guess from shadowing than a real question, but gets that lift anyway. "Hm," is affirmative this time. It's not the nod, but something about the intonation. That very brief intonation. "I'll hold your knot until after tomorrow's drills." To look back to the group requires that the wingsecond shift to one side; there's no looking over the teen before him. "Unless you've questions, I've no reason to keep you from your... Songs." "I can hold them," those questions, though N'klas' mouth has a quirky quality that might suggest other thoughts. "Sir." Unless that isn't all, he'll get back to playing-- after the back-slapping congratulations or possibly commiserations of his peers-- and show up all too cheerfully before time. |
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