Logs:They're Only Mucking - Revision history

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Kaleidoscope at 02:05, 31 January 2015

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Bot at 08:01, 5 July 2014

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K'del at 08:08, 11 June 2013

2013-06-11T08:08:43Z

Ceawlin at 23:09, 3 June 2013

2013-06-03T23:09:04Z

Ceawlin at 23:08, 3 June 2013

2013-06-03T23:08:52Z

Ceawlin: Created page with "{{ Log | who = C'wlin, N'hax | where = Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr | what = C'wlin and N'hax are mucking out the barracks, like good little boys. | when = Evening of ..."

2013-06-03T23:08:34Z

Created page with "{{ Log | who = C'wlin, N'hax | where = Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr | what = C'wlin and N'hax are mucking out the barracks, like good little boys. | when = Evening of ..."

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{{ Log
| who = C'wlin, N'hax
| where = Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr
| what = C'wlin and N'hax are mucking out the barracks, like good little boys.
| when = Evening of day 12, month 12, turn 31 of Interval 10.
| gamedate = 2013.06.03
| quote = Something doesn't make sense.
| weather = The snowfall is light and intermittent throughout the day until it tapers off completely into a frigid night. The ground is damp, though very little sticks.
| categories =
| mentions = Devaki, Leova
| ooc =
| icons = c'wlin silhouette.png
| log = '''''Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr'''
Tucked off the back of the training room, the barracks are a huge, high cavern that stretches far back into the stone of the Weyr. Both of the longer walls are lined with couches for the dragons, enough for a couple of Pass-sized clutches at once, each matched with a cot and press for the weyrling dragonrider. In this day and age, however, the couches in the back have been allowed to grow dusty with long disuse. Hearths are spaced between every few couches to heat the big room.
For decoration, there are a number of tapestries on the walls, looking almost as beat-up as the couches out in the training room, but scattered flower pots with their bright blooming contents provide a cheery touch. Additionally, some of the couches have had graffiti scratched into them over the Turns that were never quite cleaned off: smears of chalk messages or even rough pictures, some not fit for young eyes. In many cases names and dates have been painstakingly carved into the rock, a record of those that once made their home here.
Contents:
N'hax
Olveraeth
Obvious exits:
Training Cavern''
---------------------------------------

White-hot rage has come and gone. The beginning of the Great Cleaning Endeavor has kicked off. Punishment hasn't officially been handed down, but it's becoming evident. And still -- and still the boys haven't actually DISCUSSED anything, the implications, what they found, what they think. Guarded tongues have been a wise move, but now... but now they are both in the back, mucking dusty, dryrotted rushes out of couches that haven't seen a proper cleaning in decades since the Pass and tremendous double-clutches. N'hax leans against his shovel a moment, stares towards the front. They are alone -- really alone. "C'wlin," he starts, voice slow. His eyes are on the rushes in front of him, but he doesn't really *see*.

Lost to his own thoughts -- with some interference from Athimeroth -- C'wlin doesn't at first register that N'hax's voice is anything but the scrap of shovel against stone. The sound is muffled in this back area, as if the decades of disuse presses heavily upon them. Reminding them that someday, the threat will return. Leaning on the mucking shovel, he turns a dirty, dusty face towards N'hax. For someone so prissy at times, the boy doesn't seem too overly concerned over the dirt and grime clinging to ''everything''. At least for now. "Mmm?" A cautious sound, for even here, even being alone, the sense of danger that lingers from the event can't be shaken. In comparison to N'hax's white-hot rage, C'wlin's own anger is cold. Colder than between, and calculating.

Decades of disuse may describe them in twenty turns, depending on how this entire situation resolves, eh? N'hax, covered in grime himself, tilts a hip against his shovel and half-pivots. "Something doesn't make sense." A LOT of things don't make sense. For the first time, Hax broaches the subject, directly: "That kid. The Tillek thing. Were they ''successful''?" Obviously they weren't successful in ONE endeavor. There's layers, here, thoughtful.

Old, grey, and shriveled could come long before they're released. Leova? Frightening. "A lot of things don't add up," C'wlin starts, voicing thoughts slowly and pitched low enough that guarantees ''no'' spies should anyone even enter the barracks. "I don't know. I honestly don't think they were successful, but that's a gut hunch and correlates to no real evidence." Swapping the mucking shovel's handle between one hand and the other, he considers his compadre: "I want to know how Devaki made us so quickly. ''That'' is interesting."

Leova ''is'' frightening. N'hax remembers vividly the feel of her hands around his NECK. "He figured us out quickly," N'hax agrees. "He makes me uneasy. I don't trust him." Obviously. "Tillek," he repeats to himself, softly. "Kid didn't seem like a pirate," is his offhand remark as he leans back into the work, pause over, mucking the dusty straw over into the handy wheelbarrow.

"Kid didn't seem like a lot of things," C'wlin comments, "Devaki..." The thought hangs; so many things to say, so little time. "N'hax," this the maybe-less-so-harper-bronzerider starts, voice heavy with seriousness. "I don't like any of this. Getting caught... I could handle that if we screwed up, but we hadn't screwed up ''yet''. Even the Steward outing us to the Lord Holder. I feel like we're missing something. The bigger piece of the puzzle." Again the pause, "I wonder if anyone's searched the ships yet." Icy blue eyes hold N'hax's. "I wonder if ''Devaki'' has been at that ship yet."

A lip twists upwards, and Hax pauses in his work again. "I'm with you. There is a ''chunk'' that we aren't understanding." Grey against ice-blue, thoughtful, ''so'' thoughtful. "It is said that the islanders are great swimmers," so offhand. Then, abruptly - and with some frustration - "Why ''Glacier''?" It doesn't need further thought. "And how the hell did an exile end up Lord Holder of a major hold, anyhow?" N'hax wishes he paid more attention to local history, now, kthx.

"We were made pretty quickly," C'wlin returns back to that, "Which has me wondering if they knew we were coming." Hey, ''they'' thought their plan was brilliant. Hubris may blind, though. "Which -- how." Fingers tighten around the handle. "Someone must have outed us." Which could have been his harper contact. "I wouldn't put it past Devaki to send someone out there now -- if he hasn't already done it -- to retrieve whatever it was the pirates were after." He turns and shovels up some more muck, talking as he goes. "''Or'' we've got this backwards and Devaki was expecting the ship and the pirates were sent to take it away from him. Whatever ''it'' is. I would bet my dragon that the kid's involved. He seemed..." Lips thin. "... too easy." If N'hax knows what he means.

Silence follows, thoughtfully. "It does seem... interesting that they realized we weren't Harpers. We had all the proper documentation. Devaki didn't ''see'' us walking in. Unless someone else recognized us," with an offhand shrug. N'hax doesn't know. "It could go either way. He could be behind the pirates, or the pirates could be after ''him''. What I'd give to know what the Tillek connection is," he drifts off, thoughtfully. "The kid was too easy," he agrees. "The Tillek information could be entirely off." Doubt circulates in his Telgar-accented tones.

"Everything could be off," C'wlin grouses, frowning. "Something we're missing." Duh, they're weyrlings, of course they aren't privy to ''everything''. "But I like to think that our plan was ''good''. Which leads me back to who could have tipped them off to us. The Tillek angle could be false information, which ''is'' information in and of itself." The frown deepens to a look of frustration. "Now we're stuck here."

Frustration, shared. "''We're'' stuck," N'hax agrees gloomily, working at shoveling. "Though..." His voice falls thoughtful. He doesn't finish his thought, instead eyeballing his wheelbarrow and deciding to take it to the impromptu midden-heap in the middle of the room: if nothing else it will make great fuel LATER, when they are forced to bro-cuddle to avoid frostbite, right? There's silence from the big man for the moment, though. He eyes the pile and works to rearrange it, focused in on the task-at-hand.

Along with N'hax, C'wlin falls silent. N'hax's single thoughtful word gets the gears whirling in the harper(?)-bronzerider's mind. After a time passes where work has resumed in unison, he once again halts, though this time near the sad little heap that would soon to be their forlorn place of potential bro-cuddling for warmth. "I think we're thinking the same thing." And what's that? Well, a single look can carry a thousand words.

Somewhere, some fangirl is writing crazy slashfic about brocuddling. N'hax doesn't know why, but he edges away from C'wlin a little, putting more space between them. What? In all seriousness, the bronzerider ''does'' look up to his fellow, a shared look all the conversation he needs. Emotions flicker: thoughtfulness, doubt, reticence, reluctance, all overlaying a grim steel determination that matches the storm of iris and set of jaw. "Perhaps," is his mild, offhand reply - entirely incongruous with the rest - before he repositions the wheelbarrow and starts chunking at the next stall.

C'wlin might also unconsciously edge away from N'hax. No future slashfics here. "Mmmm," his reply is sardonic, "Or closely enough the same, I suppose." Then its his turn to fall silent and resume the work. The ''backbreaking'' work. The ''dirty'' work. Icy, steely hauteur is a curtain to hide behind, to present to the world. An affectation of not caring, of not being concerned, of not being ''curious''. Scraaaaaape-plop-scraaaaaape-plop; these are the sounds that invade as the shovel meets muck.

And so the rest of the day proceeds: this (voluntary) drudgery continues, to alleviate boredom and stretch muscles grown used to daily PT. Plotting is left open-ended.. at this point, but intrigue always lingers just below the surface of interaction. At least one thing is for certain, when they finally get their meagre rations: they'll be COMPLETELY cut up crazy-lean by the time this thing resolves itself. Or maybe just crazy. Either way.

Little bit of column A, little bit of Column B, with a six-pack.

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 {{Log
 |type=Log
 | who = C'wlin, N'hax

@@ Line 4: / Line 4: @@
 | what = C'wlin and N'hax are mucking out the barracks, like good little boys.
 | when = Evening of day 12, month 12, turn 31 of Interval 10.
 | gamedate = 2013.06.03
 | quote = Something doesn't make sense.

@@ Line 7: / Line 7: @@
 | quote = Something doesn't make sense.
 | weather = The snowfall is light and intermittent throughout the day until it tapers  off completely into a frigid night. The ground is damp, though very little sticks.
-| categories =
+| categories = A Lord In Exile
 | mentions = Devaki, Leova
 | ooc =

@@ Line 13: / Line 13: @@
 | log = '''''Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr'''
-Tucked off the back of the training room, the barracks are a huge, high cavern that stretches far back into the stone of the Weyr. Both of the longer walls are lined with couches for the dragons, enough for a couple of Pass-sized clutches at once, each matched with a cot and press for the weyrling dragonrider. In this day and age, however, the couches in the back have been allowed to grow dusty with long disuse. Hearths are spaced between every few couches to heat the big room.
+''Tucked off the back of the training room, the barracks are a huge, high cavern that stretches far back into the stone of the Weyr. Both of the longer walls are lined with couches for the dragons, enough for a couple of Pass-sized clutches at once, each matched with a cot and press for the weyrling dragonrider. In this day and age, however, the couches in the back have been allowed to grow dusty with long disuse. Hearths are spaced between every few couches to heat the big room.
 For decoration, there are a number of tapestries on the walls, looking almost as beat-up as the couches out in the training room, but scattered flower pots with their bright blooming contents provide a cheery touch. Additionally, some of the couches have had graffiti scratched into them over the Turns that were never quite cleaned off: smears of chalk messages or even rough pictures, some not fit for young eyes. In many cases names and dates have been painstakingly carved into the rock, a record of those that once made their home here.
 Contents: