Difference between revisions of "Logs:A Dance of Forks"

Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr

Stalactites hang high above this enormous cavern like a jagged chandelier or an inversion of the Spires themselves, but shadows cling to them instead of light. Below lie great tables arranged in rows, each large enough to serve a fighting wing, while in the nooks and alcoves around the cavern's edge sit more sensibly-sized tables, from six- and eight-seaters down to intimate spots for just a couple of diners. The only really open space is around the kitchen entrance, smelling of food and rarely quiet, and by the nearby serving tables with their long buffet of the day's offerings.

Tapestries on the smooth walls -- some faded and others newly woven -- only slightly mute the sea of sound when a meal is in full swing, but they add cheerfulness augmented by the glowlight from wall sconces and the centerpieces of each table. Still, shadows always creep along the ceiling and into the mouths of the exits -- the myriad small hallways at one end of the cavern and, at the other, the twisting tunnel to the bowl near an array of coathooks and and hatracks -- and late at night, when the glows are allowed to dim, the chamber can seem very dark indeed.

Dinnertime makes the Living Cavern a popular place to be. There are few empty chairs and most can be found at tables that are designated to this wing or that wing, although some are at the table where the candidates typically congregate for their meals. Some candidates are slower than others with their chores, it would seem. Gallagher slides into one of these empty seats with a healthy portion of the dinner offerings and a mug of ale, a curt nod offered to the faces of the already eating.

Lansha pulled Cavern cleanup duty today, so he's flitting here and there with broom and dustpan in hand, vigilantly sweeping up any dropped food or dust bunnies that may have escaped his eyes during the long day. He stops to chat with a rider or one of the other candidates now and again. Spotting Gallagher, he waves cheerily, then heads over to the headwoman and speaks with her briefly. He hands over his broom and makes his way over to the serving tables for some dinner.

Gallagher's eyes shift from the candidates at the table to the wider cavern for a sweep in which he catches Lansha's cheery wave, but he gives no response. The man from Crom isn't known for responding to cheer, though, so perhaps that's why. His attention turns back to the table, starting to shovel food into his mouth while his eyes focus on first one ongoing conversation and then another. A trio of the candidates are discussing hatchling-dodging tactics, while a pair to his other side are going on about 'how can runners possibly make that much mess in a day?!' Neither seem to be something Gallagher's interested in interjecting himself into, but there is a seat open across from him that leaves things open for a conversation all his own.

Lansha carefully weaves his way across the crowded cavern with a bowl of wherry stew and a glass of red wine, into the open seat across from Gallagher. He rolls his eyes at the other candidates. Lansha sets his bowl and glass down and wipes perspiration from his forehead, leaving a faint smudge of dirt behind inadvertently. "Whew! Thought I'd never get a break. Evening, Gal, how are you doing? Haven't seen you around in a while."

The guard can't have missed Lansha's path to the chair. Still, Gallagher doesn't look up at the youth until his nickname is uttered. There's a grunt that serves as a return to the greeting and probably as an answer to how he's doing. The last comment, though, prompts blandly delivered words, "We sleep in the same barracks and have the same lights out time." He's been around, though it's true that their chore assignments have seldom overlapped. The question that follows is likely a redirect to steer the conversation away from himself, "Still fancifully dreaming of your perfect lifemate on the sands and the peaches and cream lifestyle of a rider? Got an egg picked out and everything?" His expression remains neutral, but there's the smallest definable edge of amusement to his baritone.

Lansha gives Gallagher a look, his mouth twisted in a smirk as the other candidate pokes fun at him, and takes a bite of stew. "So I'm idealistic, what can I say? I know it's not like that." He takes another bite, then points his fork at Gal as he chews and swallows, meeting the other man's eyes. "But I refuse to believe that you don't feel the same way, even a little, under all that gruff guard armor you wear all the time. You can't tell me that you didn't think about it even a little when you were growing up. In fact, I know it, otherwise you wouldn't have that knot on your shoulder." His eternal optimism is undimmed.

"Never said I didn't think about it. Shells," Gallagher's use of the swear is casual, nearly rueful, not emphatic, "With two rider parents and a slew of rider sisters dotted around Pern, would've been downright foolish of me not to consider it, and rude of me not to accept the honor of standing when it was offered." He uses his fork to make a little spiraling gesture in the air, "As you might imagine, honor has a fair bit do with the choices a guard makes in life." It doesn't agree with Lansha's theory that Gallagher's little heart (if indeed he has a heart) swelled at the thought of Impressing, but it's possibly more plausible. "There are lots of reasons to Stand; wanting to Impress is only one."

Lansha sighs and sips his wine, then shakes his head, swirling his stew around a bit with his fork. "You make it sound like you were following orders. Well, we'll see when we get on the sands. I think you're a big softy on the inside. In fact, I'd wager you'll be blubbering along with the rest of the weyrlings if you Impress. I know I will, I get choked up just thinking about it. Speaking of which, I hear that those eggshells are hardening as we speak. Shouldn't be long now. Get that pretty hanky of yours ready."

"What do the Duty songs tell us of dragonmen? That it's their duty to rise and meet the menace in the skies. To risk life and limb to protect Pern." It might seem non sequitur at first, but Gallagher goes on, his fork continuing to dance in the air to illustrate his point, "So it follows that the duty of those bound to the Hold that you accept when a dragonman asks you to chance the hatching sands and offer up your life in protection of the people of Pern." So, yes; he is doing his duty. "Are you ready to lay down your life? Or is this all fun and glamour for you? As Acting Weyrleader K'del pointed out, the Weyr has no Guard. Because a Weyr needs no Guard. Because a Weyr has dragonmen who serve as defense not only for the Weyr but all of Pern. A fact too many have lost sight of since Thread ceased to fall." The joys of Interval. Gallagher doesn't comment about his relative soft or hardness, nor even his pretty hanky, and even the nearness of the hatching is omitted in favor of addressing this point; he must find it important.

Lansha 'toasts' Gal's fork with his own with a metallic ting!. "Hear hear! Well spoken. And of course I understand the risks and I'm prepared for them. Shards, I could get mauled by a dragonet and bleed out on the sands. Happens all the time. But 'Dragonmen must fly/When Thread is in the sky.' Even when there's no Thread. You know. Metaphorically speaking, and such."

As a guard, Gallagher's hardly one to worry about sharing a meal, but maybe cooties concern him, because he does stare at his fork in the air after Lansha's touched his to it. "You know I was eating off of that." The baritone is unthrilled. The fork which was doing such a nice dance to explain is set aside as though it's contaminated, probably for effect. The Crom man starts using his hands to get the strips of wherry to his mouth after that. "That's probably the first thing of sense I've heard you say." He allows after a mouthful is chewed, if not swallowed by the time he's speaking.

Lansha rolls his eyes. "Oh, pfff, I don't have the plague." He sets his own fork down, however, only to tear a roll in half and sop up the remains of his stew with it. After swallowing a bite, he says, "That's just because you haven't been listening properly. But thank you for the compliment. Always nice to be complimented by a handsome man." He grins and takes a sip of wine to wash down the bread.

"How do you know? Have you been to see the healers for your physical yet?" Gallagher doesn't seem like he's about to take Lansha's word on his lack of plagued status. The man has few smiles to go around, and so his straight-face doesn't indicate any lack of seriousness. The 'handsome man' comment has the man stopping, mid-lift of a literal handful of mashed tubers (slathered in gravy). He stares at the wine-sipper in a way that's, well, unamused is the polite word for it, though the look isn't far off from menacing. "You do realize that I probably have a decade of turns on you." Handsome or not, and rough-guess or not, it's enough of a gap for the Cromese man to point out. "Next thing I'll catch you doing is hitting on the old uncles while their washing their shriveled and useless parts in the bathes." The mashed tubers linger half way between plate and mouth in case he needs to use them to make a point depending on the next words out of the teen's mouth.

Lansha nods. "Yes, and I'm the picture of perfect health, thank you very much." He chuckles and looks about to say something else, but eyes the tubers warily. "I think you've been away from the Weyr too long." He shrugs and finishes up the rest of his stew with the heel of the roll.

"If you're not yet twenty and flirting with men significantly older than you," Gallagher starts, not that a single use of the word 'handsome' must qualify as flirting, "Weyr-bred or not, you ought to have your head re-checked. I hear Madilla's good with head-cases especially. Do you have unresolved 'Daddy issues?' Because I hate to break it to you, kid, I make for a terrible father-figure."

Lansha grins mischievously and drains the rest of his wine. "Oh, I get along wonderfully with my dad. He's a greenrider, you know, and some of his weyrmates were men half his age. Now who's being naive about weyr life? Age difference doesn't matter much during mating flights. But don't worry, I'm only teasing." He stands and picks up his bowl and glass. "Well, I'm exhausted, so I think I'll turn in for the night. See you around!" He heads into the kitchen with his dirty dishes.

"Once you're twenty, and not a kid anymore, you can hit on me all you like, for all the good it will do you." Gallagher offers; this seems to be the critical point to him. Nevermind that Pernese are considered adults sooner than that. It's just one of the man's personal quirks. As is, apparently, his penchant to eat from his palm when someone's contaminated his fork, which he does now, not bothering to bid Lansha a proper farewell, because... well, he's just that kind of pleasant fellow.