Difference between revisions of "Logs:The Storerooms Sheet Scandal"

Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr

Massive in scale, the Weyr's main storage passage connects to the kitchen on one end and the outbound tunnel on the other. Large enough to admit a wagon laden with goods, the tunnel easily permits the unloading and organization of supplies into the various storerooms.

Branching off from this corridor are multiple caverns, the nearer two being 'open' stores from which residents can readily help themselves, while the deeper stores are kept locked up tight with a posted sign and inventory hung on a hook outside of each. An alcove next to the public stores serves as a catch-all area for reshelving items whose destination is uncertain; two sets of stone shelving and several bins hold these items neatly until a stores assistant has a moment to deal with them.

Though the storage caverns vary in size, shape, and the smoothness of their walls, all belong to the same system: whitewashed walls, swept floors, and most importantly, neatly labeled and inventoried shelves providing ample space to stow all the supplies a busy Weyr needs. Though there's no direct internal lighting, a glowbasket may be brought in from the niche outside each cavern, the better to ward off pests and the inky dark of deep caves.

He's a man on a mission. List in hand, X'vae has dared the perilous path into the sizable stores High Reaches has to offer. What man with a brand new and totally unfurnished weyr wouldn't make this one of his first stops? Arguably, since he's sharing a weyr with the other recent Monocoan transplant, Z'riah should be here too, but he's not. It might be easier this way; better to ask forgiveness than permission, right? He's got a little trolley cart and he's leaning on it with folded arms, a rolled carpet lolling out the top and drooping over the side while he eyes the list laying on a clipboard at the bottom. He's not much paying attention to where he's going, of course. Anything could happen!

The stores have hardly been silent, despite their size, though sound comes and goes: the squeak and shift of an object here, a grunt from moving something heavy there, the rustle of an assistant headwoman's skirts as she bustles by. Sometimes conversation might be heard too, distance-blurred, and sometimes it's the more scattered syllables of someone talking to herself or else an oath at some problem or other. By comparison, the pillow is practically silent when it falls out of nowhere-- well, from the top of the nearest shelf unit after having been pushed too far-- and towards the transplant's head.

Anarchy! "Oof!" It thwaps the bent man squarely over the shoulders and head, ricocheting right off and into his trolley. Did he need a pillow? After a moment of more-blue-today eyes searching upward to see from whence the attack was launched, he's pushing onto tip-toes to bend practically in half to search under the pillow for that list. And indeed, a moment of pillow-squishing later, an item is crossed off. Serendipity!

"Sorry!" calls the immediate reply, made soprano by surprise; a few moments later there's a blonde-braided head looking around the corner, soon followed by the rest of her. The concern in those greener-today eyes lightens, and in her own next moment, "Oh good, I don't see any blood." Even so, she continues to regard him with interest, as though perhaps it might start pouring from his nose any second-- but not so much that her gaze can't flick from his unfamiliar face to the trolley's contents, particularly that knotted jacket, and back again.

The build of the jacket is different. Not so different, since dragonriding is fairly similar the world over, but like Igen has their own sense of style for the particulars of their environment, so too does Monaco have its own tweaks on the standard. For one who pays attention to such things, it wouldn't be difficult to pick it out. There's no smile as he straightens out of the basket, but once he sees the speaker coming 'round the shelves, a warm smile blooms on X'vae's lips. "No, I'm quite-- It's all--" He laughs, and it's an easy sound, shaking his head, laughing at himself. "I assure you I'm like this even when I've not been ambushed from above by bedding." So no concussion. "You did me a favor, really. I needed a pillow." Then he glances to the item in question and back to the woman, "Unless you've come to reclaim it." The look he gives Telavi is playfully speculative.

His laugh brings out hers, warm and pleased; "Since you say so, I shan't doubt you. Conditionally. As for reclaiming..." It brings her closer, too, though that's to reach out with one graceful hand to palpate the pillow's contours. But before she does, her outstretched fingers pause midair as Telavi looks up to the bluerider, the blue-eyed bluerider with the familiar cut to his coat. "I don't know. Just how lumpy is it?"

"Awful. Dreadful. Terribly lumpy. If I were a better man I'd not deign to rest my head on it," X'vae exaggerates with excessive drama, grinning. "But as I'm the lowliest of the low, just a poor transfer late of Monaco, I've no room to complain. Surely you can do better." His grin has softened a little by the time he's done professing his unworthiness; the blue-today eyes are light with amusement. The pillow, in point of fact, is not that lumpy, though it's likely not the best the stores has to offer if one were to look.

"Of course you wouldn't," Telavi says ever so soothingly, her own eyes bright. "It's true, I'm particular about my pillows," which doesn't mean she doesn't lean just enough to poke it with her forefinger, "and terribly sorry you have to 'take your lumps.' Tell me High Reaches hasn't given you others lately, Nameless Man of Monaco?" If she's guessed his name, given how word spreads, it's still not the same as him saying it.

"Nameless Man of Monaco," X'vae repeats thoughtfully, letting two of his fingers scratch along the stubble on his jaw. "That has an air of mystery to it. Do you prefer it that way?" It seems likely enough that he'd please her by letting the matter lie from the agreeable manner of his question. "High Reaches has been very accommodating, and we are very grateful for its generosity, certainly." There's no question of that.

"Mmm." Telavi steps back with a tilt of her head, the better to consider the whole picture, at least what's standing before her; "Eventually it would be difficult to maintain, I'm sure. But if you want to be someone else, now's your chance." A dimple peeks into existence. "Though it might be confusing for your weyrmate. Is he as grateful for High Reaches' generosity with its snow?"

There might've been intention to answer the first first, but surely despite his hearty laugh for the latter, it's the more important point to address. "My roommate," which is surely technically a weyrmate in some sense, but not the usual and therefore an important distinction, "is sadly born of a sourer disposition so I'll have to say that under the layers of grump and gripe he's grateful but one mightn't know it to meet him. He means well," or so Xev surely believes. "As for being someone else, I am fairly content with my lot in life, so I don't see any reason to not be me if perpetual mystery isn't feasible. X'vae, blue Izazeth's." He offers a hand.

Such emphasis lifts her brows above laughing eyes, though she doesn't officially smile more than she had already; Telavi suggests, "Perhaps some sweet fruit syrup poured over a glass of snow for him, then? The children like it. Of course, so do I. Telavi," of course she must meet his hand with hers, now, "with green Solith, and I'm Weyrlingmaster Quinlys' assistant. Do you know which wing you're to be in, yet?"

"Not as yet, Telavi," it serves in place of 'well met' for it has the same timbre. Only he doesn't just clasp her hand but seeks to draw it up. At first it seems he means to kiss it, but instead there's a simple bow of his head over the thing; it's very Holderish thing to do, to be sure. He doesn't seek to retain the hand over-long though, nothing awkward like that. "I suspect they're trying to decide who best to keep an eye on us until we prove our colors true." The turncoat ones. "Maybe I ought to suggest the weyrlingmasters staff, though I expect they'd not like handing us the opportunity to influence anyone unduly." X'vae's cheerful grin renews. "Do you have your hands full there? I've heard there's two batches in the barracks at the moment?"

The rhythm, the timbre, these draw out Tela's smile even before her hand's drawn up; her laugh is soft, and afterwards she touches her hair to swing a plait back behind her shoulder-- and then wanders back around the trolley. With the rolled-up carpet between them, she can smile once more at X'vae over it; the sympathetic recognition for the proving even lightens with the return of his grin. "We do. Fortunately, the older set is in weyrs, now... though perhaps unfortunately for you; I hope there was still some selection. Do you like it? How is it, living in stone instead of," the gesture of one hand illustrates Monaco's version of dragon-habitats, while the gesture of her brows continues the question.

X'vae's hand is quickly waving off her concern. "Selection enough, though I can't be sure if we offended our tour guide or not while we were picking. Z'riah-- has a way of charming people." Only he doesn't mean charming in the typical sense here, but rather more the opposite meaning. "We've always been neighbors in Monaco, ever since I can remember. Well, except for the time he Stood and I didn't. So roommates is little different, but there's a neat sort of set up to the weyr, and I've got some plans for some improvements if I can beg, borrow, or bribe the masons and the smiths to lend me help." He grins at the greenrider, "You ought to come by and see it when it's finished. It's going to be fun." He infuses the word with appropriate enthusiasm, giving it life and meaning all its own. "The stone bit takes getting used to. Also the cold. Haven't got around to padding my jacket." Since it's still good and why just trade it in when it can just be augmented?

Charming, by now, means that Telavi purses her lips so as not to laugh; "Sounds like fun," she says, happy to rock back on one heel and listen. And to ask, "Have you gotten acquainted with the smiths, yet? And... do you sew, yourself, to go with all your other--" very many, her appreciative tone implies, " improvement plans?" 'Padding' versus 'having it padded.'

"It is. He's a good time. We're a good time. Going to have some poker nights, a little less formally than what I understand happens in the Rider's lounge. Do you like to take risks, Telavi?" X'vae asks with -- why yes! Dimples are showing. "I do sew. A very manly art if I do say so myself." And he does. "Actually, I was apprenticed healer, like my mother, would've continued too, if I hadn't Impressed." Hence his interest in sewing. "I can't say I know decorative stitching, but it ought to do to refit the interior." He glances to the jacket. "I've not met the smiths. Nor the masons. Don't suppose you have any good-will toward either I could cash in on?" Just because they've only just met is no reason not to ask! Connections, connections, connections!

Dimples and a sewist. One particular comment meets with an amused tilt to her brows. But Telavi merely assures, "Poker in the riders' lounge would be what I'd call less formal and more frequent. Although--" her expression shades considering, but only for the brief moment before her own dimples hint at resurgence. "What do I know, I never take risks." She has full-fledged dimples for the bluerider, now, to go with her winsome smile. "But if I did, I certainly wouldn't do it with my own marks. Now. I do know our smiths... and I could make introductions... but first I really need to make certain you're not saying, X'vae, that sewing's solely a manly art." There's a gleam in her eye, and she holds up two fingers, snip-snip.

"So," X'vae's brows furrow in mock consideration, "we'd have to make it strip poker to top it?" Then he's winking at the greenrider, grin still all friendly rather than provocative. He doesn't, notably ask if she'd take risks with her clothes. That helps keep things on the playful side of flirtation rather than something with intention. "Sewing," he addresses the topic seriously, is an art whomever performs it with a degree of finesse, but being a manly sort of man," the dimples peek again, "I can't help but make it manly. Is that enough to satisfy you, my fellow artist?" That she sews isn't difficult to divine from her interest in the subject but he certainly doesn't guess as to the capacity in which she performs the art.

'Strip poker,' the man says, and Telavi's expression alters subtly: amused and friendly still in her own right, to be sure, but somehow... disappointed? In him? Perhaps the effect has to do with the retreat of her dimples. It can't, surely, be caused by his pun. Whatever it is, even that subtle change doesn't last; "Very good answer," she's glad to agree of X'vae's art-ful explanation, and play-loftily at that. If Telavi doesn't explicitly assure satisfaction, it must still suffice for her to allow, "Good enough, in fact, that I shall Reveal the Name of the Smith with Whom you Wish to Speak: Journeyman, nay, Senior Journeyman Thraland." There wasn't any drum roll, but clearly there should have been. In a less affected voice, she explains, "My sweetheart speaks very well of him. He's about yea high," she gestures, "brunet, pale." Does it help?

The subtle shift is not missed, but nor is it commented on until, "Aah, your sweetheart." The words are echoed thoughtfully. "I hope I haven't given offense. I'm sure he-- or she-- is a very fine-- person." It's not exactly stumbling, just a lot of course-correcting as he goes along. "The strip poker was a joke. Probably a bad one. I assure you your clothes would stay on if you visited." He has to consider a moment before qualifying, "As long as you're not easily charmed by witty sarcasm and bad pick-up lines. Z'riah." He adds. Then, in a manner that is lacking in flirtation, he says, "That helps. Immensely. At least now I have an idea of who I'm looking for when I head over to the craft complex. And that's step two. Step one is, of course, not getting lost. The tunnels really are something else." The way he says this makes it sound complimentary for all that there are a million meanings that wouldn't be.

The shake of Tela's head says no, and then her quick smile confirms yes. Is she easily charmed by witty sarcasm and so forth, though? Never mind her track record now; "I'm glad it helps," she says. "Don't worry, when I visit, I can take care of my clothes myself." Yes, her dimples have reemerged, gently so. "Actually... if you'd ask Izazeth to call to Solith, she can share the senior journeyman's image-- and perhaps a better idea of the tunnels, at least the main routes. Not that I'd suggest sticking to those, that wouldn't be any fun."

"That'll be for the best, no doubt." X'vae answers the matter of her clothes, grinning. His gaze briefly unfocuses and the grin softens to more tender smile that, were he more self-conscious to begin with, he mightn't like people to see, but as is, he seems quite open with it as he says, "I've asked and he shall." He glances to the cart and leans down to take up his list, "Now, you wouldn't happen to know where exactly I could find sheets for a twin bed, would you?"

There's not much time between when the request is made of his rider and when Izazeth is reaching toward Solith's mind. The first touch is a dazzling flash of warm, white light, tendrils reaching to brush, respectfully, at just the edge of what bounds Solith's mind might have to offer. It's almost a knock at the door. Then there's warmth, intense but not uncomfortable in the least. He's warm. Real. And so very good. The goodness is a sort of light in of itself. His voice is much less ethereal and other-worldly than the sensation of his touch, a kind baritone, « Hello, Solith. » (To Solith from Izazeth)

Twin bed. Tela's brows hike up, up, up, more surprised at that than at the emotion he'd shown. Quickly catching herself, her smile brightens; "I do, actually. This place was practically my home away from home, for awhile there." Sliding to her toes, she walks a few steps ahead, casting a glance back at him over her shoulder.

Dazzled, starry shapes fly upward; once he and she have drawn nearer, it's easier to see that her light is more golden than his, the cool freshness of spring and young leaves. « There you are! » It's pleased; she'd wondered. But Solith has a task, no, a request of her own, and so she shares the image of the kindly man, layered with a sense of his self and an inkling of scent, of sweat. Along with it comes a curling, curving sense of the paths one must take to reach him, here in the stone and the Bowl before snow falls too high and cold and deep. « Like so? » (To Izazeth from Solith)

"Was it. Hide and seek?" X'vae guesses, not at this moment pausing to explain why twin despite her brows' trip toward the ceiling. His hands grip the edge of the trolley and with some effort manage to get the wheels to orient themselves correctly to follow the greenrider.

Why, he didn't even need to ask! Her willingness to share her knowledge, despite having likely been asked to do so by her own rider, excites Izazeth. Enthusiasm swells for a moment before he carefully reins it in. « You have our thanks, both of you. X'vae is quite excited to improve his new space and make his mark. » Then he's retracing the paths offered him, thoughtful, explorative. « Solith, do you perchance know of a good, warm place here in winter? My friend, » a dear friend, « Yizibeth is homesick for the warmth of where we were shelled. » He's careful with his expression, almost too basic in the language he chooses, but he's learning: start with the basic blocks and build understanding from the bottom up. (To Solith from Izazeth)

Telavi laughs, bright and true. "No. Furnishings," said with dramatic relish, right down to the rolling of the r. "I'm not from around here. Are you from Monaco, originally?" There's no look or hint for an explanation about his choice in mattresses, even now that she has her surprise under control; rather, she simply leads the way, taking paths that are relatively easy to navigate and pointing locations out here and there for the sorts of things that a new arrival might be able to use: drinking glasses, rugs, brooms, fans-- though, as she says, they aren't likely to need them now-- and so on. It's not far to the sheets, though Telavi does note, "They aren't always that consistent on sizing, but that's what drawstrings are for."

She flutters at that thanks, does Solith. « I will tell her. Make his mark? What mark? » It might be purely teasing, this image of his rider pawing at stone as though to score it with his human talons; it might be playful-but-real. More informatively, « The warmest we have is the ledges above the sands... » but that trails off into sudden daring-despite-herself wonder. It's a little while before she explains, « ...Or perhaps she could sit on the sand? Maybe? » If she dares? But then it wouldn't be as high, not nearly as fun. » (To Izazeth from Solith)

"Yes," X'vae makes no secret of his history. "Though I spent a handful of turns half at Healercraft and half at home. My mom couldn't bear to have us away for so long when she had to do a stint of service and learning there." He nods along to locations she offers so helpfully, commenting things of little consequence about needing this item or that. It's pleasant, if perhaps less overtly flirtatious than their initial exchanges. But that doesn't stop him from making remarks meant to provoke laughter, or from a provocative brow wiggle when the advantages of different sorts of rugs on the stone floors of weyrs at 'Reaches is briefly touched upon. Once they're at the sheets, the blue-today eyes are ranging over the selection. "I suppose these," he points to a stack that look very much the same, "are for the dorms?" where twin beds are likely most prevalent. They're not the ones he's interested in anyway, no he moves down a little further to where there's a smaller selection of sheet sets with colors. Faded, sure, but once bold and the wear of the sheets isn't threadbare, but rather soft. He runs his fingers across them thoughtfully.

There's amusement because Solith is not far off from the truth. Izazeth is always thoughtful in his responses, but it's an easy flow, the thoughtfulness so much a part of him that it doesn't slow his answer now. « His mark, this time, will be a hole. Two, even. If they will help. But it will survive him, to the next that might have the weyr when we no longer have use of it, » which he expects to be a very long time hence. « I hope it will not be our only legacy here, but it may perhaps be the most physical. » For the rest, « Do you suppose our queens would mind if there are no eggs? » Being on the sands, that is. They are our queens because he has thrown himself wholeheartedly into the undertaking of becoming 'Reachian. (To Solith from Izazeth)

Of course Telavi mentions along the way that she's from Benden Weyr, but it's a side note to his origins-- and the laughter!-- that she certainly seems to find more interest in. He gets a distracted nod for identifying the dorm sheets, but then she's darting her hand to one side of that other pile, fingers racing down it to... "See if that one's intact, if you're fine with the color?" It's a light and sunny yellow with fine textured stripes in the weave. "It should be," intact, "since it's here, but you just never know."

« Holes, » Solith marvels, envisioning a narrow ledge with the flavor of familiarity, and holes floating around the image; one comes to rest on the ledge proper, allowing a view down to the ledge below. A dragon could knock a pebble through that hole, more than a pebble, all on accident. « Like so? » Tacked on belatedly, « I do not think they would, but if they do, they will let us know. » Queens do like to do that. There's no acrimony in the thought, only comfort in knowing how the world works. (To Izazeth from Solith)

X'vae's eyebrows raise and he turns to place his back to the sheets in favor of looking at the greenrider with a dubious expression that is well-feigned. "Why, Telavi, don't you think this is all moving a little too fast? One moment you're assaulting me with a pillow, the next you're picking my bed sheets?" He makes it sound more risque than it actually is, to be sure. But then he's grinning with good humor and turns back to pull out the set, tossing one of the pair over his shoulder while he shakes out the other. "Check the other end, would you?" He requests.

Izazeth follows her imaginings quite closely, with palpable curiosity. He likes what she comes up with. « Why, that is quite interesting, » Mostly, the way her mind works, how she gets from point A to point B and what's in between. He'd research her soul if she had one, if she'd let him, but the same could likely be said of anyone he comes across. « But no, » and the blue seems as much an open book as his rider, explaining the plan to the green. Sadly, there's no use for holes for him, but it's probably safer if none are installed on the ledge, isn't it? (To Solith from Izazeth)

That's the sort of thing that's apt to get a pillow case tossed at him, and on purpose this time, but Telavi holds back despite herself. With a careless shrug of one shoulder and her nose in the air, "Well, if you don't like your sheets comfortable," she teases, even as she moves to fluff the sheet. She's giving the sheet a professional once-over while she does it, too, not just for holes but maybe even worse, stains.

Solith isn't bothered by such mundane things as safety, but then, she's distracted by the similarly-interesting plan; along the way she spares a brief image of another such that she's seen, or more likely that Telavi has, given dragon memories. When they're done-- she remembers!-- « Another good place to be warm, Izazeth, » Solith notes as she envisions a route to be flown from the hatching cavern, past a ledge that she identifies as Zmeyth's that's also warm-ish, to the hot springs beyond the caldera's wall. There's a moment along the way where the vision hovers, but in the end it doesn't detour and instead ends in the shadow of trees and the warmth of steam. (To Izazeth from Solith)

The bluerider's hands come up palm out in a gesture of defeat, "Oh, no, no no. I didn't say that." There's a grin for the greenrider but that's enough jesting for now. There's serious sheet inspecting to to. Once the set, and a second have been procured with Telavi's help, X'vae is offering her cheerful thanks, "I hope we'll meet again soon. If nothing else, you can let me buy you-- and your sweetie, if you like-- a friendly drink in Snowasis as thanks for helping me with these crucial choices," and probably more importantly for making the smith connection.

The blue's attention chases the path of knowledge the green lays out for him, once again delighted. « I shall suggest she make his acquaintance. And yours as well. » Izazeth's warmth is palpable now, the sound of his baritone coming with a glow purer than glowlight or even sunshine. « My thanks, Solith. Our thanks. » Then he's withdrawing his touch; never overstaying one's welcome is one of the first rules of making friends. (To Solith from Izazeth)

There's a flutter of gauzy light that's Solith, airy appreciation and acknowledgement and leavetaking all in one. (To Izazeth from Solith)

As for Telavi... "Wise," the greenrider says with mock-- mostly-mock?-- severity. His pleasantry combined with his offer get a pleased smile, the inclusion of her smithly companion making it that much warmer. But the mischief in her green gaze? That's only given away at the end with a bright, "And let's not forget that favor!" that's-- purposely, it must be-- just as bright and airy as her dragon before she wafts her way on out.