Difference between revisions of "Logs:Tweedledumb and Tweedlewee, Strippers Extraordinaire"

>---< Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr >-----------------------------------------<

  Two sets of double doors, one from the the inner caverns and a recently   
  built set from the dragon infirmary, lead into the unnaturally hushed     
  human infirmary. Despite fastidious cleaning, the scent of redwort and    
  numbweed has long since soaked into every smooth-carved surface, along    
  with other, subtler medicinal smells. Pristinely made cots are lined up   
  against the walls; most of them are left open to view, but some in the    
  back are surrounded by curtains for delicate procedures or critical       
  patients.                                                                 
                                                                            
  About halfway between the two entrances is the counter for the healers on 
  duty; it guards the entrance to the storage rooms just beyond, their      
  shelves and cabinets lined with meticulously labeled bottles, boxes, jars,
  and even vats of supplies. The Weyrhealer's office is also here, along    
  with another side room for mixing up medicines and the like.

Evening is often a slower time for the infirmary, with many weyrfolk engaged in other activities. Most who are here are either working or have a reason. K'zin's is already in the gossip mill. After the violence at the clutching feast, he was kept in the infirmary a pair of days before being released. With a head trauma, though, and an ugly bruise that spreads across his nose and has blackened both eyes, he's almost certainly here for either a follow up or numbweed, or both. He's in the waiting area though, arms folded across his chest, slouched in his chair and legs extended out in front of him.

Laine pushes through the double-doors with her shoulder, as her arms are tight around an awkwardly large stack of hidework, notes, and books. That lazy saunter does not bear the urgency of someone seeking medical attention, and when grey eyes scan the (presently unattended) healer desk, the apprentice takes a seat. She settles herself across from K'zin, and although she makes the pretense of busying herself with balancing her armload of paperwork in her lap, she does steal one or two peeks at the bronzerider. Okay, it's more like a not-so-subtle ogle--well, okay, she's pretty much just staring at him. She says, earnestly: "You should hear the rumours."

K'zin is trying to ignore the looks. He's probably gotten plenty enough to practice with in the past few days. When the peeks become a stare, he takes a deep breath and stares back. It's the logical thing to do, after all. His lower lip juts out at her words, a dismal expression on his face. "I'm not sure I want to hear more than I have already." There's a wistful sigh, if only his hearing could be more selective. "Going to tell me?" His arms slide away from his chest, so at least he puts himself less in a 'closed' position.

Z'riah's arrival is with a certain purpose, but whatever that purpose was supposed to be, he pauses when he realizes there's no one at the counter. Disappointing! He seems well and healthy, though, so it must not be any sort of emergency, despite the way he sighs dramatically and bounces his palm off of the surface of the counter. Still nothing. So he's turning to actually consider the agonizing prospect of waiting. Ugh. He sees K'zin immediately, because how can you miss that? "Wow, man. You look like shit."

Laine rocks her knees back and forth so that bundle of hidework in her lap wobbles precariously. Her furrowing, thick brows almost make it look, for a moment, that's she's sympathetic; then she grins, and it's a bright and crooked thing as she props her elbows on the topmost book and laces her fingers. "Yes. Sorry." (Not sorry.) "My favourite so far is that that one of you is a stripper or something and the other found out. Then there's a bunch of boring ones, like, that other guy," what's-his-name, "has a wife and you seduced her." Laine's tone indicates that, as far as she cares, the actual, factual truth is of no real interest to her.

"Turns out H'vier isn't at his meanest after losing a flight after all," K'zin tells Z'riah dryly, not moving from where he's at. One hand rises to self-consciously brush fingers across his nose, and wince. "Erotic artist, not stripper," the bronzerider directs to Laine, deadpan. "But I haven't even left the sketch of him for him yet, so that can't be it." He considers, "If H'vier were the kind of man to have a wife, she'd be old, and I'd rather not." He looks at Laine for a moment and then down to her chest, and then back to her face. It could mean anything (possibly just that it helps him place the face in this particular case, or just that he's a man). "Laine, Z'riah, Z'riah, Laine." One hand waves between the two.

The greenrider winces in sympathy. And he seems to be having a hard time looking away from K'zin's bruising for one reason or another. "You were supposed to leave that for him ages ago," notes Z'riah, finally peeling his gaze away from the bronzerider to glance at Laine. "Oh, we've met," he says a little dismissively, with a hand waved at her direction and everything. She called him old once; it's to be expected. "How are your criminal friends doing?" He adds as a a very judgmental aside to K'zin, "He actually has it pretty bad for a girl who's like sixteen." So the opposite problem of old.

The apprentice squinches up her grey eyes in her best (read: not very good) impression of a haughty, suspicious glower. "I get the sense you are, as they say, pulling my leg. If you are not, may I please commission one of your sketches, please." It's not deadpan, and there's a spark in her eyes and a smile tugging at her lips, but Laine manages, at least, not to laugh. There's not much of her chest to see, both owing to that obscuring stack of books and a frankly modest bosom, but Laine either doesn't care or doesn't notice: she's tipped her head up to Z'riah, lips pursed. "My criminal friends are fine, thank you," she says, not quite managing to look as casual, maybe, as she'd like.

A single shouldered shrug answers the timing of the delivery that was to be as indicated by Z'riah. K'zin then takes a moment to look between the two, one then the other, and back. "Someone want to fill me in?" On whatever it is he's missing. To Laine, he says, "How strict is your Journeyman about that kind of thing? As you might imagine, I am in some trouble already, and I don't need to add corrupting the youth, even if it's the youth who uses her breasts to get drinks at the bar, to my record."

"No, he definitely draws hot pictures. I haven't asked my roommate if he'd be okay with a nude mural." The first is for Laine. He can vouch for the bronzerider! The last is offered to K'zin, along with, "She has dumb friends in Nabol." Z'riah must think this makes everything perfectly clear because he doesn't explain further. Or maybe that's just all he knows. He glances back toward the counter, seems annoyed when there's still no one there. At least not the one he wants. But mention of breasts has his gaze, you know, settling on Laine's.

Laine's grimaced ugh is distinctly vexed, but she doesn't correct Z'riah, so he must've been close to being right. But she'd much rather talk about dirty pictures. So she asks, with a wary tilt of her head, "I still can't tell if you guys are joking or not. Do you really draw smut?" As for her Journeyman? He gets a breezy handwave. "I'm drunk, like, all the time." Which doesn't really answer K'zin's question. And, with a sniff and a guarded glance at Z'riah: "And it's not usually because of the boobs. I just wanted service. I'm not getting free drinks out of 'em." Beat. "Not literally." Ew.

Z'riah gets a look that says something a lot like 'shut up, Z'riah', but K'zin schools his expression as he looks over at Laine. "Since you're inclined to call it smut, I'm going to go with 'maybe'. It is true that my weyr was covered in smutty murals when I got it, but I didn't paint those." It's probably most telling of the truthfulness of their comments that he asks, "Would you want a sketch of yourself or someone else?" His eyes only briefly revisit the other topic, "Telavi had some things to say about that particular method of procurement. I think she thought there were better ways, but she was tired, so you'd probably have to ask her if you wanted specific suggestions.

A puzzled spread of Laine's hands is quickly interrupted when that heap of books in her lap teeters. Firmly steadying them with one hand, the apprentices asks, "What? What do you call it? I didn't mean 'smut' in a bad way." Those grey eyes fix on K'zin in a moment of sincere rumination at his question. She decides, "Myself." She doesn't explain, but muses, "If you draw them for money, doesn't that make it porn? I think the word 'erotica' is reserved for writing."

"Shardit, Yizi," Z'riah grumbles abruptly before he's starting to turn away from his waiting room peers. He pauses, though, because just leaving is rude, right? So he says, "She's having a meltdown. Good luck with your face, K'zin. And... your boobs, I guess, Laine." He's out.

K'zin looks at Laine with lips pinched, considering, opening his mouth just as Z'riah speaks, so the bronzerider shuts his again. His nod is understanding to the greenrider, and then his 'look' returns as he looks at Laine and says the two words the tone implies should be obvious: "Erotic art." He did claim either he or H'vier was an erotic artist after all. "If I draw them for money, it makes it a lucrative side-income." K'zin adds, amusement in both voice and curl of his lips. "Since I'm already in trouble, don't go repeating that around. Stripper is a better story anyway. But I'm sure we can come to some kind of agreement for whatever art you want."

"I'm just gonna keep spreading the stripper rumour. I love that one," Laine says brightly as a healer makes their way to the desk. Once he's settled and looks up expectantly, Laine's the first to spring up and scamper over (even though K'zin was definitely there first). "I'm here to see Tonas," she says, hefting her armload of books. "Brought his homework." When the healer motions to a cot behind a drawn curtain, Laine turns and wiggles her fingers to the two riders left behind, then disappears behind that swaying drapery.

"Goo-hey!" K'zin goes from approving to not in no time when Laine cuts the figurative queue. There's nothing to be done, of course, so fidgeting, the bronzerider waits his turn.