Difference between revisions of "Logs:Down Somewhere"

It's late afternoon, some time between the midday meal and supper. Teris isn't the only person in Records but she seems to be the only person that isn't doing something that could be considered word. Which would be strange all on its own for anyone familiar with her. Right now she's sitting in a chair, legs pulled up and a blanket around her shoulders, at the end of the table furthest from the main entrance with a bottle of wine, a glass and something that looks like a journal.

Well, lucky for (unlucky for?) Teris, a certain individual is coming into the records room with a distinctly hunted look haunting his features. He paces down the tables until he reaches the last one, huddles down into a chair with a hide that looks suspiciously like homework. Harper-homework. It's only after he's been here more than a few moments that he actually realizes he's at a table ... with someon else. "Uh." He stares at Teris with total incomprehension of how he got here or wtf he's doing.

"Uh? Really?" says Teris, glancing up only briefly from the page in the journal that she's looking at. Not writing or anything, mind. "Don't mind me or anything," she says in a voice that's decidedly moody. "'Uh' isn't usually considered a proper acknowledgement, though. You might want to write that down somewhere." By now her gaze is back on the journal and she turns the page carefully.

"Huh." That's better, right? "Maybe I will." Khorde shifts gears into uber-sulk mode as soon as Teris shows herself to be a dominant female and not overtly trying to play with his joystick. "Uh... is that two 'u's and an 'h'?" He sounds fairly absorbed into what he's doing, and he is, carefully writing down what he thinks the word is spelled as and carrying on with the rest of the sentence. "Isn't... usually... cons.. is that with an s or a c?"

Her gaze lifts again, this time eyes narrowed suspiciously as though she's trying to decide whether or not he's mocking her. A flickered look toward his hide as Teris decides, "Spell it however you're going to be able to read it." Not incredibly helpful, granted, but she certainly doesn't give off the impression that she's trying to be. "You're one of the islanders," she tells him. She should probably know that considering she'd helped get them situated initially but, well, they kind of all look alike after awhile.

"Islanders. S'that what they're callin' us?" The sweet-eyed sulker doesn't lift his gaze from his hide, tongue carefully captured between a canine and his bottom teeth as he worries out the letters. "A-k-n-o-l-e-g-m-e-n-t," he spells, then finishes the sentence with a flourish.

"No. I think most people refer to you all as 'exiles.' I don't care for it much, personally. Do you have a preference?" Teris doesn't look up from the pages of the journal, still turning each ever so carefully. There must not be anything worth reading in it, though, considering the time spent before she turns another. "That's wrong. But I suppose it works."

"Khorde," he replies, as far as his preference. "I mean. Do people call you /goldrider/ all the time?" There are not so many that Khorde doesn't know one at the sight, okay? "Do you prefer that or queenrider or your name?" He's not going to be that presumptuous, obviously. "What's wrong?" He looks up, at this, squinting in befuddlement, eyebrows knitting together.

"I can't really call the rest of them that, though, now can I." There's no inflection of question in her voice. "People often refer to me as goldrider. Or weyrwoman. It's what I am. I suppose I don't really have a preference. It's usually those closer to me that call me simply by Teris." She closes the journal and pours a bit more wine into the glass that wasn't entirely empty yet then picks it up to take a drink. "A-c-k-n-o-w-l-e-d-g-m-e-n-t."

"Well, yes," Khorde states in that straining-for-a-dignified-response kind of way that boys do. "Uh." What? It's in his vocabulary. "But you can call me that." Obviously that's the one salient point to all this. When she spells the word aloud, he's scrambling to get it down, and fails miserably halfway through. "...e-g-m-e-n-t?" Hey, at least when he fails, he fails hardcore, right? Right?

Teris sighs and she doesn't try attempting to make it look like it has something to do with anything other than his ability to spell. "There's a 'd' between the 'e' and 'g'. I don't understand how anyone your age doesn't know such basic things, honestly." She considers him for a few moments, eyes narrowing in thought, then shrugs. "I guess I should know better, though." She takes another drink and continues to watch him, eyeing the hide he brought along with him.

"Never had t'write," Khorde states baldly. "I mean, I reckon some of the others know..." Devaki and Emmeline and those ilk; "--but I never needed it." His shoulders lift in an artless shrug. "You always this mean?" His dark gaze considers her, finally, for her, scrutinizing with an eyebrow furrowed in puzzlement.

"What do... did you do that you don't need to write?" she wonders in his general direction. It's difficult to say if she means it rhetorically or if she actually wants an answer but either way, she frowns at his question. "I'm not being mean," is the only answer she offers him, indignantly, as she moves her legs to set her slippered feet on the ground.

"I fixed things." Khorde hestitates only a beat before making that past-tense. "Roofs, mostly." He was the mud man. He's not going to tell this to Teris, obviously. He continues to write, but -- it's evidently a writing exercise pre-instructed. "You're not?" He pitches it in the same manner which she pitched the question of what his prior occupation was; he's a snide little man-bitch, ain't he.

"I /can/ be," Teris is quick to assure him, voice suddenly a few degrees cooler. Her blue-eyed gaze is narrowed into a glare now and there's a certain tension in the way she's trying to look casual. "Not much use for roofers here," she adds as though it basically means there's not much use for /him/ here.

"I could go," Khorde replies, his tone sulky. "If you guys don't /want/ us here." He knows there are a few that would, y'know, try to go. Or HAVE tried to go. "If you guys wouldn't stop us from /going/." His look is certainly-- baleful? Maybe. Something like that.

"Don't think that /I/ had anything to do with any of you being here. If it had been up to me, we'd have left you on your sharding island and saved ourselves a lot of trouble. And money." Teris is on her feet now, gathering the journal, her blanket and her wine. "If you want to leave, I'll gladly drop you off somewhere else," she practically curses at the young man before heading toward the council chambers without giving him the benefit of another word.