NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

P'tras

2015-12-11T01:02:53Z

P'tras:

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== Description ==
His dark, curly hair is almost always a bit of a mess, but it's usually a well-managed mess. P'tras is average at six feet, lean of body and long of limb. His face has a nice structure, his nose a bit wide, brows a bit thick and jaw more promising maturity than mature quite yet. His most striking feature is probably his eyes; they're a pale, clear green against the darker contrast of his hair and skin. He wears decent clothes, as nice as he can for what he makes.

==WYSK==
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= Background =
{{Family}}
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= Logs =

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{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

= Icons =

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{{Character-Categories}}

Logs:Saying Stupid Things

2015-12-11T00:10:57Z

P'tras:

{{Log
|who=Lys, P'tras
|what=P'tras saves Lys' life (sort of) and they say stupid things to each other.
|where=Craft Complex and Tanner Workroom, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=5
|month=7
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.12.10
|quote="If we're gonna say stupid shit to each other, then we might as well get it all out as soon as possible, right?"
|type=Log
|ooc=Penis mentions.
|icons=lys ew.jpg, P'tras bitch lips.png
|desc=>---< Craft Complex, High Reaches Weyr(#2176RJ) >----------------------------<

A passageway hewn into the rock and heavily patched with cement leads a
short distance in to the bowl wall, with a door on either side. Lit by
regularly spaced glows, the white-washed walls have been covered over by
colorful tapestries, wall hangings and pieces of art made from metal and
wood. To the left of the entranceway, just a single step inside, a spiral
staircase opens out of the wall, leading upwards through the stone.
Further down, a doorway opens to either side of the corridor, while at the
far end, there is a hewn-stone staircase leading up to the residential
quarters, wreathed by two final doors to private quarters and the bathing
room.

The door leading to the east opens into an expansive room that seems to
provide both general working space - with long, bare benches and chairs -
and a cozy lounge complete with over-stuffed sofas and a few fuzzy
armchairs. Three tall windows are carved into the stone, and offer air and
light when the heavy wooden shutters are left open, though the lounge area
has to make do mostly with glows. A hearth at the back of the room
provides both heat and basic cooking facilities. The white-washed walls
are bedecked with decoration - from quilts, to tapestries, to wooden
carvings and metal sculptures.

The western door leads into another passage, off of which the main
workrooms have been built. The loading dock is at the northern end,
leading back out into the bowl, with the rest of the rooms leading deeper
and deeper into the wall.

-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Lys F 20 5'5" slender, blonde hair, blue-green eyes 0s
P'tras M 20 6'0 lean, curly brown hair, green eyes 13s
|log=Stalking looks less like stalking when the stalker is eating a breakfast roll and holding a mug of klah. Still, at this ridiculously early hour when Rukbat is barely up over the spires, there's no mistaking the lone weyrling pacing by the western door to the tunnel that leads to the tanner's workroom among others as ''stalking''. It's not a successful attempt since there doesn't seem to be anyone available to take care of whatever it is she needs. Lys is a little bleary eyed and nursing the klah, unwilling to wait for it to cool sufficiently for a real swallow. As people start to rouse and cross the space, her eyes follow them: is ''that'' who she's looking for? So far, it seems not and her agitation grows.

She won't be kept waiting much longer, but P'tras is pretty oblivious to his surroundings when he finally makes an appearance. He has a heavy-looking bag slung across his lean frame, a notebook in one hand that he's furrowing his brows at while he walks, and a two rolls in one hand that have both had bites taken out of them. The greenrider is on a path to the tanners' workroom, one that he's taken often enough that he doesn't really have to watch where he's going except to make sure he doesn't actually run into anyone.

That latter task is made considerably harder when Lys steps into P'tras' path, her eyes holding that telltale wild look of a student with a deadline. "You!" It's some bizarre pre-breakfast mix of excited and accusatory. "You're--" There's a brief struggle to make foggy memories come clear, "Pip, a tanner," she concludes, "''Please'' tell me you have the key to the tanner's workroom and know where they keep the leather scraps they take to the barracks?" Surely, the barracks has a supply of those scraps even now for strap re-making and repair, but apparently something has brought this weyrling here, now. The real trick of it all will be not letting P'tras spill her klah if he should walk into her.

"Bloody, sharding wherry tits," P'tras curses frantically as he comes up just short of barreling into Lys. Fortunately he's not drinking anything yet or she might be wearing that. He takes a moment to enjoy the lack of disaster before letting his confusion spread across his expressive face. "I... have a key to the workroom?" he says, sounding unsure about the fact that he does, indeed, hold a key to where he can work. Green eyes move from her toward the door and back to her, still confused. It's early, though, so surely he can be forgiven his slow uptake.

"''Great''!" Lys sounds so relieved, possibly both about avoiding disaster, unfazed by the colorful language, as she twists around to loop the arm holding the remainder of the breakfast roll around one of P'tras' (so he can't get away). "I ''really need'' a single long piece of leather to repair my straps before drills and one of the brownriders took ''the last long piece'' and I don't have time to patch one together before then and have it be flight worthy." He's practically saving her life. (No take backsies.)

"Great." P'tras does not sound relieved. He sounds like he might have missed something important and isn't sure what it is. But there's also a female girl holding onto his arm and that can't be discounted. He stares at her for a moment, then his brain must click back into place. "Right. Leather. I think there might be something you can use in the scraps. Unless someone else grabbed them." Which is entirely possible, considering this is a Weyr and long pieces of leather have a habit of disappearing easily. Either way, he leads the way toward the workroom, stuffing both of his rolls into his mouth enough to give him two hands to work with once they get there to let her in.

It's a little bit awkward when Lys leans down as they walk to pop the rest of her breakfast roll into her mouth, but she's not about to relinquish her hold on the tanner-rider just to spare herself a little bit of awkward. It does result in a little slosh of hot klah onto her hand which draws a food-muffled curse and then the necessity of licking that other hand along their way. "Thank you," is what she manages once they've gotten to the door and he's letting her in. "Evy would be devastated if we couldn't fly today." That matters to Lys, apparently enough to have her here at this hour to make sure it things get done.

Once they're in, P'tras sets his bag down on a table and gestures in the direction of the scraps. "Everything should be over there," is offered as soon as the rolls are pulled free of his teeth. He's more than willing to let her search on her own, evidently, and he starts pulling bits of his latest project out of that bag while he simultaneously shoves the rest of his rolls into his mouth. "What happened to your straps, anyway?" That they need to be repaired.

Lys, it would seem, is content to search on her own for the perfect piece that will preclude as much work as possible. Time limits are time limits. Her klah is gulped, with a brief look of regret (still too hot to be comfortable, but apparently not enough to actually burn) then set side so she can search the pile. "Oh, just another growth spurt. Poorly timed. Our straps will do for another day or two with a patch, while I make a new set." How many sets to riders make in the course of their training? It's practically countless. "Usually, it's no big deal for those with bigger dragons to use the longer strips of scrap, but this time..." She needs one.

"Ah. Right." He probably could've guessed at growth, but repair could mean a lot of things. "Not too much longer now before she stops, anyway. It's kind of a relief once they do. But I think I still spend more time on Ri's straps than anything else I work on." That could be less comforting. P'tras wipes his hands off on his pants, glancing at her mug. "You need more klah? I think I'm gonna go get a mug. You aren't gonna steal anything while I'm gone, are you?" He doesn't really wait for her to answer that, though, before he's heading back out so he can get his klah and come back within a minute or two.

"'Straps are forever,'" Lys quotes with enough mimic to one of the tanner journeymen's tone and intonation that P'tras may well be able to imagine (or even remember) that particular lecture. "Like running and drilling and oiling, it's just another delightful part of rider life that will be with us forever." ''Forever''. "Yeah, thanks," she'll accept the offer of more klah, even darting to hers to briefly chug what remains before passing him the mug for his errand. She hasn't (to all appearances) stolen anything by the time he returns, still sifting through the pile, though a couple of lengths have been withdrawn as possibilities. "It's kind of nice they teach us to make the straps, though, really. I can't imagine ever being able to save any salary if I had to pay a tanner every time Evy needed a new set."

"Just be glad you won't be shoveling dragon shit for the rest of your life," is what P'tras says upon returning with two mugs of fresh klah. Hopefully it didn't take him that whole time to come up with this brilliance. "And I think more and more wings will stop bothering with drilling at all, honestly. I don't mind sweeps too much. You're actually doing something that could be important. But drills, ugh. I could live without them." Once he only has his own mug to deal with, he leans back against the table near where Lys is looking for leather to sip at his klah. "We'd be the lucky ones there, too. Smallest dragons. Wouldn't have to spend extra to fit straps to a brown or something."

"So glad," Lys really is. Betweening will be great! It ''will''. One day. She glances at her refilled mug, but doesn't immediately move to take it up, continuing her search. "Yeah, drills. So we we all stop drilling, and there's a comet pass and everyone we love dies because no one remembers how to fight thread. Or our children's children's children's children die because we didn't want to waste our time on something not immediately relevant ''to us''." She lists these possibilities so cheerfully. It should be obvious from the way she tells it that she's in support of continuing to drill. On the heels of it, she's flashing him a smile and taking a pause from the search to pick up her klah.

"Oh, for Faranth's sake. Don't be so fucking dramatic. I didn't say ''everyone'' should stop drilling. But we'd still be fucked if we had a Comet Pass right now even if we were all drilling every day, all the time. And I'm still pretty ecstatic that I didn't get sick and shit myself to death, and maybe I ''can'' have kids one day now. So grow the fuck up." This, clearly, is a sore spot for P'tras. He doesn't return her smile and, in fact, moves away when she comes to get her klah, heading back over to his project.

Though unruffled by this response, Lys holds her tongue for a moment. She takes a few sips of klah, glances back to the pile of scrap and then moves over to where the rider is working. "Did you lose someone?" It's asked in a delicate way, the blonde looking just a little contrite.

P'tras glances over at Lys when she has the audacity to come closer. His jaw tightens and he looks back at his work with a sigh. "It doesn't matter," he says, licking his lips like a lying liar who lies. "Did you find what you were looking for? I can cut you a piece if you really need it." Maybe he's not even just trying to get her out of here sooner than she might be gone otherwise. "So long as you don't go telling everyone and get them expecting the same."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know." Lys seems to mean it. "You don't have to talk about it. I don't have anyone to lose, so--" It's not an ''excuse'', it's just an excuse. "I'm still looking. I'll find something." She turns away from him to go back to that, setting her klah aside again.

"It's fine," P'tras brushes off reflexively, but he doesn't take the opportunity to apologize for snapping at her now that the moment has passed. He watches her go back to the scraps for a second or three, then returns to getting himself organized enough to at least pretend he's being productive. It might be a little out of context when he finally speaks up again to say, "You have Evyth."

"Dragons don't catch the plague," is not as offhanded a response as it could have been. Lys seems to mean that it's different. "And I won't ever lose Evyth. When we go, we go together," the greenrider says and seems to take solace in that morbid thought. She pulls out another length of leather and examines it for flaws.

"Silly me for expecting you to know how empathy works." It sounds like he's saying it more to himself than to her, but he doesn't exactly say it privately. She's meant to hear him. P'tras doesn't seem to care so much about her declaration of suicidal devotion to her dragon, either. He has one of those, too. He knows the feeling as well as any rider, no doubt.

"It is pretty silly, you don't even know me." And yet, here she is at early o'clock, taking advantage of the trust of his keyholder responsibilities and looking through the leather scraps. Lys shrugs her shoulders, "I'm nicer than I used to be," if he could believe that. "My dragon is ''nice''. She's a bad influence," on people like Lys who were content in their general meanness.

He doesn't respond to the first, busying himself with sketching something out on a fresh piece of paper. "That's good to know," P'tras says to the rest, but his full focus isn't on having a conversation with her now. "I'll trust that your dragon doesn't have horrible judgment and that there's some reason for me to be friendly with you in the long term."

"Or you could just be friendly with me because I'm pretty?" Lys suggests with a lift of her brows, like she doesn't ''really'' believe that's good reason (or a reason). "I was trying, you know. Asking about-- the plague. Sorry I'm pretty rotten at it." She is, and she isn't. It's not exactly something that changes so easily. "What kind of thing should I have said to you instead?" This might show that she has a genuine interest in trying, or perhaps just that she's curious.

"No one is that pretty." At least not as far as P'tras is concerned, presumably. "I mean, you ''are'' pretty." He glances over at her awkwardly, then, but looks down at his work the next moment. "But no one should be able to be assholes just because they're pretty. ''I'm'' pretty, obviously. But I try to be nice." Whether he's trying to make a joke or not isn't entirely clear. "I don't know. Maybe you shouldn't get all bent out of shape and take it the wrong way when someone suggests something you don't agree with."

"Yeah, you said that last time we met," is wry. Lys ''would'' remember that, of all things. "I'm not an asshole because I'm pretty, when I'm an asshole it's because I'm poorly adjusted. But, look, I'm trying not to be these days. Evyth-- and-- ''things''," like depressing plague things, "I'm just trying to be better, okay? Sorry I fucked it up. And I didn't get bent out of shape, I disagreed. Snarkily. You're the one who--" but there it goes not coming out right again. She bites her lip and tugs a length of leather out to join the other three and she regards it critically.

"Sure, whatever," is his answer to that, apparently not in the mood to talk around in the circles she's setting up. "Sorry for not bending over and taking it like a man." It could sound snarky but it mostly just sounds distracted now. He's trying really hard to pay more attention to his work than to her at this point. It might even work at some point.

Lys stops looking at the leather. She watches P'tras for some moments in silence, her look troubled-- perhaps even disappointed. When she moves again, it's to pull one length in particular from the few she'd pulled to look at and folds it carefully so she can carry it without dragging it. "Thanks for this, P'tras," her voice is sad but the thanks seem to be real enough, if real in the way it's real to thank someone for an experience that had ended. "Sorry," is added again after she's picked up her klah and headed for the door.

He looks up when Lys starts to pass by, but words don't seem to be his strongest skill. P'tras falters slightly before he says in a bit of a rush, "You don't have to go. You can... finish your klah or something. If you want." If she bothers to look at him, he's got big, wide, genuine eyes and a glance to the other side of the long table.

Lys does stop, turning just enough to look back at him. "So I can just say something else wrong? Or you can? It seems like we're taking turns." There's something wry in that. She hasn't committed to staying but neither does she go.

"If we're gonna say stupid shit to each other, then we might as well get it all out as soon as possible, right? And when we've said all the stupid things we think, we can't surprise each other with how horrible we really are anymore." P'tras even offers a smile to go along with that, a little too big to be entirely serious. But he still seems sincere. "It's nice to have green friends, anyway."

"You're assuming there's some kind of end eventually," Lys quips, turning back toward the other greenrider with a half-smile.

"Of course I am. I'm an optimistic person. And you can leave whenever you want. I'm assuming you have things to do soon, anyway, right?" So it's not like it's an indefinite experiment. P'tras keeps looking at her, brows lifted expectantly now.

"Breakfast, calisthenics," Lys looks at the ceiling as she adds the third, "drill." She takes a sip of her klah and then looks back to him. "It seems only fair to warn you and your optimism that I'm very resourceful when it comes to stupid things to say, or do, for that matter." Multi-talented!

"Yeah, well, join the rest of us. I told you about my penis last time we talked, remember?" P'tras can be pretty resourceful about stupid things to do and say, too, is what he's trying to say. Probably he should've just said that without bringing up little Pip again.

"Isn't that the sort of thing you should save for talking to your boyfriend about?" Lys can match him for stupidity, though she seems serious enough about that for the humorous question it's probably meant to be.

"If I ''had'' one, maybe. But I like to spread my optimism around whenever I get the chance, so probably not. But thank you for admitting that someone might one day find me acceptable enough to keep around for more than casual hedonism." P'tras glances down at the paper where he's working on a grid-like design that's only partially complete. "I could talk to ''your'' boyfriend about it, though, if you want."

"Did you just make your penis synonymous with your optimism?" Lys seems to need to ask, perhaps just to check if she heard him right. The pause that follows might say a lot by her careful, "I don't have a boyfriend." It gets quieter as it goes, and gosh, but her sip of klah sort of swallows the last part of that last word.

"He's a pretty happy little fellow," P'tras says with a shrug and a wrinkle of his nose. "Always thinks there might be a chance even when there's literally no chance whatsoever. Kind of the embodiment of optimism, isn't it?" He's definitely talking about erections. More than necessary, clearly, but that seems safer than, "No boyfriend. Girlfriend? I think I'll pass on talking to one of those. They kind of scare me, if I'm being perfectly honest."

"Gross," is out of Lys' mouth before she can help it, although perhaps mostly muffled by the klah. "I think we might be able to put your penis on the list of things we never need to talk about again," the young woman encourages, "Not if he has to be a 'he' and not part of you and has thoughts all his own. It might cross some kind of line." What kind, she probably couldn't say. So many choices. "No girlfriend. No-- I just have friends." Friends. She says the word awkwardly.

"It ''seems'' like it has a mind of its own sometimes," admits the senior greenrider with a small frown. But that's all he's going to say about that. For now. "Okay. Just friends. Friends are good. I sort of have a couple of them. It's nice." P'tras picks up his klah to take a drink, tapping a finger absently against the mug when he's finished. "How old are your alls' dragons now?" They need something not awkward to talk about.

"Just five months. Actually, we're just starting our new month," Lys seems too happy to seize on this topic as she works on finishing her klah. Way better than penises, if you were to ask her. "We'll be getting our weyrs this month."

"Really? Doesn't seem like it's been that long." Of course, that's easy for P'tras to say. He hasn't been out there doing all that horrible weyrling stuff. "Getting your own weyr is great, though. It was the first time I really had my own space, and I wouldn't trade it for anything." He pauses, then amends, "I mean, I could move in with someone at some point. But that's different. ''Plus'' you get to walk around naked whenever you want."

"Veering awfully near your penis again," Lys informs him monotone over the top of her mug. "I almost think I'd prefer to share with someone. Well, someone other than Evyth. It's strange to go from always living with other people to wholly on your own. But maybe the good kind of strange?" She seems uncertain, even with his compelling opinion that he wouldn't trade it for anything.

"If you're gonna keep talking about my penis, I'm not sure how you expect me to stop." P'tras gives her a look of feigned accusation, then takes another sip from his mug. "It does get a little lonely sometimes, I guess. Especially through those dry spells. But I don't think I've ever known anyone well enough to think it'd be okay to actually live with them? I guess I haven't given it a lot of thought."

"I didn't know any of the girls I used to live with very well before we were all assigned a room together," Lys tells P'tras with a roll of her shoulders. "I can see how it works out for some people. But I guess being assigned is pretty different than making a choice to live with someone." The young woman doesn't, this time, mention the 'p' word. "What's your weyr like?"

"I didn't know any of the guys I had to live with at the Hall, either." P'tras makes an annoyed face about it, then lets it go with another drink. "It'd definitely be a choice now. And not one I plan to take lightly." The last question has him setting down his mug so he can pick up his pencil and start to make a little sketch. "It's pretty nice. There's Ri's bit here," he draws the wallow off of the ledge. "Big enough for a bronze, I'd say, so just enough room for her and a mate if they wanna cuddle after she rises. I have a table near the back that I work on sometimes, too. Then through here is my bit." He draws two bubbles, one off of the wallow and another one to the side of that so the spaces end up in sort of a U shape. "There's a hearth in the main area and I sleep in this one." He gestures to each respectively. "Stays warm in the winter, pretty cool in the summer. I like it."

As he draws and explains, Lys steps forward to see what the pencil renders with some interest. She's looking over the top of her klah, of course and that's nearly finished now. "It looks nice. Nice to have that kind of space. I hope I get to pick one so large. Just something-- stable." She frowns when she uses the word. Not the sort of word that ''most'' greenriders would use to describe their ideal home, to be sure.

P'tras smiles when she frowns, but not to be a jerk. "I think that sounds nice. Even if you don't get it right away, you can usually ask for a nicer one in a turn or so. Probably less. I think it kind of helps you learn what you actually need out of a weyr or something. Some people don't need much space. I wouldn't say mine's ''large'', either. Not the living space, anyway. You could come see it sometime, if you wanted. I'll even keep my clothes on." Still smiling, because he's totally funny.

"Yeah," Lys says in a way that says there's something she's not saying or explaining about that view of learning what kind of thing one needs in a weyr. Still, it changes her demeanor to one suddenly concerned with the time. "Sure, maybe," is the briskly given, not really thought about answer to seeing his weyr (as evidenced by the lack of comment about nudity or penises). "I'd better get going to breakfast or I'll miss out. And I still need to do this repair before--" She cuts off, holding up the leather a little, "Thanks again, Pip." Then she's turning to stretch her legs in long strides that aren't quite a jog, as she hurries on her way.

He doesn't have the same time, or sense, to stop her before she's hurrying off this time around, but he might have let her go even if that weren't the case. P'tras frowns uncertainly after her, and it's only once she's out of sight that he murmurs to himself, "Sure, see you later." And then he gets back to work.
}}
[[Category:HRW_Clutch_38_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:Perky Negotiations

2015-12-11T00:09:22Z

P'tras:

{{Log
|who=Lys, P'tras
|what=Lys meets a tanner-rider-greenrider-guy. They might be friends.
|where=Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=24
|month=6
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.12.07
|quote="A trade should generally end with both sides happy with the terms, yes?"
|mentions=Quinlys, R'vel
|type=Log
|icons=lys unnerved.jpg, P'tras.jpg
|desc=>---< Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr(#1549RJ) >------------------------------<

With its entrance located between the kitchen and the living cavern, this
tiny bubble cavern is cozy, always kept warm and is filled with
comfortable chairs and a small round table. At the far end, there's a
hearth, outlined in ruddy, aging bricks, where a pot of stew simmers in
the evening hours. Generally quiet, the nighthearth is the haunt of
insomniacs and those seeking quiet from the bustle of daily Weyr life.

-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Lys F 20 5'5" slender, blonde hair, blue-green eyes 0s
P'tras M 20 6'0 lean, curly brown hair, green eyes 1s
|log=The nighthearth is a nice place as semi-secluded spots go. The comfortable chairs and the readily available snacks make it good for those who need a spot, say, away from very interested dragons or dragons who'd really rather fly than study, to catch up on what paperwork needs doing. Lys has a book on the armrest of an overstuffed chair and a clipboard in her lap. She pauses in her writing to set down her pen and wiggle fingers in the air, cramped for how long she's been at it and then shifts to flip from the full page to a fresh one, setting it atop her book to let the ink dry. In the meantime, she rises and collects her cup from the low table nearby to go refresh the klah that once filled it and to snag a muffin from today's offerings.

"Aw," says a sad voice when Lys takes a muffin from the spread. "I wanted that one." P'tras looks at her hand, more specifically the muffin in question, with eyes that look more mopey than they have any right to be under his curly mop of hair. Then, suddenly decided, "No, no. You have that one. I'll take--" He pauses to look at the remaining selection, leaving her ample opportunity to go back to her seat if that seems like a better option. "This one'll do. And this." He's apparently just talking to himself now. "And some of this," as he pours himself a mug of klah.

"Too bad," is automatic, out of her mouth and into the air before Lys even registers the thought. Of course, once she has, she has to take a pointed bite of the muffin. His permission? She'll take it, even though she doesn't ''need it'', says the bite and the challenging way she looks at him over the top of her muffin. Turning to reach for the pitcher when he's finished, she asks in a way that suggests she might just be finding out if she needs to finish her essay elsewhere, "Do you always talk to yourself?"

He doesn't seem perturbed by her demeanor. He could even be blissfully unaware. But probably not. P'tras takes a sip of his klah, must deem it drinkable, and says, "Not always. Just sometimes. Other times other people talk to me and I don't ''have'' to talk to myself." Unsubtle hint? He steps away, off to settle himself right near the overstuffed chair Lys had been sitting in, glancing at the open page only to find it uninteresting. "This yours?"

"Unfortunately," is dry answer as Lys sets the pitcher back where it belongs, collecting her mug for the trip back across the small space. She takes another bite of her muffin as she comes and stops a few paces back from her seat as if it only now registers where he's chosen to sit. There's a brief look askance to take in the other seats, how many unoccupied and how many not, if there's a better option - that sort of look. Then, with purposeful steps, she reclaims her seats. It probably means she's either decided to surrender or determined to drive him off. "And you are?" somehow manages to be something of a dark accusation.

Busy chewing on a bite of muffin, he watches Lys as she glances at other seats, then does the same himself, but with much less meaning behind it. He picked the right one, clearly. This is the closest. "P'tras. Riennath's," he says when he's swallowed the bite with a bit of klah. "You can call me Pip if you want, though. My friends do. Well, some people do, anyway. It's just fun to say, you know? Pip. Pip. Pip." He stops with the three demonstrative Pips as though that number is especially sufficient.

Lys' eyes narrow as he goes through those repetitions. "Are we friends, P'tras?" is the obvious question and it comes with a tilt and turn of her head to look at him with an arched blonde brow.

"Not with that attitude, we won't be," he says, giving her a pointed look for her lack of cooperation in the matter before his attention returns to his muffin. P'tras picks pieces off of it to roll between his fingers and then pop into his mouth. Exciting stuff.

"So if I keep it up," Lys wonders, the second brow joining the first, "Will you give up on chat and go away?" She flashes him a pretty if very fake smile to go with it.

P'tras looks over at Lys while he puts another ball of muffin into his mouth, dark brows furrowed over clear green eyes. It'll take at least a couple moments of consideration. "Do you want me to go away that badly?"

Lys looks at him a long moment as if she's really giving the idea of saying 'yes' and being done with it serious thought. She relents with a sigh, "I don't know. You're awfully perky," and that is not a compliment. "Do you think you can tone that down?"

"Perky," P'tras repeats as if it's some distasteful sort of word, nose wrinkling as he pops another piece of muffin into his mouth and slouches down into his chair, looking at his food now instead of her. "Sure. I can just... sit here." Probably. One leg lifts to cross over his knee as he finishes off the muffin and moves on to the sweetroll. It could be just to keep his mouth too busy to talk for a few minutes.

"So it's perky or silent? There's no middle ground?" Lys has even stopped eating her muffin this thing seems to be that important.

"No." It's said despite whatever's in his mouth, just to make sure he gets it out promptly enough. Fortunately he's taking little, thoughtful bites. "Unless that's what you ''want''," P'tras glances her way. ''Is'' that what she wants? "You're all so hard to read."

"Middle ground is good," Lys says it cautiously as if it's an utterance that might blow up in her face for having made the compromise. "'You're all'? Who all?" This matter must seem less important since she starts to eat her muffin again.

"Girls." That comes out right before P'tras amends to, "Women." Like that's better, somehow. "It's hard to know how to act around you all sometimes. And I haven't met many of you who take kindly to me asking straight out about it." His words start lilting toward perky again, but it sounds calmer by the time he's finished.

"I'm not a good gauge to go by. I barely count." Lys tells him without looking at him, more interested in her muffin to all appearances. "How do you normally act around 'us all'?" Even if she barely counts, she still counts, apparently.

"Well, I wouldn't have called it ''perky'', but I suppose mostly like that?" P'tras' glance turns into more of a looking, studying Lys before saying, "I think you count just fine, though. Why wouldn't you count?"

"I'm not like most girls," which probably many of them say to be mysterious and intriguing but which this one says very matter-of-factly. "I'm Lys," she finally offers.

"Lys." He tries out for himself. "That's nice. You're one of the weyrlings, I know. I see you sometimes. Not that I'm watching you or anything." P'tras is a young man used to talking himself in and out of holes. "It's nice to meet you, Lys. Face to face."a

"Creeper," Lys says anyway, but it seems to be with good (if odd) humor. "Evyth's," she adds before looking at him askance. "I don't suppose you feel like reliving the hayday of your weyrling days and want to finish my homework, do you, Pip?" since they're friends and all, apparently.

Good humor or not, there's a slight color in P'tras' cheeks now. Color that he's going to ignore. "I'd be doing you a service by not touching your homework, honestly. I'm rubbish at most of that stuff. I think I'm probably a pretty terrible rider even now. Not even in a good and proper wing now." Pause, then a conspiratorial lean Lys-wards and a drop of his voice. "Just don't repeat that to R'vel or anything, yeah?"

"R'vel doesn't listen to me. You're safe," Lys has a shrug for that. "What are you good at, then?" Surely, there must be something.

P'tras settles back into his slouch, maybe sinking just a bit lower. "I'm a tanner. I make leather. Things out of leather. Nothing very... important. I help make straps look prettier, I guess, sometimes. But most of us like to make our own straps, right? I get that." It's around there that he realizes he's still talking and instead asks, "What're you good at?"

Lys listens to P'tras talk, but she doesn't look at him, opting to bring her klah up in place of the gone muffin and let her eyes wander the space of the nighthearth. "Is making straps look prettier the most important thing to you about what you do with leather or what you think would most interest me about what you do with leather?" It's asked almost idly, but seems well paired with the dryly delivered: "I'm good at making people uncomfortable."

"What?" Color P'tras confused. He's looking at Lys again, but he doesn't stare at her. His eyes fall back toward his legs. "I didn't mean it because you're a girl. The most important thing I do is probably repairing old boots? And that sounds kind of lame compared to pretty straps no matter who you are." Her skills won't go unquestioned, anyway, "Is that what you enjoy? I don't think it's a very solid career option."

"I'd rather have boots in good repair than pretty straps. Do you give discounts to your friends?" Lys asks, gingerly folding one knee over the other so that one of her well-worn boots is tipped closer to his knees. She sips her klah nonchalantly. "I enjoy it, except when I don't mean to do it. Sometimes things just slip out." It's probably a more open answer than she normally gives and for it she has to allow herself a look at the klah as if deciding if it's been spiked. "I don't need career options. I'm a dragonrider now. A dragonrider I shall forever be," is a pronouncement made with a flourish of her free hand in the air. Honor bestowed: no take backsies.

"You're a practical one," he says like he should have expected himself to pick up on it sooner, but is also not very surprised that he didn't. P'tras knows himself pretty well. "Depends on the friend, doesn't it? Sometimes I'll trade services for people who aren't friends at all." He shrugs, either oblivious to her implication or being deliberately obtuse. "Anyway, I think you're probably pretty enough to get away with slip ups. But I think you should reconsider options. It's almost sad, isn't it? These older folks who're ''just'' dragonriders like that's enough anymore."

"So, what would you trade me to repair mine?" Lys makes it much more difficult to be oblivious or deliberately obtuse by posing the direct question. "Being a dragonrider is enough, sitting around on our hands as dragonriders isn't." The weyrling seems to have given that some thought. "It's not like I could take up a craft now anyway. Too old and a dragonrider. You should be grateful they're letting you lot do that kind of thing." 'They' the crafts or 'they' the weyrleaders (or both) is unclear.

"What've you got worth trading?" That question is to be expected. P'tras doesn't really know the weyrling from Moreta, after all. "What do you think being a dragonrider is, then? You're never too old to pick up a lucrative hobby. It's not as though I'm an official member of my craft anymore. They know that. I know that. And you aren't ''old'', anyway. What are you? Seventeen?"

"Twenty," is coolly corrected and briskly moved on from. "I've some shells and fabrics from my time with the traders," Lys considers, "but I'd be considerably ''put out'' to part with them. Happen to have anyone you need made uncomfortable?" It is one of her great talents, after all. "And if you want me to define being a dragonrider, you should march over and ask Quinlys for a job so you can read my boring essays." The suggestion comes with the flash of an exaggerated, if not now wholly faked, smile.

"Twenty?" P'tras is dubious, sitting up in his seat just enough to give her a quick look over. "''I'm'' twenty," he says as if he's a more standard example of a twenty turn old. But there are more important matters to focus on here. "I don't want anything you don't want to part with. A trade should generally end with both sides happy with the terms, yes?" If she's run with traders, she ought to know that much. Maybe he's just an idealistic sort. "Is whatever you told her what you actually think or what you think she wants you to think?"

"And you don't look a day older than twelve," Lys chirps with smile. "How do you keep your skin so youthful?" She leans toward him as she asks, as if he might confer upon her some great secret. "The good kinds of trades, sure," she can agree before giving him a funny look. "Why would I bother to write something I didn't actually think?"

He pulls a face for that, proving that he's about as mature as twelve, too. Fortunately, he doesn't say the first thing that pops into his head. It's obvious he doesn't say it, though, biting his lip instead, redirecting his thoughts, and then saying, "Because you can get away with less work when you tell those sorts what they want to hear. Instead of them going to all the trouble of correcting the way you think." Since he's not getting anywhere with that, though, P'tras gestures at her feet, "Let me see them, then, yeah?"

Lys snorts in a way that suggests it would be a waste of time to try to ''correct'' anything about the way she thinks. With one foot, she presses the toes of her boot to the heel of its mate, setting aside her klah so she can lean down and pluck up the left specimen for the tanner to examine, lifting that foot up so her ankle rests on the opposite knee.

P'tras takes it from her after setting his mug aside. He's not shy about getting a good look at them, either. He studies the sole, its tread, even puts his hand into the heat of the boot's insides to, presumably, feel for wear in there, too. When he's done, he leans forward to hand it back to her while he looks at the other boot to see if it's in similar condition. "They could definitely use some work," he concludes. "But I don't think you've got anything I want. Nothing I'd take in a trade, anyway. Good thing you're a dragonrider and you can get the shitty standard ones for free."

"Good thing," Lys echoes in what might seem like dissatisfied agreement. She leans forward once she has her boot back to replace it on her foot. "What kinds of things do you want? I might not know I have it," she points out, looking up at him from her bent position.

"That's not fair. You can't just go asking things like that." P'tras licks his lips, eyes focused intensely on Lys, but not so much on her face. At least until he realizes he's doing it and looks somewhere else, across the other side of the room. "I don't know what I want now. I can't think of anything else. That's not fair."

Lys' look is one of disagreement. Sitting up, she asks, "How am I supposed to know if I have something you want if you can't tell me what kinds of things you want? ''That's'' not fair." If she's aware of his attention to parts of her that aren't her face, she hides it exceptionally well.

Nope. P'tras is on his feet now like he's just going to leave. It only takes him that movement to make him realize he really shouldn't be standing, though, so he sits back down with a curse under his breath. His elbow leans against the arm of the chair furthest from her and his chin balances on his fist, head tilted away. If he doesn't look at her, everything will be okay. Maybe. "You're right about making people uncomfortable, anyway." Then he sighs, crosses his leg over his knee again. "Why's it the pretty ones who're always so cruel." Rhetorical.

"What did I do?" Lys asks, brows furrowed. It's obvious from her look that she feels like she missed something and doesn't like it.

"Are you serious?" P'tras sounds serious, now that he's looking over at her. "You can't tell me you don't have some idea. Words ''affect'' people, you know. If you know when you're making them uncomfortable, you ought to know when you're saying something that's gonna get some poor guy hard. Shells, you're surrounded by enough guys who probably get off on a stiff breeze, those poor bastards."

Lys' mouth opens to make some reply to the first, but before she can, he's said the rest and her cheeks are suddenly aflame. It's her turn to get up like she's going to leave, her look a mixture of shock and some kind of unnerved. It's lame, but when she's able to find words it's to say, "That's not the kind of uncomfortable I'm good at!" She must hope, anyway, and her hasty gathering of her writing and book is almost certainly heralding a flight.

"Don't run off," he says, a hand moving in a pacifying sort of way. "Please? It's fine. You didn't do anything wrong. I'll go, if you give me a minute." P'tras looks at her earnestly. It must be important to him that he doesn't chase her away, for some reason.

The blonde finishes gathering up her things, but instead of going immediately, Lys gives the other greenrider a ''look''. "It's not okay to go around talking about getting hard-ons to women you don't know. It'll be ''real'' easy to read just how much not okay that is ''real'' fast." The jerk of her brows up and back demands silently if he understands.

P'tras meets her gaze, but it's a couple seconds before he says anything. He must be doing well enough to stand again, though, because that's what he does next. "Next time you ask a man what he ''wants'', do him a kindness and don't let him get his hopes up, aye?" He turns after that, grabbing his mug so he can take it where it needs to go. He said he'd go so she wouldn't feel the need, after all, so maybe she'll be nice and not comment on the self-deprecating mumbling he does to himself on the way.

She doesn't comment, but she does step directly into his path. Lys's expression is hard, unhappy. "We were talking about ''boot repair''. I met you almost no time ago. If you wanted-" her voice hitches over a stutter, "a date, ''say that''. I'm not-- I told you already I barely count as a woman." If he's going to make it her fault, she's going to turn it right back on him and make him share the blame.

He seems to have a harder time meeting her gaze how. P'tras sort of glances at her eyes now and then, but his focus settles over her shoulder, toward the lower caverns. With a slight shake of his head, he says, "I'm not gonna say that. Not ''now''." Not now that he's made an ass of himself. He lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck awkwardly. "I'll think of something. I can pick them up on your next rest day, if you want. Unless you got another pair you can wear while I have 'em."

Lys' expression is unreadable as she looks up at him, hands probably only not on her hips because they have her book and clipboard. She's silent a moment, looking at him. "Think of something first, then we'll talk," she decides, evidently not keen to enter into a trade with unspecified terms. "I'm going to go finish my report." That's said carefully, and chosen equally so seems to be, "Bye, Pip," before she turns to head for the nearest exit to the bowl.

P'tras nods his head. He'd probably agree to whatever she said right now. Anything at all. Fortunately she doesn't know that. It's not until she turns to head off that he manages to squeak out a pretty lame, "Bye, Lys."
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2015-12-10T23:54:56Z

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2015-12-08T01:14:37Z

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