Difference between revisions of "Logs:Storeroom Chats"

Central Storerooms(#17755RJM) Though certain of the Weyr's supplies are stored at the places where they are used, most are kept here, in the central storage complex. A series of caverns grouped around a central corridor, the complex is cut on the grand scale necessary to hold all the items a full and active Weyr needs.

You're currently in the main corridor, wide and tall enough to admit a laden wagon. The walls are lined with heavy wooden doors, their wide spacing evidence of the size of the rooms behind them. Each of the doors features a posted inventory and map of its room's contents, and there are small piles of returned items beside several, waiting until someone has the time to reshelve them properly. There is a set of hardwood shelves available on a space of wall between two of the doors where people can place items when they are not sure which storeroom they belong in. Scanning the door signs, you note cold stores, dry food stores, rooms for textiles and furnishings, the records room, and the supply closet.

To the south, the corridor opens out to the lower caverns. V'lano is here with you. (Places code and +views (see '+view information'!) are implemented here.) Contents: V'lano Obvious exits: Lower Caverns

"Ought to have one somewhere." The normally richly gamey tone of the Telgari bronzerider is muffled by the door of a cabinet whose posted contents includes scissors, specialty knives, awls - everything you might need for making large bits of leather into smaller ones - but apparently not whatever V'lano's looking for. He unbends, withdrawing his head from the cabinet with a wrinkling of nose and squinting of eyes suggesting an oncoming sneeze, then shoves the door into place with a soft, only slightly slammy thud. "You'd think they keep them sharp somehow," he mutters, scuffing to the next door for increasingly irritable searching.

"Likely to poke someone's eyes out if they're too sharp," comes a sweetly toned alto from around a corner, followed by the dark-skinned face that is Satiet. Under one arm is a small basket of various threads and a pincushion of needles. Blue eyes observe the bronzerider wandering towards the next set of cabinets, a firm set to her lips indicating a form of determination as she closes her own cabinet with a soft click, and makes her way down towards V'lano. She takes a casual stance before him, basket and free hand resting on her hips, "Making yourself productive? Better this than the kitchens, or have you not gone yet?"

The rider's upper lip twitches, tempted by a sneer. The shape is squelched and forced into a rubbery smile while the door he's just opened gets closed, the interior contents left in peace. "Been," he replies, and at first it seems that it might be all the reply he's going to give. He turns a quarter-revolution from the cabinets, crossing his arms over his chest to sway his center of gravity backward slightly. "I think they're dubious about me taking a proper shift, so I've offered to do whatever they need done outside of the kitchens in hopes they'll get to trust me not to knock a pot off the fire turning around. So I'm looking for a strap." If that last doesn't make sense, it's only because Satiet's not V'lano; he seems to feel that explains all, and presses his lips into a smile of forced patience, trying to push off his agitation with the so far strapless storeroom.

"A -leather- strap?" Satiet's gaze slides to the cabinets whose contents are notated as a wide range of sharp objects and then back to the bronzerider. "You're not very sharp yourself, are you. Try the cabinets near the entrance." The dry advice is given with a jerk of her chin upwards to indicate the front of the large caverns. "You're more likely to find a strap there, and.. why a strap?" Puzzlement darkens the girl's blue eyes, which have already flicked here and there to note V'lano's agitation. Adjustments to the basket at her hip secure it further there, so her free hand moves forward to place itself lightly against the bronzerider's forearm. "You shouldn't work yourself up into a frenzy like that, otherwise I'll feel bad for doing you a favor, sir." A thin smirk fashions on her lips, lips pressed together, and one corner curling upward, "You're likely to get grey hairs faster if you fret so much, and then how would you be the talk of the candidate barracks? Though, I've seen some grey-haired riders looking quite distinguished."

"Yes, leather - " Agitated, the bronzer's moving toward the cabinets in question, brushing past the candidate if need be on his way, before he catches on to the fact that she might not quite grasp the nature of the thing. One hand raises to a metal pull on a cabinet near the entry, but instead of tugging the door open the gold-tanned fingers just rest there while V'lano twists his torso around to squint back at the dark-haired girl. "A whetting strap," he defines in careful tones. "Better for fine knives - paring, coring, garnishing - than a stone." The right eyebrow crooks twitchfully, but the smile on his mouth is beginning to curve in an unforced manner, and there's a glimmer forming in his dark gaze. The hand drops from the cabinet-pull and finds a spot on his hip. "Given I couldn't name the half of you with your faces before me, how'm I 'the talk' of any such thing? You're too sharp for your own good." Pun intended.

"Good looking, attentive, aren't those the qualities that all girls want, and boys envy? That greenrider didn't seem like she could keep her eyes, or hands off of you. Sir." Satiet murmurs, lashes sweeping demurely. Feigning ignorance of being studied, she tosses the lengthening locks of her dark hair over a shoulder and resumes the task she'd set out to do earlier. Skipping past the two cabinets V'lano's already looked in, she moves with the grace of one at ease in her slight figure towards another set, and begins to distribute the various colored threads into slotted positions in a drawer. "You should find it there, I bet. I was looking for something for a friend earlier today. But," here, she's the one to pivot at the waist to flash a disarmingly charming smile towards the rider, "I've not the memory to keep useless information. It's over there in that general vicinity. Not, with the knives, like thinking people would suspect."

V'lano exhales a snort of dismissal, but his indifference is betrayed by a red hue creeping downward from the tops of his ears. He watches the skipping and placement of threads with blank intent, the forced-patience smile fading to leave a bemusedly crooked grin in its wake. "Huh. Figures," he chuckles, regarding the location of a strap nowhere near implements in need of sharpening, and turns toward the knob he'd held to open the door properly this time. "I'll remember. It's useful information to me. Ought to be to the kitchen, too. You'd think they'd have one on hand, but I suppose cooks don't think about keeping an edge on a blade, what with everything else." Voice muffled or echoing in various manners as he dips his head into the cabinet, then out of it and into another one, leaving doors open as he progresses along the shelves nearest the entrance, the rider babbles conversationally. "I'm not so sure about the envy part." There's silence after that, as a thought becomes speech with unexpected result.

Women, especially girls that are new to the intangible power that comes with the fairer sex, know when words have made their mark even if they're not looking, or dimmer lights give no leeway in discerning blushes. Ducking her head, a hint of the satisfied smile is fleetingly visible before her face disappears back to focus intently on her task. "The kitchen probably has one kicked underneath the tables and islands there. Thins get lost in large bustling places like that." Small shifts in steps take Satiet from one side of the drawers to the end, the final spool of thread placed neatly, and adjusted just so. Back across the length, her fingers dance over the top edges, positioning them in a perfectly straight line. Another sweep the opposite direction closes each of the drawers, after which she stations herself casually against the cabinets, facing V'lano. "Of course, envy, when you've caught the eye of so many of us poor holdgirls, and I'm sure more than a few of the weyr lasses." Abruptly, she moves forward, head tilting this way and that to look into the cabinets, "Why are you so intent on working in the kitchens anyway? You a kitchen worker, cook before Impressing?"

"No surprise. Every time I've been in there, I've felt lost in the bustle." V'lano leans deeper into the third cabinet in the row, stretching an arm into its depths. He mutters softly into the shadows, the precise words lost against the seemingly random contents. Finally he stretches back from the shelves, reaching across himself with the other hand to massage at the shoulder-joint that pulled taut to give him reach - but the hand withdrawn is gripped around the beaten wooden handle of a sharpening strap, the glossy leather doubled in his palm. He turns around with a grin of triumph - don't mind the dust clinging to the hairs of his arm, nor the smear of grime against his chin where his face pressed against the shelf above - to be confronted by Satiet's choice positioning and reply. He huffs an exhalation of exertion, then dares, "You're trying to pull a fast one on me." Nevertheless the grin of triumph remains long after he's rolled the strap up and tucked it under his arm so he can brush at his arm. "I was a butcher. Didn't work in kitchens. Keep guessing."

The dark-haired girl watches the bronzerider's determined search, a smile tugging on her lips. A hand reaches out to assist, grazing V'lano's pulled shoulder before dropping as he accomplishes his mission. "I wouldn't know the first thing about pulling a fast one, sir." In all innocence, Satiet meets the dare with softly spoken words of her own, coy but unremarkable otherwise. "I wouldn't, dare I venture, say I understand what you mean by pulling fast one." She keeps the tease in her words light and then moves to begin closing the various cabinets that were left open, causing her to drift away slowly from the Telgari rider. "Butcher, eh? In a Hold, I presume. You blush too sweetly to be Weyrbred much, from what I can tell. And a bevy of greenriders at your feet, I bet now, finding pleasure at the color of your ears like Lysseth's rider." Her movements still, an angelic expression softening her features, "Do you think yourself attractive, sir?"

There's another soft sigh of a snort at Satiet's demurral, but once she begins moving away the rider dips his head to attend to the strap, unlooping it to stretch between his hands so he can inspect its length. A few nicks along the edges earn concern from the wandering tip of one thumb, but by and large the much-used surface meets his apparent approval. "At Lemos - the minehold, not in the Lord's keeping. Though before that we were somewhere else. I was littler then." He speaks distractedly, in the semi-nostalgic tone of half-attended remembrance. Tugging at the wooden handle on the strap's upper end to test its braid to the leather, he steals a short glance up at the girl-candidate. "Hardly a bevy." A beat. "My looks haven't hurt me. Why do you ask?"

"So you -do- think you're good looking then?" Satiet considers the rider, gaze flitting over his features in quiet appraisal. "Don't you find that kind of thinking a little conceited of you? I mean, it'd be different if someone told you you were good looking, say, for instance, me, but to answer a question like that." One shoulder lifts in a slight shrug, and the look she levels V'lano is touched with concern that skirts along the edges of covert delight. "I suppose some girls are attracted to that kind of arrog.. self-confidence." Her lips finally settle into a slanted grin, the faint impression of a dimple visible near her right cheek, "Perhaps, I'm one of them."

V'lano's mouth parts, the smile fleeing its shape, but there's little chance for him to protest between Satiet's reply and Satiet's rant. As she goes on regarding his conceit, he presses his lips back together, making of them a thin, wry smirk; by the time she touches on 'like that,' there's a definite light in his eyes. The candidate, perhaps, is not the only one getting some enjoyment out of her well-laid trap. He even plays along a little, putting up the strap in one curled hand again and resting the other palm against one of the now-closed cabinet doors, turning a few degrees to off-center his weight casually against the wood. When his turn finally comes, he begins with the simple bit: "Are you?" But for his defense, he adds, "I did say they haven't hurt me. I could argue that a watchwher's looks don't hurt it; they serve a purpose. But you'll make of me a wher or a sailing-bird, whichever pleases you. Won't you?"

"Ah, but a lady should never answer that question. Kassima would be woefully hurt, I'm sure, if I confessed my devotion to your attractiveness, sir. Besides, your eyes do all the talking for me, in what they hope I'll answer with." Satiet replies, lips curved up sweetly, though the mention of the Telgari greenrider does darken the blue eyes with trace elements of clouded disdain. She places her weight against the final cabinet, now a good ways away from the bronzerider, and rests there. "You could have meant something completely innocuous, and looks, even bad ones, don't hurt anyone. But you knew what I meant, and I knew what you meant. Next time, sir, you should answer truthfully, instead of trying to be self-consciously polite in regards to your good looks." The distance between the pair is crossed, fingers crossing over her lips light, before the delicate touch reaches upward to place the tips of those fingers on V'lano's cheek, "Next time we meet, perhaps you'll be better equipped to answer that question, sir." Leaving the rider with one last smirk by way of departure, the slender girl pivots on her heels and makes her way out towards the lower caverns.

The dark-eyed rider's brows crook up rather quickly at this mention of Kassima; blame the context, since none of the previous made him react so. "I did -" Mean something innocuous, but she's moving toward him then. He dips his head just slightly as her fingertips make contact, perhaps instinctively providing an easier reach for the touch, but when Satiet's hand moves away a blush blooms in the place it's abandoned. His head jerks back up as she suggests altering his behavior, though, and her departure leaves him not pleased so much as pensive, a dark suspicion causing those upraised brows to sink. "Better polite than played," he mutters, but by now the words are for his own benefit, confirming for his own confidence his effort at the high road.