Logs:L'sen Looks For Liquor. Neiveth Likes Leova.
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| RL Date: 19 February, 2008 |
| Who: Leova, Louvaen, L'sen, Moll |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: While winding down some quality time with the Feet, Leova and Louvaen get visitors. L'sen and Moll want Louvaen's beer. Neiveth wants Leova. |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Mentions: Big Foot/Mentions, Little Foot/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: PernMUSH era. Moll was a staff-run NPC, played at the time by Satiet. |
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| Stables The stable is divided into two parts. The rear half is floored with straw, and divided into ample stalls for the housing of the livestock of the hold, as well as some reserved for the mounts of visitors. To the front of the building, the ground is kept swept fairly clean and the mounts and wagons of traders and other visitors are often seen here. Someone inspects their wagon, perhaps in preparation for a trip.
Louvaen is little help, chuckling as the soft muzzle tugs at his shirtsleeve. "I've a mind to wear a coat woven of red fruit rinds, and spoil her more," the young man says fondly as he twists about to look at the filly. Catching the pricked ear canted towards Leova, he darts a smile at the runners' caretaker. With a sigh of his own, though softer and more light-hearted then his companion's, he takes a step back in attempt to take tempting cloth out of Little Foot's reach. "Go on," he urges with a little shake of his hands, "your mum's a whole lot tastier then me." Leova runs a knowing hand along the filly's withers, returning Louvaen's smile with a quieter shadow-smile of her own. She glances up to the mare, then, and it's Big Foot's whicker that does more for the situation than anything. Little Foot noses towards the cloth one more time with that velvety of muzzle of hers before trotting after her mother quite as if she had meant to all the time, and Leova takes advantage of the situation to shut the latch with a snick. "She's growing so fast, isn't she? It's hard to believe sometimes."
First Vmireth, then Neiveth spiral into the courtyard, soon after which Vmireth's aging rider hops down the green's side. "Y'don't think the Weyr needs to replenish its ales after the feast back there?" Belying her age, sprightly hops carry the small woman away from her dragon and further into the courtyard. "I wouldn't be surprised if our new Weyrleader doesn't match drinks with our cold fish of a Weyrwoman. We're in for a long, dry, torturous summer without liquor." Her chin bobbles decidedly. "Mission o' mercy, that's what we're on." Despite years riding a dragon, L'sen still looks like he basically falls off Neiveth, more than dismounting. "You don't think they'd ever let us run out, do you?" he asks Moll, with wide eyes. "Can we do that? I mean, Weyrs are supposed to be able to keep that sort of stuff in stuck, you know what I mean? Although it is just liquor, not, like, coal or something, because now /that/ was torturous. I think I nearly lost my toes a couple of times, my weyr was so bad. We can handle being a little low on drinks a lot better than that, I bet. Although Satiet and N'thei and I'daur and... All the rest of the drunkards, they might not like it too much. Hey, you think they'd all want to transfer out if we /did/ run out?" he starts prattling immediately as he straightens up and takes a look all around the courtyard, curious. "So where are we going, anyway, huh, Moll?" The curly-headed woman stops short, her finger finding her mouth and then stuck up into the air, as if somehow the wind currents will blow her towards the ale. "Shanlee mentioned a likely guy, that'd give us a better price than if we stormed the Waverider or the Rusted Hulk," ventures Moll, looking this way and that. "Lou-vaen I think she said. Louvaen." The greenrider skips a beat and turns to *look* at L'sen. "Y'know, I bet I'daur'd be too lazy to transfer out and I don't know if Satiet and N'thei can. They might just move in to the Lava Lounge if we ran out of alcohol at the Reaches." In mimicry of Moll, L'sen licks his finger, too, and holds it up. It tells him absolutely nothing, despite the concentration he puts into it. "Louvaen," he repeats the name, testing it out. And because he's easily distracted: "The Lava Lounge? That's the one that lets you write on the walls, right? I did that, once, me and Satiet when we were there together. It's still there, I always have to look and see and make sure it's not got, like, defaced or anything. But it hasn't! I bet in a couple hundred turns people'll still be looking at it and going, 'Who /was/ that L'sen guy?' It'll be great. Is this where we find that Lou-whatsit guy? Is he meeting us or do we get to go hunt him down and corner him or something?" "Hunt him down," agrees the elder greenrider. And off they go on their journey, trekking as far as it takes to find someone who knows this ale-trader -- which isn't so far at all as a few more steps towards the hold and continued conversation and occasional calls for Louvaen causes a gruff sailor whittling in the courtyard to redirect them to the stables. Not far at all, truly. "You're sure, sir?" asks Moll of the greying man, and though reassured, the greenrider steps dubiously to the stables. "I've never really liked runners," are famous last words before she crosses the threshold to peer in. "Yoohoo?"
Back in the Stables... Moll comes in from the courtyard. L'sen comes in from the courtyard. A questing, 'yoohoo' call, precedes the shadows of two people at the stables' entrance. Louvaen can't help but grin at the final nuzzle from the filly. His fingers reach up to brush that same spot on his arm as she trots away at her dam's call. Waiting for Leova to slide close the door, he closes the few strides to her side so that he can gaze into the stall. "It is - those knees and hooves are starting to seem not nearly as ridiculous as they did at first," he answers warmly. "I guess if she's to get as big as mom, she needs to keep up quite the pace." The smile slid over towards Leova is held only a few moments before the call from the door grabs his attention and has him turning a curious look over his shoulder. "She's going to have big feet too, you know," Leova murmurs wistfully, leather-clad elbows braced on the stall door's top. "It's just... I'm not going to be the one who gets to name her. But she can have this one for a little while." With him turning to look, she just watches mare and suckling filly a little longer, keeping them all to herself for that one moment more. But it's her job, here, and finally she presses away from the stall. "Ho, the door! What do you need?" Moll might make the initial call, but it's L'sen who near-bounces into the stables first, past his greenriding companion as he sets off down the hall. Peeking into stalls, he sends his own singsongy greeting out as he does so. "Hello? Lou-whatsit? Is that you?" he asks Leova, as she speaks up and he veers that way. Hailing the pair of people with a wave, and looking back for Moll to jerk his thumb at both of them, he announces, "Hi, we need liquor." A beat later, realizing how that sounds, he adds, "For the Reaches. Because we're from the Reaches, and that's why we... Yeah. Not that all the Reaches is a bunch of drunks, but you know what I mean?" If Moll's call echoes into the stables, her clomping boot stomps overpower the lingering effects of her 'yoohoo' as she ventures further at a much slower pace than L'sen, exploring each stall from a safe distance. The aging greenrider's nose wrinkles, eyes crinkling into an expression of uncertainty. "Did I mention I don't like runners?" asks the woman of her more exuberant companion, sidling up from behind as L'sen speaks of their pressing need more eloquently than she's currently capable of. Louvaen's eyebrows peak in subtle sympathy at Leova's wistful words. But the lively approach of the bluerider captures and holds his gaze as his smile edges lopsidedly higher across his cheeks. A nod is given at the attempt at his name, and the cluck of an amused chuckle tickles from his throat at the other man finishes his convoluted explanation. With a dart of his eyes to Moll, and then back to Leova, he takes a slight step forward. "Louvaen. That's me. I could set you up with some of my cousin Dolpho's ales," he agrees. Added curiously, "did Weyrsecond Shanlee tell you of them?" Leova's, "No," is more puzzled than anything, but mention of liquor sends her turning back to Louvaen. "Good, a sale. Just get them out of here before they rattle someone," she whispers as she steps into the aisle after him, and indeed there are curious whickers and a snort or two as the visitors pass by the series of stalls. "Hold on a moment, sir." She looks past L'sen, and down, but Moll's voice sounds adult enough so she adds, "Ma'am. We need to keep it quieter in here. If you keep your hands out of the stalls, they shouldn't bother you. Either." "How can you not like runners?" L'sen says, almost aghast at the thought when he turns to stare at Moll. "I mean, they're not like puppies or kittens or anything like that, but they're still cute and furry and sweet and all that.. Oh, sorry--are we scaring them? Is it 'cause we smell like dragons?" And not because he's way too exuberant for the stables. "L'sen, by the way, that's my name. I don't go by 'sir.' And that's Moll, and I think Shanlee said something to her about it, the liquor and all. Do you want to come back with us?" His focus bounces from Leova to Moll to Louvaen and back to Leova for that out-of-nowhere question, as he fixes her with a look and cocks his head. "I think they might even be partying still, what with the eggs and all--they'll be at it forever unless we do go ahead and run out of liquor. Although I don't think we're /that/ desperate yet. Are we?" Back to Moll, brows raising. Oh, Moll is all about following Leova's instructions, adult though she may sound, her hands quickly diving into her pockets. As for noise, she's a mouse now, neither clomping about in her boots nor yodeling greetings anymore, instead favoring to rock on her heels as she casts Leova apologies in spades with her eyes and then turns to watch L'sen, fascinated. "I don't think," she hazards aloud, "I've ever seen anyone talk quite so much as you. Y'might want to lower your voice, bluerider." And coming from this greenrider, that's likely flattery. "Aye, we're looking for Louvaen, you it seems. On a mission to replenish the Weyr's ale supplies rather than any personal intake if you've the kegs. Shanlee had high praise for you, sir." Respect for the man of ale. Though his gaze remains on his prospective clients, Louvaen leans slightly towards Leova to better hear her whisper. A small tip of his chin is given in reception of her words. Yet his smile never falters, and he listens with rapt fascination to L'sen. His eyebrows go up at the mention of accompanying the riders to the party, and his own gaze bounces questioningly to Leova in the pause before its back to hear more of eggs and liquor. Looking to Moll to hear her answer to the bluerider's question, Louvaen is left with a slight flush to his cheeks at her last comment. "Oh my! Well, I am glad she wasn't disappointed with her order. We've a number of kegs that would be suitable, I think, in our space in the Work Cavern." He reaches out an arm, gesturing back out towards the door. "I assume you'd like to fetch them now, for your celebration?" As L'sen goes on, Leova actually looks relieved that she doesn't have to keep up any end of the conversation, despite that there are the runners to consider. Even Big Foot is looking at the visitors now, the curve of the massive mare's back about as high as Moll is tall, her tail switching twice against the wall. Leova tries the trick of inhaling slowly, holding her breath for the count of three, and then exhaling until she can try and work a reply in there somewhere. She meets Moll's look with a nod and a near-smile, otherwise silent still, though her brows lift a little when she feels Louvaen's glance on her. And at his proposal, her smile deepens. "Out there you wouldn't have to keep your voice down." Not to hint or anything. "Although it could be the scent. Dragons." L'sen is grinning, undaunted by a criticism he must hear quite a lot. "Thanks. Or sorry, whichever--I don't /mean/ to do it, it just all starts coming out, you know what I mean, and then I just can't stop it," he explains, with a broad gesture of his hands. "Can we go get the liquor, is that what we're doing? I guess we could take it with us, or put in an order, or I've never ordered liquor before. How does this go? So is that a yes, you'll come with us?" He takes a few steps backwards, toward the door while he talks about the liquor, but he stops again to peer at Leova. "Are you his assistant? --Do you mind if we take your assistant, too, for you know. Candidate-y things? At the Reaches?" And the question's posed to Louvaen, curiously. "Dragons. Runners. They don't mix well," agrees Moll aloud, then quiets immediately with shifty eyes for said runners. Leova's proposal to take their conversation *out* of the stables is received with further agreement from the woman, the greenrider latching onto L'sen's sleeve until the bluerider speaks, and startlement colors her hazel eyes. "She's not ale and ale's what we came for." Louvaen is looking a little lost as he tries to follow along with the bluerider's words, but cheerfully so. There's a flash of reassurance, a murmur along the lines of 'no need to apologize', followed quickly by a nod about the beer. His own feet lift, starting to follow L'sen as he moves towards the door. "There are kegs on hand, if you don't need too many. Otherwise I..." but he cuts his answer short as the following questions begin to register. "Oh, Leova is my friend, not my..." his eyes widen as fuller meaning percolates. His smile is turned encouragingly back to Leova despite Moll's observance that the young woman is not, in fact, ale. "Not my assistant, so I imagine it's up to her." Said runners do not leap out of their stalls and pounce upon poor Moll, although that one gelding near the entrance does bare yellowed teeth in an equine yawn. Leova has turned partially away once talk returns to Louvaen's specialty, keeping just half an ear tuned to keep track of his success, enough to keep her smiling to herself as she rearranges the bridle on its peg and rubs a smudge off the metalwork with her thumb. But when people start looking at her, her own hazel eyes lift in sudden apprehension. What had they been saying, what had they been saying? Looking back at Louvaen seems to reassure her despite herself, and she says, "That's right. I'm not your... Not his assistant. But the ale's good," this to L'sen and Moll. "I've tried it. Yes. You should definitely take some." "We can't take her, too? Will it not all fit on the dragons if we bring somebody else back, too?" L'sen looks entirely bewildered, and terribly earnest, as Moll tugs his sleeve. He lifts a hand to rub the back of his head in befuddlement, and then lets Louvaen steal his attention again. "She's not? Oh, she's not. Right! Well, that's even better, because then I don't have to worry about, you know, leaving you all short-handed when we take her. I mean, if we take her. If I can have her?" Fixing Moll with a big grin, the bluerider's rather like a kid begging his parents for a puppy before he fixes that same bright, hopeful smile on Leova herself. "Will you, Louva? Pleeeease? That is your name, isn't it? It sounds like you two should be related." He gestures at the pair of Tillekians, always one to get derailed, though not for long from his request of Leova this time. Looking back to her, "But anyway, will you be a candidate, for me and Neiveth and the Weyr and all?" Moll, all disturbingly tiny inches of adult of herself, tries to look disapproving at L'sen's innocent exuberance, but fails, a helpless smile and sigh claiming her diminutive features. "If she'd like to join us, you're more than welcome," the twist of pronouns deliberate as her gaze shifts from bluerider to would-be candidate. "Louvaen and I will go procure some kegs to carry back with us? You'll come to make sure we're storing the beer in the right spots, yes?" The latter posed to the ale trader. Louvaen blinks a bit at Leova's response, but then his grin is growing too big for his eyes to be more then slits lost under dimples. There's laughter echoing softly in his chest as he watches L'sen. Distracted by looking between the two, it take's Moll's second question for him to fully bring his mind back to business. His smile still present but faded to something a bit less extreme, and after a final happy look to Leova he fixes his attention upon the small woman. "Certainly, if you wish," he agrees easily and begins to lead the way out from the stables. "Did you have marks with you, or shall I expect to sort out such things at the Weyr?" Unconsciously mirroring that bewildered look, Leova finds herself backing away from L'sen, right into the door of Big Foot and Little Foot's stall. Thud. The mare noses at her head, and she reaches up to the whiskery chin, rubbing it even if she does get runner slobber over her hand. "Louvaen," she whispers insistently, trying to get the trader's attention before he goes, that laughter of his not easing her any. "Have you heard anything about a bet? He's not having me on, is he? They were talking at the WaveRider about eggs, they bet on those. But nobody talked about... that." Lifting voice and look to L'sen, "Sir," and then she mumbles something that might be a vague recollection of his name and his dragon's. "Not related. No. We don't think. But. Why me?" "Er." L'sen's response to Leova is ununsually unintelligent even by his standards. He stands there and blinks at her several seconds before just offering up that goofy grin again, like that explains everything. "'Cause. Neiveth said, and he's... Neiveth. Can't nobody explain him, I don't think, but don't worry! He knows what he's doing, and we've done this tons of times before. Really. And now we have eggs at the Reaches, and so we need candidates, and so Neiveth wants you, like I said. It's not a bet, or a joke, or anything like that--I'm /totally/ dead serious. Candidacy, it's really fuuun," he adopts a wheedling tone, as though that's all it will take to persuade Leova to go along with him. "Have you met our Weyrwoman?" asks Moll, a rhetoric question likely given the sudden pull of impishness touching the corners of her mouth. "If you have, you'd know she wouldn't let the Weyr's mark in my hands, least of all his." So, implied, is that payment will be conferred upon arrival at the Weyr. The slight woman sidles a few steps backwards closer to the once yawning equine unknowingly. But it's L'sen, and not this runner standing just behind her, that draws her quickfire attention, and then Leova, bluish eyes appraising the stablehand's reaction. "Because it'd be an honor for us if you accepted his offer," she states, then negates L'sen's 'fun' comment in the next breath with, "It'd be a dangerous job should you Impress, given Thread's still falling and the Cr-," the greenrider hesitates and shakes off what she meant to say with a shake of her head. Louvaen does not come to Leova's rescue, but his name does seem to reach his ears as shortly thereafter he sends a wink in her direction. As helpful as that is likely to be. But for the most part, he is focused on Moll. A slight negative shake of his head is given for her question, a curious smile pulling at his own lips in reflection of the turn of hers. Louvaen's hands have found his pockets as his steps have moved slowly towards the door, but as the greenrider speaks to L'sen he stops and turns halfway back. His head cants as he listens to the older woman speak, the expression in his eyes more gravely thoughtful as he looks between her and Leova. That unhelpful wink firms the set of Leova's mouth, so maybe it's helpful after all. Certainly that tone of L'sen's furrows her brow more and more dubiously the more he talks. "It... /he/ does, does he. This Neiveth." She pronounces it a little more clearly this time, and her second glance at Louvaen is brief, not expectant this time. Moll's explanation earns her own full attention, and when it's cut off she nods. "All right. Let's go outside. So the ale can get squared away." And so the talking waving-hands people can let the runners sleep in peace. "And you can explain to me how it... how he knows this when he's never even seen me. But you'll have to wait a minute, because I need to finish up here. Sir." It's not a full-fledged stall-mucking or anything like that: Leova simply double-checks that the water's fresh, makes her mark on the board to show she's signed out the way she'd been about to before the riders showed up, buttons her jacket the rest of the way... and then spends the rest of her minute just whispering into Big Foot's ear. Reaching over the stall door, she manages to touch Little Foot's fuzzy neck, barely, and turns back to Big Foot again. Angling her shoulders so the others don't see, she blows very softly into the mare's nostrils, and inhales warm fond runner-breath back again, and sighs. And turns. Ready. "But she's still, like, one of my best friends," L'sen speaks up in defense of the Reaches' Weyrwoman. That, and, "The candidacy's fun, anyway. You can't argue that point." He eyes Moll just a touch warily, though, as if he still expects her to try. That occupies him for the few moments it takes Leova to get ready and say her goodbyes to the runners, and then he turns himself, heading toward the door eagerly. "Come on, then, and meet him," he encourages, waving to the girl to follow, and leaving Moll and Louvaen to do so at their own pace. "I think it's just because you're near me; he doesn't have to see you. They can just pick up that there are people they want, don't ask me how it works 'cause I sure don't know. Not sure anybody does, really, but." And he's off, heading out into the courtyard where Neiveth waits, with his head swinging down to peer at the those exiting the stables as enthusiastically as his rider leads the way. For all her good-natured cheer, unlike her companion, Moll notices these things, the little things Leova does, and while the stablehand works her way through her double-checking, the greenrider turns with a slight wave for Louvaen, to trek on out to the courtyard and to where the ale might be. More conversational after her announcement reasons why Leova might accept, the slight greenrider's volume rises the more distance placed between her and the runners. "Some variety might be good, unless your man makes only one kind? Whatever it was, I expect the Weyr's alcohol supply's taken a hefty hit tonight. We haven't had much reason to celebrate," confesses the greenrider. Moll heads out to the courtyard. Louvaen heads out to the courtyard. You head out into the courtyard.
The Tillek Hold courtyard is a broad plaza of grey stone, but its atmosphere is far from cold and unfriendly. Hold staff and residents cross the cobbles on business of their own, while others may choose to sit on the stone benches along the walls. Several small tables are grouped about a beautifully made fountain that burbles quietly in the southeast corner of the yard and offers sun or shade as preferred. High iron gates stand open to the north and admit the passage of traders, residents and visitors alike. Through them you can see the outer courtyard as it slopes away to the road beyond. (+view and 'places' available) To the south, stand the entrance doors to the hold. In warmer weather they are often propped open, but the thick and sturdy design keeps out even the coldest of sea breezes when the temperature drops. A door to the west leads to the kitchen, the top half being currently open. The northeast corner of the courtyard is occupied by a large, neatly kept stable. You see a small sign on the north wall, near the gate. (use +view sign to read it).
Louvaen, watching and listening to the exchange of riders and stablehand, lets his gaze linger a moment longer on Leova as she tidies up before following Moll's beckoning wave. It only takes him a stride or two to catch up, and then he keeps his steps discretely short in order to stay beside the diminutive greenrider. "I can get you a few different brews," Louvaen says with an amicable nod. "I was thinking I can probably even get you a keg or two of the white that Dolpho's bringing out for the warmer weather." He tilts his gaze down towards Moll as they walk, pausing before launching his own questions out of curiosity. "It is good to have the prospect of new dragons to celebrate, then. This is the Weyrwoman's clutch, you mentioned? Teonath's? Has she finished laying them already?" Leova still has that furrow deep in her forehead as she leaves the stables after the others, not looking back except to make certain the door is shut the way it needs to be. At least L'sen's explanation has gotten her expression slightly less dubious, more puzzled. It's then that she looks up, up at that pale violet... thing. Big thing. With big glowing... eyes. Right. Neiveth. She swallows. "Dolpho. That's his name." Having heard it only once, there's still unmistakenable delight on Moll's face as Louvaen restates 'his man's' name. "Dolpho," she repeats, committing it to memory. "Whatever you can. We've marks, I think, enough to afford several kegs for the next time we've any cause to celebrate." The greenrider makes quick, tiny steps, unaware that Louvaen's shortened his to adjust to her needs. A whuffle of confirmation sounds from Vmireth, a smile rising unbidden quick to Moll's face. "Aye. Nineteen in total. Seems a change in Weyrleader wasn't too bad. I think Teonath's last clutch with Leiventh had fifteen. Where're these kegs again?" Intent on ales and answering the man's questions, Leova's initial reaction to dragons appearing on the horizon is missed. "This," says L'sen proudly, as he stops by his blue's head, "is Neiveth. Say hi, Neiveth. --He says hi." He beams at the dragon, then the girl he's hauled along so unceremoniously, patting the dragon's cheek absently. "You don't got to be scared of him or anything, he's really harmless, I promise. He thinks it's funny, though, when the people are scared, but then, he thinks lots of things are funny. Do you have lots of stuff to pack up and bring, or just a little, or what? Neiveth's really excited, by the way; he loves getting candidates. I think it's our favorite thing to do, get to go all over Pern, find people like you, bring 'em back... So yeah. Thanks for saying yes, although I don't think we've ever found anybody, at least not personally, that /wouldn't/ just jump at the chance, you know what I mean?" Through the wash of words, Leova absolutely is not jumping. Her boots are planted to the stone. The nice solid stone. Luckily, she also isn't arguing. There's a, "Hello. Neiveth." And a, "Some stuff. Things. Not much. Mostly it's getting someone to cover. The right sort of someone. And a letter." And a, "Right." Her eyes stay on the way L'sen touches the big thing that is Neiveth, the way he pats his dragon, the way he's comfortable with him. After a little while of absorbing it all, "Now? Do I get them? And do you tell someone. So it's official. So everyone knows it's not me making something up." The reception and repetition of his cousin's name brings a delighted smile to Louvaen's features. "Excellent," on the note of marks from Moll. "And I do hope that the Weyr finds more cause to celebrate in the future then it's had in the recent past," is said with an earnestness that promises the sentiment is not motivated by his own profit. The sound from Vmireth draws his eyes to the small green. His gaze takes her in, a small smile playing about his lips, and he gives her a greeting bow of his head before turning his attention back to her rider. "Nineteen!" he notes happily. "That is quite the reason to celebrate, in these strange times of ours." The question of kegs has him gesturing his arm towards the gates and turning his steps in that direction after stealing a glance back to note the interaction of Leova, L'sen, and Neiveth.. "Our showroom is off of the Work Caverns, we can get there by the docks." A hesitant look sneaks over to L'sen and his charge, pausing as some of what Leova says drifts over. But no matter, a firm shake of her head later, Moll girds up her tiny frame and is about to gesture, her hand lifted to flourish towards the docks; minus the flourish. What she fails to complete in body, she exhales quickly, "Sounds like a plan! I'm not sure if there's any place near the docks to land a dragon to make it easier, but we might as well start." Vmireth, amused at the interplay between blue, his rider, and the young woman, hunkers down onto her haunches to watch while waiting, though the swirl of her blue-green eyes quickens visibly. "I think it may be closer if she could find a place on the beach," Louvaen notes as he leads the way towards the gates. A quick glance is given back towards the crouched green, this time more appraising. "And the caverns themselves are quite large. Enough vessels are out this time of the season that she may even find a place inside," is offered hesitantly. Looking back to Moll with a shrug, a self-depreciating smile quirks at the edge of his mouth. "Not that I'd be a good judge of such things. I'm sure you'd have a better eye for where she can maneuver." A little shrug ripples on his shoulders as he walks on. Louvaen heads across the courtyard, and through the gates. L'sen echoes, calling out to Louvaen and Moll, "Nineteen! Isn't it great?" And he just flashes a grin their way before turning back to Leova. "Huh. That's a good idea, didn't think about that. Oughta let somebody know at the very least, so's they're not looking for you in the morning and all. And... Well, if you don't have a lot of stuff, we oughta be able to just throw it together real fast and go--you mind if we go on ahead and all, let you get the kegs and stuff? Or you want I should stay and carry something, 'cause I can, or I can come back when we got her settled." A gesture to Leova, as he looks to his fellow rider. Moll heads across the courtyard, and through the gates. Leova keeps standing where she is, although when L'sen calls over and she spots Louvaen disappearing and Moll headed that way too, the whites of her eyes show for an instant before she lowers her gaze again. But a moment later she's looking back at L'sen, really looking at him, height and straight white teeth and all. "Are you sure you..." know what you're doing? She doesn't complete the thought out loud. "I can get it quickly. But I don't have any kegs. Louvaen does. I just have..." Leova stops, shaking her head at herself. "You were talking to her, weren't you?" She waves after Moll only to find Vmireth instead, swirly eyes and all. "Yeah, her. I think that was a go-ahead, though, or anyway, we can take it that way," L'sen decides, watching Louvaen and Moll head toward the docks. "Anyway," he continues a breath later, with a nod for Leova herself. "Anyway, let's get your stuff, and tell... um, somebody, and then we can go, and I'll show you the Weyr, and the barracks, and all that stuff. It'll be great, you'll see. Hey, I know! If you tell me who to go find, and where, maybe I can go tell them for you, while you get packed. Or something like that, maybe." Leova is giving L'sen that look again, that very focused look. Then she looks up at Neiveth, cross-checking, and back at L'sen. "It's the stablemaster you want. Or one of his senior assistants." She names them. "Not the junior assistants. The senior assistants. Or the stablemaster himself. Tell them the Feet are watered and fine for the night, and in the morning... on second thought. Don't. Tell them I will leave a message for them. All right?" She seeks out his eyes, trying to check whether all this sinks in. "And I'll go pack." She backs toward the Hold. "Sure," agrees L'sen with a nod, as he manages somehow not to let his eyes glaze over when Leova gives him instructions. "Tell the stablemaster I'm taking you and you'll leave a message. Gotcha." And off he goes on his own merry little way, to search out the people instructed and pass along Leova's message. He's at least relatively quick about it, considering the unfamiliarity of the people and the places at Tillek, and in a fairly short time he's returning out to Neiveth, looking quite proud of himself. It takes only a little longer for Leova to return, looking much more awkward and far less proud with a proper leather bag strapped to her back but also a checkered cloth bundle in her arms. She also has three hats on, all of them knitted in varying shades of brown except for the red one in the middle. "There." "How many hats do you need?" marvels the bluerider, staring at all three of them. A beat later, L'sen reaches, too, for her bags, offering, "Here, let me get those. You wanna go ahead and get on, and I'll hand 'em up to you, and then we can strap in and go, you know? I told the stablemaster what you said, and the messages and I'm searching you and your feet are all clean and good." And he even points at Leova's feet, to emphasize that point, while Neiveth drops himself down to the ground, forelegs extended in invitation to mount up. "They say there isn't much coal," Leova says simply, offering him the bundle first, fastened with a belt with a good-sized buckle and a piece of string, and then the pack. "Do you think that will come undone?" She has to glance at her feet then, and all of a sudden she laughs but doesn't explain. "Thank you. All right. Hello, Neiveth." Biting off any possible babble about where she should step and what is she doing and what are they doing and who knows what else, she follows their collective cues and makes the attempt. Helpfully, L'sen hovers near Leova but lets her make her own way up Neiveth to situate herself. Then, he offers up the bags for her to hold onto, while he scrambles up just as clumsily as ever and moves to strap them in. "I think it'll hold, don't worry. It won't take long. Have you been /between/ before? We're going /between/ now, or in just a second, so hold on and everything, and don't worry, it'll be over real fast and then we'll be at the Weyr and we can go to the barracks and get you settled in." As he rambles that explanation, Neiveth is already crouching, then springing aloft, soaring up and /between/, then back down in the Reaches bowl, to discharge his passengers and let them settle in. By the time Leova can track everything L'sen is saying and start to answer that no, she hasn't... they're /between/ and then she has. Look at that.
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