Difference between revisions of "Logs:Manners And Bad Jokes"

Craft Complex, High Reaches Weyr

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.

With Rukbat set, the dark of the evening have 'Reaches temperatures spiraling down, ushering all but the most warmly dressed indoors to savor the comforts of a warm hearth, or at least protective walls! Though the forge is warm enough, the Smiths' official workday has ended. So those Smiths seeking a warm niche have scattered. Wakizian has found his own toasty spot a short distance from the hearth in the Craft Complex. The workday may be over, but the man is still at work. He has a set of what seem to be small golden and silvery dragons about the size that might be used for a game of dragon chess, but without a platform.

Azaylia is no Smith, which may be why she's seen fighting the current of brawny lads and ladies in order to get into the workroom. Those she passes are given a friendly smile, possibly even Wakizian, before she's disappearing with a small pouch in her hand. It won't be long before the weyrwoman is reappearing, sans pouch, one glance given towards the chilly exit and another aimed at the hearth. The scales are tipped when fresh klah is mentioned, the pull becoming too great for her to resist. With a tired though pleasant sigh, she pours herself a cup and steals a quick glance at the golden and silver dragons. Shinies! How easily a glance turns to a curious stare.

There is something to be said for brawny lads with a good intent look. It does something for their otherwise average looks. Wakizian has such a look as he works a shining cloth over the small grooves and scale-like pits in the metal. It isn't until the hunching over the project on the too-short-for-the-chair-he's-in table becomes overwhelming and he has to stretch that he notices those curious eyes. There's a few ticks as the notice becomes realization of just whose curious gaze is on his project. "Argh!" The noise comes out as a choked surprised and hands are flying in a panic to sweep the small dragon busts into the palm of one of his large hands. Like the bellows blowing on the forge fires, the apprentice's cheeks have flared red. "Weyrwoman Azaylia, I didn't see you there. So sorry. I'll--er-- just clean up and-- get out of your way." The young man begins to clamp metal lids down on the small tins of-- grease? polish? whatever he was using, his hand guarding its no-longer-so-secret project.

With a gentle curl to her lips and curious gaze, Azaylia is content to watch the apprentice work in silence. Both hands are used to hold onto her cup, lowered so as not to block the view that holds her attention even as the lad stretches. Wakizian's surprise startles the weyrwoman into giving a soft squeak, the leap in place spilling some klah over her hands. "Oh!" It doesn't seem as though she's burned, though the wetter hand does give a little shake as she struggles with the words, "N-No it's really-- you don't have to-- I didn't mean..!" It must be a sight, both stuttering at each other before the older woman reaches to touch the Smith's shoulder. There's a moment of damp realization for the klah cooling on her fingers, pulling back suddenly, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so nosy. They're lovely." Is her excuse.

Turns of apprenticing gives people practice at certain things. One of those things: clean up in a hurry! (The sooner it's clean, the sooner you get a life!) It's a matter of moments before the dragons are swept into a small satchel with some soft cloths to buffer them, the jars all lidded up and piled neatly, and Waki's settling back in his chair like nothing ever happened. To wit, when she compliments the pieces, he puts up both index fingers, pointing sternly at the goldrider, "You saw nothing." He intones slowly but pointedly in the lower end of his baritone register. "Or I'm dead." This last is delivered cheerfully enough. "So other than that, how's life, Weyrwoman? What brings you over to this neck of the Weyr?" Insert obvious topic change here.

There's no move to interrupt the lad as he quickly cleans things up, and the goldrider might take the oppertunity to wipe her hand off on the back of her dress. Nobody saw that, right? It's not until Wakizian points at her that Azaylia's silence seems stunned, flames reflected in the gaze that drops to fingers, then back to his face. She bends at the waist to firmly place her cup down, staying somewhat bent as knuckles settle on her hips, "Excuse me?" Airy voice carries something distinctly maternal, though luckily for him she's far from loud. "And just what were you up to?" The 'young man' is unspoken but heavily, painfully, implied. With a tilt to her head and pursed lips, she's attempting to look stern... it has had mixed results in the past.

"Exactly what I'm supposed to be up to, exactly where I'm supposed to be up to-- or doing it, rather," Wakizian steeples his fingers in front of him and slouches down in his chair, eyes appearing almost hooded as he gazes up at the goldrider. "Which really leaves only one question, ma'am, just what were you up to?" Evading the question is a skill that is readily grasped by most apprentices. Admit to nothing and you can't get punished... can you?

Azaylia takes in a slow inhale as she straightens, her infinite patience hardly wavering as arms loosely cross over her chest. "It's rude to point, you know." She takes a moment to explain, "And I," That tilt to her head returns, intending to let him know that he's not off the hook just yet, "--was just making my last payment on an old Smith project. I might want to commission something else, soon." There's another heated flicker of inspiration behind brown eyes, pursed lips blossoming out into a barely stifled smile, "I wonder if I shouldn't ask one of the Journeymen about gold and silver dragons..?" This time her gentle voice is even softer as she gazes down at Wakizian.

Wakizian's movement is abrupt. Suddenly he's perched forward in the chair, hands grasping the armrests. His look is meaningful, "You want to see me dead, don't you. Say it a little louder." When distraction fails, what's left? Flattery? He gives the Weyrwoman a brief glance up and down, and a charming smile materializes on his dusky-skinned face. "Have I mentioned that you're looking lovely this evening?" The generic-ness of the line must sit funny with him, as his eyes search for detail to compliment, "I like your dress--" He seems to pause as brow wrinkles slightly, probably only now really taking in the garment he's complimenting, "Shirt? Dress? Shirt-dress?" His head tilts curiously as he tries to make sense of women's fashion.

Alright, now the weyrwoman is actually beginning to look a little worried for Wakizian. Any trace of insult, what little there was, is wiped away as those lips flatten into a line of concern. "You were still rude." It's her last attempt at a scold, along with a gentle, "I was an apprentice once, you know." Now she's really starting to sound old. She bends to retrieve her klah, taking a long enough sip to clean the slate, so to speak. "Thank you." Generic or no, she still minds her manners with a patient curl to her lips. "It's a dress. Just a very short dress." Hence the leggings. Still, her free hand smooths over the washed out skirt, brilliant patches contrasting in a pleasant enough manner. It's certainly not haute couture.

Wakizian puckers his lips for a moment, and then says in a simple, matter-of-fact tone, "I'm sorry I was rude. I was-- trying to be funny." So much for that. There's a touch of disappointment in his expression. He scuffs a toe on the ground then re-situates himself in the chair to be more comfortable and less intense. "You can do that? Wear pants with a dress?" Apparently the concept of leggings is, at least so far, lost on him.

"Oh." Azaylia looks more than just a little sheepish, wincing a sincerely apologetic smile his way. "I-I'm sorry." To put words to her pained expression. "I suppose I'm on edge." Wakizian may not be the first person she's taken it out on, but she's acting as if he is. She reaches out and gives the top of his head a pat, height advantage used since she's standing and he's sitting. There, there. His question has her pulling back to think it over, "I don't see why you can't? I do it often. Long legs." It's a sentiment he might understand himself, given that the goldrider is only an inch shorter than him.

"Well, I can't. Because I'm a guy. And I'm pretty sure traipsing about the Weyr in dresses and leggings would get me only two things. One, too many compliments on my legs from the greenriders, and two, lots of laughs - at, not with." There's that humor again. It's obvious from his grin that Wakizian finds himself amusing, even if no one else does. There's a little brow lift for the head pat, but a little shrug lets the curious yet confused look fade off his face as though it were never there. "But you do have the legs for it." The look he gives to those legs is one that-- well, he's a teenage boy. It's certainly not the appropriate look a Senior Apprentice Smith should give to a Weyrwoman - but it just might be the kind that gets that Senior taken off his title.

The sudden laugh is a good indication that Azaylia is picturing him in such an outfit, soft sound delving into full on giggles at the bit about greenriders. "O-or bronzeriders might mistake you for a pretty lady..?" Another glance for his youthful but admittedly masculine features has her struggling to compose herself. It has her in good humor for his compliment, words spilling out with little thought, "Brieli's are nicer." Realizing what she's said, she clears her throat, not meaning to encourage the teenage boy. "Thank you." The Apprentice, she must remind herself. "What do you know about legs, anyway?" Some hint of her earlier scolding, though much warmer. "I don't see a journeyman's knot just yet." So he better be on his best behavior.

Wakizian's finger points again - this time shaking in the air, as though agreeing with her notion about bronzeriders, "Ooh, you're right. Bronzeriders are not known for their brains, and I do have the hair for it." He purposefully makes the flip of his leather-clasped runner's tail effeminate and he bats his eyes prettily before chuckling himself. "There was this one time in the bathes..." He winks, so either the story was a fake or just plain inappropriate to tell. "I haven't noticed," and a shrug is all the response he has to her comparison of goldriding legs. His eyes venture one more peek at her legs before he's looking to her klah mug. "I know just about as much about legs as any other nose-to-the-grindstone apprentice that you could find. I know I like them, but would have no idea what to do with them if I had a set other than my own." Something in the timbre of his voice is suggestive that this is not only true of just legs.

Azaylia is not one to use humor, or any medium, to be mean. And yet she's stifling her laughter as Wakizian talks of bronzeriders and their brains. It's possibly cathartic, given recent events. "I can imagine. You poor thing." The words are squeaked out, something like a choke. Lifting a hand to her mouth, she can't stop herself from grinning and trying to hide the fact that she is only makes it more obvious. "Uh hum." A soft hum of experience, "That's reassuring. I can't say I know how strict Smiths are with their apprentices. Senior or no." Surely certain rules vary from craft to craft? She seems plenty curious, if only for a moment. Taking another long sip of her klah, she mumbles behind it, "So will I ever get to know why you might be killed?" Still on that, despite the misunderstandings before, curiosity hushed for his sake.

Wakizian's grin lasts through all her laughter, clearly pleased by the response, even if it's less to do with his words than the situation on the whole. The woman is laughing at his dumb jokes! What more can the boy want? "Well, if we were Harpers, I'd say the Journeymen would want our noses in our books, but we don't have so many books as tools, and you can't put your nose into your tools - or you end up visiting the Infirmary." This sounds like he speaks from stupid experience. "I've been told there are better places put noses, but they keep a fairly good watch - at least those of us who are favorites of one Journeyman or another. Journeyman Thraland seems bound and determined that I'll walk the tables before I beget some weyrbrat or another. I can't be certain, but I think he might have had to promise my mother before she left the Weyr." Brown brows knit together for a moment, the lad obviously contemplating this uncertainty. Then he shrugs, "But I'm told apprentices get into all kinds of trouble whether their Journeymen want them to or not." One hand moves to his runner's tail and he pulls it over his shoulder, playing with the very ends with fidgety fingers. "You will. Just not yet. That's why you saw nothing. Wouldn't want to spoil any surprises, would you, Weyrwoman?"

The Smith will know her laughter is genuine, Azaylia's giggles tapering off at the not-as amusing quips involving the Infirmary. Or it could be that she's finally beginning to regain her composure. "Beastcraft, I thought, was one of the more lenient crafts..." The way she trails off it sounds as though it isn't, wasn't, during her time as an apprentice. Her hand reaches out to give a ghost of a pinch, far too gentle to be that, to his still rounded cheek. "I certainly don't want to disappoint the Journeyman, or your mother." Despite what must be a tease, there's some genuine concern for Wakizian keeping his non-tooled nose clean. She won't be allowing any trouble this evening. For his last, there might be a hint of realization-- or is that further confusion? It's all lost to a small smile, "You're right, I wouldn't. Didn't." See anything.

There's a flick, a lick (of flame) for her attention: oh right, he's here. (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth)

To Vhaeryth, Hraedhyth is roused, and only barely, by the bronze's presence. Who is Vhaeryth again? He's not the brown she's currently curled with-- so it doesn't matter, does it? And still, there's a smokey scoff of: Fortian.

Wakizian pushes himself to his feet, reaching down to pluck up the tins and toss them into a brown satchel that was inconspicuously by his feet. He slings it over his shoulder, grinning at the Weyrwoman, the pause extending as if he knows he has to time this just right. "Well, everyone knows why the Beastcraft is lenient." Beat. In a bold and swift move, he's invading the rider's personal space, to whisper, "All that time watching the animals do it makes them horny." And then he's practically literally dancing away, hurrying just as fast as his feet can carry him to the nearest exit - perhaps hoping shock will cover his get-away?

That smoke doesn't imperil Vhaeryth's nonchalance, because yes, yes indeed he is. It's not, he notes, like he's /moving in/. « Sleep well. » Does she snore? (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth)

To Vhaeryth, Hraedhyth grunts another plume at him, fire crackling as she rustles and regains a comfortable position. Even as she drifts, the drums find a faster tempo for a half-formed threat. Yeah, he better not be.

Azaylia is shocked. Shocked and appalled. In reality, she's only mildly startled by the senior apprentice's bold move and even bolder words. Before anyone can think to chase after the culprit who has stunned her so, the weyrwoman laughs. With a shake of her head, she abandons her klah on the short table and decides to brave the cold. Certainly there's less foul talk to be found within her weyr. ...Yeah, right.