Difference between revisions of "Logs:Knives and Fruit"

Craft Area, High Reaches Weyr The far southeast corner of the bowl is devoted to crafter use, with a couple of stone buildings built in the open, designed to make use of the fresh air. One is the tannery, always reeking of chemicals and with hides everywhere, stretched out on racks to prepare and dry. The other is the forge, which rings of metal-on-metal and leaks black smoke and heat -- suffocating in summer, but at least somewhat more bearable in the cold, cold winters.

A number of windows with heavy wooden shutters line the wall behind these structures, aimed in such a way so as to avoid the worst of the noise and smells. In between them, a boulder-shaped entranceway leads within. To the west, roughly in the direction of the weyrling area, is a loading dock, while above it all, the glass-walled Greenhouse sits atop a low-positioned ledge.

A steady fog lingers around the gardener's head, his warm breath immediately turning to visible myst as he hikes himself over the snowdunes of the bowl. It's not a long trek from his greenhouse to the craft buildings, but trudging over the frozen hills in his heavy furs saps his strength fast. His goal is met with a heavy sigh of releif; the forge, sweet warmth at last. "Sweet merciful crap it's cold out there!" The loud announcement is made to nobody in particular, the big man too busy trying to find a spare hook or table for his coat to see what sort of reaction it might have gotten him.

The forge certainly /is/ warm - warm enough to warrant little more than summer clothing beneath the obligatory protective leather. Nicky wears a heavy tanned apron over his shirt, the rolled-up sleeves of which exposed the small flecked scars that cover his forearms as a reminder of his occupation. The proclamation from Barnabas has him turning around from where he's examining his latest piece of work - a runnershoe in the making - and he dips his head in greeting when it seems no-one else is rushing forward to assist. "B-but the snow is beautiful," he responds with a crooked grin, pushing back his sweat-dampened curls from his forehead; they're wet enough to be plastered to his temple. "Can I, um, h-help you with something, s-sir?"

Bones' coat is left on an unused work table, and he stretches his arms above his head with a deep-throated grunt, revealing the mess of ink and muscle that his sleeveless vest puts on display. He has his back turned to Nicky untill that crack about pretty snow has him turn at the waist, raising a curious eyebrow at the source of the quiet voice. "Yeah, beautiful from behind glass." The grin Bones puts on is somewhat wicked as he reaches into the coat he just shed, and tugs forth a roll-up leather satchel tied with cords around it's middle. "You good with metal, kid?" He starts to untie those cords as makes his approach towards Nicky.

"It b-beats the sun in my opinion, sir." Nicky shrugs good-naturedly. After making sure his workplace is secure, he meanders across to the older man to stand before him with his thumbs tucked into the band of his apron. The answer to the question is given with a nod of his head as he settles his weight, getting comfortable in his long limbs and on his two large feet. "I'm Smith-t-trained, sir, yes. I can work metal. Do you need something f-fixing?"

The cords are finally untied, and satchel is unrolled and laid out on top of a nearby anvil. Tucked in many a sheath are a collection of blades, some practical and some more wicked. Bones reaches for one likely from the greenhouse as opposed to his personal collection, a small set of pruning shears. "Was looking to maybe give a lucky apprentice some practice with some real blades." He squeezes the handle on the shears a few times, making an audible snip snip sound. They're tucked back into the satchel before he pulls out a bowie knife nearly the size of a short sword, running his thumb over it's edge. "Some of my lovelies are getting a little dull."

Nicky's brown eyes go wide when the assortment of sharp things is exposed; they weren't what he was expecting! The shears are eyed thoughtfully, with his head canted slightly to one side. "I'm not an apprentice, sir, n-not an official one, anyway, but I've got a good few t-turns of Smith training under my belt. I-I can certainly have a crack at them, if you'd like me to?" When the shears are replaced by the knife, his eyes open a fraction wider, and his crooked smile takes on a slightly nervous element. "Y-you've got quite a collection."

Looking up from his blade to Nicky, Bones gives a chuckle and sheathes the heavy looking knife back into the satchel. "Hey, if you say you've got smith training that's good enough for me kiddo. Just a few turns on a grinder'll probably see the edges sharp again eh?" With his hands now free, he offers one towards Nicky in request of a shake. "Names' Bones. What's your name, stutters?" That'd be his new nickname if Nicky didn't offer up something else to call him.

The nickname causes Nicky to blush, sending his cheeks crimson with the rosiness they already bear due to the heat of the forge. "N-Nicky." He clasps Bones' hand in his own work-roughened one, holding it with a grip that's firm and has the potential for more strength than he applies. "I can run them on the g-grinder for you, but..." Chewing on his lip and looking over his shoulder, the farrier trainee ponders something on a far worktable. "F-for some of the... the nicer ones, w-would you let me do it p-properly? W-with a whetstone? It'd take a little longer, but, um... or I can do them on the grinder and then 'stone them for you. Wh-whatever you'd like, sir."

Bones' shakes Nicky's hand with an equal measure of strength, no need to crush the younger's hand in some show of masculine bravado. "Oh my sweet Faranth..." he starts as his smile blooms big. "You are ADORABLE!" Probably not the compliment a seventeen year old smith wants to hear from a man like Bones, but it's clear it's not just condescension. Bones means it. "Take all the time you need Nicky. I'd love to see it done right eh?"

Adorable? Nicky looks taken aback by that, and blushes even deeper as he wrinkles his nose in confusion. "Um. Th-thank you?" He clearly doesn't know what else to say as he holds out his hands, palm-up, and spreads his fingers in a lost sort of gesture as he shrugs his shoulders. His crooked grin flashes a bit of tooth, and he tucks his thumbs back into his apron string. "I-I can work on them between my other duties, sir; m-maybe it'll take a sevenday? I'll d-definitely have some ready for you then, if not all of them. Wh-where would I find you?"

"It's a compliment." Bones feels intent on clarifying Nicky's questioning tone. "You are damn scrumptious." Another compliment, apparently. "Anyhoo! If you wanna take that much time to do a proper job for me, y'can deliver the bad boys at the greenhouse almost anytime. I practically live in the place these days."

Nicky grins coyly at the compliment confirmation, still not /quite/ sure what to do with it - nor with the one that follows, either! He reaches across himself to clasp one forearm in a work-roughened hand, rocking back on his heels and then forward on his toes, before settling flat-footed again. "The g-greenhouse; got it. I've not, um, made it there yet sir, not since c-coming to the Weyr... how do I get there? A-and you're welcome to come by to ch-check on progress too, if you'd like, so you can see h-how I'm doing."

"Come by any time Nicky." Big hands shove themselves into his pockets. "You come by once, and trust me, the snow won't look near as pretty compared to what I'm growin' there." He shoots a glance down at his satchel, briefly debating leaving it in trust to the amateur smith. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell nobody about my collection eh? Not that I do much with it, but no reason to make people nervous."

"Oh - yessir, don't worry, I'll keep quiet." Nicky taps the side of his nose, nodding. "N-no-one keeps tabs on me really but my uncle, sir, s-since he's training me. I'll keep them out of sight for you. May I?" He gestures to the satchel, which he'll roll up and tuck under his arm, if he's allowed to. If not? He'll just leave it, for now. "Wh-what are you growing, sir? Do you have any, um... any fruit?"

There's a glance to his collection of sharp things as Nicky picks it up, but he makes no move to stop the candidate from tucking it away for safekeeping. "The sweetest, freshest fruit you'll ever taste." There's genuine pride in Bones' voice, secure in the knowledge that he's the one responsible for it. "Anyway, I gotta get back to work makin' sure it stays that way uh? Stop by any time and taste my fruit." There's a pause, and a blink. "Oh wow did that sound like a proposition! Ha!" He tugs a hand free and pats Nicky on the shoulder. "Didn't quite mean it like that"

Meant like that or not, the words make Nicky splutter and choke in surprise, while his face, from neck to ears, floods crimson. He blinks at the older man with eyes wide, chewing on his bottom lip as he tries to figure out how to respond. Perhaps the hand on his shoulder reassures him somewhat, or perhaps it's the deep breath he draws, but he does manage to find his tongue... eventually. And it takes a false start before he's able to speak and actually make sense. "I-I-I.... I-I'll - um, I'll c-come by, s-sir...." Flustered, thy name is Nicky! "Um... sometime. Wi-with some... s-some of your things. When they're done."

Despite the accidental nature of it, Bones' flirtation garners a reaction that sees him laughing to himself at the poor boy's expense. "Relax kid, I ain't gonna eat you." A few more pats at his shoulder before he turns to snatch up his coat. "Just stop by when the knives are done, yeah? We'll work out payment then. Maybe I can convince you to work for fruit." The huge fur monstrosity is thrown over his shoulders once more, and he buckles up to head out towards his place of work. "Later, Nicky!" He exits as he entered, exuberant and energized.

Nicky manages to hold back his stuttering long enough to toss out a breathy 'yessir!' after Barnabas as he leaves - in the middle of which his voice cracks so he ends it a tone higher than he began. That on its own is embarrassing enough for him; on top of what's already got him flushed, the poor teen looks like he wants the ground to open up and swallow him now. With Bones gone, he returns to his workbench, tucks the special package carefully away, and tries to resume his earlier work.