Logs:Wet, Not Wild
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| RL Date: 2 September, 2015 |
| Who: Edyis, Faryn, Jocelyn, Z'kiel |
| Type: Log |
| What: It's a gloomy day outside, but at least there's stew inside, and nobody is glowing. |
| Where: Nighthearth, HIgh Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 16, Month 9, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Farideh/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions, Jounine/Mentions |
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| It's wet outside, and by extension it's wet inside too: dripping jackets and mud on the floors, dirty boots, very apparent paths of foot traffic from both entrances of the nighthearth even though it's still afternoon. The caverns staff have certainly been busy, if the level of the stew pot tells any stories, and it's not slowing now; Faryn is burdened by a riding jacket and a bag slung over a shoulder, as well as one of those angry wet-cat scowls as she turns in from the caverns, making a beeline to dump her bag in one of the chairs to claim it before turning to evaluate the stew pot. Come rain or shine, there are some things that are inevitable. Morning drills seem to be one of them, Edyis making her way in, a leather satchel over her shoulder. She shakes a hand through damp curls, dark eyes peering about the room, seeking out an intended target. However whomever she seems to be looking for isn't there yet, so she settles for claiming an empty chair near the fire to dry out. Dark eyes spot Faryn then, and there's a friendly wave of greeting for the former beastcraft apprentice. It's wet. It's nasty. It's just another autumn afternoon at the 'Reaches - which means Z'kiel is in a sour mood. It's a rare afternoon off for him and how does it spend it? By lurking in the Weyr, naturally. The grim-faced bronzerider has eschewed his leathers - which are probably hanging in his weyr somewhere - for attire more suited to the task he's taken on for himself. A leather vest - plain and brown - is tightly fastened to his torso and paired with loose, comfortably fitted linen pants. Despite the bandages wrapped around his knuckles, he's still the bearer of the typical tools for tunnelsnake hunting; the long stick, a knife, and a heavy leather satchel in lieu of a proper basket. Food isn't immediately on his mind, but there is a wayward glance toward the hearth all the same. Faryn and Edyis are both noted and greeted with a grunt; gruff-sounding, but it's friendly and he's also busy. Tucked into a corner seat, Jocelyn appears to have managed to squeeze in a little bit of downtime this afternoon; her portion of the day's reports, at least, are already tied neatly and bundled into a stack on her lap. For all that her posture proclaims her to be relaxing in that comfy chair - complete with a sad attempt at knitting tangled between her hands - her narrowing gaze steadily follows the wet, muddy tracks to and fro as people poke their heads in and pass through. Lips pursing, one boot drums an annoyed tap-tap-tap as the latest batch of incoming folks brings in more dampness with bonus scowls and grimness. A huffy exhale later, she turns her attention quite thoroughly to untangling yarn and dropped stitches alike. There's so much grunting, so why shouldn't Faryn do it? She at least waits long enough to get a bowl of stew, not quite down to the dregs, but her scowl deepens at the tacky consistancy and there's a lot of banging the spoon on the edge of the bowl along with her distasteful 'ugh'. "Someone should really start a new pot," the assistant mutters to nobody in particular, turning away to make sure nobody's had the gall to move her things; nope. Just Edyis in close proximity, Z'kiel being himself, and that nice young woman in the corner with her pitiful...scarf? Sock? Whatever. Since she knows two people, she pitches her voice to carry when she says, "I love it when it rains, and tries to flood us out. We're all such a happy group." Ink dark eyes lift, noting the sour faced Igenite, or at least particularly bandages about the man's knuckles. "Z'kiel, what did you do." A mixture of concern and wariness in her expression, she notes too as Jocelyn and the knitting needles in her hands. There is a watchfulness in the expression. Faryn's comment earns a laugh. The bag is adjusted on his shoulder and Z'kiel cants a glance toward Faryn when she speaks more generally. He sucks his teeth, snorts, and grates out, "Speak for yourself. I am happy." Probably because he's going to kill something, but still. And if he seemed grim before, it's Edyis's not-quite-question that manages to turn his expression into a dark and terrible thing. "Hit something." Weighted, just so, because he's not a man of subtlety. He starts to move on, with a flicked look angled toward the knitting one. It's an odd and reptilian thing, that analysis; cold and distant. A blink and he's right back to Faryn with a lift of his chin. "Any good?" The stew, presumably. Jocelyn, to all appearances, is attempting to knit a blob in a positively lurid shade of fuchsia. Without a doubt, it's guaranteed to enter the room before its future wearer. One corner of her mouth might twitch a little at Faryn's assessment of their collective mood, but any amusement that could be present is certainly absent from her expression; the tall bronzerider's look is met evenly, her own measuring even after his attention shifts. There's a tiny dip of her chin that's likely to be a nod of hello to Edyis, or perhaps watching the path of an arriving stores assistant trudging more wet footprints over the floor elicited a twitch. Either way, she's briefly distracted by the girl who quietly hands her a much scribbled-upon sheet. Whatever she mutters to the teen sends her scurrying deeper into the caverns with swiftly reddening ears, and it's with a sniff that the assistant headwoman crumples her knitting to the side in favor of re-organizing her reports, absently pulling a pencil from behind an ear to add notes on one or the other. "Of course you are, you ray of sunshine," Faryn says as she shoves her bag onto the floor - something inside clanks but she seems unalarmed - and flops with a heavy sigh into the thick cushions. He gets a lift of the finger: please hold, while she spoons some of the stew up for a taste, wearing a neutral expression while she chews, swallows, and eventually decrees, "Tacky. Edible. Been sitting too long. Needs to be freshened." And then, perhaps the most apt judgment, she holds it up and out to the bronzerider, spoon included that he might take it. Waste not. It's all the better for Faryn to be turned at an angle to watch the exchange between Jocelyn and the assistant, her head tilting off to the side as the girl rushes off in a well-contained flurry. "Does Jounine just teach staff to do that? Maybe I should change careers." Beat, then wryly, "Again." Edyis arches a dark brow at Z'kiels's not-quite-admission. Tugging on the satchel now sitting in her lap. "Um Zak, that's not happy. That's terrify the locals so they run for pitchforks and torches." Her tone oddly warm despite the content "You want some company while you hunt?" She offers to the bronzerider that possibly sugests he'll have it whether or not he wants it., and It's with a grunt, (since everyone else is doing so) that she pulls to her feet to peer in the pot. "Last time I tried to start one I got scolded by the kitchen staff." She comments, That tiny nod from Jocelyn is returned with an equally small nod. Then there's a blink. "Actually I believe Jocelyn can probably write a note or something for a pot to get fetched without the yelling." Smiling at the fuchsia abomination or perhaps its knitter. "Edible," is echoed. Z'kiel grunts - an odd, melodic hum-grunt - and when the bowl is offered, he crosses over to take the offering for a sample bite of his own. Hnnnh. It takes another half bite before he rolls a shoulder and hands the bowl back. "Dried red pepper might fix it." Maybe. He sounds somewhat dubious of his own suggestion, which might say plenty about the quality of the stew. A sidelong look is angled to Edyis when she speaks, his expression back to its typical grimness. "Don't judge my happiness." Deadpan. As for the help? A grunt and a lopsided shrug answer that well enough; he knows full well that Edyis will tag along regardless. Which means she gets forked stick duty - the tool is held out to her while he replies to Faryn, "They can't take away your turnday if you do." Though, to be fair, he is keen on just how Jocelyn handled it. If that's a noise of approval escaping him, who can blame him? "No, " is Jocelyn's short answer for Faryn as she pushes herself to her feet, yarn left abandoned in her chair as she strides to the hearth to give the stew pot a cursory once-over, reports still tucked under an arm. Brows knitting, she calls to one of the kitchen assistants passing by the entrance; he meets her just inside the doorway and, after a short exchange, picks up the mostly-empty pot and carts it away. It's a few minutes before a fresh one returns in its place, which the redhead promptly tests by acquiring a small bowl of her own. An eyebrow lifts briefly for Edyis: how's that for no yelling? "Ah, well," Faryn sighs, taking the bowl back and looking not the least bit bitterly after the old pot and at the new one as they're exchanged. She stirs the too-thick offering with her spoon and then leans forward to set it on the table. The spoon stands erect in it like a flag. "A+ for efficiency, and woe for another month as Farideh's assistant without the ability to horrify teenagers with a whisper. What are you making? I mean, that's very...bright." Her eyes have flicked to Jocelyn's knitting. For Edyis' concern, Faryn has a grin. "He took care of it," advises the woman lightly, though she doesn't clarify if she means Z'kiel's hands or the locals; it could easily be both. "I wish they would take it. I could be twenty-three forever. I could watch you all age and be smug in my eternal youth." Edyis accepts the stick, twirling it haphazardly. "I'm not judging." Except for that grin, which is totally judging. She is utterly unbothered by the grim faced expression. The twirling stops when it becomes hazardous. At Jocelyn's eyebrow lift there is applause. "See!" It's just like magic! Her face goes utterly blank when Faryn asks about the knitting, and on the comment of taking care of things, There's a glance between Faryn and the bronzerider, an arch of one dark brow given in wordless question, but it would seem she doesn't expect an answer. Swooping instead to procure a bowl of stew of her own. "Ha. you are old." She teases Faryn. Hunting will just have to be delayed for a little bit. Z'kiel drops the bag neatly on the floor next to the table that Faryn's claimed and a seat is pulled over. He hooks the bowl of old stew closer to him or, at least, the spot he's staked out for himself at the table - and approaches the hearth to get another bowl. This one is held out in Faryn's general direction with a lift of his chin. No words, but - really, if she can't get the gist, that's on her. Though he does say: "No. You'll still age. You just won't know when." And, Edyis will just have to go without any further commentary from the Igenite; instead, his attention seems fairly divided between the conversation going on around him - and something internal, gauging from the haze that drops over his eyes from time to time. Eventually, as an aside to Edyis, "Wet weather brings out the 'snakes. Figure I can get a few for you. Have a couple hides already, but." He shrugs. Jocelyn gives the weyrwoman's assistant an amused glance while likewise stirring her fresh bowl of stew; it's of a markedly smoother consistency. "I'm wondering that myself, " she says of her knitting, stepping neatly to the side to let another passerby grab a quick serving from the hearth. "It's my hope that it'll end up resembling a hat. It may end up being a pocket." She promptly returns to her seat, sitting on top of the disregarded craft project in favor of finishing her midday snack before resuming marking up the last report, pencil scratches occasionally punctuated with an exasperated eye-roll. "Ha, I know where you sleep. And you," that's for Z'kiel, for whom her wrath is lessened only thanks to offerings of food, "hush. If I can't keep track of it, it's not part of my reality, and if it's not part of my reality, I'm twenty-three. And in..." a pause to count, "three months, I will be twenty four, and that seems a decent place to stop." She takes a bite of this new batch of stew, determining it satisfactory with a low sound in the back of her throat, all while really looking at Jocelyn's bundle of knitting and wisely remaining out of the conversation about tunnelsnakes, sparing them only a little nose wrinkle. "Either is useful," she says instead of that project, unsure but polite. "Let's hope for a hat, better to stop the rain than catch it." Mention of wet weather has Edyis nodding, in aknowledgement of Z'kiel's aside, "Haven't tried hunting them myself in a while, but I figured I could see what could be done with the meat in a stew maybe or grilled with oil and spices?" Her attention otherwise drifts back to the headwoman's assistant observing the eyeroll and pencil scratching absently. "There will be candidates to look after soon enough I suppose after yesterday's fiasco. I suppose you guys have had your hands full." Edyis comments then to Jocelyn making quick work of her bowl of stew. Hnnnh. Z'kiel just eyes Faryn askance for that bit, though there's no discernible shift in his expression. Once Faryn has her bowl, he'll sit in front of his and eat it with all the enthusiasm of a death row inmate who was told his last meal was going to be gruel. But, hey, it's food. He'll eat it. There's a predictable grunt for Edyis's words, a duck of his chin, and an eventual, "Going to Igen again soon. I'll pick up some things." Mention of the other day's chaos is ignored; sure, there's a narrowing of his eyes and a tightening of his jaw, but nothing is said - and that's probably purposeful. Besides, he has to chew this stew a little more than usual. It's with a sniff amidst the back-and-forth of conversation that Jocelyn finishes her report-editing, re-tying the bundle into a neat roll which she stuffs securely under an arm. "Catching rain in pockets," she repeats incredulously, digging the poor yarn-and-needle set out from underneath her as she stands. "Hardly a good use." Whether her statement is an agreement or a denigration is up for interpretation. Her expression twists at Edyis's mention of eventual candidates and the weyr's most recent goldflight, followed by a shrug and a neutral enough, "Our hands are always full. Good afternoon." And with that, she heads deeper into the lower caverns, casting a squint at what wet tracks remain on the floor on her way out. As well, it's a little difficult to tell if Faryn is being cheerful or sarcastic when her farewell is a simple, "Stay dry!" It's unlikely she expects Jocelyn to turn back on her regardless, so the ex-herder takes to her food in earnest, though with only slightly more satisfaction than she had when she was poking at the abandoned bowl on the table. "They changed cooks, I think. This point, tunnelsnake might be a better alternative to this." This gummy, weird, sort of underspiced nonsense they're eating. "I'm just glad she didn't waste her time going up. Can you imagine sevens like that?" There's a friendly wave as the Assistant Headwoman walks off, and there's an odd quirk of Edyis's mouth once she's out of earshot. "She doesn't seem very sociable." Though given present company that doesn't seem to say very much at all. "Was nice of her though, to get the fresh pot at least." She glances between Faryn and Z'kiel, "Has the food really gotten that bad? I usually just fix something up back in the Weyr, with the late hours we have been pulling of late" There's a brow lift at the complaints on food, "Maybe it's just a bad batch?" Mention of having it over with has her face scrunching. "Don't remind me, Akluseth decided it was high time he chased." Dark mutterings from the woman, "Stupid glowy hormonal golds. Stupid flights." "Nothing wrong with tunnelsnake," isn't exactly defensive; it's just a matter-of-fact statement coming from a man who's probably eaten his bodyweight in the stuff in the past turn. Z'kiel powers down the rest of his stew without complaint and sets the empty bowl aside before he sits back with a grunt. What should be a relatively content mood for him is immediately soured by Faryn's words. His jaw tightens visibly and he spits to one side - really, who's going to notice with the floor being that wet? - before rasping out, "Someone would have died." Edyis's words take a while for him to get around to - he's busy sucking stringy bits of meat from between his teeth - but, eventually: "Just bland. Probably just for the night. Different cooks," like Faryn said, which he'll note with a nod in her direction. Flight talk, though; that just gets another dry spit toward the side and he pushes back in his chair to get to his feet. "I think you're asking the wrong question. The real question is whether or not the food is worse, but if it was ever good at all. But, yes, it was. There was this soup with rice and vegetables and big chunks of beast in it, last autumn...I miss it. You're probably right; bad batch. Bad night." Faryn's interest in the food is only so she can look mournful in her shoveling, something to bemoan other than the weather, even though the room is starting to smell amazing with a new pot on the fire. "Did Akluseth chase?" There's a note of surprise in Faryn's question, and a sidelong look for Z'kiel's grunting irritation and spitting and empty threats. She even tsks him, unimpressed at his claim. She doesn't bother asking if Ahtzudaeth took to the skies; there's just a meaningful, if sidelong, look for the bronzerider. "If not deaths then at the very least no one would show up for drills." Heat flushing to Edyis's face, her good mood soured now too it would seem. "He did, I've got a collection of bruises in a wide array of colors if you ever want to see." She shouldn't want to see is the implication to Faryn. "As it turns out Most brown and bronze riders are about twice my size. We survived it though. Hopefully we won't have to worry about another queen rising for a turn or two." Watching as he pushes back in his chair, with a small frown, not quite getting up to go just yet but ready it would seem to follow. There's a flex of fingers, a testing of bandages, and Z'kiel gathers up his bowl to deposit it with the other dirty dishes. And while Faryn might deign to tsk him, he just levels her with one of those looks, one that she's seen in the not-so-distant past. The threats might be empty, but they're not entirely without substance. Grim-jawed as ever, there is a distinct edge to him that was lacking mere minutes ago. He cuts a sharp look to Edyis, but not for her words; rather, it's matched with the outward extension of an arm and splaying of fingers in a wordless request for the stick he'd so recently handed off. "Hunting alone. Probably better." For Edyis, in this case. Faryn clears her throat, uncomfortable about...something, probably Edyis' offer to show off her flight-lust exploits, and there's a brisk shake of the head. "I'll pass. Shouldn't Roszadyth not be terribly far away? Aeaeth rose right out of weyrlinghood, the tramp." Still, she was a beastcrafter, not a dragonhealer; she can't know. Z'kiel's grim look meets an understanding little twitch of lips, not quite a smile. A small nod and she watches him move, reaching for that stick; her silence falls slowly, the only sound from her chair the spoon in the bowl as she takes off the last few bites. Edyis watches the flex of fingers, those bandages are eyed, but wordlessly she passes off the stick, frowning softly. She watches the exchange between Faryn and Z'kiel curiously. "If you are sure, but stop by the ledge later? My sisters finished up those hats for you." Faryn gets a glare. "Don't even speak it, don't think it." Edyis bristles. "I will." Z'kiel nods just once to Edyis, again to Faryn, and then he's gone - bag, stick, and knife at the ready to make with the tunnelsnake murder. "You already said like a turn, calm down. You can always take him out of the weyr when it happens." Helpful, Faryn is, watching Z'kiel make an exit with a sigh. She's up after that, to dump her own bowl as well, dragging her satchel along. |
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