Difference between revisions of "Logs:Blades And Honesty"

It's at a time where the kitchen is closed for the business, but one could probably steal knick a few food items right before the last kitchen cook has retired for the night. It's probable that Jo is regular to this hour or later, for she's here in her black riding leathers at the small table, finishing up a bowl of stew as the last cook in the room is passing off a bubbly pie onto the table. "For that bottle," the older woman could be heard saying to her, in which case Jo leans back and gives her one of those cool nods, like she's so smooth. "Anytime, darlin'. Ya know where to find me if that man of yers runs out again." The bubbly pie even looks fresh as the cook turns back to cleaning.

"Looks delicious," comes a wry quip from the tall man crossing the kitchens, smelling strongly of the forge: dusky ash and pungent burnt leather, acrid tang of steel, salty brine of sweat and the flat, coppery dredge of cold quench. His garb seems to indicate he's been at it for a while, and his hands are still darkened with soot and forgeburn, a dab of white salve showing high on one thumb. A quick flash of a smile and a well-practiced wheedle has Xhaeon well-equipped with a plate of cold-cuts, the last of the rolls from dinner, and a generous crock of butter and marmalade. He crosses back, gesturing towards the table. "Mind if I join you?" His baritone is deep and touched with the arid nasality of the Telgar region.

With the cook turned away and her back to her stew, the male voice coming in has her immediately inching that pie towards her side of the table and out of any potential harm's way. Just in case. "It will be," comes quick with its usual deadpan demeanor as Jo returns to her stew, watching the man closely as he gets himself some food. That quick flash gets a brow raise of slight curiosity and bemusement, all couched in a presence of far more self importance than she probably should have. Her smile that eventually comes, is a little quirked. "Go ahead," she answers when comes to join, slower in her stew intake now that she has unfamiliar company. Nodding sharply towards his attire, "Long day, Telgar?" she drops, her observations picking up that accent easily.

It's amazing what the right demeanor on the right person will do. Xhaeon's food is proof of this, and he slides at an angle from Jo in a manner that places his back against a wall and gives him the angle to keep an eye on the entrance from the living caverns. His eyebrows loft in amusement at her query, somewhat-singed as they are. "A long day of lessons," he explains, pausing to pull a face at his hands. He's up, again, crossing to the nearest sink to scrub the soot and grime away. "It's amazing how much trouble apprentices can get into." Hands clean, he resumes his place. "And you?" is his polite return, a vague gesture indicating the abandoned kitchen and implying the lateness of the hour.

"Lessons." Jo echoes that, looking Xhaeon over openly now as she chews. When he explains further, "So ya been gettin' in trouble today." Not a question, and there's a faint humor in her tone now. Yeah, that's what she picks out and puts on display. Eyeing his clothes, "Always," she answers him with a short, low chuckle that is tinged with some weariness. "No rest for the wicked, darlin'." There's a pause as she reaches inside her jacket to pull out her dinner drink - that being, her flask. Unscrewing the lid and taking a long drink of the strong brew within, "So. What sorts of things ya apprentices get up to, hm?" she prompts.

Xhaeon quirks a glance askance at her initial assumption as to his rank - and a second at that line of resting and wicknedness, both amused. Aside from that he's focusing on compiling his food into complicated packets of soft dinner rolls stuffed with cold cuts, a bit of cheese and marmalade. "I try to avoid trouble, personally." Somewhere along the way, he picked up a drink of his own - a cold glass of water with a bit of ice. He sips at this momentarily. "Well, they decided that they would try their damndest to convince me that instead of making plowshares, we should make daggers, no matter the fact that they are all rather new to the craft, and more importantly, to the forge." He shakes his head, that nigh-perpetual wryness about the slant of his lips and eyes, and tucks into his food with a mercenary thoroughness.

Jo scrapes her bowl as listens in silence to him, his first getting just a wry "Most tend to," before falling silent and just eating again. She doesn't hide the fact that she's openly studying him now, studying mostly his face until something he says jumps out and gets her full attention. Blinking, "Daggers?" she picks out, brows furrowing a bit. "And makin' daggers is called 'trouble' to ya?" Looking him over closely now with her piercing gaze, "Are ya any good?" She has to ask, her eyes flying to his hands to see. He's got her rapt attention, now, enough to have her pausing in eating.

Xhaeon is bemused by her obvious scrutiny in the modern sense: the lines of his cheeks are raised, a smile hiding just under the tired veneer. He focuses in on his food, tucking rolls over meticulously to prevent filling from dropping out before taking precise bites. It's a strangely methodical way of eating. "Daggers," is confirmed between bites, washed down with cold water and a mild examination of the rider across from him. "Not trouble for me, or one of the more advanced students - Wakizian, perhaps," though the name may mean nothing to her. "But to first-years? Damned dangerous, not to mention expensive." The last question prompts a lift of a shoulder, rise and fall. "I've an eye for detail," is his only comment, completely unselfconscious. "Daggers are easy things to get a knack for, after enough practice." He spreads his hands in silent explanation: big, capable, marred by both the smudging scars of fire and thin silvered slices from sharp things, and callouses that fit both pen and hammer.

Jo pushes the bowl to the side once she scoops up the last of the stew - once she starts up eating again - and starts in on the pie. She's definitely not so meticulous in the way she eats - more like some mercenary just shoveling food into their mouths before needing to get back to their work. She drinks from her flask as she continues to listen, rapt with interest on the subject. Clearly, it's a subject she likes. Or the product, rather. When he mentions he has an eye for detail, she nods to that in a way that suggest she's come to some sort of decision, and once she sets the flask down on the table, she slips a hand down to her side to pull free one of her precious knives. She slams the blade into the table between them so that it's standing, showing off its slightly curved design with grooves marking down the sharpest part of the blade, and the hilt is made a dull black with random white symbols etched on one side. Pulling her hand away and checking out his hands when he spreads them, "What about somethin' like that?" she asks, returning to her pie. "Got that made by this man I know somewhere in Telgar. It's not official or nothin', clearly, but. It's got good weight."

For his credit, Xhaeon doesn't flinch when the knife thunks meatily into the scarred wood of the table. It may be due to him watching her actions, or - more likely - he's just on the far side of the level of awareness required to startle. Instead, he cocks his head to the side, his gaze critically assessing the curve of the blade and the blood-grooves. "My main focus is structural engineering, but daggers and belt-knives have always been a staple production for the craft at large. Great profit margins," he comments, more to himself than to her, really, still contemplating the lines of the blade. "May I?" he questions, juggling his current stuffed roll to his right hand reaching his left out towards the knife, slow enough so that the rider could choose to regain her weapon without it being necessarily rude.

Jo's trying to follow him, but she's frowning when he talks about structural engineering. She seems to clear up at the mention of profit margins, though. "Big time," she agrees wholeheartedly, briefly cocking a finger his way. "I'm about how good it can slice, and how easy it fits my hand, personally. Custom made bites into the pouch with the cost, but it's always been worth it. Go right ahead, darlin'," she gives then when he asks with a hand gesture towards the standing knife, the lopsided grin casual and amused by the fact that he doesn't flinch at all. "Ya don' seem like the thievin' type, and I read people pretty well. 'Sides. Ya don' like trouble." It's almost a cheeky smirk for her tease. "Still. Maybe I should get yer name just in case ya surprise me and dash outta here," she adds, leaning back in her seat. "That way I can hunt down that handsome face with a name to go with it." She is incorrigible, in the end.

Xhaeon has a flashed grin, there, upwards for the shared understanding of profit: under the casual garb, Xhaeon does know his business when it comes to smithcrafting. He curves his hand around the hilt, tips the blade away from himself and then smoothly out of the vicelock of the table holding the tip. It's a movement like a grace note, a deft familiarity with the physics of the thing that speaks more than a thousand words would otherwise proclaim. He tests two different manners of grip on the hilt, curves a thumb-blade very carefully aginst the curve of the blade, shifts a single digit perpendicular to the tang to find the balance point. When he's done, the Smith flips it gracefully, catching it by the flat of the tip and leaning across the table to offer it back to Jo. "A beautiful piece of work," he comments: about as high of a compliment as non-craft production could possibly rate. "Matches the owner," is his teasing riposte to her comment, complete with a crooked smile. "Xhaeon. Smithcraft Journeyman and candidate, at your service, miss...?"

With the way Xhaeon handles the knife, Jo looks like she's impressed. With the blade having some weight to it, one skilled with such weapon could tell that it's been well used. There's nothing new or shiny about the knife, giving off that simple signature of durability. She watches how he tests it, nodding a bit in a way to suggest that she was familiar with such. When he's done and he flips it hilt-first back to her, she leans forward to claim it with that bravado in place and settles it back on her hip. His observation of the blade, coupled with the compliment earns him a wry, "Good with his hands, and perceptive," she is in full agreement with that compliment. "It certainly does, darlin'." Pause. "Xhaeon," she tries out his name, inclining her head to it. "A candidate, huh? How's that workin' out for ya? And the name's Jo," she gives in return, briefly lifting her chin at him. "Blue Tacuseth's. At yer service." Borrowing his words.

There's something to be said for a weapon that is used for the purpose for which it was originally created; a simple, spare honor about the notion of function over form. Xhaeon can appreciate that, and her quip about his hands, with a short, only-slightly weary laugh. "Thank you, for that." Regarding his candidacy, he shakes his head. "I had an earful from Azaylia, earlier, about not having the correct level of enthusiasm. I just didn't want to let A'quin down, see? The Smithcraft has to extend gratitude towards the weyr in some fashion, for making us such quite..." He tastes around for a word, finds one and uses it irreverently with a gleam of laughter: "...nifty quarters. Pass my respects to Tacuseth," is his polite, almost reflexive manner to that last. "And well-met, Jo."

His thanks get an observant, "Quite the polite one, aren'cha? That comes with the territory of bein' smith or candidate?" Jo asks, that flask going to her lips. "I never did do my own candidacy right." She takes a drink in the pause and a brow lifts at Azaylia's name as Xhaeon explains before she drops with laughter in her husky voice, "And what level of enthusiasm is that?" She nods on the respects given to her blue, the convict rider easy in remarking, "He might splash lake water on ya for it. He isn' into the whole respect thing too much. Not unless yer willin' to wash him down and oil him personally. He would probably consider that possible weyrling trainin'." Coercion? Naw, couldn't be.

"When you come from my family," Xhaeon replies, rueful, "You learn manners at ... a young age." He evades anything past that, however, moving on past it to question, "Oh?" at the point of her own candidacy's rightfulness. "How did you do it wrong?" The question is as close as playful as he ever gets, the easy ambience of his voice holding a tease. He brushes off the topic of Azaylia easily. "It was well-within her purview as weyrwoman to question me on it. I was... less than politic in her presence." He has open amusement and a trained eye for the reaction to that statement (and a notable lack of the appropriate volunteering to clean and oil Tacuseth, bless the blue's cotton socks).

"Yer whole family is into the business?" Jo asks now when Xhaeon brings them up, her pie seeming to be momentarily forgotten. But manners, well, "Yeah, I can get that. I came from a family of guards, so.....ya know. Everythin's about discipline and manners and salutin'. Not my style." Any evasion is noted by her, of course, but, she doesn't seem to have any desire to push any buttons this night. On her own candidacy, "Well. Me and some of the others were sort of bullies," she admits, her tone wry at the memory. "We weren' exactly the friendliest bunch out of the group. I'm one of those that didn' avoid trouble if it smacked me on the ass," and she nods knowingly. "But anyway. Less than politic?" She's frowning on that one, but likely not for the reason he's expecting. "Huh. What did'ja say?" She was curious now, arms coming to fold across her chest.

"Well, their own businesses," Xhaeon temporizes for the moment. He finishes his last roll and lifts one hand to his mouth to clean a swipe of marmalade off the side of a finger. After, he leans back and stretches long legs before him under the table, linking his fingers together behind his head in an easy, restful position to listen to Jo talk. "You? A bully? I'd never." His grin is as easy as his lazy slouch. "I'm not sure if you actually did candidacy wrong by getting into trouble. A few of the others seem to think it's the only way to do it." As to his mishap with Azaylia earlier, he shakes his head. "She said something about the possibility of Impression and I may have snorted at it. It was... terribly impolite, in retrospect. I was focused on something else at the time and wasn't paying as much attention that I should have been."

Jo's own posture has one arm draped lazily over the back of the chair as she settles to its side, the cavalier way she takes in everything and everyone about her is with an air of brazenness. Talk of her own candidacy has her laughing aloud to his easy words on her being a bully in her time. "What, I don' got the face?" she teases drolly, tracing a finger from one corner of her jaw to the other before flashing one of her charming grins. "It's true, I'm afraid," she continues on with a long-suffering sigh. "Perhaps it's not wrong in the way it's done, but ya know. Ya already hear about how grateful ya should be and Weyr generosity and all that shit. Ain' the only way to do it, of course. Had some in my group that thought they were destined for dragons, and nobody else was. They also tend to have had their lives made on a silver platter, too." On the topic of Azaylia, she reaches for her flask now before settling right back and even snorts her amusement as he explains. "Nothin' wrong with thinkin' there ain' nothin' out there on those sands for ya," she notes, words from an ex-con, "just like there ain' nothin' wrong thinkin' there is. I don' think it was terribly impolite. Just honest. Wasn' expectin' much myself, until Tac found me."

"You got the face, just not one I'd expect to see applying scowls to bully poor farmcrafters out of their lunch-money," Xhaeon returns, droll. He does listen to what she has to say, though, thoughtful throughout the lot of it. "That seems a rather healthy way of looking at the situation," the man states, his words slow, more directed inwards than out. She has given him something to chew over, even if it's simply an exercise of philosophy from his current perspective. "I do quite honestly expect my life to not diverge," he'll baldly state for her ears, "from the path it is currently on." He has his reasons. Speaking of having reasons, he slowly unwinds himself from his current position and pushes up to his full height, standing. "It was a pleasure, madam Jo, but I fear my morning duties come early, and I've yet to unstink myself." Very important. He offers her a sketched salute and a crooked smile before he heads out.

"The real bad ones, usually do," is Jo's quip to his first, the smirk deliberate and brief. Since Xhaeon has something more serious to say, the bluerider does regard him and those honest words, and she states to that, "It's quite the path, if ya can make daggers well. Should ya not find yer destiny on the sands when it comes, seek me out. Perhaps there'll be somethin' ya can do for me." Jo, always looking for opportunity. She watches him get up but she remains sitting, nod leaning forward as if to resume her feast on the bubbly pie as he starts to head out. The smile she sends him is a dashing one as she says, "Likewise, Xhaeon. Go on and take care of yerself. Sure our paths may cross again." With that, she watches him go before there's an amused snort and she finishes up her meal when the night is a young one for her.