Difference between revisions of "Logs:Blizzard Number 38754..."

Weyr Entrance, High Reaches Weyr
Cutting through the Weyr's massive outer flank, the tunnel from the outside spills out into a smooth-cut space where wagons often pull in to unload supplies or take shelter during bad weather. Crates and dollies line one wall, ready to be pressed into service for carting stuff around.
Five other passageways, dimly lit by well-spaced glows, lead deeper into the Weyr; a draft from the centermost hints at the bowl beyond.

"A blizzard." Silva's wail can be heard from all the way down the corridor as she looks outside, petulant. "I mean, seriously, couldn't someone else go?" She's arguing with an older woman who is taking exactly zero guff from the teenager. A firm shake of her head has Silva's shoulders slouch, and only once the woman is walking away does she mutter under her breath, "sadist."

T'mic was outside the Weyr to begin with; his scarf is covered in snow, his head too. It's melted where it hit the bit of exposed flesh on his face, once he's able to duck back into the shelter of the tunnel. Big mitts wipe at the bit of scarf covering his mouth. One mitt is doffed so that he has the dexterity to pinch water away from his eyes, along the bridge of his nose. "Faranth," is to no one in particular, when his back hits the wall and the broad bluerider leans.

SAVE HER FROM THE ICE MONSTER! That man covered in snow gets a startled yelp from Silva, who hops back away from him as if he might jump forward and grab her with his cold-ness. "You scared me!" Her tone takes on an accusatory tone when she regains her even footing, arms crossing on her chest to scold him for coming out of the snow like he did it just to scare her. "That is what my aunt wants me to go out in. No. I won't do it. Nope. No. SHE can totally get the frostbite. I mean, seriously." Because the man is totally interested in Silva's nails, she holds them out towards him, "can you imagine me maybe losing one of these in the snow? I just had them done!"

It's the yelp that startles T'mic, in turn, jumping from the rest he'd only just found, on the balls of his feet, eyes wide, and both mittened and non-mittened hand suddenly fumbling when the empty mitt is dropped. "Faranth," says T'mic, and then also, "Sorry." Once the initial jolt of it's done, though, he's smiling. Even when he has to drop down to retrieve that errant hand-covering. He's on one knee when there are nails presented. "You really be out there long enough that they'd freeze off?" There's a wary glance over his shoulder, then, toward the outside. "Why are you going out there?"

Hands up Silva is just going to ward off T'mic from coming any closer with his dripping and snowy body. No coming closer kthanks! But she glances at her fingers when she assures him that they're in little danger. "She," a finger twirls to the departing form of the woman who issued her the older, "has told me to go gather //wood//. I mean, seriously. Aren't there those better suited for it? Look at me!" With her hands already wide it doesn't take much effort for the girl to spin slightly, "Clearly one of those big burly men would be better... I mean, like you!" It.. sounds cheerful?

T'mic purses his lips, and that broad brow of his knits. "Where... where are you gonna go get wood when it's like this outside? Won't it all be wet anyway?" The words are plodding, thoughtful. "They run out in the kitchens or something?" And then, a grin, as the bluerider gets back up to his full height, and shakes his head. "Me and Jorrth got other things than gathering wood. Just waiting on Hoth."

Shoulders droop again as that mullish set descends upon Silva. FAILURE at passing off her job to someone else. "They're getting close. I guess it has to dry or something before they can use it." Half heartedly Silva bends to pick up winter gear from the floor, allowing the unattractive boot to hang in her hand. "Still stupid seriously."

T'mic taps the empty mitten idly against his leg a few times, and looks just about ready to say something more on the subject of wood, but stops. Not just stops, but stops with a nod, and a conscious closing of his mouth. He puts that mitten back on, and leans against the wall a bit more, and peeks toward the snow and white outside. "So there's got to be like a box or something, then, right? I never really had to do that," which strikes him as strange enough that his nose wrinkles. "Busy with the kids." In the breaks of snowflakes gusting to zero visibility, a mountainous silhouette might be seen. The blue out there has hunkered right down. Waiting.

Oblivious Silva misses that stopping and closing of the bluerider's mouth. Or at least, the reason. She glances up with an upraised eyebrow, but gives it a shrug when he goes on. "Oh, are you the father of that annoying little pipsqueak that was trying to steal shoes the other night?" Because of COURSE T'mic has to be the father of all small boys if he mentiones children? She pulls the boot on finally with a sigh, and reaches for the otherone. "I wish it wasn't so snowy."

"Hah, what?" It's a chortle that carries those words, and T'mic mitt-slaps the wall a little. "I don't have any kids, not like that. Used to nanny them, though." With a thumb jutting toward his chest, and his chin raised, proud of that fact. Again, he's distracted, peering out toward the waiting dragon, and the storm. "It might clear up soon enough. These come and go sometimes, you know? Like waves, sort of?"

Hope springs eternal from a soul that really wants to avoid doing a particular piece of physical work. Silva brightens as he suggests the storm will pass. "Maybe If I just //wait//.... So wait. What kids are you busy with though? I mean, huh?" Confusion from Silva. There's a sense of deliberateness to her question though, like she's not really interested, but if he keeps talking maybe she can avoid her chore a little longer.

T'mic is seemingly unaware of being used as an excuse. At least, for the time being. "No, I used to nanny them. Before Jorrth and all this other stuff. I just mean that, yeah, I lugged stuff around for a while, but then I was mostly just for the kids. Never had to get wood." No, he doesn't hear it. He does look back out again, though. "Faranth, you can't see anything out there. It's no wonder they're late."

Cue confusion on Silva's face, and she scoots a half inch away from T'mic, like he is aybe just a TINY bit insane and she could catch it. There. Space taken, Silva returns to slllowwwlllyy pulling on her other boot. "So... how long do you have to wait before you just," a upraised hand gestures like a dragon taking off into the air, "zoom?

"Well, we don't want to crash into anyone. It wasn't so bad when we first started out." T'mic goes like to scratch the back of his head, but he's still got a mitten on. Also a hat. It all gets unorganised, and he tries to re-arrange the lot without removing anything. No doubt his hair will be epic later. "Might just have to head and wait it out." Outside, Jorrth's snort is lost to the winds and whirling snow. But that doesn't mean it's not there.

Abruptly Silva brightens, her attempts to pull on her boots stopping. There's a clunk as they fall back to the ground, and Silva arranges herself primly. "Waiting it out sounds like an excellent idea. I'm so glad you thought of it." She looks all sugar sweet and nice now, though surely that whine is hidden just under the surface if the man looks closely enough.

"Oh. Umm..." T'mic looks a bit troubled, here, and glances back down the tunnel, as if there might be some sort of guidance there. "Look, just don't get in trouble. Maybe you should ask her if she means somewhere specific, or what the deal is. I mean, if the whole Weyr's depending on the wood..."

"Oh no, no, you're so kind to be worried!" Silva's tone is bright and chipper. She could totally be the daughter of a prominent master that she is, with all her poise and slinkly talk. "If you, a strong rider are worried about going out, I am sure my aunt would understand if I waited a little bit. I'm sure she doesn't mean for me to get hurt going out." BEAMING smile.

"I'm not worried for me," says T'mic. And as if to prove it, he gives his hat (and head) a two-handed smack, and squares up his shoulders, and turns to the outside. "We'll get out of your way, so you don't have to worry about dragons. Then the way's clear. Even get Jorrth clear you a path. He's pretty good at that." It's a farewell, that. Or maybe, he's afraid he'll lose his gumption. 'Cause he nods, and heads out right after it's all said.