Logs:A Subjective Two Inches - Revision history

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Bot at 08:48, 10 March 2015

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Bot at 03:52, 20 January 2015

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Satiet at 03:20, 3 October 2014

2014-10-03T03:20:20Z

Satiet at 03:19, 3 October 2014

2014-10-03T03:19:39Z

Satiet at 03:17, 3 October 2014

2014-10-03T03:17:27Z

Satiet at 21:00, 2 October 2014

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Satiet at 20:59, 2 October 2014

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 N'rov cocks a brow at that, but there's no way he'll preempt her finding her own answer; rather, there's an inclination of his head in lieu of a bow when she does, right before real surprise rolls out with his laugh. He does oblige with his arm but, mock-sternly as he steers Suireh towards the booths and away from the pillar (not that the beleaguered handyman thanks him), "I think you owe /me/ for wasting it." It doesn't mean he won't buy her a lemonade, though (and then his nephew, and his sister), in the short while before they part ways.
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 Dressed, uncharacteristically, in a simple shift dress, one might attribute towards a higher class of servant, Suireh stands near the main stage, a critical eye cast towards a handyman making sure all the pieces of the elaborate stage is safely in place. "No, to the left, two inches." Pause. "That's the right. Left." Never mind that her left is his right. If he grumbles, she pretends not to notice, instead glancing down at her clipboard and making a mark. When a man approaches, she speaks as if she recognizes his gait, and automatically hands the clipboard out, "You'll want to make sure Matre is backstage an hour before the performance starts. Otherwise he'll drink too much and we can't have a F'lar that's drunk, even if that's probably what he was all the time without Harper romantic notion nonsense."
 There's the shush-shush of pages moving, of the notes being examined; a beat later, an affable baritone layers over the not-quite-rhythm. "Only an hour? Your man's not much of a drinker. Then again... you may underestimate the market for the after-hours version." His accent has nothing to do with Harper, but nearly two Turns later, there's a patina of Southern Weyr (or the Hold, if the neigbors are that close even to a trained ear) overlying what's still mostly Southern Boll.
 Distracted with making sure those two inches are met and her hands balling up ineffectually at her side when it's not quite the two inches she wanted, as if those things are subjective, Suireh startles visibly when the fact that the voice she expected is not the voice that responded. Nor is it a voice she recognizes. "What the-..." She turns sharply, her artistically tangled and dirtied hair whipping about with the motion. But it is a face she recognizes, even turns later, and there's a very tangible moment of indecision etched in her face and in her rapidly blinking eyes; that visible tell that there are so many responses she could choose from and she can't quite decide which one to pick. So the reaction she ultimately ends up with are pressed lips and a hand. "That's not yours."
 If this isn't a venue where inches are subjective, it's also not one where N'rov concerns himself with such things, not when he has these notes before him. Notes on performances, hers and others'; notes in what must be her writing and, so far, one other's. He's quick to slide a finger between the topmost pages, quick enough that one might doubt whether he's ''read'' the first or just inhaled it; it gives him that instant in which to consider Suireh's features, far more than her hand for all that it's the latter he moves to accept. "Taking back your gift already?" Clipboard, hand, one or the other.